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The Quiet Antisemitism: My Experience as a Jewish College Professor
There are plenty of examples of blatant antisemitism and attacks on Jews that have occurred over the past 10 months. It seems that every day, we read about a synagogue being attacked, a Jewish student being spat on or assaulted, or the all too mainstream protester chants calling for Intifada or for Jews to go back to Poland — and the list goes on.
Perhaps less obvious — but more frequent — is the antisemitism that’s happening under the radar: things that are circumstantial and much harder to prove.
I’m not talking about Jewish writers having their lectures cancelled out of concern “for their safety” — it’s clear to everyone (except the organizers) where the motivation comes from.
No, this is the kind of discrimination that Black people and others experienced before the Civil Rights movement — and even after: being rejected as a tenant on a lease to an apartment, passed over for a job or promotion based on the color of their skin , or — as in my case — perhaps not having a contract renewed at a college after speaking out against their policies regarding “free speech.”
Do I have proof that me being Israeli or Jewish had anything to do with my dismissal?
Absolutely not.
But are the circumstances suspicious? Yes.
Two years ago, I accepted a Visiting Assistant Professorship in the English Department of a private Midwestern college in the United States. It was a one-year contract, and following the first year, the Chair of the Department notified me how much he appreciated my work — noting the anonymous student evaluations that gave me high marks, that a large number of students requested to take a second class with me, and that I helped raise the visibility of the college through public performances by my students. He also informed me that there was restructuring going on in the English Department, which would result in some of the classes I was teaching being offered only periodically.
In short, he asked me if I would be interested in remaining affiliated with the school, and return either every other semester, or, for instance, if another English teacher took a sabbatical. That suited me fine, as it allowed me to continue teaching, but also gave me time for my own creative endeavors back in Los Angeles, where I was commuting from every week.
On October 7, I was not teaching on campus. But like so many other colleges, a segment of the student population rose up to protest Israel. And even though I was a thousand miles away, I received an email from a student member of Students for Justice in Palestine (SJP) notifying all faculty that the group was calling for a one-day strike to protest, accompanied with a list of atrocities Israel had allegedly committed, even listing the bombing of the Al-Shifa hospital in Gaza two weeks earlier, which had already been attributed to a stray missile from Palestinian Islamic Jihad.
How was it possible for one student to access the entire faculty and student body to spew their propaganda?
I contacted the Provost and Dean of the college to inquire. She replied that this was a recent policy change put into place two years earlier to encourage freedom of expression. I asked how this policy might play out if I rebutted the student’s charges through the college-wide email system, only to have another student rebut my defense, and so on and so on?
She replied that if it got out of hand, the school would shut it down.
I replied that the situation had already gotten out of hand, and trusted I wouldn’t be receiving anymore emails from such organizations.
The student newspaper got wind of this, and contacted me for my opinion. Here’s what they wrote in their article:
Safdie, who is of Israeli and Syrian Jewish descent, found sections of the message antisemitic and questioned why he received the email. “I’m all for freedom of expression, but I’m not sure this decision was able to foresee such a situation where students might abuse the privilege and create a hostile work/study environment for other members of the community.”
Fast forward several months, when I returned to campus for the Spring semester. Within a week of arrival, I received an email from the new chair of the English Department (who was also the associate Dean of the Race and Ethnic Studies program). She wanted to set up a Zoom meeting with me — even though our offices were 10 feet apart.
In a carefully worded statement that sounded like it was crafted by an attorney, she got to the point. Although the college was extremely pleased with all the work that I’d done, and that all my students loved my teaching, the college was making budget cuts and were not going to be able to renew my contract.
When I tried to explain to her my prior arrangement with the previous Chair, she simply replied that she’d be happy to write me a letter of recommendation.
Something about the Zoom call and her demeanor felt suspicious.
On a whim, I did an Internet search on my new Chair.
The first thing that came up on her Twitter Feed was a statement on the masthead of a literary magazine she edited, condemning the alleged mass killing and displacement of Palestinians in the wake of Hamas’s October 7, 2023, attacks.
As I explored further, I discovered other parts of the statement:
The Israeli military—with the support of the U.S. government—has bombarded Palestinian civilians relentlessly, in violation of international law, and deprived Palestinians of food, water, fuel, and electricity.
And:
Because we work to “bring our readers into the living moment, not as tourists, but as engaged participants,” we believe that Palestinians need space to speak directly, whether from siege in Palestine or in diaspora. So too do others who bear witness to the ongoing settler-colonial violence in Gaza and the occupied West Bank.
Two days after the Zoom meeting, I figured I might as well take the Chair up on her offer to write me a letter-of-recommendation; it was March, and I could still apply to other universities for employment the following year. (Universities can be suspicious if you leave a position after just two years, so a letter would be crucial to securing a position.)
After a week of email silence, the Chair wrote me back, saying that she wasn’t familiar with my teaching and requested to attend one of my classes to observe my skills. I invited her the following week to attend a class, which fit her schedule, but she did not show, and didn’t even write to give an explanation.
I followed up with an email to offer her another opportunity, followed by a second and third, but there was nothing but email silence.
I should also mention that, at the one faculty meeting we had, she stayed as far away from me as possible, and if I approached, she would quickly engage in discussion with another professor. The topic that day was adding a requirement for English Majors to take an anti-Racism class. One of the new offerings for the following year was focused on racism against Palestinians.
By the end of April, I decided to contact the Associate Dean of Humanities who oversaw the English Department, and sure enough, within an hour of my email, I finally received an email back from the Chair of the English Department, offering to attend my class, but letting me know that she was too busy to write me a letter of recommendation until the end of May — well past the end of the semester, and too late to help with a teaching application for the following year.
If there was ever a thought of going to the administration to complain about my treatment, that was quickly extinguished following an SJP demonstration that demanded that the college divest from Oracle. Apparently, Oracle’s website had stated support for Israel, and the Head of Financial Aid for the college felt the need to apologize for the school’s actions.
A response from the school’s administration read thus:“The business strategy or public statements from Oracle do not represent the viewpoints of the College. Due to the College’s contract with the business and the cost it took to make such major system changes, the College does not have any feasible or affordable alternative.
It also went on to assure protesters:
Less than 0.5 percent of the College’s investments are tied to Israeli companies and that none of these investments are directly held by the college.
As the semester ended, on another whim, I searched the Human Resources page of the college, and sure enough, there was a listing for a new English professor. The skills they were looking for were for someone who taught poetry as well as Race and Ethnic studies courses — none of which I was qualified to teach.
Was the college looking to shift away from courses like Screenwriting, Playwriting, and Non-Fiction — three popular courses I had taught that were always in high demand and had long waiting lists?
I guess I’ll never know.
Oren Safdie is a playwright and screenwriter.
The post The Quiet Antisemitism: My Experience as a Jewish College Professor first appeared on Algemeiner.com.
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It was once Sweden’s only news broadcast — what did it say about Israel?
The team behind Israel and Palestine on Swedish TV 1958-1989 bares it all with the title of their documentary. It is, in fact, three and a half hours of footage about the conflict from the Swedish public broadcaster Sveriges Television AB (SVT), stitched together in mostly chronological order.
SVT was founded in 1956 and held a monopoly on news broadcasts in Sweden until the early 90s, when the commercial channel TV4 was launched. The intention behind SVT programs was to present impartial news produced solely by Swedes.
In the two years since the beginning of the current war, there’s been a renewed interest in understanding the history of the Israeli-Palestine conflict. For those well-versed in the region’s history, they likely won’t learn anything new here. For those who don’t know much, it’s a good crash course — if one considers three and a half hours to be succinct.
The film, directed by Göran Hugo Olsson, documents many major developments that happened in Israel during those three decades, including big waves of American immigration in the 60s, economic growth, and, of course, the Six Day and Yom Kippur wars. Although the early footage focuses on Israel’s impressive agricultural projects and the modernization of the country’s major cities, as the years go on, the increasing focus is on the plight of Palestinians in Lebanese refugee camps and the Gaza Strip, as well as political unrest within Israel.
The film opens with the statement that archival material “doesn’t tell us what really happened — but says a lot about how it was told,” so the broader implications of the footage are left up to the viewer’s interpretation. Some may see a welcome, growing awareness of Palestinian suffering. Others may see overly harsh criticisms of Israeli policies that disregard the country’s security issues. With no elaboration or editorializing, it doesn’t feel like the film is helping clarify or challenge the audience’s preconceived notions about the conflict.
And although the footage is Swedish, it’s unclear what, if anything, that lends to the conversation. There is barely anything in the film about Swedish attitudes towards Israel, though we get a peek into diverging viewpoints during a 1964 debate between diplomat Gunnar Häglöff and political scientist Herbert Tingsten about the issue of Palestinian refugees. In a 1968 broadcast, two Swedish journalists question Israeli Deputy Prime Minister Abba Eban about the Israeli government destroying Arab homes. There are also interviews with Swedish soldiers from the United Nations who were stationed at a former railway station on the border between Gaza and Egypt in 1975. They have little to say about the conflict, however, and are more interested in discussing how they can build a sauna, a luxury from home they can’t live without.
How the Swedish government or its citizens have felt about Israel over the years remains strangely obscured. Whatever impact this footage may have had on Swedish-Israel relations and how these broadcasts were received is never discussed. It’s especially unfortunate that the films offers no way to compare the countries’ past relationship to current diplomatic tensions around Israel’s treatment of activist Greta Thunberg
With the humanitarian crisis in Gaza growing more dire and the future of Israel’s democracy becoming an increasingly pressing issue, one wonders what can be gained from the rehashing of history on view in Israel and Palestine on Swedish TV. The documentary primarily underscores a point most people already understand by now: The situation in Israel and Palestine is complicated. It’s violent. It feels neverending. Most people probably don’t need to watch a three and a half hour documentary to tell them that.
‘Israel and Palestine on Swedish TV 1958-1989’ opens at Film Forum NYC on October 10th.
The post It was once Sweden’s only news broadcast — what did it say about Israel? appeared first on The Forward.
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It was one of klezmer’s greatest days — will there ever be another?
18 years ago, America’s finest and most influential klezmer musicians gathered on the steps of the historic Eldridge Street Synagogue, on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, for a photograph.
The picture was organized by Yale Strom, a violinist and klezmer musician who, having watched ‘A Great Day in Harlem,’ a documentary about Art Kane’s celebrated 1958 shot of America’s best-known jazz musicians, sought to do something similar by assembling those responsible for America’s klezmer revival. Strom called the photo, which was taken by Leo Sorel, ‘A Great Day On Eldridge Street’.
Whereas most of the musicians in Kane’s photograph knew each other, and indeed were friendly, a good few of Strom’s klezmer musicians had never met. “It certainly brought together a lot of people who had never been together at the same place at the same time,” recalled Hankus Netsky, a founding member of the Klezmer Conservatory Band and a central figure in the klezmer revival.
For Strom, this remains the photograph’s abiding achievement. “I accomplished something no one had ever done,” he told me. “And most likely never will.”
Several of the 106 musicians photographed that day have since passed away, including Theodore Bikel, one of the founders of the Newport Folk Festival; Elaine Hoffman Watts, the first female graduate of Philadelphia’s Curtis Institute of Music; and renowned Yiddish poet and songwriter Beyle Schaechter-Gottesman. But American klezmer has continued to grow in popularity, thanks to the contributions of Don Byron, John Zorn, Jake Shulman-Ment, and Pete Rushefsky, among numerous other performers.
‘A Great Day on Eldridge Street’ was partly a celebration of American klezmer’s New York roots, and of the Lower East Side’s historic Eastern European Jewish immigrant community, but since 2007, the klezmer revival, which began in the late 1970s, has taken on an increasingly international character. “There’s a lot more access to international workshops now, and klezmer’s presence in the global music scene is only increasing from year-to-year,” Netsky said.
“The music is larger and more varied,” Strom added. “More sounds, more venues, more academic study, and more global cross-pollination.”
And though the 2007 photo cannot be recreated, it is past time for a sequel, Netsky said — one that honors “the incredible dedication and virtuosity of the younger generation.”
The post It was one of klezmer’s greatest days — will there ever be another? appeared first on The Forward.
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Has the Jewish joke become an endangered species — Òu sont les blagues d’antan?
Is the Jewish joke on the verge of becoming extinct? The Last Jewish Joke, written by the veteran Parisian sociologist Michel Wieviorka, and newly translated into English by Cory Stockwell, argues that in recent years, Jews began to seem less heimish for at least three reasons: The Holocaust receded from memory; Israel’s government became guilty of actions decried internationally as war crimes; and right-wing antisemites who were always present became more boldly vocal.
Reminiscing about when he heard certain jokes, the author compiles his own consoling self-portrait in an autumnal mood. Wieviorka will be 80 next year, and his prose has a tendency to poignantly deem things as the “last” or at their “end.”
English language readers may need to be reminded that, when Wieviorka alludes to family situations in which he first heard Jewish jokes, it is in the context of his distinguished family of overachievers. His sister Annette is an eminent historian of the Holocaust. Another sister, Sylvie, is a psychiatrist and academic, and a brother, Olivier, is a historian specializing in World War II and the French Resistance. The entire mishpocheh is inspired and motivated by the memory of their paternal grandparents, Polish Jews who were murdered at Auschwitz. Indeed, Annette Wieviorka recently published a “family autobiography,” which asked subtle, eloquent, and nuanced questions about her antecedents.
In a comparable emotional aura of reverence, Wieviorka characterizes Jewish comedy of the past as “never malicious” (though apparently insult comics like Jack E. Leonard, Don Rickles, and Joan Rivers never got the memo).
The notion that joking Jews had to be sympathetic victims to elicit empathy from non-Jewish audiences may be true of some raconteurs, but is also belied by historical examples of potty-mouthed rapscallions like Belle Barth, B. S. Pully (born Murray Lerman) and Joe E. Ross (born Joseph Roszawikz), who startled nightclub audiences of their day with profanity.
Later Jewish shock jocks of the Howard Stern variety likewise chose to surprise, rather than charm, the public as a way to win notoriety. And Larry David’s Curb Your Enthusiasm, far from relying on vulnerable Jews as victims, presented characters screaming putdowns to elicit hilarity.
To bolster his arguments, Wieviorka refers to the counterexample of Popeck (born Judka Herpstu), a demure, wry entertainer of Polish and Romanian Jewish origin, who at 90 still appears at French theaters with gentle monologues akin to those of the Danish Jewish wit Victor Borge. Popeck presents himself onstage as a grumpy Eastern-European immigrant speaking Yiddish-accented French.
Wieviorka values such exemplars of rapidly vanishing tradition; as a social scientist, he is convinced that because communal settings such as the Borscht Belt no longer exist, the comics who once flourished on hotel stages in the Catskills have disappeared from memory.
To be sure, American standups like Myron Cohen, Jan Murray, and Carl Ballantine, once familiar from TV variety shows, are rarely mentioned now, though others like Eddie Cantor are periodically rediscovered by a new public, as Cantor was when he showed up as a character in HBO’s Boardwalk Empire. But in his autobiographical deep dive, Wieviorka, who writes here more as a memoirist than a history of comedy, is naturally more concerned with things that he personally saw or heard, rather than any objective history of Jewish comedians through the ages.
Wieviorka also somewhat curiously refers to the “Yiddish-inflected” comedy of Groucho Marx. Apart from the word “schnorrer” which appears in “Hooray for Captain Spaulding,” a song written by Harry Ruby and Bert Kalmar, it is difficult to think of many other explicit Yiddishisms in Groucho’s verbal elan.
Wieviorka’s anecdotes tend to be hefty and hearty, like a family repast of kreplach that remains in the visceral memory for days after being consumed. Some of the quaintly old fashioned tales he refers to recall the precedent of Sigmund Freud’s The Joke and Its Relation to the Unconscious, a dissection of pleasantries that reflects a sturdy Yekke approach to light-heartedness. Of course, in this optic of Jewish humor, there is no room for concise one-liners from the likes of Henny Youngman or Rodney Dangerfield (born Jacob Cohen). For Wieviorka, as with Freud, brevity was so far from being the soul of wit that it might almost seem non-Jewish.
Another of Wieviorka’s claims appears to conflict with Jewish tradition itself, such as when he states that funny Jews laugh at themselves, never at others, negating the othering of mocked and disdained people in Chelm, a legendary village in Yiddish folklore inhabited by fools who believe themselves to be wise.
To support some of his claims, the author discusses the 1970s French film The Mad Adventures of Rabbi Jacob, a box office success, now somewhat frantic and dated-looking, starring the popular Gallic comedian, Louis de Funès disguised as a rabbi. More to the point, Wieviorka justly reveres the French Jewish comedian Pierre Dac for his still-fascinating wartime broadcasts from London for the Free French forces. Dac’s sense of humor simultaneously expressing Yiddishkeit and also undermining the enemy’s Fascist ideology is a subject that might have intrigued Freud himself.
To bolster the essentially serious messages of his book, Wieviorka mentions the writers Elie Wiesel and André Schwarz-Bart as well as the painter Marc Chagall, names rarely seen in books about humor.
Wieviorka’s elegiac, end-of-an-era tone might be cheered up by a glance at the Netflix streaming schedule or a visit to a comedy club. Of course Jewish humor is thriving, as Wieviorka himself admits; Le Monde headlined a relevant story about the aftermath of the Oct. 7 attacks, “Israeli comedians are boosting morale in wartime.”
So, for all its methodical, highly intellectual analysis, The Last Jewish Joke might be best appreciated as a moving Kaddish for the demise of anecdotes that were once considered the height of drollery. It is very much a product of brainy French Jewish creativity, which itself deserves to be cherished and celebrated.
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