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Letty Cottin Pogrebin wants Jews to own up to the corrosive power of shame
(JTA) — When a lawyer for Donald Trump asked E. Jean Carroll why she didn’t scream while allegedly being raped by Donald Trump, I thought of Letty Cottin Pogrebin. In her latest book, “Shanda: A Memoir of Shame and Secrecy,” she writes about being assaulted by a famous poet — and how the shadow of shame kept women like her silent about attacks on their own bodies.
That incident in 1962, she writes, was “fifty-eight years before the #MeToo movement provided the sisterhood and solidarity that made survivors of abuse and rape feel safe enough to tell their stories.”
Now 83, Pogrebin could have coasted with a memoir celebrating her six decades as a leading feminist: She co-founded Ms. magazine, its Foundation for Women and the National Women’s Political Caucus. She served as president of Americans for Peace Now and in 1982 blew the whistle on antisemitism in the feminist movement.
Instead, “Shanda” is about her immigrant Jewish family and the secrets they carried through their lives. First marriages that were kept hidden. An unacknowledged half-sister. Money problems and domestic abuse. An uncle banished for sharing family dirt in public.
“My mania around secrecy and shame was sparked in 1951 by the discovery that my parents had concealed from me the truth about their personal histories, and every member of my large extended family, on both sides, was in on it,” writes Pogrebin, now 83. “Their need to avoid scandal was so compelling that, once identified, it provided the lens through which I could see my family with fresh eyes, spotlight their fears, and, in so doing, illuminate my own.”
“Shanda” (the Yiddish word describes the kind of behavior that brings shame on an entire family or even a people) is also a portrait of immigrant New York Jews in the 20th century. As her father and mother father move up in the world and leave their Yiddish-speaking, Old World families behind for new lives in the Bronx and Queens, they stand in for a generation of Jews and new Americans “bent on saving face and determined to be, if not exemplary, at least impeccably respectable.”
Pogrebin and I spoke last week ahead of the Eight Over Eighty Gala on May 31, where she will be honored with a group that includes another Jewish feminist icon, the writer Erica Jong, and musician Eve Queler, who founded her own ensemble, the Opera Orchestra of New York, when she wasn’t being given chances to conduct in the male-dominated world of classical music. The gala is a fundraiser for the New Jewish Home, a healthcare nonprofit serving older New Yorkers.
Pogrebin and I spoke about shame and how it plays out in public and private, from rape accusations against a former president to her regrets over how she wrote about her own abortions to how the Bible justifies family trickery.
Our conversation was edited for length and clarity.
I found your book very moving because my parents’ generation, who like your family were middle-class Jews who grew up or lived in the New York metropolitan area, are also all gone now. Your book brought back to me that world of aunts and uncles and cousins, and kids like us who couldn’t imagine what kinds of secrets and traumas our parents and relatives were hiding. But you went back and asked all the questions that many of us are afraid to ask.
I can’t tell you how good writing it has been. I feel as though I have no weight on my back. And people who have read it gained such comfort from the normalization that happens when you read that others have been through what you’ve been through. And my family secrets are so varied — just one right after the other. The chameleon-like behavior of that generation — they became who they wanted to be through pretense or actual accomplishment.
In my mother’s case, pretense led the way. She went and got a studio photo that made it look like she graduated from high school when she didn’t. In the eighth grade, she went up to her uncle’s house in the north Bronx and had her dates pick her up there because of the shanda of where she lived on the Lower East Side with nine people in three rooms. She had to imagine herself the child of her uncle, who didn’t have an accent or had an accent but at least spoke English.
You describe yours as “an immigrant family torn between loyalty to their own kind and longing for American acceptance.”
There was the feeling that, “If only we could measure up, we would be real Americans.” My mother was a sewing machine operator who became a designer and figured out what American women wore when she came from rags and cardboard shoes, in steerage. So I admire them. As much as I was discomforted by the lies, I ended up having compassion for them.
It’s also a story of thwarted women, and all that lost potential of a generation in which few could contemplate a college degree or a career outside the home. Your mother worked for a time as a junior designer for Hattie Carnegie, a sort of Donna Karan of her day, but abandoned that after she met your dad and became, as you write, “Mrs. Jack Cottin.”
The powerlessness of women was complicated in the 1950s by the demands of the masculine Jewish ideal. So having a wife who didn’t work was proof that you were a man who could provide. As a result women sacrificed their own aspirations and passions. She protected her husband’s image by not pursuing her life outside the home. In a way my feminism is a positive, like a photograph, to the negative of my mother’s 1950s womanhood.
“I’m not an optimist. I call myself a ‘cockeyed strategist,” said Pogrebin, who has a home on the Upper West Side. (Mike Lovett)
You write that you “think of shame and secrecy as quintessentially Jewish issues.” What were the Jewish pressures that inspired your parents to tell so many stories that weren’t true?
Think about what we did. We hid behind our names. We changed our names. We sloughed off our accents. My mother learned to make My*T*Fine pudding instead of gefilte fish. Shame and secrecy have always been intrinsically Jewish to me, because of the “sha!” factor: At every supper party, there would be the moment when somebody would say, “Sha! We don’t talk about that!” So even though we talked about what felt like everything, there were things that couldn’t be touched: illness, the C-word [cancer]. If you wanted to make a shidduch [wedding match] with another family in the insular communities in which Jews lived, you couldn’t let it be known that there was cancer in the family, or mental illness.
While I was writing this memoir, I realized that the [Torah portion] I’m listening to one Shabbat morning is all about hiding. It is Jacob finding out that he didn’t marry Rachel, after all, but married somebody he didn’t love. All of the hiding that I took for granted in the Bible stories and I was raised on like mother’s milk was formative. They justified pretense, and they justified trickery. Rebecca lied to her husband and presented her younger son Jacob for the blessing because God told her, because it was for the greater good of the future the Jewish people.
I think Jews felt that same sort of way when it came to surviving. So we can get rid of our names. We wouldn’t have survived, whether we were hiding in a forest or behind a cabinet, a name or a passport, or [pushed into hiding] with [forced] conversions. Hiding was survival.
I was reading your book just as the E. Jean Carroll verdict came down, holding Donald Trump liable for sexually assaulting her during an encounter in the mid-’90s. You write how in 1962, when you were working as a book publicist, the hard-drinking Irish poet Brendan Behan (who died in 1964) tried to rape you in a hotel room and you didn’t report it. Like Carroll, you didn’t think that it was something that could be reported because the cost was too high.
Certainly in that era powerful men could get away with horrible behavior because of shanda reasons.
Carroll said in her court testimony, “It was shameful to go to the police.”
You know that it happened to so many others and nobody paid the price. The man’s reputation was intact and we kept our jobs because we sacrificed our dignity and our truth. I was in a career, and I really was supporting myself. I couldn’t afford to lose my job. I would have been pilloried for having gone to his hotel room, and nobody was there when he picked up an ashtray and threatened to break the window of the Chelsea Hotel unless I went up there with him.The cards were stacked against me.
In “Shanda,” you write about another kind of shame: The shame you now feel decades later about how you described the incident in your first book. You regret “how blithely I transformed an aggravated assault by a powerful man into a ‘sticky sexual encounter.’”
I wrote about the incident in such offhand terms, and wonder why. I wrote, basically, “Okay, girls, you’re gonna have to put up with this, but you’re gonna have to find your own magical sentence like I had with Behan” to get him to stop.
You write that you said, “You can’t do this to me! I’m a nice Jewish girl!” And that got him to back off.
Really painful.
I think that’s a powerful aspect of your book — how you look back at the ways you let down the movement or your family or friends and now regret. In 1991 you wrote a New York Times essay about an illegal abortion you had as a college senior in 1958, but not the second one you had only a few months later. While you were urging women to tell their stories of abortion, you note how a different shame kept you from telling the whole truth.
Jewish girls could be, you know, plain or ordinary, but they had to be smart, and I had been stupid. I could out myself as one of the many millions of women who had an abortion but not as a Jewish girl who made the same mistake [of getting pregnant] twice.
The book was written before the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade. In the book you write powerfully about the shame, danger and loneliness among women when abortion was illegal, and now, after 50 years, it is happening again. Having been very much part of the generation of activists that saw Roe become the law of the land, how have you processed its demise?
Since the 1970s, we thought everything was happening in this proper linear way. We got legislation passed, we had litigation and we won, and we saw the percentage of women’s participation in the workplace all across professions and trades and everything else rise and rise. And then Ronald Reagan was elected and then there was the Moral Majority and then it was the Hyde Amendment [barring the use of federal funds to pay for abortion]. I was sideswiped because I think I was naive enough to imagine that once we articulated what feminism was driving at and why women’s rights were important, and how the economic reality of families and discrimination against women weren’t just women’s issues, people would internalize it and understand it and justice would be done.
In the case of Roe, we could not imagine that rights could ever be taken away. We didn’t do something that we should have done, which is to have outed ourselves in a big way. It’s not enough that abortion was legal. We allowed it to remain stigmatized. We allowed the right wing to create their own valence around it. That negated solidarity. If we had talked about abortion as healthcare, if we had had our stories published and created organizations around remembering what it was like and people telling their stories about when abortion was illegal and dangerous…. Instead we allowed the religious right to prioritize [fetal] cells over a woman’s life. We just were not truthful with each other, so we didn’t create solidarity.
Are you heartened by the backlash against restrictive new laws in red states or optimistic that the next wave of activism can reclaim the right to abortion?
I’m not an optimist. I call myself a “cockeyed strategist.” If you look at my long resume, it is all about organizing: Ms. magazine, feminist organizations, women’s foundations, Black-Jewish dialogues, Torah study groups and Palestinian-Jewish dialogues.
Number one, we have to own the data and reframe the narrative. We have to open channels for discussion for women who have either had one or know someone who has had one, even in religious Catholic families. The state-by-state strategy was really slow, but Ruth Bader Ginsburg wanted that. She almost didn’t get on the court because she didn’t like the nationwide, right-to-privacy strategy of Roe but instead wanted it won state by state, which would have required campaigns of acceptance and consciousness-raising.
So, the irony is she hasn’t lived to see that we’re going to have to do it her way.
You share a lot of family secrets in this book. Is this a book that you waited to write until, I’ll try to put this gently, most of the people had died?
I started this book when I was 78 years old, and there’s always a connection to my major birthdays. And turning 80 – you experience that number and it is so weird. It doesn’t describe me and it probably won’t describe you. I thought, this could well be my last book, so I needed to be completely transparent, put it all out there.
My mother and father and aunts and uncles were gone, but I have 24 cousins altogether. I went to my cousins, and told them I am going to write about the secret of your parents: It’s my uncle, but it’s your father. It’s your family story even though it’s my family, but it’s yours first. And every cousin, uniformly, said, “Are you kidding? You don’t even know the half of it,” and they’d tell me the whole story. I guess people want the truth out in the end.
Is that an aspect of getting older?
I think it’s a promise of liberation, which is what I have found. It’s this experience of being free from anything that I’ve hid. I don’t have to hide. Years ago, on our 35th wedding anniversary, we took our whole family to the Tenement Museum because we wanted them to see how far we’ve come in two generations.
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New translation: The life and death of a shtetl during the Russian Civil Wars
אין 1926 האָט רחל פֿײַגנבערג פּובליקירט „חורבן דובאָװע׃ אַ פּינקס פֿון אַ טױטער שטאָט“ כּדי צו פֿאַראײביקן דעם אָנדענק פֿון דער ייִדישער קהילה פֿון דובאָװע, אַ שטעטל אין הײַנטיקער אוקראַיִנע. די דאָזיקע קהילה איז פֿאַרטיליקט געװאָרן אין 1919 בעת דער רוסישער בירגערקריג — אַ קאָנפֿליקט װאָס האָט דערפֿירט צו גרױליקע פּאָגראָמען קעגן ייִדן.
איצט איז פֿײַגנבערגס בוך אַרױס אױף ענגליש ווי אַ טייל פֿון דער סעריע ייִדישע שטימען (Yiddish Voices), אַ שותּפֿותדיקער איניציאַטיוו צװישן YIVO און בלומסבערי װאָס זעצט איבער טעקסטן װעגן ייִדיש לעבן אין מיזרח־אײראָפּע. (איך אַלײן בין אַן אַסיסטענטקע פֿון ייִדישע שטימען.)
פֿײַגנבערגס בוך הײבט זיך אָן מיט אַ פּאָרטרעט פֿון ייִדיש לעבן אין דובאָװע פֿאַר די קאַטאַסטראָפֿעס פֿון 1919. די שילדערונג איז װיכטיק װײַל דובאָװע איז דװקא נישט געװען ספּעציעל װיכטיק. ס׳איז געװען סתּם אַ שטעטל, װוּ אַן ערך טױזנט פּשוטע ייִדן האָבן פֿאַרדינט ברױט, אױפֿגעצױגן קינדער, געפּראַװעט שבת און זיך געקריגט װעגן קלײניקײטן. יאָרן לאַנג האָבן זײ געװױנט מער־װײניקער בשלום צװישן דובאָװעס נישט־ייִדישע פּױערים. װען פֿײַגנבערג באַשרײַבט די פּאָגראָמען פֿילט מען דעם שאָק װאָס די דובאָװער ייִדן האָבן מסתּמא געפֿילט װען אַזאַ טאָג־טעגלעך אָרט איז פֿאַרריסן געװאָרן פֿון גװאַלד.
איך האָב געשמועסט מיט דער היסטאָריקערין עליסאַ בן-פּורת, װאָס האָט רעדאַקטירט די ענגלישע איבערזעצונג פֿון פֿײַגנבערגס בוך, און האָט אױך אָנגעשריבן די היסטאָרישע הקדמה. זי האָט מיר געהאָלפֿן פֿאַרשטײן װי און פֿאַר װאָס פֿײַגנבערג האָט מחבר געװען די מעשׂה פֿון דובאָװע, װוּ זי אַלײן האָט קײן מאָל נישט געװױנט.
פֿײַגנבערג איז שױן געװען אַ געראָטענע ייִדישע שרײַבערין פֿאַר דער ערשטער װעלט־מלחמה. „זי איז טאַקע געװען די ערשטע פֿרױ װאָס האָט געאַרבעט װי אַ פּראָפֿעסיאָנעלע מחברטע אױף ייִדיש — װאָס האָט געהאַט פּרנסה פֿון ייִדישער בעלעטריסטיק און זשורנאַליסטיק,“ האָט בן-פורת געזאָגט. נאָך פֿײַגנבערגס חתונה אין 1914 און דעם געבױרן פֿון איר זון האָט זי אָבער אויפֿגעהערט צו שרײַבן. לױט בן-פורת האָט פֿײַגנבערג „אַנטדעקט אַ נײַ שליחות װי אַ מחברטע“ נאָך די פּאָגראָמען, אַ שליחות װאָס האָט באַנײַט איר שרײַבערישע קאַריערע.
אין 1919 האָט פֿײַגנבערג געװױנט אין יאַנאָװקע אין אוקראַיִנע, נאָענט צו אומאַן און דובאָװע. יענעם זומער האָבן פּאָגראָמיסטן חרובֿ געמאַכט דאָס הױז װוּ זי האָט געװױנט מיט איר יונגן זון (איר מאַן איז שױן געשטאָרבן). זי האָט שפּעטער באַשריבן װי זי מיט איר קינד זענען אַנטלאָפֿן פֿון יאַנאָװקע איבער װעגן װוּ כוליגאַנען האָבן געזוכט ייִדן צו דערהרגענען. אַ בולגאַרין וואָס האָט רחמנות געהאַט אויף איר האָט איר געגעבן אַ קלײד מיט די בולגאַרישע נאַציאָנאַלע־פֿאַרבן, װאָס האָט געדינט װי אַ פֿאַרשטעלונג. פֿײַגנבערג האָט געהאָנגען אַ צלם אַרום איר זונעלעס האַלדז. על־פּי נס זענען זײ אָנגעקומען אין אָדעס.
דאָרטן האָט פֿײַגנבערג אָנגעהױבן אינטערװיויִרן לעבן געבליבענע פֿון די פּאָגראָמען, װאָס זענען אַנטלאָפֿן קײן אָדעס פֿון פֿאַרשײדענע שטעט און שטעטלעך. איר נאָענטער חבֿר, דער מחבר מרדכי ספּעקטאָר — װאָס איז געװען אַ געבױרענער אין אומאַן, נאָענט צו יאַנאָװקע און דובאָװע — האָט זי דערמוטיקט צו פֿאַרשרײַבן די אינטערװיוען.
דער באַרימטער היסטאָריקער אליהו טשעריקאָװער, װאָס האָט אױסשעפּיק דאָקומענטירט די פּאָגראָמען פֿון דער בירגערקריג, האָט זיך דערוווּסט וועגן איר אַרבעט. ער האָט איר געבעטן זי זאָל צוגרײטן אַ באַריכט ספּעציפֿיש װעגן דובאָװע. „דערמיט איז פֿײַגנבערג געװאָרן די אײנציקע פֿרױ װאָס האָט געהאָלפֿן טשעריקאָװערן מיטן צונױפֿנעמען זײַן ריזיקן פּאָגראָם־אַרכיװ, חוץ זײַן אײגענער פֿרױ“, האָט בן-פּורת געזאָגט.
פֿײַגנבערגס ערשטער דובאָװע־באַריכט פֿון 1921־1922 איז געװען גאַנץ קורץ און תּמציתדיק. במשך פֿון די קומעדיקע יאָרן האָט זי אים איבערגעאַרבעט און אַנטװיקלט אין אַ שפּאַנענדיקער נאַראַציע, װאָס איז אַרױס אין װאַרשע אין 1926. „דער דאָזיקער נוסח באַשרײַבט בריהש די שטעטלדיקע סבֿיבֿה און די פּערזענלעכקײטן פֿון די פֿאַרשײדנאַרטיקע ייִדן. מע זעט זײ דורך אירע אױגן װי אמתע מענטשן, מיט מעלות און חסרונות,“ האָט בן-פּורת געזאָגט.
אױף מיר האָט געמאַכט אַ ספּעציעלן רושם דער דובאָװער רבֿ, משה אַהרן בערדיטשעװסקי — אַ למדן װאָס איז שױן געװען אַן אַלטער אין 1919. ער האָט זיך נישט אַרײַנגעמישט אין די אָרטיקע קריגערײַען, און איז געווען שטאַרק באַליבט. איך קען זיך אױך פֿאָרשטעלן דעם אַפּטײקער װאָס האָט זיך געשעמט מיט דער אײגענער ייִדישקײט און האָט נאָר געהאַט קריסטלעכע חבֿרים. און אױך משה שװאַרצמאַן דער סטעלמאַך (ראָד־מאַכער), אַן אָרעמאַן װאָס האָט זיך אַלע מאָל באַטײַטיק אַרױסגעזאָגט װעגן קהלשע ענינים.
די ערשטע כװאַליע פֿון די דובאָװער פּאָגראָמען האָבן דורכגעפֿירט די אָרטיקע פּױערים — מענטשן װאָס די ייִדן האָבן לאַנג געקענט. פֿײַגנבערג דערצײלט װי די אָנפֿאַלערס האָבן אױסגעפֿאַרבט די פּנימער כּדי מען זאָל זײ נישט דערקענען. די ייִדן האָבן זײ אָבער אַלע דערקענט. בעת דער צװײטער כװאַליע האָבן באַנדיט־סאָלדאַטן פֿון די קעמפֿנדיקע אַרמײען געפּײַניקט דעם אַלטן רבֿ במשך פֿון אַ פּאָר טעג אײדער זײ האָבן אים דערהרגעט. זײַן קערפּער האָבן זײ געװאָרפֿן אין אַ קאַלך־גרוב צוזאַמען מיט הונדערטער אַנדערע. קרבנות פֿון דער דריטער כװאַליע, אױך מערסטנס דורכגעפֿירט פֿון באַנדיטן און סאָלדאַטן, זענען אַ מאָל באַגראָבן געװאָרן לעבעדיק. פֿאַרגװאַלדיקונג איז געװען פֿאַרשפּרײט.
נאָך די פּאָגראָמען האָט מען חרובֿ געמאַכט דעם ייִדישן בית־עולם און דאָרטן פֿאַרפֿלאַנצט תּבֿואה. חוץ אַ פּאָר לעבן־געבליבענער װאָס זענען אַנטלאָפֿן האָבן די ייִדן פֿון דובאָװע מער נישט עקסיסטירט.
אין 1927 האָט פֿײַגנבערגס „חורבן דובאָװע“ געשפּילט אַ ראָלע אינעם פּראָצעס פֿון שלום שװאַרצבאָרד, אַ יונגער ייִדישער אַנאַרכיסט װאָס האָט מיט אַ יאָר פֿריִער דערמאָרדט שימאָן פּעטליוראַ אין פּאַריז. פּעטליוראַ איז געװען אַן אוקראַיִנישער פּאָליטיקער און אַמאָליקער מיליטאַר־קאָמאַנדיר װאָס שװאַרצבאָרד — װי אַ סך ייִדן — האָט געהאַלטן פֿאַר שולדיק אין די פּאָגראָמען. אַ פֿראַנצײזישע איבערזעצונג פֿון פֿײַגנבערגס בוך איז געװען אַ טײל פֿון זײַן פֿאַרטײדיקונג, כּדי צו באַשטעטיקן די גרױלן פֿון די פּאָגראָמען. שװאַרצבאָרד איז באַפֿרײַט געװאָרן פֿון שולד.
„אַ דאַנק דער איבערזעצונג אױף ענגליש װעלן נײַע לייענער אַנטדעקן פֿײַגנבערגס װערק“, האָט בן-פּורת געזאָגט. „אַזעלכע טעקסטן קענען באַװירקן אונדזער קוקװינקל סײַ אױף דער געשיכטע, סײַ אױף די הײַנטיקע צײַטן. די מעשׂה פֿון דובאָװע דאַרף זײַן אַ טײל פֿון די דאָזיקע דיסקוסיעס.“
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Esteemed by Oscar Wilde, England’s ‘greatest Jewess’ may finally be getting her due
For book lovers, the news that Cambridge University has acquired a previously sealed personal archive of Amy Levy, a Victorian Jewish novelist and poet who won praise from literary notables of her era, is a cause for celebration.
Levy’s 1888 novel Reuben Sachs is an exasperated, yet affectionate, look at English Jewish middle-class life. Levy, the daughter of a prosperous stockbroker, knew whereof she spoke. At the British Library in London, Levy rubbed elbows with Eleanor Marx, daughter of the author of Das Kapital.
In her own way, Levy, who died by suicide at the age of 27, was an anti-capitalist, although not because she favored Jewish spirituality instead. Her family only occasionally attended the West London Synagogue of British Jews, a Reform congregation located on Upper Berkeley Street. Instead of finding inspiration in Jewish ritual, Levy, in her 1886 essay, “Middle-Class Jewish Women of To-Day,” printed in The Jewish Chronicle, noted her type of mishpocheh expected daughters to marry and raise children.
Anyone interested in something beyond marriage and family, Levy wrote, must go “beyond the tribal limits” or more or less flee the family home. Levy admiringly cited examples of fellow English Jews who had become independent overachievers in their fields: Helen Zimmern, who translated Nietzsche and wrote on Schopenhauer; Hertha Ayrton, an electrical engineer, mathematician and physicist; and Mathilde (born Cohen) Blind, a poet.
The eponymous hero of Levy’s Reuben Sachs debates a fellow Jew who is dismayed by materialistic, success-obsessed capitalists, Jewish or not. Sachs retorts that despite a “cruel” history, Jewish people have finally “shamed the nations into respect” due to “self-restraint, our self-respect, our industry, our power of endurance, our love of race, home, and kindred.”
Sachs confesses that he is “exceedingly fond of [his] people.” Jews may disappear through assimilation, but the “strange, strong instinct which has held us so long together is not a thing easily eradicated.” He even foresees a form of post-Jewish reunion of Yiddishkeit: “Jew will gravitate to Jew, though each may call himself by another name.”
Levy’s reflections were interlarded with other opinions about Jews that reflected some of the prejudices of her time, about the supposed ugliness of Ashkenazi Jews, compared to the reputed noble beauty of Sephardim (reference is made in the novel to the “the ill-made sons and daughters of Shem”).
But in Reuben Sachs, she also expressed delight at the sheer gusto of Jewish life in London, writing of “excellent” bargain-hunting Jewish shoppers at Whiteley’s department store in Bayswater who radiated a “whole-hearted enjoyment that was good to see.”
Despite such enthusiasm, the UK-based newspaper The Jewish World kvetched that Levy “apparently delights in the task of persuading the general public that her own kith and kin are the most hideous types of vulgarity.” The critic added with dismay that Levy proudly supported “anti-Semitic theories of the clannishness of her people and the tribalism of their religion.”
Closer to the truth was Levy’s own explanation, published in the essay “The Jew in Fiction,” two years before the publication of Reuben Sachs, that she felt that Jewish characters should be depicted as well-rounded humans with good and less admirable aspects. For Levy, Dickens, Thackeray, and even George Eliot’s Daniel Deronda were unacceptably “superficial.” Levy saw the Jews in Deronda as improbably noble, calling them a “little group of enthusiasts” with their “yearnings after the Holy Land.”
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Her sometimes ironic dismissal of Jewish beliefs and concerns were summed up in an obituary that appeared in an 1890 edition of Woman’s World, written by its editor, Oscar Wilde, who had published her articles. Wilde observed that Levy’s “family was Jewish,” but as she matured, she “gradually ceased to hold the orthodox doctrines of her nation, retaining, however, a strong race feeling.”
Levy was also a self-assertive urban dweller; her hometown of London was an essential part of her life. In her tongue-in-cheek “Ballade of an Omnibus,” she celebrated her disobedience of the social convention that women should remain in the sheltered interior of London city buses; Levy preferred to delight in views from the top deck of vehicles (“When summer comes, I mount in state/The topmost summit.”)
Literary historian Carolyn Lake has suggested that Levy may have been concealing a lesbian identity, hypothesizing that Levy’s tragic destiny may have been partly due to the pressure of being marginalized in three groups, as a Jewish woman who did not conform to a heterosexual orientation.
In 1926, the historian Beth Zion (Roochel) Lask, author of The Jews in England: A History For Young People read an essay before the Jewish Historical Society of England arguing that Levy was the “greatest Jewess England has thus far produced.”
Levy’s stout-hearted resolve to innovate pursued her even posthumously; she specified in her will that she should be the first Jewish woman to be cremated in England. Her family respected her wishes in this respect, just as the fact that personal papers have survived to be purchased by Cambridge University is partly due to the faith of the Levy family in the enduring value of her work. The Cambridge archive, when fully examined by researchers, may help to change Levy’s reputation from writer appreciated by comparatively few mavens to a literary Lazarus with a wide-ranging readership that she has long deserved.
The post Esteemed by Oscar Wilde, England’s ‘greatest Jewess’ may finally be getting her due appeared first on The Forward.
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Equal Rights Started with Abraham and Sarah
A Torah scroll. Photo: RabbiSacks.org.
Few revolutions have shouted louder about equality — or practiced it more selectively — than the French Revolution. As Alexis de Tocqueville later observed in his study of that turbulent era, “The French nation is prepared to tolerate … those practices and principles that flatter its desire for equality, while they are in fact the tools of despotism.”
In 1789, the streets of Paris rang with the cries of Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité! It sounded like the dawn of a new moral age, born out of years of indulgent corruption and indifference by the French king and his aristocratic associates.
The Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen was hailed by its revolutionary authors as humanity’s most perfect charter of freedom. Except — as soon became painfully clear — the word “man” in the title meant quite literally only men; women were barred from becoming citizens.
To be clear, this didn’t land well. Thousands of women, including the fearsome fishmarket Poissards, all fiercely loyal to the Revolution, had marched to Versailles from Paris in October 1789, demanding bread and justice. As they gathered outside, they presented a petition calling for full equality. The newly formed National Assembly simply ignored it.
A few brave voices did try to challenge the exclusion of women. The philosopher Nicolas de Condorcet and the feminist pioneer Etta Palm d’Aelders appealed to the National Assembly to grant women the same civil and political rights as men.
Condorcet put it bluntly: “He who votes against the rights of another — whatever that person’s religion, color, or sex — has henceforth repudiated his own.” But for all its lofty rhetoric, the Revolution had its limits. Their pleas were dismissed, and the march for “equality” rolled on without half the population.
Then, in 1791, Olympe de Gouges, the scandalous playwright and flamboyant pamphleteer, decided to expose the absurdity of the Revolution’s double standard. She published the satirically pointed Declaration of the Rights of Woman and of the Female Citizen, a transparent rewrite of the men-only manifesto.
“Woman is born free and remains equal to man in rights,” she declared. With biting sarcasm, she observed that women could be guillotined for opinions they weren’t even allowed to express: “If woman has the right to mount the scaffold, she must equally have the right to mount the rostrum.”
Her audacity sealed her fate. Two years later, the Revolution that had promised equality sent her to the guillotine.
The man behind this extraordinary hypocrisy was Maximilien Robespierre, known to all — without a trace of irony — as “The Incorruptible.” He had begun as a fierce opponent of capital punishment, denouncing it as inhumane and unworthy of a civilized nation.
But as the Revolution gathered pace, Robespierre enthusiastically embraced the guillotine. First, the king and queen were executed, then anyone deemed a “traitor to the Revolution” — many of them his former allies. The erstwhile champion of virtue became its most zealous executioner, reduced to a despotic murderer.
His “Reign of Terror” descended into the “Great Terror” until, inevitably, Robespierre himself was dragged to the very guillotine he had glorified. The Revolution he had championed finally devoured its own moral prophet.
Every age has its Robespierres — people who loudly preach justice and identify threats, while in reality serving only themselves. The faces have changed, but the pattern remains. Today, they come dressed for television and curated for social media, but they are the same moral frauds who, in every generation, manufacture enemies and thrive on paranoia.
Tucker Carlson thunders about freedom but gushes over autocrats and neo-Nazis. Candace Owens rails against victimhood even as she builds a brand based on grievance. Nick Davis claims to defend the oppressed although he finds every excuse for his favored oppressors.
At the other end of the spectrum, Zohran Mamdani and AOC deliver moral lectures while refusing to condemn the chant “Globalize the Intifada,” while Cenk Uygur and Hasan Piker livestream moral outrage for millions, though their moral clarity seems to blur significantly whenever the topic is Hamas.
This week, it hit me just how differently morality is projected in the narratives of the Torah compared to the modern moral code shaped by the ideals of the French Revolution. At the beginning of Parshat Chayei Sarah, Abraham mourns Sarah, his equal partner in every way.
The passage opens with an unusually phrased verse (Gen. 23:1): “And the life of Sarah was one hundred years, and twenty years, and seven years — these were the years of Sarah’s life.” Rashi observes that the repetitive phrasing means all of Sarah’s years were equally good — not because her life was easy, but because her faith, integrity, and moral strength remained constant.
More importantly, Abraham’s reaction to her death — and the Torah’s deliberate framing of her life — make it clear that Sarah was not some kind of footnote to Abraham’s mission. She was his full partner, his equal in every respect.
The Midrash teaches that the beautiful hymn Eishet Chayil — the “Woman of Valor” (Prov. 31:10–31) — was originally composed by Abraham as a eulogy for Sarah. One line captures her essence perfectly: “She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.” Sarah was no passive companion; she was a voice of insight, a moral compass, and a spiritual equal.
Together, Abraham and Sarah launched a true revolution — the most revolutionary idea in human history: that God exists, and that all human beings are created equal b’tzelem Elokim, in the image of God. Long before France even dreamed of equality, Abraham and Sarah lived it.
The contrast with Ephron the Hittite — the antihero of Chayei Sarah — could not be more striking. When Abraham asks to buy a burial plot for Sarah, Ephron’s reply sounds magnanimous: he insists Abraham take the land for free. But once the crowd disperses, his true colors emerge. “What is four hundred shekels between friends?” he says with faux humility — while shamelessly gouging Abraham.
Ephron’s civility and generosity are pure theater. Beneath the polished manners lies greed and hypocrisy. Like Robespierre’s “virtue,” Ephron’s altruism was all performance. When the mask came off, what lay beneath was ugly.
Abraham and Sarah’s model could not be more different. Their virtue was real. They lived their principles. Their tent was open to all, and their respect for each other sincere. It was Sarah’s wisdom, in fact, that shaped the destiny of their family.
God tells Abraham, “Whatever Sarah tells you, listen to her voice” (Gen. 21:12). In that single line, God affirmed what the French Revolution never could — that true justice rests not on dominance, but on moral partnership.
And when Abraham eulogized Sarah, he didn’t speak of liberty, equality, or fraternity. He spoke of kindness, faith, and valor — qualities that endure long after slogans fade. Robespierre’s Revolution ended in blood and betrayal. Abraham and Sarah’s Revolution endures in blessing. So much for the “Rights of Man.”
The real Revolution didn’t begin in Paris in 1789, but in Hebron three millennia earlier — when a man and a woman stood together as equals before God.
The author is a rabbi in Beverly Hills, California.