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Conflict over Mamdani is a reminder: We still can’t agree on the line between anti-Zionism and antisemitism

With antisemitism on the rise while Israeli-Palestinian relations remain at an historic low, one question that continues to dog public discourse is whether anti-Zionism is a form of antisemitism.

The stakes within the Jewish community have recently increased, with the issuing of a letter signed by more than 1,000 American rabbis and cantors opposing New York City mayoral frontrunner Zohran Mamdani due to his opposition to Zionism. The letter argues that anti-Zionism “encourage[s] and exacerbate[s] hostility toward Judaism and Jews.”

Why does the distinction matter?

If anti-Zionism is understood to be antisemitism, then those protesting or otherwise articulating deep opposition to the governing ideology of the state of Israel could find themselves on the receiving end of public opprobrium — harsh criticism and disgrace.

A global debate with deep roots

People in Canada and the United States have lost employment offers and jobs for seeming anti-Zionist.

This debate is not new, however. In 2022, Jonathan Greenblatt, head of the Anti-Defamation League, stated that “anti-Zionism is antisemitism” and that anti-Zionism is “an ideology rooted in rage.” A year later, the U.S. House of Representatives passed a resolution stating that “anti-Zionism is antisemitism.”

In 2017, French President Emmanuel Macron called anti-Zionism a “reinvented form of antisemitism.” And perhaps most importantly, against this backdrop is the definition of antisemitism adopted by many countries, including the U.S. and Canada, which brings the two concepts very close together, if not outright equating them.

Specifically, the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance defines antisemitism, among other things, as “denying the Jewish people their right to self-determination (e.g., by claiming that the existence of a State of Israel is a racist endeavour).”

What data reveals about Zionism

But is anti-Zionism really antisemitism?

To determine whether anti-Zionism is antisemitic, we first need to think about how we define Zionism. As a Canadian Jewish political scientist, my own research has found that the term Zionism is understood in wildly different ways.

In 2022, I surveyed American Jews with a weighted sample to account for various demographics. I found that while 58% identified as Zionist, 70% identified as such when I defined Zionism as “a feeling of attachment to Israel.” When I defined Zionism as a “belief in a Jewish and democratic state,” the number rose slightly, to 72 per cent.

But a very different picture emerged when I presented a vastly alternate definition of Zionism. If Zionism, I offered, “means the belief in privileging Jewish rights over non-Jewish rights in Israel, are you a Zionist?” Here, respondents’ support for the kind of Zionism experienced by Palestinians plummeted: only 10 per cent of respondents said they were “definitely” (three per cent) or “probably” (seven per cent) Zionist, according to this definition, with a full 69 per cent saying they were “probably not” or “definitely not.”

A lifetime of analysis of Zionism, and adopting various labels at different phases of life for myself — I have at times identified as progressive Zionist, liberal Zionist, anti-Zionist, non-Zionist and none of the above — leads me to conclude that anti-Zionism and antisemitism should be considered distinct concepts.

Identity, nationalism and belonging

Those who see anti-Zionism as antisemitic deploy various arguments.

One is that self-determination is a right, and denying that right to Jews — and sometimes seemingly only to Jews — is discriminatory and prejudicial. But while everyone has the right to self-determination, no one has the right to determine themselves by denying the rights of others to do the same.

Another is that given that the majority of Jews by most accounts embrace some form of Zionism, denying a part of their identity is hateful. But unlike most other markers and symbols of ethnic or religious identity, Zionism has historically, and continues to, directly affect another ethnic group: namely, Palestinians.

Contrast this kind of identity with dietary laws, clothing restrictions, modes of prayer and one’s relationship to sacred texts: none of these aspects of identity necessarily affect another group. By contrast, the historical record of how Zionism has affected Palestinians is vast.

A third argument concerns antisemitism in general — that every other group gets to define the terminology around their own oppression, and therefore so should Jews. But again, when a state — which by definition interacts with others within and outside its borders — is brought into the equation, the debate about antisemitism ceases to be about only Jews.

At its core, Zionism is a political ideology. A cornerstone of liberal society is political debate, including subjecting ideologies to the stress test of critique. These ideologies include capitalism, socialism, social democracy, communism, ethno-nationalism, settler colonialism, theocracy, Islamism, Hindu nationalism and so on.

In the right of others to support, oppose, analyze or criticize it, Zionism is — or at least should be — be no different.

The personal and the political

I understand why many Jews feel that anti-Zionist actions or statements are hateful to their identity. Most Jews have grown up believing that to be Jewish is to feel a deep connection to the state of Israel.

I grew up singing Hatikvah, Israel’s national anthem, every evening at Hebrew summer camp in Manitoba as we lowered the two flags hanging from the flagpole: one the flag of Canada, the other, of course, of Israel.

And in many synagogues across Canada, it is typical to hear the Prayer for Israel recited, and it is not uncommon for the Israeli flag to be displayed prominently. At one synagogue I attended last year for a family celebration, there were even depictions of Israel Defense Forces soldiers etched into the stained-glass windows above the sanctuary.

But to feel connected to Israel — the land, the people, the safe refuge it has served for Jews in crisis, especially but not only after the Holocaust — one doesn’t necessarily need to embrace its governing ideology.

One can seek to understand the harm Zionism has caused to Palestinians. One can try to consider alternative framings, ideologies or governing structures that would enable Israelis to thrive along with Palestinians.

As Zionist founder Theodor Herzl famously said, “If you will it, it is no dream.”The Conversation

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The post Conflict over Mamdani is a reminder: We still can’t agree on the line between anti-Zionism and antisemitism appeared first on The Forward.

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Mahmoud Khalil’s book reiterates his anti-Zionist stance

From the beginning, Palestinian activist Mahmoud Khalil denied claims that the protests at Columbia University after the Oct. 7, 2023 Hamas attacks on Israel were antisemitic.

In his book, No Land to Stand On, released Tuesday, he stands by that.

Khalil, who became the face of the anti-Israel campus movement after he was detained by Immigration and Customs Enforcement in 2025, reiterates his anti-Zionist stance in the book while detailing “a life of exile, refuge, and resistance.”

Recounting the endless interviews with journalists that made him the face of a campus movement, he writes that the question of whether the protests were antisemitic kept coming up.

“I explained, repeatedly, that the conflation of anti-Zionism with antisemitism was a strategy to stifle righteous criticism of Israel,” writes Khalil, who added that many Jewish students were involved in the protests. “Such weaponization of antisemitism was designed to place a state and its crimes beyond criticism by wrapping them in the protections owed to a faith and its people.”

The memoir weaves Khalil’s beliefs and frustrations through stories from his life, from where he was born in a Palestinian refugee camp in Syria and fled to Lebanon at age 18, to the protests at Columbia, his detention and finally his release. He uses the book as an opportunity to say his detention was unjust, and to critique the government’s case against him.

He notes a memo from U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio that states his detention was a result of “antisemitic protests and disruptive activities, which fosters a hostile environment for Jewish students in the United States,” adding those activities were “otherwise lawful.”

“Otherwise lawful,” writes Khalil. “They had written it themselves. My beliefs were lawful, and they wanted to deport me for them.”

Khalil argued that the administration was disingenuous in deporting him for alleged antisemitism, pointing to Trump’s personal visit with the openly antisemitic influencer Nick Fuentes. He also accused the administration of platforming “white supremacist rhetoric and symbolism.”

Further, Khalil claimed pro-Palestinian protesters were peaceful, while “it was the pro-­Israel students and Zionist groups that had provoked confrontations, harassed Palestinian students, and in some cases physically attacked them.”

Despite his status as a lawful permanent resident married to a U.S. citizen, the federal government apprehended him on March 8, 2025. Khalil spent 104 days in ICE detention, famously missing the birth of his first child.

His imprisonment sparked a fierce debate over free speech, along with a debate over what his beliefs were to begin with. Khalil clarified his stances in an April interview with the Forward saying he acknowledged “a Jewish connection” to Israel, but that “rejecting the self-determination of the Jewish people on the Palestinian land in itself is not antisemitism.”

He reiterates in the book that he does not “endorse” Hamas, though he told the Forward he was unsure if Hamas targeted civilians on Oct. 7, something that has been widely documented and substantiated.

While he expressed disdain for the way the university handled the protests and its messaging after Oct. 7, Khalil said the university was failing its Palestinian students long before 2023. He pointed to the school’s Tel Aviv Global Center, which opened this past summer despite protest.

“Columbia wanted to open an institutional outpost, funded in part by our tuition, in a place that had a policy of refusing entry to people like me, and call it a center for global learning,” he wrote.

He also took aim at Columbia’s dual degree program with Tel Aviv University.

“The dual-­degree stream was largely built around Jewish Israeli students who had served in the Israeli army,” writes Khalil. “I couldn’t stop thinking that if I were in Palestine, some of these students would be stopping me at checkpoints, raiding my university, piloting the drones surveilling my community, killing my neighbors.”

Returning home to New York from the ICE detention center in Louisiana, he wrote that he was met with praise — and harassment.

When people approached him asking if he was the Khalil they’d seen in the news, he was unsure: “Whether they wanted to shake my hand or spit in my face, say ‘Thank you for what you’re doing’ or follow me through Midtown yelling ‘Am Yisrael Chai.’”

He saw all of those reactions and more, he wrote.

The 208-page book is dedicated to Khalil’s wife, to the Columbia students who participated in the protests, to ICE detainees and “Palestine, until you are free.” He will launch a book tour on Tuesday at a shop just two blocks from Columbia’s campus.

The post Mahmoud Khalil’s book reiterates his anti-Zionist stance appeared first on The Forward.

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Sydney Sweeney went to shul. But did she choose the right occasion?

Jewish internet spaces are alight this week with reports that actress, model and political lightning rod Sydney Sweeney was spotted in the pews on Rosh Hashanah.

According to GreenwichTime and The Free Press, Sweeney — who is not Jewish — attended services at Temple Sholom in Greenwich, Connecticut, with her boyfriend, music mogul Scooter Braun (who grew up there). Gossip rag DeuxMoi has since claimed that Sweeney, who has been linked with Braun since at least June 2025, is also contemplating conversion.

One can speculate on whether the most in-demand actress on the planet might be leaning a bit too hard into her Marilyn Monroe character arc. At the Forward, though, we’re wondering whether Sweeney’s Jewish beau picked the right holiday to bring her to shul.

After all, there’s a wide range of experiences when it comes to prayer services, and you want to make a positive first impression. You’d want their day in shul to be accessible, fun and not too long. That’s a Sydney Sweeney movie, though, not Rosh Hashanah services. So without further ado, here’s the official undisputed rankings of Jewish calendar days on which to bring your non-Jewish partner to shul.

Going from least to most desirable:

Erev Tisha B’av

I would have to respect the audacity of someone bringing their partner to synagogue for the first time on Tisha B’av, the day Jewish people grieve the destruction of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. It’s an intentionally unpleasant time to be in shul — you’re sitting on the floor, reading Lamentations. Also, you’re not supposed to greet people at all, which would almost certainly be awkward for a first-timer, considering how uncomfortable it is for regulars. On the flip side, if you’re Sydney Sweeney, that rule means no one can bother you for a selfie, either.

Shemini Atzeret

We pray for rain, which is an ancient word that means sustenance, but at this point everyone’s running on fumes for the High Holiday season, so you probably won’t get your senior rabbi delivering the sermon. Some years (including this one), your synagogue might be reading Ecclesiastes, which is both melancholy and long. Hard sell.

Passover

Passover isn’t known for its prayer services — the main event is, of course, the seder. If you’re taking a non-Jewish partner to services for the first time on Passover, it usually means one of two things: 1) You don’t want anyone to meet this person, because nobody goes to shul on Passover or 2) You didn’t have enough fun at the seder, because if you did, you’d be sleeping in with the rest of us.

One Passover plus: On the Shabbat that falls during the holiday, services also include the reading of the Song of Songs, the most risqué text in the Jewish canon.

Shavuot

In the height of summer, we read the story of Ruth — Judaism’s great conversion story. (Hint hint.) We also celebrate the receiving of the Ten Commandments, which your partner may already be familiar with from the movies, if not public school.

Shavuot morning is also a good service to go to because — at least in synagogues that observe two days of the holiday — the first day’s early services are led at a breakneck pace so that people who stayed up all night studying Torah the night before can go straight to sleep. No sermon! You’ll be out of there faster than you can say Na’aseh V’nishmah.

Simchat Torah

sydney sweeney scooter braun
I’d say they’re about 60% of the way to Yom Kippur attire. Photo by Luigi Iorio/GC Images

Like Sukkot, but swap out the lulav and etrog for Torah scrolls, which don’t smell as good or shake as well. Many synagogues (over-)serve alcohol on this holiday, which is a double-edged sword for a day you’d prefer everyone to be on their best behavior.

Yom Kippur

I’m gonna call this one underrated. There are surprisingly some things going for the Jewish day of repentance. The themes of atonement and forgiveness have universal appeal, and Jewish people do them well. You’ll probably get one of the rabbi’s strongest sermons of the calendar cycle. There’s a strange ecstasy that comes from being trapped in a room with hundreds of fasting people; the story of Jonah and the whale is one of our highlights. (This is also the only holiday I can attest to: My parents had their first date — ever! — on Yom Kippur services, and they’re still together.)

At the same time, Yom Kippur tends to have the longest prayer services of the year. It’s a fast day, so there’s no free food at the end of afternoon services (though you might get bagels at the break-fast). You usually have to pay to get in, plus there’s often a fundraising appeal woven into the service. And due to the prohibition on wearing leather shoes, you’d also be surrounding your partner with people wearing Crocs with dress clothes, which may scare them away from Judaism even if you try to explain it.

Sukkot

People like to call this our most pagan holiday, but marching around in circles with a giant asparagus and lemon is objectively fun, and the Four Species can represent basically anything you want. Let’s just hope your partner isn’t a willow.

Rosh Hashanah

Scooter Braun isn’t the first person to drag their partner to shul on Rosh Hashanah, and for good reason. Everyone wears their finest clothing, the shul will be beautifully decorated and the prayers are musically extravagant. The rabbi’s sermon will emphasize renewal and the commitment to doing better. There’s a decent chance apples dipped in honey will be served in the lobby. And above all else, the shofar blowing — done right — is arguably the highlight of the year in shul.

Plus, everyone’s there, so you can introduce your partner to everyone they need to know in one fell swoop. The only downside is you usually have to buy a ticket. (And on behalf of synagogue offices everywhere, if you’re the Jewish partner in the relationship, don’t try to arrange this over email 24 hours before the holiday.)

Purim

This is one thing Nobody Wants This got right: Purim is the ideal holiday for introducing a non-Jewish partner to the community. What better way to show up than in costume? You learn a foundational story of Jewish survival, a tradition that transforms our vulnerability into comedy.  It’s also a family-oriented holiday — kids in face-paint, everyone with their graggers — which makes it a perfect picture-this set piece.

But the best thing about Purim? Thanks to the tradition of drinking ‘til you drop — if the relationship doesn’t work out, no one will remember a year later.

The post Sydney Sweeney went to shul. But did she choose the right occasion? appeared first on The Forward.

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How Toronto Jews spread the Gospel of ‘Godspell’

To wander into a screening of You Had to Be There, Nick Davis’ documentary about the famed 1972 Toronto production of Godspell, is to have a Jewish come-to-Jesus moment.

The first thing you hear, after the voice of a 22-year-old Martin Short, testing a microphone in a furtive recording taken at the Royal Alexander Theatre, is a shofar sounding a tinny tekiah. It’s maybe not what you’d expect from a musical built around the Gospel of Matthew. But the film, which features interviews with original 1972 cast members Eugene Levy and Victor Garber, composer Stephen Schwartz and the production’s musical director Paul Shaffer, makes a strong case for Jewishness being the secret sauce that made the show take off.

Davis, who grew up in a secular Jewish home, began this project as a Godspell skeptic, trying to understand how so many subversive comedic talents broke out in a “hippie-dippy musical about Jesus.”

“I could imagine SCTV ripping Godspell apart with the Godspell that I knew,” Davis said in a video call from Chicago, where he was in town for a screening at the Music Box Theater. “Almost from the very beginning, they were like, ‘You don’t understand what Godspell was.’”

The show was picketed by Christians who took exception to the apostles, and Jesus himself, depicted as clowns clad in overalls. The key to the success of the Toronto Godspell, one of a number of regional productions that sprang up in the 1970s, was its invitation to performers to improvise within a sacred text.

“My feeling now is they were attracted to this material because this material encouraged them to be their biggest, best, most brilliant comic selves,” said Davis.

In the case of Hamilton, Ontario-native Eugene Levy or Gilda Radner, who came over from Detroit to audition, this meant introducing a Jewish sensibility to a work that was rooted in the writings of a First Century Jew. Whether they knew it or not, the cast was soon following a Jewish schedule of worship.

Perhaps more legendary than the show, composed by an early career Schwartz, later to write Wicked, with a book by his Carnegie Mellon classmate John-Michael Tebelak, were the after-parties, dubbed “Friday Night Services” and held at the shared home of Short and Levy.

It was here, with some chemical assistance — that the cast and their friends, among them John Candy, developed bits and worked on characters. (Thankfully, they had the presence of mind to record these confabs, which can be heard in the film and are animated in a style a la The Brady Kids.)

It wasn’t quite Bible study, but in his interviews, Eugene Levy briefly reflects on the significance of his turn as Jesus, following Victor Garber and Don Scardino, who later became a prolific comedy director for shows like 30 Rock and Crazy Ex-Girlfriend.

“I think I was the first Jewish-looking Jesus that any of the productions had,” Levy says in the documentary. “They went more Ronald McDonald with that look but I definitely was sporting my ethnicity and a little hair.”

Levy refused to manscape for the role of Jesus, who traditionally makes his entrance in just his boxers, and so he had to wear an undershirt. At one point the actor considers if, in the moment after Jesus is “crucified” on a chainlink fence, and lifted by the company in a sort of resurrection, he was doing something sacrilegious.

In the end, he concludes, it just felt like good theater.

The call of Godspell remains strong, Davis said. Not every member of the company — some of whom are related by marriage — still sees each other in person, but they’re all on an email chain. Davis embarked on the film thinking it would be a study on “the fickleness of fame,” with the cast of 10 about evenly divided between household names and ones who didn’t quite hit, but from the first interview he found people asking when he’d arrange a reunion.

The moment finally arrived in 2025, which, due to the exigencies of scheduling, happened to be the first night of Passover. There was a cake, but you can see Paul Shaffer electing to snack on matzo. (When cast member Valda Aviks asks him if he shouldn’t be at a Seder, he simply says “eh.”)

“I did bring a Seder plate that we had, a little fun thing for them to play with if they wanted,” said Davis. “All they wanted to do was sing by the piano.”

Davis considers Godspell, the Jesus musical written by a “nice Jewish boy from Long Island,” an example of the way Jews succeed through assimilation and entertainment. While he came in thinking the show was cornball, he now understands how it paved the way for the barrier-breaking comedy its alumni would produce

“There’s something Jewish fundamentally at the core of it,” Davis said. Like the Jewish teacher at its center, it is “radical.”

The post How Toronto Jews spread the Gospel of ‘Godspell’ appeared first on The Forward.

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