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How Germany’s unusual approach to fighting antisemitism is ensnaring Jews who are critical of Israel
(JTA) — The first time Iris Hefets was detained by German police, she was standing alone on a street corner in Berlin with a sign that read, “As a Jew and Israeli, stop the genocide in Gaza.”
That was October 2023. Hefets, a 60-year-old psychoanalyst who moved from Israel in 2002, was standing by herself because Berlin authorities had barred activist groups from holding pro-Palestinian demonstrations after the Oct. 7 Hamas attack on Israel. By carrying a sign alone, she believed she was circumventing the ban on assembly.
But the police said her sign itself was an offense. Since then, Hefets has been detained four more times while protesting Israel’s actions in Gaza, all for the language on her signs. The offenses were logged in police reports as hate speech and included on the surging list of antisemitic incidents in Germany since 2023.
For Hefets, the penalties carry an obvious irony.
“It made me feel like a Jew,” she said. “This is the first time in my life that I really felt what it meant to be a Jew, and in the minority being persecuted.”
Germany has cracked down on speech and demonstrations that assert support for Palestinians and accuse Israel of atrocities, even since Israel and Hamas agreed to a ceasefire in October 2025. Hefets’ detainments were part of a national policy toward antisemitism, defined over decades in the shadow of the Holocaust and sharpened recently under the helm of Felix Klein, the first federal commissioner for combating antisemitism.
Klein announced last month that he will leave his post, which he has held for eight years, this summer to join the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development in Paris. He leaves behind a proposal to criminalize chants that could be interpreted as calling for Israel’s destruction, such as “From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.”
The proposed legislation is currently being reviewed by the Ministry of Justice, and its future may rest in the hands of the next antisemitism commissioner, who has yet to be announced.
Whoever is chosen for the role will face down a fraught debate over Germany’s historic allegiance to Israel and the legal boundaries of pro-Palestinian speech. Many Jews say they feel safer under such bans, including the Central Council of Jews in Germany, which recommended Klein for his appointment as antisemitism czar. Some human rights groups and pundits have objected, however, saying the bans limit free speech and criminalize legitimate expressions of support for the Palestinian cause.
The next commissioner will also have to grapple with Jewish intellectuals, artists and activists like Hefets, who say that Germany’s antisemitism enforcers are suppressing Jewish voices that don’t fall in line.
The first swell of dissent from Jews came soon after Oct. 7. In an open letter published in the German newspaper “Die Tageszeitung” on Oct. 22, 2023, 121 Jewish writers and artists living in Germany condemned Hefets’ arrest and bans on pro-Palestinian demonstrations.
“Virtually all of the cancellations, including those banning gatherings organized by Jewish groups, have been justified by the police in part due to the ‘imminent risk’ of ‘seditious, anti-Semitic exclamations,’” said the letter. “These claims, we believe, serve to suppress legitimate nonviolent political expression that may include criticisms of Israel.”
Emily Dische-Becker, the Germany director of the international group Diaspora Alliance and a Jewish German-American from Berlin, said Klein’s proposal to outlaw slogans like “From the river to the sea” could cement a sacrifice of free speech, ultimately harming Jews and other minorities.
“I do not think that treating antisemitism as a state of exception to our democratic laws and constitutional rights is going to help combat antisemitism,” she said.
For Klein, there is no contradiction in a German officer arresting a Jewish person for antisemitism. “It doesn’t really matter who is the person who spreads antisemitism,” he said in an interview. “Although it sounds odd at first sight, antisemitism can also be spread by Jews.”
Klein also dismissed efforts to distinguish between anti-Zionism and antisemitism.
“In Germany, we hardly ever talk about anti-Zionism. The political notion hardly exists,” he said. “We talk about Israel-related antisemitism. When someone says, ‘I’m only anti-Zionist, I’m not antisemitic,’ I think in most of the cases, anti-Zionism is also a form of antisemitism. They say Israel, but they mean Jews.”
Germany’s grip on speech about Israel is rooted in a decades-old effort to expunge the taint of its Nazi past. During the 1980s and 1990s, the country formalized a process of “Vergangenheitsbewältigung,” or reckoning with the Nazi era through memorials, education and narratives about German identity. Key to this identity — and to Germany’s rehabilitation — was a special responsibility toward Israel.
Former Chancellor Angela Merkel summed up this bond in 2008. Speaking to the Knesset on the 60th anniversary of the founding of Israel, she said Israel’s security was part of Germany’s “Staatsräson,” or the reason for the existence of the state.
Now deeply ingrained in German politics, that concept has become a tool in the prosecution of pro-Palestinian protesters accused of antisemitism. Last year, immigration authorities ordered the deportation of three European nationals and one U.S. citizen over their alleged activity at pro-Palestinian protests. Three of the orders cited “Staatsräson,” although the protesters’ lawyer said the word had no legal standing.
Disputes over Israel recently erupted at the Buchenwald concentration camp memorial, as both Israel’s critics and its defenders claim the Holocaust for their terrain. The anti-Zionist group Kufiyas in Buchenwald announced a demonstration at Buchenwald on April 11, the anniversary of its liberation, in protest against a German court’s decision that the site could refuse entry to visitors who wear a Palestinian keffiyeh.
The court said it was “unquestionable” that wearing a keffiyeh to send a political message “would endanger the sense of security of many Jews, especially at this site.” Meanwhile, the protesters argued that their campaign encompasses the “descendants of Holocaust survivors,” including Buchenwald inmates, and said the site has become a place of “historical revisionism and genocide denial.”
The group also said the memorial had suppressed other voices that criticized Israel, including the Israeli philosopher Omri Boehm, who was slated to give a commemoration speech at Buchenwald last year. Boehm, the grandson of Holocaust survivors and a critic of the Israeli government, was disinvited after pressure from the Israeli embassy in Berlin.
The planned Buchenwald protest was condemned by the European Jewish Congress, and Klein said it marked a “new low point in the unfortunately all-too-common reversal of perpetrator and victim roles.”
Klein’s office, titled in full the “Federal Government Commissioner for Jewish Life in Germany and the Fight against Antisemitism,” was created in 2018. Germany has since produced a web of antisemitism commissioners, with 15 installed at the state level and others assigned to universities and cultural institutions. The only Jewish state czar, Stefan Hensel of Hamburg, resigned at the end of 2025. (Hensel, who cited rising antisemitic threats in his decision to step down, converted to Judaism shortly before he started the job in 2021.)
According to Klein, the chief target of this antisemitism-fighting bureaucracy is clear: the pro-Palestinian movement. “The most common and most dangerous form of antisemitism in Germany, like in other countries, is Israel-related antisemitism,” he said.
Germany’s Federal Criminal Police Office records the political origins of antisemitic crimes. In 2024, it said that antisemitism driven by left-wing extremism rose a dramatic 172%, from 40 incidents the previous year to 109. Another category titled “foreign ideology” was reported to spur 1,940 incidents, a 63% increase from 2023.
But by far, right-wing extremism drove the most antisemitic crimes, a total of 3,016. Though that figure fell slightly from 2023, the office said that right-wing extremism also constituted the majority of offenses “in every previous year.”
The publicly available statistics do not break down responsibility for different types of antisemitic incidents, from hate speech to property damage to violence, and how many were reported to have Jewish victims.
Nevertheless, Dische-Becker criticized Klein’s office for “decoupling” its focus from far-right activity. She noted that the nationalist Alternative for Germany party or AfD, which has welcomed neo-Nazis to meetings, is rapidly becoming one of the country’s most popular parties and could win in some state-level elections this year.
Klein has support from the Central Council of Jews in Germany, a representative body whose 100,000 members comprise about half of the total Jews living in Germany. The group has said that “From the river to the sea” means “the annihilation of Israel and the expulsion and destruction of the Jews living there,” adding that Germany has an “urgent duty” to clarify that definition. The Central Council did not respond to requests for comment in time for publication.
Israel is an “existential concern” for many German Jews, according to A. Dirk Moses, a scholar of genocide, memory studies and modern Germany at the City College of New York. The Central Council emphasizes that it views the well-being of Jews in Germany as “dependent on the robustness of the Israeli state,” Moses said.
Even when German Jews do not fully align with the Central Council’s platform, he added, they often weigh language about Israel against the risk of undoing Germany’s progress in confronting the Holocaust.
“It’s the fear that you will give ammunition to antisemites in Germany, who will say, ‘Ah, the Jews are committing genocide too, just like our grandparents did, so we don’t owe them anything,’” he said.
The Central Council of Jews in Germany represents a population of Jewish families who largely arrived as refugees from Soviet countries and rebuilt Jewish life in Germany after the Holocaust. Many came in poverty and depended heavily on community structures, including the Central Council, which is state-funded. Today, Jewish retirees still depend on basic social security at 10 times the rate of the average German, said Dische-Becker.
Many of these Jews also carry the memory of Soviet anti-Zionist campaigns, which employed antisemitic propaganda, shut down Jewish life and targeted Jews as ideologically suspect.
“The communities that are part of this umbrella organization are overwhelmingly older, post-Soviet migrants,” said Dische-Becker. “They have an experience of Soviet anti-Zionism that was antisemitic, and oftentimes they lean very right-wing.”
Johanna Vollhardt, a social psychologist at Clark University affiliated with the Strassler Center for Holocaust and Genocide Studies, grew up in Germany’s Reform Jewish movement. She experienced the marginalization of Reform Judaism, which was born in Germany in the early 19th century and destroyed there by World War II, only gaining formal recognition by the Central Council and state funding in the early 2000s.
She viewed the Reform movement as part of a vast, diverse ecosystem of Jewish ideas that was stamped out, and remains stifled by policies like Klein’s proposal.
“To me, it’s important to emphasize this pluralism that was destroyed in the Holocaust and not allowed to rebuild,” said Vollhardt. “This is part of the lack of support for the expression of anti-Zionist Jewish thought, or any other non-Zionist, non-mainstream Jewish thought.”
Over recent decades, younger, richer and more politically liberal Jews have moved to Germany, particularly Berlin. Among them are up to 30,000 Israelis, including some who left Israel out of frustration and anger at their government.
Many of the Jewish artists and intellectuals who came from outside Germany have been caught in the clampdown on alleged anti-Israel or antisemitic expression.
According to data compiled by Diaspora Alliance, Jews were involved in 25% of the performances, exhibits and artistic expressions canceled in 2023 for allegations of antisemitism — despite making up less than 1% of the country’s population. (Palestinian, Muslim and Arab communities were penalized the most.)
Candice Breitz, a Jewish South African artist who has lived in Berlin since 2002, had an exhibition canceled by the Saarland Museum’s Modern Gallery in November 2023. The exhibition centered on sex workers in Cape Town and was unrelated to Israel. Organizers said she had signed a letter from the Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions movement and had not condemned the Oct. 7 attack.
Breitz denied both claims. She said she was not a supporter of BDS, and wrote on Instagram before the museum’s decision, “It is possible to fully condemn Hamas (as I do, unequivocally), while nevertheless supporting the broader Palestinian struggle for freedom from oppression, discrimination and occupation.”
Deborah Feldman, the Brooklyn-born ex-Orthodox Jew and author of the bestselling book “Unorthodox” who moved to Berlin in 2014, said she saw invitations to promote her latest book canceled in 2023. The book, titled “Judenfetisch” or “Jew Fetish,” argued that Germany’s guilt over the Holocaust had distorted its relationship to Jews and Israel.
Other Jewish intellectuals who don’t live in Germany say they have been shunned from coming. The Russian-American writer M. Gessen had a prestigious award from the Heinrich Böll Foundation pulled in December 2023, following an essay in The New Yorker comparing Gaza to a Nazi-era Jewish ghetto (and criticizing Germany’s constraints on pro-Palestinian views). Gessen ultimately received the award after the original ceremony was canceled.
In 2024, Nancy Fraser, a philosophy professor at the New School in New York, was disinvited from a visiting position at the University of Cologne over her signature on a letter titled “Philosophy for Palestine.” The university said that Fraser’s job offer was rescinded because the letter called into question “Israel’s right to exist as an ‘ethno-supremacist state’ since its foundation in 1948.”
Iris Hefets is a founding member of Jüdische Stimme für gerechten Frieden in Nahost (Jewish Voice for a Just Peace in the Middle East), a pro-Palestinian organization roughly comparable to the anti-Zionist Jewish Voice for Peace in the United States. It is much smaller, with membership in the hundreds, and counts only Jews as members, unlike the U.S. group. But membership surged after Oct. 7, 2023, said Hefets.
In 2024, the Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution declared Jüdische Stimme an extremist organization. (The same agency designated the AfD as an extremist group in 2025.)
As a result, newer Jewish immigrants have peeled off from Jüdische Stimme. They don’t want to risk being questioned about their role in an extremist organization while applying for citizenship, said Hefets.
She called it “perverse” to see “Jews being accused of antisemitism by Germans who have Nazi grandparents.” Through her detainments, she believes, German officers were signaling that their “Vergangenheitsbewältigung” was complete; they had finished reckoning with the past.
“What Germany is saying now is actually that Germany worked through its past, and now Germany can go back to business as usual,” said Hefets. “‘We were punished by the Allies, but now it’s over, we are good again, because the Jews forgave us.’ And the Jews, for them, that’s Israel.”
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The Jewish community accepts interfaith families in principle — but it doesn’t look that way in practice
There is a photograph from my wedding that I think about more than any other. My wife Donna and I are standing under a chuppah. But we are not in a synagogue. Or even on a beach. We are in the beautifully ornate St. Matthew’s Cathedral in Washington, D.C. — the same church where John F. Kennedy’s funeral Mass was held.
Donna is Catholic. I am Jewish. The ceremony, which took place a little more than 20 years ago, was co-officiated by a rabbi and a priest. Before we exchanged vows, we signed a ketubah — the Jewish marriage contract — on the altar, beneath the Cathedral’s great mosaic of St. Matthew, the apostle who was himself a tax collector before he was called to follow Jesus: a man of two worlds, presiding over our union with what I have chosen to interpret as equanimity.
We like to call it a “Ḥuppah in the Ḥurch.” The guttural Hebrew Ḥet — the sound that “chuppah” and “church” share when English speakers say them — makes the joke land differently out loud than it does on the page. But the feeling it captures is real: that the most Jewish act of my adult life happened inside a Catholic cathedral, and that this was not a contradiction; it was the whole point.
I did not fully understand, at the time, what that photograph meant. I understand it better now, with one child who stood on a bimah at our synagogue to become b’nei mitzvah in 2024, and a second who followed this October. The earlier wedding chuppah at St. Matthew’s was not a compromise. It was a declaration of intent of how we would define our family.
According to the 2025 Greater Boston Jewish Community Study — a comprehensive survey of Jewish communal life commissioned by Combined Jewish Philanthropies and released earlier this year — only 23% of children ages 14-17 from interfaith families have a bar or bat mitzvah, compared to 82% of children from families where both parents are Jewish. That gap — 59 points — is not a rounding error. It is a chasm. I believe it measures less a failure of Jewish identity than a failure of Jewish institutions.
The Boston study found that 65% of Jewish households with children in the greater Boston area are interfaith — a majority. Nationally, the 2020 Pew Research Center survey found that 42% of married American Jews were married to a non-Jewish spouse, with that number rising among younger and non-Orthodox Jews. Interfaith families are not an edge case in American Jewish life. They are the center of it.
Jodi Bromberg, who led 18Doors — a nonprofit dedicated to supporting interfaith families in Jewish life — for a decade before stepping down in 2024, put it bluntly: Interfaith families “aren’t a drop in the ocean. We are the ocean.” The irony is that 18Doors itself has since become a casualty of the communal prioritization it was warning against. After Oct. 7, 2023, donors shifted their giving toward Israel and antisemitism-related causes; earlier this year, according to JTA, 18Doors slashed its staff from 15 to four. Bromberg left asking: “The question it left in the minds of families like mine: whose priority are mixed heritage and interfaith families in Jewish life?”
The Jewish community has largely supported welcoming interfaith families. The language has shifted — from “intermarriage” as problem to “interfaith family” as constituency. What has not yet shifted, in too many places, is what actually happens when those families show up.
My family showed up. What happened to us is a complicated story about what Jewish continuity actually costs — and who is being asked to pay for it.
The first wall we encountered was not unwelcoming people. It was doctrine.
Matrilineal descent — the principle that Jewish identity passes through the mother — is not stated plainly in the written Torah. The rule was codified by the early rabbis, likely in the first or second century CE, and yet it functions today, in Conservative and Orthodox congregations, as a theological absolute — a sorting mechanism that places children of Jewish fathers and non-Jewish mothers in a separate category, recognized as fully Jewish by Reform and Reconstructionist movements but not by much of the rest of the Jewish world.
I grew up in a Reform congregation, but in my twenties I spent time studying at Aish HaTorah in Jerusalem — an Orthodox yeshiva — and came home with a deeper appreciation for traditional observance. When Donna and I started a family, I was drawn toward a more traditional congregation. What I found, at more than one Conservative synagogue, was that my daughters — daughters of a Jewish father and a devoted, deeply engaged Catholic mother — would need to convert to be considered fully Jewish. The synagogue said it would accept our family. But our daughters would need to be processed.
This is not outright rejection. It is something subtler: the message that your children’s belonging is conditional, something to be granted rather than inherited. You are welcome, but the rest of your family is a question we haven’t resolved yet.
I almost let it win.
Our older child started Hebrew school at a large synagogue in northern Virginia and came home crying. The environment was harsh; she was behind and everyone knew it. After several months, she asked us if she could stop. The pandemic arrived, and we let it make the decision for us.
When restrictions lifted, we found a congregation in Arlington that had built a hybrid model during the pandemic — Sunday morning religious school in person, Hebrew instruction via individual Zoom sessions during the week. What looked like an emergency accommodation turned out to be an unintended innovation: a model that removed the social pressure of being seen to struggle. Away from the eyes of their peers, our child learned and caught up. In February 2024, they led their own bat mitzvah service, then started a Jewish student cohort at their school.
What saved their Jewish education was not ideological commitment. It was an accident of pandemic logistics. That is a fragile kind of salvation. Most interfaith families do not find it. The data says so.
There is something the data does not capture: what the work actually looks like inside an interfaith home. Donna agreed, before the Ḥuppah at St. Matthew’s, to raise our children in the Jewish tradition, and she has kept that agreement with a fidelity that still catches me off guard. She runs our Jewish household calendar, ensures the girls study their Hebrew and Torah portions, has made raisin kugel and matzo ball soup from scratch, and has shown up for every bat mitzvah preparation meeting — all as a Catholic woman who continues to practice her own faith and has not surrendered anything of herself to make room for ours.
Meanwhile, I string the outdoor Christmas lights every year, drove the girls to Catholic Sunday school for years, gave Donna a diamond cross necklace early in our relationship that she still wears today. An interfaith marriage requires not one partner’s sacrifice and the other’s gratitude, but a genuine doubling of belonging.
When I asked Donna what the harder moments were, she said they were not in our own home. They were in other people’s institutional spaces — the moments when she felt regarded as a problem to be managed rather than a parent to be welcomed. The 23% is often read as a story about interfaith families failing to commit. It is at least as much a story about Jewish institutions failing to make the non-Jewish partner feel that her commitment matters.
My younger daughter stood on the bimah on Oct. 3. She is a different person than her older sibling— a social butterfly with her own questions, her own relationship to what this all means — and she was honest with me about those questions in ways that required me to listen rather than answer. She completed her bat mitzvah not because she had resolved those questions, but because she made a commitment and she was going to honor it. There is something deeply, if unintentionally, Jewish about that: a covenant is not a feeling, it is a promise kept because you said you would keep it.
She was in the 23%. She almost wasn’t.
The fear behind the continuity crisis narrative has been used to justify exclusion, to draw lines, to send signals to interfaith families about whether they truly belong. Those signals are self-fulfilling. The families who make it to the bimah found an institution that treated them as members rather than complications, had a non-Jewish partner committed enough to keep showing up anyway, and got lucky with a workaround that happened to be exactly what their child needed. That is too much to ask, and too random a path to count on.
The Jewish community has accepted interfaith families in principle. The 23% tells you what that acceptance looks like in practice. If the number is going to change, something structural has to change with it — not just the language of welcome, but the architecture of it. Not just the open door, but what’s waiting on the other side.
My daughter chanted her Torah portion with her Catholic mother who was on the bimah behind her, and her older sister in the front row, wearing a cross and a Star of David together because she has decided there is no reason she cannot wear both.
If we truly believe interfaith families are the future of American Judaism, what do we owe the 77% who never made it to the bimah?
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Trump’s empire is crumbling, much like the Berlin Wall in 1989
As a foreign correspondent during the Cold War, I witnessed and reported on the collapse of East Germany’s corrupt communist state. Nearly four decades later, I feel a sense of déjà vu as I watch Donald Trump’s corrupt MAGA regime crumble at an accelerating pace.
German social media influencers and national news platforms have been posting videos of American mid-term election scenes that remind me of the night the Berlin Wall cracked open in 1989 — dancing in the streets, strangers hugging, laughter spilling out of Democratic watch parties, tears of relief and disbelief.
In Austin, Texas, Sally Lisa Starken, a German journalist and influencer, stood amid a roaring crowd of James Talarico supporters when the Democrat was declared the victor over Ken Paxton. Lifting her phone to capture the eruption for her Instagram followers, Starken looked just as stunned and jubilant as the sea of people surrounding her,.
For a moment, Austin was Berlin.
“Texas is turning blue! This is insane!” Starken said in her live post. A follower back in Germany wrote: “Yeah! Fantastic! Thank you for this wonderful news this morning!” Another added: “The USA has woken up!!! Hopefully that will soon happen here.”
Since Trump’s second inauguration, his autocratic style of governing has carried echoes of the Third Reich. And now, as the politically wounded American president enters the last half of his second term, his crumbling MAGA machine is looking like the corrupt Stalinist regime that ruled East Germany for four decades.
The opening of the Berlin Wall released East Germans from repression. While Trump has another two years to go as president, American voters rescued democracy by restoring Congress to its role as a check on overreaching executive power by rejecting Republican officeholders and candidates who had turned themselves into Trumpian marionettes.
Responding to citizen demands for accountability, German authorities after reunification pursued hundreds of cases against former East German officials, charging them with offenses that spanned the system’s spectrum of abuse — from the misuse of state resources to the killing of East Germans trying to flee to the West.
Corruption was endemic within the East German leadership. Senior officials, including Erich Honecker, lived in comfort inside a walled enclave at Wandlitz outside East Berlin and vacationed on the Baltic Sea in exclusive manor homes on Vilm, an island off limits to ordinary Germans. Luxury goods for the communist elite flowed through a secretive government agency called Commercial Coordination, which trafficked in Western technology, arms deals, and hard-currency diversions to Swiss accounts.
Few of the senior officials ended up paying for their misdeeds. Many were spared because of illness or frailty. Erich Honecker initially found refuge in Moscow but in 1992 was sent back to Germany to stand trial on charges of abuse of power and manslaughter for the killing of East Germans who tried to escape to the West. The case was abandoned because Honecker was seriously ill. He died of cancer in 1994 in Chile, where he had moved to reunite with his wife and his daughter.
As sensational as the proceedings against Honecker and his comrades were, they may well pale next to the scrutiny Donald Trump, his two oldest sons, his son-in-law, and their associates could face with Democrats now in control of Congress. After the GOP’s shellacking, Rep. Robert Garcia had two words for Trump administration officials linked to corruption and abuses of power: “Lawyer up.”
Garcia, a California Democrat who is in line to become the chair of the House Committee on Oversight and Government Reform, has outlined an aggressive agenda for investigating the Trumps and their political and business circles.
“If we’re really going to take on the affordability crisis, we’ve got to take on the corruption of the Trumps because they’re stealing people’s money, their labor,” Garcia told Punchbowl News.
Garcia said his top areas of focus include Trump family corruption, alleged abuses by ICE and the Department of Homeland Security, corporate misconduct, and cover-ups in the Jeffrey Epstein scandal.
Although Trump and his allies have done little to conceal their conflicts of interest, compelling testimony under oath would force them to confront conduct they have evaded accountability for throughout Trump’s second term. We can expect hearings on the $2.2 billion in wealth Trump has accumulated as president, Eric and Donald Trump Jr.’s shady business dealings and Jared Kushner’s financial relationships with Middle Eastern governments.
Congressional hearings on Trump’s massive immigration crackdown would have the potential to become a sort of American analog to the post-unification trials of senior East German officials, mid-level commanders, and border guards in the killing of East Germans who tried to flee to the West — scaling the Berlin Wall, sprinting across the death strip along the border, or attempting other desperate escapes.
Democrats will likely try to shine a light on decision-making processes that led up to foreign university students being swept off the streets by federal agents, traffic stops in which immigrants were violently pulled from their cars, masked agents terrorizing families during raids on immigrants’ homes, the warehousing of Latinos and others in detention centers with allegedly inhumane conditions, the spiriting away of detainees to African countries with which they have no connection, and brutal tactics of the kind that resulted in the deaths of Renee Good and Alex Pretti.
Among those likely to face subpoenas are top Trump aide Stephen Miller, the former Homeland Security secretary Kristi Noem and possibly Trump himself. Oversight hearings would force senior officials to explain, under oath, how these policies were conceived, approved and carried out — a public accounting that echoes, in form if not in historical circumstance, the post-reunification scrutiny faced by East German officials responsible for the lethal border regime.
What happens if all of this ends the way East Germany’s reckoning did — with months of public testimony, thousands of pages of evidence, and almost no real accountability? Trump retains broad pardon powers, and the Supreme Court has already granted him sweeping presidential immunity. As long as he remains in office, his Justice Department is unlikely to pursue anything Congress uncovers. The result could resemble the East German experience: a great airing-out of abuses, and perhaps a sense of moral clarity, but the central figures keeping the riches and advantages they have reaped during Donald Trump’s reign and escaping any real punishment.
Even so, such an airing-out would not be meaningless. It would stand as a warning that the vast corruption of Trump’s second term will never again be tolerated — and as a record of how close America came to losing the checks that make democracy possible.
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Eisenkot moves closer to ousting Netanyahu. Here’s what could come next.
(JTA) — Yashar party leader Gadi Eisenkot leaped ahead of Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu this week in the effort to secure enough support from the rest of the parliament to form Israel’s next governing coalition. But that doesn’t mean he’ll succeed in his quest to become prime minister.
Yashar won the most seats – 21 – of any party not aligned with Netanyahu in last month’s vote. But neither the prime minister’s bloc nor the opposition garnered the 61-seat minimum needed to form a governing majority.
Israeli President Isaac Herzog on Sunday will announce who is being given the first shot at forming a coalition. By the end of this week, Eisenkot was able to announce that 67 parliamentarians had endorsed giving him the first chance to do so, compared to 46 for Netanyahu.
That means Herzog is all but certain to tap Eisenkot on Sunday to form a government – but Eisenkot’s path forward remains far from clear.
Eisenkot leads a bloc of four Zionist parties that make up Israel’s so-called change bloc, united by their stated goal of replacing Netanyahu. Together, they hold 48 seats in the incoming parliament, or Knesset, which means they need to enlist the support of parties whose seats total at least 13 to reach the magic number of 61 out of 120 Knesset seats. Or, they could gain a plurality if enough other parties abstain from voting in the new coalition.
Eisenkot has 28 days to negotiate that arrangement once given the opportunity, or mandate, to do so by Herzog, plus a 14-day extension if the president allows it. If Eisenkot fails, another candidate could get a shot at forming a coalition, or another round of elections might loom.
Sixty-seven lawmakers supported Herzog giving Eisenkot the mandate. But that’s different from voting for him to actually take power. Here are the paths he could take, and why each one is fraught.
An unlikely alliance?
The first option, which has gained traction in the days since the election, is to cooperate with the ultra-Orthodox parties. These parties have a longstanding alliance with Netanyahu but have served in governments with leaders in the center and left in the past.
There are several indications that such an arrangement may already be taking shape. For starters, United Torah Judaism, one of the two haredi Orthodox parties in the Knesset, told Herzog that it would not endorse either candidate for prime minister – seemingly breaking from the alliance with Netanyahu.
During the consultations with Herzog, the party’s leaders made clear that their support would go to whichever bloc was willing to make concessions on Haredi conscription, including abandoning sanctions against those who refuse to enlist.
If United Torah Judaism with its 7 seats shifts its support from Netanyahu’s coalition to the change bloc, Eisenkot could secure a plurality, provided the Arab parties at least abstain.
Another indication that such an arrangement may be in the works came from Avigdor Lieberman, leader of the Yisrael Beiteinu party and a member of the change bloc. For years, Lieberman has been best known in Israeli politics for his fierce opposition to the haredi parties.
In a stunning change of course, Lieberman signaled in a Friday post on X that he was open to cooperating with the haredi parties to replace Netanyahu — an arrangement that would have been almost unimaginable until recently.
“The election results require all of us to rethink our approach and recognize that there are no good alternatives or magic solutions before us,” Lieberman wrote. He said politicians would need to “show flexibility and make compromises,” including on the issue of haredi military conscription.
“Our national responsibility requires us to make difficult decisions and be prepared for painful compromises,” he added.
The other leaders of the change bloc have been considerably more vague, focusing on the need to replace Netanyahu without specifying how they intend to do so.
“In recent days, I have been advancing a plan with my partners to establish a national emergency government,” Eisenkot wrote on Friday of the four parties that comprise the opposition bloc coming out of the election.
“The logic behind it is to quickly swear in a government based on the four Zionist parties of change and renewal, with any party or Knesset member who agrees to my four basic principles joining immediately or gradually,” he explained. These principles include recognizing Israel as a Jewish and democratic state, accepting the values enshrined in Israel’s Declaration of Independence, mandatory military or civilian service, and recognizing Hamas as a terrorist organization.
But in the same post in which he announced his willingness to compromise with the haredi parties, Lieberman also introduced a potential obstacle that could derail the entire effort. The veteran politician ruled out supporting any minority government, raising the number of seats the change bloc needs to secure to 61. That would require the support of both haredi parties, United Torah Judaism and Shas, rather than just the former.
That is a considerably greater challenge. Shas is considered more right-wing than United Torah Judaism, and its leader, Aryeh Deri, has maintained an especially close relationship with Netanyahu for years. The party also endorsed Netanyahu for prime minister during the consultations. So far, there has been no indication that Shas intends to abandon him, casting serious doubt on the viability of a change-bloc government backed by the haredi parties.
And that is far from the only obstacle facing such an arrangement. One of the central themes of the change bloc’s election campaign was the need to enlist haredi men in the military and change the state’s longstanding approach to their exemption from service. One of the bloc’s strongest campaign arguments was Netanyahu’s unpopular alliance with the two haredi parties. Every leader in the bloc, without exception, pledged before the election not to sit with them in government.
Forming a government with the haredi parties, likely involving significant compromises on military conscription, would be seen by many change-bloc voters as a stunning betrayal.
The first signs of a revolt have already emerged within the bloc. Dan Illouz, an elected Knesset member from Lieberman’s party, wrote on Friday that “we cannot give up on a conscription law,” making clear that he would oppose compromises on the issue.
An unprecedented partnership?
Another scenario that could theoretically allow Eisenkot to form a government would be to rely on cooperation with another minority, the Arab parties — an arrangement that has long been controversial in Israeli politics. The 19 seats won by Ra’am and the Joint List, the two Arab parties in the bloc, could provide the additional support needed for a change bloc government.
Eisenkot would need active support from Ra’am, the more moderate of the two Arab parties, which previously joined the coalition that replaced Netanyahu in 2021 and has made integration into Israeli society a central part of its platform, alongside an abstention or support from outside the coalition, i.e. not actively joining the coalition, by the Joint List. The more hard-line Arab party has signaled its willingness to engage in unprecedented cooperation with the change bloc to bring down Netanyahu’s coalition.
But here, too, cooperation is far from straightforward, and the obstacles again come from within the change bloc itself.
In addition to ruling out support for a minority government, including one backed by Ra’am, Lieberman made clear that he would oppose any government relying on the Arab parties. “We must not establish a government that relies on the abstention of the Joint List and Ra’am,” he emphasized in his Friday post.
Without Lieberman’s support, cooperation between the change bloc and the Arab parties appears unlikely. It would require the active support of both Arab parties, rather than just Ra’am, a prospect likely to create significant difficulties for members of the change bloc who may be reluctant to cooperate with a party that many Jewish Israelis view as hostile to the Jewish state and the Zionist project. Israeli media have reported that some lawmakers in the bloc have already conveyed that they would struggle to sit in a government with the Arab parties.
Here, too, such an arrangement would represent a clear breach of a campaign promise made by every leader in the change bloc. Eisenkot himself said in a late September interview with Channel 12 News that the Arab parties, including Ra’am, did not meet his conditions for joining a government. Among those conditions, he said, was recognizing Hamas as a terrorist organization.
A unity government after all?
The third possible route to forming a government would be a national unity coalition between Netanyahu and the change bloc, or at least some of its constituent parties.
So far, all the leaders of the change bloc appear to have categorically ruled out such an arrangement after the election.
In his Friday post, Eisenkot said there was an “urgent need to replace” Netanyahu’s leadership. Lieberman declared that “the Netanyahu era must come to an end.” Yair Golan, leader of the Democrats, said the bloc had a “historic responsibility” to send Netanyahu home, while Naftali Bennett, the former prime minister who leads B’Yachad, also emphasized the urgency of replacing the current government.
The underlying assumption is that Netanyahu, who will remain prime minister if neither bloc succeeds in forming a new government and new elections are called, would prefer another election to giving up the office.
That would mean any unity arrangement would likely require Netanyahu to remain prime minister, at least initially, under a rotation agreement. Some have speculated that the change bloc’s overtures to the ultra-Orthodox parties are intended to lower Netanyahu’s bargaining power ahead of potential negotiations over a unity government.
For all the momentum behind Eisenkot’s bid to replace Netanyahu, none of the available paths to a governing majority looks straightforward. Securing the mandate may have been the easy part – forming a government could prove much harder.
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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