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The Left Can’t Cheer for Peace When Trump Is Involved
US President Donald Trump speaks to the press before boarding Marine One to depart for Quantico, Virginia, from the South Lawn at the White House in Washington, DC, US, Sept. 30, 2025. Photo: REUTERS/Ken Cedeno
President Donald Trump has done what few thought possible: he helped broker a sweeping ceasefire between Israel and Hamas, negotiated the release of hostages, and achieved the first genuine breakthrough toward calm in nearly a year. For Israelis, the deal means quiet skies and the return of abducted families. For Palestinians, it offers desperately needed relief. For Americans, it represents a rare moment of when diplomacy actually worked.
And yet, the reaction from much of the American Left has been silence. The same political and moral voices that have spent months demanding a ceasefire in Gaza have fallen mute now that one has arrived. Even Barack Obama, who cautiously said we should all be “encouraged and relieved,” stopped short of acknowledging Trump’s role. Progressive leaders and influencers who once posted daily about “ending the killing” have said little. Media outlets that elevated every previous diplomatic setback have moved on.
It is a remarkable dissonance: the very outcome so many claimed to desire — peace, de-escalation, humanitarian access — has been achieved, but by the wrong hands. That contradiction tells us something profound about the state of American civic life. Our politics have become so saturated by affective polarization, so defined by visceral emotional hostility toward the other side, that many cannot even celebrate peace if it arrives through a political rival.
Affective polarization is more than disagreement. It is the phenomenon, now well-documented by scholars like Shanto Iyengar and Lilliana Mason, in which partisans grow to hate and distrust their opponents as people, not merely oppose their ideas. It is a moral emotion more than a rational stance: disgust, fear, contempt. The more one side is loathed, the more moral it feels to reject everything associated with it. This emotional sorting has turned politics into a theater of identity rather than a contest of policy.
That is why so many on the Left cannot bring themselves to give Trump credit for this deal. In a healthy political culture, a ceasefire and hostage release would be an occasion for shared relief, if not gratitude. But in our polarized one, positive feelings toward an opponent are experienced as betrayal. To say that Trump succeeded is not, in the mind of many progressives, to acknowledge a fact; it is to wound one’s tribe. The reaction becomes moralized: silence as purity, acknowledgment as contamination.
Political sorting has made this response all but inevitable. Over the past several decades, many Americans have come to live, worship, and socialize with those who think like themselves. Partisanship now defines moral boundaries and social identity. To be “on the Left” no longer simply means favoring redistributive policies or progressive reforms, it means belonging to a moral community defined in opposition to Trump and the movement that supports him.
When identity is at stake, the ordinary norms of evaluation break down. The achievement of peace becomes inseparable from the personality associated with it. The act cannot be good if the actor is, in the tribe’s imagination, evil. As affective polarization deepens, moral reasoning collapses into reflex. Emotion crowds out judgment.
This isn’t unique to the Left, of course. Conservatives behaved similarly under Obama, dismissing or minimizing his role in successes such as the raid on Osama bin Laden or sanctions on Iran. But today’s reaction carries a different weight. The moral intensity that animates the modern progressive movement — its conviction that it alone occupies the side of justice — makes acknowledgment of an opponent’s virtue especially threatening.
Affective polarization doesn’t just distort how people feel about politics; it reshapes how they feel about truth. Once emotions determine perception, facts that contradict the emotional order must be ignored or reframed. This is why even a genuine diplomatic success can be spun as suspect: perhaps the deal was coerced, perhaps it was opportunistic, perhaps it will fail. These rationalizations serve an emotional function, they preserve the purity of contempt.
Former President Obama’s muted response captures the dilemma perfectly. He offered relief without recognition, validation without credit. The avoidance is deliberate. He knows that open praise of Trump would fracture the progressive coalition that still reveres him. Acknowledging the achievement would invite accusations of appeasement or betrayal. In an era of affective polarization, even measured generosity risks being reinterpreted as treason to the cause.
But this silence comes at a moral cost. When leaders cannot acknowledge good done by their adversaries, they model a politics of negation. They teach citizens that truth is partisan and that virtue is contingent on affiliation. The habit of withholding praise corrodes the civic trust that democratic life requires. It signals that what matters most is not reality but narrative: the preservation of emotional coherence over empirical fact.
That logic now governs much of American political life. The reaction to Trump’s Middle East deal is simply the latest and starkest case.
This is how affective polarization hollows out moral courage. It makes sincerity dangerous and honesty costly. It turns politics into a form of emotional hygiene, where purity must be maintained at all costs. The moment we fear that recognition of another’s good deed might “taint” us, civic reasoning has already given way to tribalism.
The tragedy is that this pattern is self-reinforcing. Each refusal to acknowledge the other side’s success deepens distrust and confirms the caricature.
The result is a democracy that can no longer experience joy together. A moment of peace in the Middle East becomes not a unifying event, but another test of loyalty. Even moral goods, saving lives, freeing captives, are recoded through partisan emotion.
There was a time when American leaders resisted that temptation. When Richard Nixon opened up to China, Democrats recognized its strategic value. When Jimmy Carter mediated peace between Israel and Egypt, Republicans offered credit. When Ronald Reagan forged arms agreements with Gorbachev, Democrats applauded the breakthrough. These gestures were not signs of weakness, but of civic strength. They reflected a shared moral confidence that truth and goodness could exist outside partisan lines.
We have lost that confidence. Affective polarization has made cross-party acknowledgment feel morally dangerous. It has replaced civic humility with moral narcissism.
The solution begins with a small but radical act: honesty. A willingness to recognize good wherever it appears, and to praise virtue even when it originates in the hands of a rival. That act does not diminish one’s convictions; it dignifies them. It affirms that truth exists independently of our tribes, that moral worth is not determined by partisanship, and that peace — real, tangible, human peace — is a universal good.
The ceasefire and hostage release will face challenges, as all fragile peace deals do. But for now, lives have been spared, families reunited, and the possibility of stability renewed. That is cause for gratitude, not partisan discomfort.
Peace, like truth, does not belong to one party or president. It belongs to all who value life over politics. To say so should not require courage. But in today’s polarized America, it does.
And that, perhaps, is the clearest measure of how much work remains to be done.
Samuel J. Abrams is a professor of politics at Sarah Lawrence College and a senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute.
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BBC draws fire after airing Holocaust cello repair story that does not specially mention Jews
(JTA) — In a Christmas special this year, a BBC One program devoted a quarter of its episode to telling the story of a Jewish child refugee whose cello was damaged while fleeing the Nazis on the Kindertransport.
But while the story itself is steeped in Jewish history, the segment of the program failed to make any mention of Jews, igniting criticism from British Jews who are on high alert for signs of antisemitism from the network.
Now, the BBC has issued a clarification, adding a note to the program description in its iPlayer app explaining that the Kindertransport evacuated Jewish children from Nazi territory.
The production company behind “The Repair Shop,” a popular show where family heirlooms are refurbished, said it believed the historical context of Martin Landau’s cello would be obvious to viewers when Helen Mirren, the famed actress who recently portrayed the Israeli prime minister Golda Meir, brought it in during the episode that aired Dec. 26.
“We were honoured to share the history of Martin Landau’s cello and play a small part in telling an important and emotive story with contemporary resonance,” a Ricochet spokesperson said in a statement. “We felt that Martin’s story was told clearly and succinctly, and we believed the fact that he was Jewish was implicit in the story.”
Born in Berlin in 1924, Landau — who later became a prominent theater director — was 14 when he brought his cello with him on board the Kindertransport, a rescue effort that brought nearly 10,000, mostly Jewish, children to safety in Europe during World War II.
But before getting on the train, the neck of Landau’s instrument was “deliberately snapped in two,” according to a description of the episode on the BBC website.
“Despite this blow, Martin guarded the cello carefully for the remainder of his life, eventually gifting it to Denville Hall, a care home for retired members of the entertainment industries, of which both he and Dame Helen are loyal supporters,” the episode’s description continues. “Sadly, the cello has remained silent for over 80 years, and the residents would dearly love to see it restored so that they can hear it played for the first time.”
Thirty-one members of Landau’s family, including his parents, were killed in Bergen-Belsen, Dachau and Auschwitz, according to his obituary in The Times. In London, Landau went on to become a prolific producer of plays and musicals. He died in 2011 at 86.
The Jewish Chronicle was first to report frustration over the show’s lack of explicit mention of Landau’s Jewish identity. It reported that a reference to Jews appeared to be truncated from a sentence by Mirren, who said, “…children were put on the Kindertransport.”
The episode is one of several antisemitism and Israel-related controversies to hit the British public broadcaster in recent months. In October, the BBC was penalized after it failed to identify the narrator of a Gaza documentary as the son of a Hamas government official. Over the summer, it was also criticized for airing a performance by the punk group Bob Vylan that included chants of “Death to the IDF.”
On Saturday, the BBC also reached a settlement with an Israeli family whose home it filmed following the Oct. 7 attacks without consent.
Now, the network has added new language to the “The Repair Shop” episode, too.
“This program is subject to a clarification. The Kindertransport was the organized evacuation of approximately 10,000 children, the majority of whom were Jewish, from Germany, Austria, and Czechoslovakia,” the iPlayer description read. (The initiative was funded largely by Jewish groups, but a small number of the children rescued were Roma, Christian children of Jewish parents or the children of political prisoners.)
During the episode, the repaired instrument was played by the British Jewish cellist Raphael Wallfisch, whose 100-year-old mother Anita Lasker-Wallfisch is the only surviving member of the Women’s Orchestra of Auschwitz.
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At a former driving school, Kehillat Harlem plants roots for Jewish life uptown
(New York Jewish Week) — The “Yes You Can” driving school is no more, but the sign that still hangs over its former storefront in Central Harlem is something of an apt message for the new tenant — a fledgling synagogue that aims to demonstrate the vitality of Jewish life in the neighborhood.
Kehillat Harlem, a non-denominational “shul community,” moved into the Adam Clayton Powell storefront last year after seven years in transit. Since its founding, it has held services in a basement, a local cafe and even outdoors.
Now, Kehillat Harlem is using the space for what its founding rabbi, Kyle Savitch, says is the only option for weekly Shabbat services in the neighborhood, even as a host of new initiatives aim to serve Harlem’s growing Jewish population.
“We’re the only synagogue in Central Harlem that’s meeting every Friday, every Saturday, let alone having meals and everything else, so I definitely think we’re serving a need there,” Savitch said. “For folks who are looking to move or looking to join a new community, sometimes what they want to know is that there is consistency in Jewish life, and so I think we’re able to provide that.”
But Kehillat Harlem isn’t just striving to add a synagogue to the neighborhood. Savitch also aims to leverage the shul into a community hub or even, one day, a restaurant serving Jewish food.
A dress rehearsal came last month on the first night of Hanukkah, when roughly 70 people filled Kehillat Harlem’s storefront space for the shul’s annual Hanukkah speakeasy. To enter the event, which included a jazz band, latkes and kosher tequila from Tekiah Spirits, partygoers used the secret password “Lehadlik ner,” the Hebrew phrase meaning “to light a candle.”
“We’re exploring how our role in the community can expand to infrastructure in terms of kosher food, in terms of space access, in terms of places to gather,” Savitch said.
Kehillat Harlem is hardly the only entity to tackle those questions in Harlem, which once had one of the largest Jewish populations in the world. Once home to roughly 175,000 Jewish residents at its peak in 1917, the neighborhood saw most of them leave as it transformed into a hub of Black culture during the Harlem Renaissance. Some of the neighborhood’s synagogues remain standing, but have been converted into churches.
Over the last 15 years, the neighborhood’s Jewish population has gone from an estimated 2,000 people to 16,000 adults and 8,000 children, according to a 2023 study by the UJA-Federation of New York.
To serve them, a branch of the young professional programming nonprofit Moishe House has opened up, as has a branch of the Upper West Side’s Marlene Meyerson JCC with its own rabbi-in-residence and monthly Shabbat service. Tzibur Harlem, an initiative founded in 2024 by Rabbi Dimitry Ekshtut and Erica Frankel, offers programming including occasional Shabbat services; it recently played a role in getting a Hanukkah menorah added to a local Christmas display.
But when it comes to regular prayer services, the only option until Kehillat Harlem opened was the Old Broadway Synagogue, an Orthodox congregation founded in 1911 that serves families in West Harlem and Morningside Heights.
Many observant Jews in the neighborhood were looking for something different, said Savitch, who was ordained at Yeshivat Chovevei Torah, a liberal Orthodox seminary, in 2021.
Kehillat Harlem, he said, “came out of the need for a Jewish community in the neighborhood, which was inclusive and welcoming to everyone who walked in the door. Our community is very diverse. There’s folks who are observant, there’s folks who aren’t observant, there’s queer folks, there’s folks in interfaith relationships, and there wasn’t really a place in the neighborhood for all those people to go and feel comfortable.”
Arielle Flax, a 32-year-old Jewish Harlem resident and co-president of Kehillat Harlem, described the shul’s ethos as “socially progressive but halachically traditional,” meaning that she seeks to follow Jewish law.
While Kehillat Harlem has a mechitza, the gender partition that separates men and women in Orthodox synagogues, it also has a third section for genderfluid or nonbinary participants. Unlike at most Orthodox synagogues, where reading from the Torah is restricted to men, people of all genders are invited to read from the Torah.
“We want to be as inclusive as possible, while still keeping that bar for those who do want to fulfill the more stricter obligations for Judaism,” said Flax. “We try to empower people of all genders, all backgrounds, to participate, to feel like they are contributing and involved and not just spectating.”
Before Flax joined Kehillat Harlem in 2017 for its inaugural Shabbat, she had hesitated to move to the neighborhood because of its sparse Jewish infrastructure, but the presence of the fledgling congregation had helped tip her decision.
“I immediately felt like I had a place to go as soon as I moved up to New York, which is great, but before we moved up we were a little concerned,” said Flax.
Since then, Flax said she had seen the neighborhood’s Jewish population grow.
“I think by having Kehillat Harlem and other organizations in the area, I think more Jewish people are kind of coming out and getting involved in Jewish life in Harlem,” she said. “I think that’s a really beautiful thing.”
Laura Lara, a 50-year-old Argentinian native who moved to Rego Park, Queens, in 2022, said that she had struggled to connect to a Jewish community in the city until attending Kehillat Harlem’s Purim party last year.
“Being an emigre from another country and another language, finding the right place was a little bit hard for me at the beginning,” said Lara. “Finally, I found a place, and I went to a celebration of Purim in Harlem, and I found the diversity, everyone has a voice, everyone has a place, and that is what I like.”
After making the “schlep” to services and community events at Kehillat Harlem over the past year, Lara said that she and her husband are considering making the move to Harlem.
“I am also thinking of moving to the area,” said Lara. “I feel like I live in a bubble in my neighborhood, my community and the values and the place is far away from my home.”
In August, Kehillat Harlem marked a milestone — and another journey from Queens to Harlem — by dedicating a Torah that had been rescued during the Holocaust from Germany in 1940 and donated by the former Bayside Jewish Center.
“By bringing this Torah into Kehillat Harlem and returning it to use, we’re literally carrying it into the next generation,” Savitch said at the dedication ceremony. “We’re weaving together its survival through the Holocaust, its history in Queens and its future here in the neighborhood of Harlem, so we’re marking not just the dedication of this Torah, but the renewal of Jewish life in Harlem.”
Savitch said his dream is for Kehillat Harlem to become a one-stop shop for services, classes and communal gatherings and kosher food in Harlem.
Doing so could help hack the high cost of real estate in New York City. In neighborhoods with dense Jewish infrastructure, small synagogues have begun sharing space with Jewish organizations, but that’s not as much of an option in Harlem.
“The dream is really to have a fully multi-purpose space, especially as costs are going up and synagogues are having a hard time paying rent, and restaurants are closing left and right, especially kosher restaurants,” said Savitch.
While other parts of the city boast dozens of Jewish and kosher restaurants, Harlem has fewer options for its Jewish neighbors, including Silvana, a restaurant that serves Israeli cuisine, and Tzion Cafe, a kosher and vegan Ethiopian-Israeli restaurant.
To fill the gap in kosher offerings, Savitch transformed Kehillat Harlem into a makeshift restaurant in 2024 for Passover, and hosted a weekly program called “Shtiebel Sundays” last year where kosher pastries and coffee were for sale.
While Savitch said that Shtiebel Sundays hadn’t garnered revenue for the shul, he said it was “successful as a community-building model.”
“That’s also part of what we’re doing,” he said. “In a community that can’t necessarily yet support a fully functioning kosher cafe, restaurant, whatever it is, we’re providing that as a nonprofit.”
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Teens, seniors explore Ashkenazi traditions at Yiddish New York festival
A group of klezmer musicians was jamming in Lower Manhattan, when its fiddler suddenly stopped and encouraged a preteen clarinetist to lead a tune. After a moment, the young musician began playing a traditional Yiddish dance melody known as “der shtiler bulgar,” and the other musicians joined in.
This was one of many scenes at the 11th annual Yiddish New York festival that took place last month at the New York City campus of Hebrew Union College.
The size of the festival was impressive: Over 100 speakers, 700 participants and 200 workshops and sessions on various aspects of Yiddish culture.
Yiddish New York began after KlezKamp, a storied Yiddish cultural festival that had been held in the Catskills for three decades, made its decision to shut down. “It was 2014 and KlezKamp had announced its last festival,” said Pete Rushefsky, executive director of the Center for Traditional Music and Dance and one of the lead organizers of Yiddish New York. “A bunch of us got together and said ‘we can’t bear to face the world without our Yiddish festival.’”
Now that the college has announced the sale of its Manhattan campus to nearby New York University, the five-day festival will be searching for a new home for 2026. “We’re going to have to find a new venue,” said Rushefsky. “It will be a challenge we will have to overcome. I’d love to see a residential component moving forward — I think there’s an interest.”
When he wasn’t helping out with administrative tasks, Rushefsky spent much of the day behind a tsimbl (an Eastern European hammered string instrument with a long history in the klezmer tradition), leading informal klezmer jams.
The festival’s offerings were wide-ranging within the scope of Yiddish culture: practical workshops, lectures, concerts, film screenings and informal music jams. And, of course, plenty of schmoozing.
Concerts included an evening of music by the versatile Yiddish playwright and performer Mikhl Yashinsky whose setlist included original Yiddish tradaptations (adapting a text from one language to another to make it culturally relevant for a new audience) of Tom Lehrer’s “Hanukkah in Santa Monica” and Bob Dylan’s “With God on Our Side.” Yashinsky also performed, together with a group of collaborators, several original songs and scenes from his Yiddish stage works Feast of the Seven Sinners and The Gospel According to Chaim.
Cantor Sarah Myerson and Dr. Avia Moore led a Yiddish Dance Fellows program featuring four fellows from around the country: Hannah Mira Friedland (Chicago), Sarah Horowitz (Albuquerque), Yael Horowitz (NYC), and Rachel Linsky (Boston). All were already leading, teaching and in some cases even choreographing Yiddish dance in their communities.
But the training that Myerson and Moore gave them wasn’t just about learning dance steps. They also role-played typical scenes where dance sessions might not go so smoothly. “Avia and I offered the most common ‘disruptions’ we experience on the dance floor: ignoring the leader, talking loudly, doing the wrong steps, etc. The fellows adjusted with generous grace!” Myerson said.
There were also programs for younger audiences. Teens learned about a 1950s music group, the Jewish Young Folksingers, affiliated with the International Workers Order, a mutual aid organization targeted during the Second Red Scare. Yiddish folk singer Ethel Raim, who was a part of the Jewish Young Folksingers herself, taught songs from the group’s history and shared her experiences in it. On the last day of the festival, the teens presented a skit based on all they had learned.
“It was really exciting to have that many generations in one room; we were spanning almost eight decades,” said Ozzy Gold-Shapiro, one of the teen program’s organizers. The youngest was 10; the oldest — in her eighties. “I was especially moved watching the Teen Program kids express and perform their version of cultural exploration and participation,” said Raim, who is herself in her 80s.
On the last evening of the festival, people gathered for the awarding of the 14th “Adrienne Cooper Dreaming in Yiddish Award” to musician and researcher Michael Alpert, known affectionately by his Yiddish name, Meyshke. Cooper, a singer and Yiddish cultural activist who passed away in 2011, played a leading role in the contemporary revival of Yiddish music.
“I was inspired and touched by Adrienne’s ability to make the Yiddish tradition accessible,” Alpert said. “There was a time when I thought I’d be the last person in the world who knew how to sing old Yiddish ballads and obviously that’s not the case. The younger cohort of this remarkable intergenerational community is one of the great joys of my life.”
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