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How Arnold Horween, an unsung Jewish Harvard hero, changed American sports
(JTA) — Decades before Sandy Koufax sat out the first game of the 1965 World Series because it fell on Yom Kippur, and 18 years before Greenberg chased Babe Ruth’s single-season home run record in the late 1930s, a college athlete made some overlooked Jewish sports history.
Arnold Horween, a burly Chicagoan, became the first Jewish captain of the Harvard University football team in 1920 — an achievement that sent ripples through American culture.
Horween, who would later play and coach in the early years of what would become the NFL, was born to Jewish immigrants from Ukraine. He became a star player at Harvard, helping the Crimson go undefeated in both 1919 and 1920 after returning from serving in World War I. (His brother Ralph also played at Harvard and in the NFL, and they were the first and only Jewish brothers to play in the NFL until Geoff and Mitchell Schwartz.)
But it was Horween’s unanimous selection as the team’s captain, and more importantly, his appointment in 1926 as the team’s coach, that would prove unprecedented.
“In American Jewish culture, the only thing greater than being the captain of the Harvard Crimson, the only higher station in American culture might have been the president, or the coach of Harvard, which he eventually becomes,” said Zev Eleff, the president of Gratz College and a scholar of American Jewish history.
Eleff explores Horween’s story and its impact in his recent book, “Dyed in Crimson: Football, Faith, and Remaking Harvard’s America,” released earlier this year. He traces the history of Harvard athletics in the early 1900s, exploring how Horween, along with Harvard’s first athletic director, Bill Bingham, altered the landscape of America’s most prestigious college.
Horween’s ascendance came at a time when Harvard instituted quotas to limit the number of Jewish and other minority students it accepted — a practice the school would employ throughout the 1920s and 30s. His story also took place amid a political landscape that featured the rise of Father Charles Coughlin, the antisemitic “radio priest,” and the reemergence of the Ku Klux Klan.
As Eleff underscores in the book, Horween did not fit the model of a “Boston Brahmin,” the class of elite, Christian, aspirationally manly men whose supremacy was unquestioned at Harvard Yard. Horween broke that mold, instead instilling a team culture where a love of the sport was almost as important as winning — the Ted Lasso effect, if you will.
“Dyed in Crimson” also uses early 20th century Harvard as an allegory for the broader theme of how sports can change society.
“The theme of the book, something that’s uniquely American, is how the periphery can influence the mainstream,” said Eleff. “How people on the sidelines can really make an influence.”
Eleff spoke to the Jewish Telegraphic Agency about how Horween’s story fits into the pantheon of Jewish American sports legends and what it says about Jews’ ability to succeed in America.
This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.
Let’s dig into Horween’s story. I liked the idea of him as like an earlier version of Koufax or a Greenberg, but to be honest, I had never heard of him. Why do you think his story isn’t as well known as other Jewish athletes?
I think it has everything to do with the emergence of Major League Baseball. College football was America’s sport in the 1910s and 1920s. It was a big money sport, when there was very little money outside of the New York Yankees. And I think that Horween’s star started to sort of decline with Harvard football, but also the emergence of other sports.
The other reason is because the idea of the Jewish ballplayer loomed large. The New York Giants, for decades, tried to identify a Jewish superstar. They actually passed on Greenberg. There was a thought after Greenberg that there was Jewish DNA for baseball, and the signing of Koufax was directly linked to this notion. It was this eugenics-like link that you need a Jewish ballplayer. For the Giants, it was ticket sales. So the commotion about Greenberg and Koufax is more about Jewish identity. And baseball is, as a professional sport in New York, Queens, Brooklyn, the Bronx, different than college football, particularly in New England at this time. Frankly, Jews lived near the Polo Grounds, they didn’t live near Harvard Yard.
Arnold Horween shown in The Baltimore Sun on November 16, 1927. (Wikimedia Commons)
For Horween, obviously he’s not at the level of a Greenberg or Koufax talent-wise, but he also didn’t seem to care as much personally about his Jewish identity. You write in the book that there were some Jews who took issue with the fact that Horween was not practicing, but there were also many Jews who were simply proud he was Jewish. What do you think about that dynamic?
There becomes a sort of disconnect between lived religion and the perception and what they come to represent — the mantle that they wear almost towers above the practice. Horween eschewed the opportunity to claim the mantle of Jewish leadership, Jewish celebrity. But we do see in its moment that he is the topic of rabbinic sermons, that The American Hebrew and other Jewish press are reporting on him. They are elated. In American Jewish culture, the only thing greater than being the captain of the Harvard Crimson — it’s hard for people to realize, but in the moment when they were part of the big three [alongside Princeton and Yale] — the only higher station in American culture might have been the president, or the coach of Harvard, which he eventually becomes.
One of the parts of this book that I enjoyed learning about is the extent to which college football in the early 20th century was all about honor, masculinity, gentlemanliness. And at the time, that kind of stands in contrast to how Jews were viewed — that Jews were not masculine, Jews couldn’t fit into that mold of the “Harvard man.”
Being on the sports team, that was probably far beyond Jewish expectations. Not to say that Jews could not be athletic, but very often the varsity players weren’t picked for their talent but rather their surnames. What the sea change at Harvard is, [within] gentlemanly culture — in which “gentlemanly” is a Protestant, Christian masculinity — Horween is not Protestant. What allows him a pathway into that elite group is that drive to win. And as a player, he’s good luck. He never loses. He becomes a signature player for victory who even wins the Rose Bowl.
But as a coach, he subverts that. What he and Bill Bingham do is their campaign isn’t necessarily for winning, it’s for having fun, it’s for enjoying the game.
In the 1910s and 20s, college football was the peak of American sports, but that’s certainly not the case anymore. What do you think would be the modern comparison for someone like Horween?
Is Becky Hammon with the Spurs, the first woman [to act as] head coach in basketball, something like that? Or the very important discussions about people of color as coaches in the NFL? Sports and education are, for some reason or another, where change is made in American life. Brown v. Board of Education in 1954 ends, at least officially, segregation. Title IV, what is basically American law for anti-discrimination based on sex, is based on women’s college sports. You have the breaking down of color barriers and Jackie Robinson, Muhammad Ali and Vietnam. You have the first [openly] gay athletes, you have questions of breaking the glass ceiling for women and Serena Williams.
It’s absolutely 100% true that sports doesn’t matter. Who wins the World Series is of no great consequence to most people’s lives. Although it’s interesting, if you drive up I-95 on a Sunday, you will see that the bumper stickers and the flags change. There is some sort of passion, obviously, about sport. But it’s absolutely true that for some reason or another in the 20th century and 21st century in American sport, really important social and cultural decisions, and political decisions, are made in American sport.
Zev Eleff, president of Gratz College and author of “Dyed in Crimson.” (Courtesy)
Another main topic in the book is that the goal for immigrants, especially Jews, was Americanization, assimilation — that to become part of the mainstream was the marker of success. But that seems to be the case for Jews in a very different sense than it is for Catholics and for Blacks.
The major contribution of this book to American Jewish history beyond telling this story is to complicate notions of Americanization. Jews and Catholics in particular view Americanization very, very differently. The Catholic experience is to create parallel systems. If you’re a good Catholic boy with immense football talent, play for Notre Dame, play for Boston College. Don’t play for the Protestant mainstream. Cream them on the football field. Create parallel systems.
The Jewish experience is not so. Outside of Orthodox day schools in the early 20th century, it was anathema, it was considered almost heretical, for American Jews to [go] to private schools. To the contrary, the so-called golden citadels of the public schools — that is the agent of Americanization. Jews don’t establish their own educational systems. They somehow Americanize and acculturate into the mainstream. We don’t compete with Harvard, we get into Harvard.
Thinking about the antisemitism of that time — the quotas, Father Coughlin, all of that — how do you think that compares to what we’re seeing today?
Historians disagree about the 1920s. Was it a time of great prominence of American Jews? There was affluence in the roaring ’20s. There were institutions that were created, there was creativity, from the Orthodox and Mordecai Kaplan certainly, across the board, the Jewish Theological Seminary. American Judaism was at a certain high point in the 1920s. At the same time, there were quotas, and there was rising antisemitism. I think today we also have to deal with the tension of, on the one hand, there are great opportunities for Jews in the United States; at the same time, there is antisemitism. And so from the 1920s to the 2020s, 100 years later, you see a model for how to grapple with those tensions.
What do you hope, more than anything else, someone takes away or learns from your book?
It’s a book that begins like a punch line: a working class Protestant, a Catholic and a Jew walk into a football field. But it ends with something I think a lot more pronounced, which is, it’s a story about change. As a historian, I study change, particularly in American Judaism, broadly in American religion and Jewish Studies. Change is the best asset that a historian has to study. I wasn’t interested in just finding another Sandy Koufax story, replicating that story. This is a story that isn’t just about a Jew who happened for his moment to become quite successful and quite famous, or a Catholic or a former mill hand turned first athletic director in college history. It’s really about how people on the periphery influence the mainstream.
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The post How Arnold Horween, an unsung Jewish Harvard hero, changed American sports appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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NYU student draws hate crime charges for flying flag with swastikas, Star of David over campus building
(New York Jewish Week) — A New York University student is facing hate crime charges for allegedly raising a flag depicting a Star of David, two swastikas and the letters “NYU” over a university building during commencement last month.
Alexander Stepnowsky, 23, of Fairfield, Connecticut, was arrested Tuesday afternoon on the Lower East Side of Manhattan and charged with one count of hate crime burglary, two counts of aggravated harassment and one count of criminal trespassing in a hate crime, according to the New York City Police Department.
An NYU spokesperson said Stepnowsky would also face discipline from the university.
“The symbols that were represented are antisemitic and hateful to every person of conscience; this appalling act violated our sense of community and solidarity,” said the spokesperson, Wiley Norvell. “In addition to criminal proceedings, we will immediately pursue our disciplinary procedures, which carry the most severe consequences.”
The arrest comes as NYU has faced heightened scrutiny over antisemitism and anti-Israel rhetoric on its campus in recent years. In 2024, the school revised its hate speech policy to define slurs against “Zionists” as potentially in violation of its harassment code. During this year’s commencement, the school withheld the diploma of student who used his address to accuse Israel of genocide.
The flag depicting the swastikas flew briefly over the roof of New York University’s Steinhardt building, named for the major Jewish philanthropists Michael and Judy Steinhardt, during the school’s commencement on May 13.
Michael Steinhardt is a co-founder of Birthright, the organization that underwrites free trips to Israel for young Jewish adults.
Stepnowsky pleaded not guilty at his arraignment Wednesday and was released without bail, according to CBS News.
The office of Stepnowsky’s lawyer, Vickie Mwitanti, declined to comment.
The post NYU student draws hate crime charges for flying flag with swastikas, Star of David over campus building appeared first on The Forward.
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Research studies in Yiddish by noted historians, now in English
מיט װאָס זײַנען די היסטאָרישע פֿאָרשונגען אױף ייִדיש אַנדערש פֿון די, װאָס זײַנען אָנגעשריבן געװאָרן אױף אַנדערע שפּראַכן? ווי עס שרײַבט ד״ר מאַרק סמיט, דער רעדאַקטאָר פֿון דער אַנטאָלאָגיע „דאָס בּױען און טרייסטן אַ פֿאָלק: ייִדיש־שפּראַכיקע היסטאָריקער אין זײערע אײגענע װערטער“, איז דער פֿאָקוס פֿון די ייִדיש־שפּראַכיקע פֿאָרשונגען געװען אױף די אינערלעכע זײַטן פֿונעם ייִדישן לעבן.
דערצו נאָך, שרײַבט סמיט, איז זײער קוק אױף דער ייִדישער געשיכטע כּסדר געווען פּאָזיטיװ, „להיפּוך צו די אַנדערע היסטאָריקער, ייִדן און ניט־ייִדן, װאָס האָבן אין זײערע שטודיעס באַטאָנט יסורים און רדיפֿות פֿון ייִדן“.
די אַנטאָלאָגיע נעמט אַרײַן 49 אױסצוגן פֿון ייִדיש־שפּראַכיקע היסטאָרישע װערק. דאָס רובֿ פֿון זײ שטאַמען פֿון דער ערשטער העלפֿט פֿונעם צװאַנציקסטן יאָרהונדערט.
די טעקסטן זײַנען צעטײלט אין זיבן טעמאַטישע אָפּטײלן, װאָס שפּיגלען אָפּ די הױפּט־ריכטונגען פֿון פֿאָרשונגען: ייִדישע קהילה־אױטאָנאָמיע; קולטור, עקאָנאָמיק און געזעלשאַפֿט; באַציִונגען מיט די אַרומיקע אומות־העולם; ייִדישע ליטעראַטור; פּרעסע און קאָמוניקאַציעס; ייִדישע דערציִונג, און ביכער־רעצענזיעס.
יעדער אָפּטײל באַהאַנדלט די געהעריקע טעמע כראָנאָלאָגיש, פֿון פֿריִערע צײַטן ביזן חורבן. אַזױ באַקומט דער לײענער אַ ברײטן באַגריף פֿון דער היסטאָרישער אַנטװיקלונג פֿון יענעם אַסקעפּט פֿונעם ייִדישן לעבן.
דער ענין פֿון דער ייִדישער אױטאָנאָמיע האָט לעצטנס אַרויסגערופֿן אַ נײַעם אינטערעס מצד די קעגנערס פֿון מדינת־ישׂראל און איר פּאָליטיק. אַ סימן איז דער גרױסער דערפֿאָלג פֿון מאָלי קראַבעפּלס בוך װעגן דעם בונד, װאָס טענהט, אַז די פּראָגראַם פֿון דער נאַציאָנאַל־קולטורעלער אױטאָנאָמיע איז געװען בילכער פֿונעם ציוניסטישן פּראָיעקט פֿון ייִדישער מלוכישקײט.
דער גײַסטיקער פֿאָטער פֿון דער פּאָליטישער פּראָגראַם פֿון ייִדישער נאַציאָנאַל־קולטורעלער אױטאָנאָמיע אין גלות איז געװען דער היסטאָריקער שמעון דובנאָװ, וואָס איז, אַגבֿ, ניט געווען קײן בונדיסט, נאָר אַן אָנפֿירער פֿון דער ליבעראַל־דעמאָקראַטישער פֿאָלקספּאַרטײ.
די אַנטאָלאָגיע עפֿנט זיך מיט פֿראַגמענטן פֿון זײַן איבערזיכט „אױטאָנאָמיע אין דער ייִדישער געשיכטע“ אינעם ערשטן באַנד פֿון דער „אַלגעמײנער ענציקלאָפּעדיע“, װאָס איז אַרױס אין פּאַריז אין 1934.
װי אַ היסטאָריקער, האָט דובנאָװ געװאָלט אײַנװאָרצלען ייִדישע פּאָליטיק אינעם ייִדישן עבֿר. ער האָט געפֿונען אַ היסטאָרישן מוסטער פֿאַר דער מאָדערנער ייִדישער אױטאָנאָמיע אינעם „װעד ארבע אַרצות“ (ראַט פֿון די פֿיר לענדער), דעם הױפּט־אָרגאַן פֿונעם פּױלישן ייִדנטום אינעם 17טן און 18טן יאָרהונדערט.
אָבער װי עס האָבן דערװיזן אַנדערע היסטאָריקער, אַזעלכע װי ישׂראל סאָסיס, רפֿאל מאַלער און יצחק (איגנאַצי) שיפּער, האָט דובנאָװ שטאַרק אידעאַליזירט די ראָלע פֿונעם װעד.
דער װעד איז, דער עיקר, געװען פֿאַרטאָן אין זאַמלען געלט פֿון ייִדישע קהילות אױף צו שטיצן די אײגענע פֿירערשאַפֿט און צעטײלן כאַבאַר צו פּױלישע מאַגנאַטן. בלױז אַ פּאָר פּראָצענט פֿונעם בודזשעט האָט דער װעד אױסגעגעבן אױף די נױטן פֿונעם כּלל.
צום סוף האָט דער װעד ן באַנקראָטירט צוליב די ריזיקע חובֿות צו קאַטױלישע קלױסטערס. אין 1764 האָט דער פּױלישער סײם (פּאַרלאַמענט) ליקװידירט דעם װעד און באַשלאָסן צו זאַמלען שטײַערן פֿון ייִדן אױפֿן מאָדערנעם שטײגער, פֿון יחידים אַנשטאָט קהילות.
דער ערשטער טײל פֿון בוך ענדיקט זיך מיטן קאַפּיטל, ייִדישע ׳אױטאָנאָמיע׳: די יודענראַטן אונטער דער נאַציסטישער אָקופּאַציע“. דאָס איז אַ קאָמפּילאַציע פֿון דרײַ אַרטיקלען פֿון ישעיהו טרונק, װאָס אַנטפּלעקט װי זײַן נעגאַטיװע אָפּשאַצונג פֿון יודענראַטן איז געװאָרן מילדער מיט דער צײַט. ער האָט דערזען אַז אײניקע אָנפֿירער פֿון יודענראַטן האָבן טאַקע געפּרוּװט העלפֿן ייִדן אין די געטאָס.
גענומען אין אײנעם, װײַזן די דאָזיקע קאַפּילטען, אַז ייִדן האָבן קײן מאָל ניט געהאַט קײן פֿולע פּאָליטישע אױטאָנאָמיע. די חױפּט־פֿונקציע פֿון דער ייִדישער קהילה־אױטאָנאָמיע איז געװען אונטערצושטיצן באַציִונגען מיט דער הערשנדיקער מאַכט.
דאָס רובֿ אױסגעקליבענע טעקסטן באַהאַנדלען טעמעס, װאָס האָבן צו טאָן מיטן ייִדישן כּלל אָבער ניט מיט חשובֿע יחידים. און װען עס גײט די רײד טאַקע יאָ װעגן יחידים, זײַנען דאָס כּסדר געװען כּלל־טוער. למשל פֿיליפּ פֿרידמאַנס אַרטיקל דערצײלט װעגן דעם גאַליציאַנער משׂכּיל יוסף פּערל (1773־1839), דעם גרינדער פֿון דער ערשטער מאָדערנער ייִדישער שול אין טאַרנעפּל (הײַנט אין אוקראַיִנע) אין 1813.
עס פֿעלן דאָ אָבער װיכטיקע היסטאָריש־ביאָגראַפֿישע פֿאָרשונגען װעגן אײנצלנע ייִדישע שרײַבער, דיכטער, אַקטיאָרן און קינסטלער. דער דאָזיקער בלױז שפּיגלט אָפּ דעם רעדאַקטאָרס קוק אױף ייִדן אין מיזרח־אײראָפּע װי אַ „נאַציאָנאַלער גרופּע, װאָס װערט באַשטימט דורך דער בשותּפֿותדיקער געשיכטע און קולטור“. אַזױ באַקומט זיך, אַז די היסטאָרישע ראָלע פֿון אַ יחיד, אַפֿילו אַזאַ גאון װי מענדעלע מוכר־ספֿרים, איז ניט זוכה אַ ספּעציעלן קאַפּיטל.
די צװײ צענטערס פֿון ייִדישער היסטאָרישער פֿאָרשונג צװישן די בײדע װעלט־מלחמות זײַנען געװען אין פּױלן און אין סאָװעטן־פֿאַרבאַנד. אין די 1920ער יאָרן האָבן בײדע צענטערס נאָך געקענט אונטערהאַלטן קאָנטאַקטן. אין די 1930ער יאָרן איז דער אידעאָלאָגישער און פּאָליטישער דרוק מצד דער קאָמוניסטישער פּאַרטײ אין סאָװעטן־פֿאַרבאַנד געװאָרן אַ סך האַרבער, און מען האָט שױן מער ניט געקענט שאַפֿן װערטפֿולע און אָריגינעלע היסטאָרישע װערק. אַזױ איז געװען דער גורל פֿון סאָסיס, װעלכער איז אַרױסגעטריבן געװאָרן פֿון דער קאָמוניסטישער פּאַרטײ אין 1931 און האָט פֿאַרלױרן זײַן שטעלע אין דער װיסנשאַפֿט־אַקאַדעמיע פֿון בעלאַרוס.
אין פּױלן, להיפּוך, איז אױפֿגעקומען אַ נײַער דור ייִדישע היסטאָריקער, אַזעלכע װי רפֿאל מאַלער, עמנואל רינגלבלום און פֿיליפּ פֿרידמאַן, װאָס האָבן שטודירט געשיכטע אין פּױלישע אוניװערסיטעטן און האָבן געקענט דרוקן זײערע װערק אין אַקאַדעמישע זשורנאַלן אױף ייִדיש און פּױליש.
אינעם װאַרשעװער געטאָ האָט רינגלבלום אָרגאַניזירט דעם היסטאָרישן אַרכיװ „עונג־שבת“, װאָס האָט געזאַמלט מאַטעריאַלן װעגן דעם לעבן און טױט אינעם געטאָ. ער און כּמעט אַלע מיטאַרבעטער זײַנע זײַנען אומגעקומען אינעם חורבן.
די, װאָס האָבן איבערגעלעבט דעם חורבן – מאַלער, פֿרידמאַן, טרונק און אַנדערע — האָבן ממשיך געװען זײער אַרבעט, לכתּחילה אין פּױלן און שפּעטער אין אַמעריקע אָדער ישׂראל. דאָרט האָבן זײ געאַרבעט דער עיקר אין ייִװאָ און יד־ושם, און זײער פֿאָרשערישע טעמע איז געװאָרן דער חורבן.
מאַרק סמיט האָט אָנגעהױבן זאַמלען מאַטעריאַלן פֿאַר דער אַנטאָלאָגיע מיט צװאַנציק יאָר צוריק. די ייִדישע אָריגינאַלן פֿון װערטפֿולע היסטאָרישע װערק זײַנען צעזײט און צעשפּרײט איבער אַלטע צײַטשריפֿטן, װאָס לרובֿ זײַנען זײ ניט צוטריטלעך עלעקטראָניש. די אַנטאָלאָגיע אַנטפּלעקט די דאָזיקע רײַכע ירושה פֿאַרן ברײטערן עולם לײענער, און זי װעט זײַן ספּעציעל ניצלעך פֿאַר לערער און סטודענטן פֿון ייִדישער געשיכטע.
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In the course of his 104 years, he resisted the Nazis, fought against blood libel and became a towering Jewish intellectual
Today, in a public ceremony held at Les Invalides, President Emmanuel Morin led the French Fifth Republic in paying its last respects to one of the nation’s great public figures, Edgar Morin, whose 104 years spanned the Third and Fourth Republics as well. He was a sociologist, philosopher, writer, film director and screenwriter. But Morin’s real profession was as an intellectual.
There is a vast literature on the character and career of the French intellectual — much of it written by intellectuals — just as there is much disagreement on when this social type first appeared. Some historians reach back as far as the Enlightenment and the role played by les philosophes like Voltaire in their struggle for political liberty and religious toleration, while other historians argue that the modern intellectual burst onto the scene more than a century later with the Dreyfus Affair.
It was at that pivotal moment in late 19th century France that the word “intellectuel” gained currency. Used as a term of scorn by antisemites like Maurice Barrès, they believed Captain Alfred Dreyfus was guilty of treason precisely because he was Jewish. As for those “intellectuals” who defended Dreyfus, Barrès dismissed them as “aristocrats of thought who boasted they did not think like the vile crowd.” Yet those same intellectuals, led by the novelist Émile Zola, gladly embraced the description. Convinced that objective reason and truth made Dreyfus’ innocence clear, they believed, as Zola famously declared, that “truth is on the march.”
But, as Morin always insisted, truth is complex. So, too, was his career, which in many ways reflects the origin story of the French intellectual. Born as Edgar Nahoum in Paris in 1921, his parents were Jewish immigrants from Salonica, a city that had been home to Greece’s largest Jewish community until World War II. (Nearly 90% of the community, some 54,000 men, women, and children were eventually murdered in Nazi death camps.) A precocious student, Nahoum spent his days in libraries studying German philosophers like Hegel and his nights in cinemas studying French films directed by the likes of Marcel Pagnol.
Yet everything changed, including his name, come France’s defeat and occupation by Nazi Germany in 1940. Making his way to the Unoccupied Zone, the 20-year-old Nahoum, who had been a pacifist before the war, soon joined both the banned Communist Party and the French Resistance. By 1944 and liberation, Nahoum had not only become a lieutenant in the Free French Forces, but due to a typo that turned his combat pseudonym “Manin” into “Morin,” the young man was renamed. In fact, he was remade. “What would we have been without the Resistance?” Morin later wondered. “It was thanks to the Resistance that we were given a life.”
And what a life it turned out to be. In 1951, the rebellious Morin, who was outraged by the Soviet show trials, was invited to leave the French Communist Party. At the same time, though he did not have a graduate degree, Morin was nevertheless invited — thanks to the recommendations of the philosophers Vladimir Jankéklévitch and Maurice Merleau-Ponty — to join the prestigious National Center for Scientific Research in Paris in 1950. It was there that he launched a career that fused his academic interests as a sociologist with journalism.
For the next three quarters of a century, Morin seemed to be everywhere all at once. (When I lived in France, I had the impression that, whether on the shelves of bookstores, pages of newspapers, or sets of television shows, I was always bumping into him.) When he was not being interviewed in documentaries, he was making them; when not publishing one of his more than 40 books, he was reviewing books written by others; when seismic events occurred, he was there before anyone else — and got a book out faster. And the books, the work of an intellectuel engagé, were often themselves events that left their mark on Morin’s contemporary audience and future scholars.
One of the most notable of these is La Rumeur d’Orléans, or Rumor in Orléans. In May, 1969 — just one year after the student rebellions that had swept across France (and about which Morin had already published a book) — a rumor started to sweep across the small city of Orléans, famous for being defended against the English by Joan of Arc in the 15th century. The rumor that took flight in Orléans in 1969 — a variation of the blood libel against Jews — was as old as Joan’s achievement. In the dressing rooms of several local clothing stores, so the rumor went, young women were being drugged and sex trafficked. Moreover, the owners of all these stores were, of course, Israëlites (the frequent moniker for French Jews since the 19th century.)
That there was not a single reported case of a missing, much less abducted, woman had little effect on the crowds that gathered outside these stores. As the crowds grew, along with the fear of the store owners and their staffs, the news media picked up on the event. Politicians and pundits expressed outrage and confusion over the rumor — how could this be possible just a quarter-century after Auschwitz, they asked — and the police began to investigate. They could not find a single culprit.
Within weeks of the news reaching Paris, Morin had collected a half-dozen colleagues and set up shop in Orléans to make sense of the rumor. The team, who described their work as la sociologie événementielle, or “event-based sociology,” interviewed locals, met with officials, and rifled through archival documents. Their conclusion reflected a truth dear to Morin: the complexity of any single event. By complexity, Morin did not mean “complicated,” a word we often use when we refuse to engage a subject. Instead, a complex event spans not only the many factors that made this event possible, but also encompasses the way in which our own theories and thoughts alter our understanding of the event. This complex event, Morin concluded, was partly the work of rapid modernization and the great changes it wrought: urbanization, consumerism, and sexual rebellion. It was as if, one historian remarked, “miniskirts were taking people back to the Middle Ages,” and back to the Jew as the traditional scapegoat for these vast social and economic disruptions.
But only partly. The man who described himself as “Judeo-Gentile” always insisted that events often take not just ordinary folk, but also specialists by surprise. Just as no one predicted France’s defeat in 1940, Morin never thought he had the courage to become a resistance fighter. Yet he did. This is a lesson in humility, of course, but also a lesson in humanity. “Let us make our way in uncertainty,” Morin always insisted, “but also in fraternity.” If only we could make this motto our own.
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