Uncategorized
The Overton Window and Zohran Mamdani: How Antisemitism Became Respectable Again
Democratic candidate for New York City mayor Zohran Mamdani reacts after winning the 2025 New York City Mayoral race, at an election night rally in the Brooklyn borough of New York City, New York, US, Nov. 4, 2025. Photo: REUTERS/Jeenah Moon
In politics, people talk about the Overton Window — the range of ideas society deems acceptable to discuss in public. It shifts with time. And over the past 15 years, no form of hate has moved more dramatically from taboo to tolerance than antisemitism.
After World War II, antisemitic tropes in the United States largely lived on the margins — muttered in extremist circles, scribbled in pamphlets, and later echoed in chatrooms on the Dark Web. But somewhere between the rise of “The Squad,” the mainstreaming of anti-Zionism, and the transformation of identity politics into a hierarchy of victimhood on the left and a mirror-image grievance culture on parts of the populist right, the world’s oldest hatred has been repackaged for the modern age.
What once cost you credibility in public life now earns applause, retweets, and primetime airtime.
Antisemitism didn’t vanish — it adapted.
From the Margins to the Megaphone
The shift began before “The Squad,” but the rise of these antisemitic and anti-Israel members of Congress marked a turning point — the first-time open hostility toward Israel, and by extension the vast majority of Jews, could be celebrated as moral courage from the House floor.
When Ilhan Omar (D-MN) tweeted that Israel had “hypnotized the world” and that support for Israel was “all about the Benjamins,” she didn’t face moral reckoning. In 2019, Congress responded with a diluted resolution condemning all hatred — an “all lives matter” moment for antisemitism.
Rather than directly condemning antisemitism, Democratic Party leaders blurred it into abstraction — because calling it out was politically inconvenient. It was a watershed: the moment the Democratic Party signaled that antisemitic rhetoric, if veiled as “anti-Zionism,” was tolerable.
When Rashida Tlaib (D-MI) and others began claiming that Jewish sovereignty itself was oppression, they weren’t shunned — they were lionized as purported truth-tellers. The moral vocabulary of the left, once rooted in universal rights, morphed into a simplistic hierarchy of oppressor and oppressed.
Within that framework, Jews — a historically persecuted people — were recast as “white colonizers.” It was an ideological coup: turning the survivors of genocide and mass expulsions from Arab lands into the villains of the story.
The Far Right Joins the Chorus
As the progressive left mainstreamed antisemitism in the name of “justice,” the “anti-woke” right embraced its own version in the name of “nationalism” and “America First.” The parallels to the antisemitic 1930s isolationists — Henry Ford, Charles Lindbergh, and Father Coughlin — are unmistakable.
Conspiracy theories that merely a decade ago belonged largely to the far-left now circulate freely among populist conservatives. Tucker Carlson, once a self-styled defender of Israel, now amplifies Holocaust minimizers and open antisemites, people praising figures who idolize Hitler and Stalin, while blaming “Jewish influence” for Western decline.
They aren’t alone. Matt Gaetz, Marjorie Taylor Greene (R-GA), and Candace Owens have trafficked in antisemitic memes, “globalist” conspiracies, and blood-libel tropes that would have ended political careers a decade ago.
And on the other side, far-left pundits like Mehdi Hasan — apparently unaware of the horseshoe theory — find themselves surprised to be sharing these same figures’ social media talking points. In their mirror-image hatreds, the far right and far left converge, using the same ancient scapegoat to explain modern grievances.
Enter Mamdani: The Product of a Shifted Window
This moral drift explains how someone like Zohran Mamdani could become mayor of New York City — a city that is 12% Jewish.
Mamdani blames police brutality on Israel, claiming “the laces of the NYPD’s boots are tied by the IDF.” He instructs fellow socialists to link every domestic “austerity issue” to the US–Israel alliance — as if the 0.04 percent of the Federal budget connected to Israel explains rent prices in Brooklyn.
That isn’t criticism. It’s scapegoating — the oldest antisemitic reflex, wrapped in today’s language of social justice.
And the most revealing part is that it doesn’t hurt him politically. The use of antisemitic tropes no longer disqualifies candidates; it energizes them. The Overton Window has moved so far that such rhetoric isn’t scandalous — it’s strategy.
We’ve Seen This Movie Before
For Jews, this moment carries an echo. We’ve seen it before — in Warsaw, Minsk, Baghdad, and Tripoli — cities that were once over 30% Jewish and home to flourishing Jewish life. In each, the pattern was the same: what was once unspeakable became debatable; what was debatable became acceptable.
Within a generation, those cities became Judenrein — emptied of Jews — not by accident but by political design. It always began with talk: the idea that the Jews were powerful, disloyal, manipulative. That “the people” were suffering because of them. Then talk became action.
Americans flatter themselves that it can’t happen in the USA — that its institutions and pluralism are too strong. But Overton Windows don’t move because of evil people; they move because of complacent or cowardly ones.
The Moral Drift
Today, antisemitism doesn’t always come in jackboots. It travels in hashtags and soundbites. It calls itself “humanitarian,” “anti-imperialist,” “decolonial.” It thrives in elite universities, “progressive” city councils, and digital echo chambers — and on the identitarian right, where “replacement theory” and “globalist” conspiracies recycle the same poison in a different accent.
It comes dressed as virtue and camouflaged in the moral language of the age.
That’s why the 2019 “all hate” resolution mattered. It wasn’t merely a procedural dodge — it was a moral surrender. It told every rising activist and politician: if your antisemitism is ideological enough, you can survive it — even thrive. And thrive, they have.
Drawing the Line
There’s a Jewish lesson older than America itself: when societies decide antisemitism is acceptable — even in coded form — they do not remain moral or safe for long.
Yes, the Overton Window has shifted. But it can shift back — if we make antisemitism, in every form, politically toxic again. That means calling out the right’s conspiracies and the left’s moral inversions with equal force.
History has already shown us where silence leads. The only question is whether we recognize the warning signs — or once again pretend the rhetoric is “complicated.”
Micha Danzig is an attorney, former IDF soldier, and former NYPD officer. He writes widely on Israel, antisemitism, and Jewish history and serves on the board of Herut North America.
Uncategorized
Why I’m vibing with the pope’s first big statement
I have long been obsessed with the Vatican and the inner workings of the papacy. (I majored and did my Master’s in religious studies.) But usually other people are not as tickled as I am by analyzing the newest theological statements from the Holy See.
Not this week. Pope Leo XIV just put out his first encyclical — the term used to refer to official statements outlining the church’s stance on a topic — and it has gone viral. “Spitting fire right out the gate,” said one of many similar trending posts, as though the encyclical was a rap song.
The topic is buzzy: AI, which the pope casts as one of the greatest threats to human flourishing and morality. (The encyclical is titled “Magnifica Humanitas,” or “Magnificent Humanity” in English, if that gives you the gist.) “Humanity, created by God in all its grandeur,” it opens, “ is today facing a pivotal choice: either to construct a new Tower of Babel or to build the city in which God and humanity dwell together.”
The document notes many of the concrete risks of AI — sexual abuse, distortion of facts, job loss — and calls for pragmatic solutions. But it is, at its heart, a testament to what makes humans human, written with palpable adoration for the people of the world: our creativity, our empathy, even our weaknesses. It’s a declaration that machines can never have the ineffable qualities of God’s children.
Structuring our world around technology, Leo writes, reduces “creation to an object of exploitation and human beings to mere cogs in a system driven toward ever greater efficiency.”
Later, in a paean to the importance of deep thought over easy answers, he goes on: “The speed and ease with which answers or summaries can be obtained risk extinguishing the desire to ask questions,” he writes, calling on the world “to protect our young people from the promise of the perfect machine” and warning against rendering “human thought seemingly superfluous precisely when it is most needed.”
“Magnificatus Humanitas” is a major statement, both in length — more than 43,000 words — and in symbolism. A pope’s first encyclical indicates the issues they believe are most important to the church, and signals the likely direction of their papacy.
That direction, for Pope Leo, is to be a voice for moral leadership, writ large. He addressed the encyclical not only to Catholics or even Christians, but “to all men and women of goodwill,” and cited thinkers like Hannah Arendt and J.R.R. Tolkien alongside the Bible.
It’s a declaration of a new — or, arguably, very old — relevance for religious leaders. As people rush through our increasingly fast-paced, frantic world, striving to keep up with the newest technology or geopolitical shift affecting markets and jobs, the slow-moving, zoomed-out perspective of religious leaders seems to be more and more important.
The Vatican held massive authority both moral and military for much of Western history. But its sway faded in the modern age. As democracy rose, Christianity broke into factions and religion’s prominence weakened, leaving the Church without the same ability to bestow a divine mandate on nations and rulers.
So many modern popes have kept their sights more narrowly focused on the theological. Even Pope Francis, who was a liberal, modernizing force for the church, and spoke out strongly on topics like the environment and immigration, focused three of his four encyclicals on Christian theological concepts like the Sacred Heart and Christianity as the world’s guiding light.
Pope Leo, however, seems to have found his way to modern, secular relevance by speaking out clearly on major issues of the day. He notes that he drew inspiration for “Magnificatus Humanitas” from Pope Leo XIII, an influential pope in the late 1800s and the inspiration for the modern Leo’s own papal moniker, whose 1891 encyclical “Rerum Novarum,” on the economy and conditions of the working class, was criticized for insufficient focus on the Gospel. The current pope’s own document is remarkably concrete and political.
Making political statements isn’t new for Leo, but the encyclical canonizes his boldness into an official form. In the past few months I’ve written about the ways in which Pope Leo has used sermons and statements to directly counter those made by U.S. leaders. After Pete Hegseth made a speech implying the U.S. military is doing God’s will, the pope gave a homily saying that prayers for war cannot be heard by God. He has made strongly worded comments about the rights of immigrants as Trump announced increased ICE raids, and made a point of appointing foreign bishops in American parishes. He has refused to visit the U.S. despite the fact that he is American and has been invited numerous times, including for the nation’s 250th birthday; he is instead planning to visit an island that serves as a refugee landing point in the Mediterranean.
It’s not all that surprising that Leo is making pronouncements on the justness of wars; popes have always given commentary on the world, albeit often less pointedly. Of course, Catholics have always looked to the pope for moral leadership — though that is increasingly under question, as renegade Catholics doubt the pope. (Even J.D. Vance, a Catholic convert with a book coming out about his conversion, has warned the pope to be “careful” with his theological interpretations — a near heretical statement. That’s how Protestantism came about.) The difference today is that everybody is listening.
I think the reason is that there is a certain ineffable quality that can’t be accounted for in so much of modern-day discourse in our metrics-focused world. Everything needs to be provable with a statistical analysis or some quantifiable indicator, or it needs to be as profitable as possible to extract value. But so much of what is most valuable in the human experience is intuitive — experiences and emotions like love, joy, transcendence. Connection with each other. Religious leaders have been honing the language to talk about these qualities for centuries, and they guard one of the only arenas in which the intangible remains central.
Of course, there are also plenty of issues with religious institutions, and the Vatican in particular is famous as a site where abuses of power were hidden and protected. But “Magnifica Humanitas,” and its virality, points toward a new relationship with religion, and a newly important role for it to play.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking, a hope for my own increased importance as a religion reporter.
The post Why I’m vibing with the pope’s first big statement appeared first on The Forward.
Uncategorized
How can I live freely as a Jew in a world where strangers rip my mezuzah off my doorframe?
Twice, the mezuzah on my front door was ripped off.
The first time, I was shocked. The second time, I made a decision that still pains me. I did not put it back up.
This was before the Hamas attack of Oct. 7, 2023.
That is the part I keep coming back to. The fear did not begin after the Hamas attacks. It was already there, intruding with the quiet calculation of whether a small Jewish symbol on my home made me less safe.
A mezuzah is not a political statement. It makes no argument about a government or a war. It is a sacred object, a marker of memory, a tiny declaration that says: Jews live here. I thought about that mezuzah again recently when the Anti-Defamation League released its annual audit showing that antisemitic physical assaults in the United States reached record highs in 2025. That increase reflects something many Jews already feel in daily life: the slow erosion of ease, the daily calculation of whether to speak up or stay quiet — things I have felt since the first time my mezuzah was violently torn off my doorframe.
Since then, the realm in which I feel safe as a visibly Jewish person has been shrinking from all directions.
After the Oct. 7 attack, the bulletin boards in my apartment building began filling with calls to boycott Israel. Campaign flyers for a Jewish political candidate who came to speak there were defaced with Hitler mustaches. I learned to scan the walls before I scanned my mail.
This was not happening on a campus quad or in some distant place. It was happening where I live.
Then, among my mother’s things, I found a Star of David necklace from the 1930s — marcasite set against black onyx, delicate and old. A boyfriend had given it to her when they were both 14.
I put it on in Florida, where I spend much of my time caring for my mother. I loved wearing it. It felt like more than jewelry. It felt like inheritance, memory, and a small way of carrying my family with me.
But when my mother knew I was going back to New York, she told me to take it off.
My mother is 102. She is not easily frightened. She has lived long enough to know when the temperature in the room has changed. She was not making a political argument. She was trying to protect her daughter.
I still wear that Star of David. But I admit I am selective. In New York, there are moments when I leave it visible and moments when I tuck it under my shirt. That calculation itself tells me something about the world I am moving through.
Recently, in a private Facebook group for women essayists, I shared a personal piece I had written for the United Kingdom-based Jewish Chronicle about how Oct. 7 changed life for my mother and me. It was not a political manifesto. It was a reflection on fear, Jewish identity, aging and visibility.
And still, I was attacked by other writers.“What about Gaza?” I was asked. The message was clear: even my personal Jewish pain had to pass a political test before it could be acknowledged.
That is the narrowing.
This ugliness is coming from more than one direction now. It stems from old conspiracy theories on the right and newer moral certainties in some of the progressive spaces where I once felt most at home. Different language brings about the same result: Jews become less human, less particular, less entitled to fear.
That collapse is what frightens me most: the definitional collapse between Jew and Israeli; Israeli and Israel’s government; Jewish symbol and political provocation; mezuzah and target.
As Jews like me reckon with that collapse, we must reckon with how much we’ll go along with it.
Right now, too often, Jews are being asked to choose between our own safety and our compassion for others. We should be able to prioritize both. I am a Zionist. I believe in the right of the Jewish people to a homeland. I also believe Palestinians are human beings who deserve freedom, dignity, and protection from suffering.
These beliefs should not cancel each other out. They should make us more careful, more humane, more committed to truth.
Yet now we must choose between speaking about antisemitism and being accused of indifference to other hatreds. That is no way to live.
Since Oct. 7, I have found myself going to synagogue on Shabbat, something I never did before. I was a High Holiday Jew. Now I seek out rooms where I do not have to explain why this moment feels frightening. I have learned where I feel seen. I have learned who can hold my fear without turning it into an argument.
The mezuzah I did not put back up is small. It fits in the palm of my hand.
But what it represents is not small: memory, faith, survival, home, and the right to be visibly Jewish without fear.
When I did not put it back up, I told myself I was being practical. But now — after Oct. 7, the bulletin boards, my mother’s warning, and the explosive allegations I’ve seen travel through respected media without sufficient care or verification — I understand it differently.
I was not just protecting a doorframe. I was learning to shrink.
The post How can I live freely as a Jew in a world where strangers rip my mezuzah off my doorframe? appeared first on The Forward.
Uncategorized
Podcast: A lively conversation in Yiddish with actress Lea Koenig
ס׳איז לעצטנס אַרויס אַ פּאָדקאַסט מיט דער באַליבטער אַקטריסע אין ישׂראל, ליאַ קעניג, וועלכע איז הײַנט צום בעסטן באַקאַנט ווי די ייִדיש־רעדנדיקע באָבע פֿונעם פּערסאָנאַזש שלום שטיסל אין דער ישׂראלדיקער טעלעוויזיע־סעריע „שטיסל“.
אינעם שמועס באַטייליקן זיך אויך יניבֿ גאָלדבערג — דער מחבר פֿון אַ נײַער ביאָגראַפֿיע וועגן איר אויף ענגליש; דער איבערזעצער און דראַמאַטורג מיכל יאַשינסקי, און דער ייִדישער זינגער און קולטור־טוער חיים וואָלף. דעם פּאָדקאַסט האָט טראַנסמיטירט די באָסטאָנער ראַדיאָ־פּראָגראַם „דאָס ייִדישע קול“.
ליאַ קעניג גיט איבער אירע זכרונות במשך פֿון איר לאַנגער קאַריערע אין ייִדישן טעאַטער, ווי אויך אינעם העברעיִשן טעאַטער, טעלעוויזיע און קינאָ. כּדי צו הערן דעם פּאָדקאַסט, גיט אַ קוועטש דאָ.
The post Podcast: A lively conversation in Yiddish with actress Lea Koenig appeared first on The Forward.