(Initialement publié en anglais le 30 octobre 2023)
JâĂ©cris normalement en tant quâAmĂ©ricain dâorigine europĂ©enne, mais dans les mois qui ont suivi le 7 octobre, jâai souvent Ă©crit spĂ©cifiquement en tant que juif, car je ne peux mâempĂȘcher de rĂ©agir en tant que juif Ă ce qui se passe en IsraĂ«l/Palestine. J’ai des amis et des cousines lĂ -bas, et cela affecte mes rĂ©actions ; et je lis et jâentends des gens discuter sur ce sujet en termes de ce qui sâest passĂ© et pourrait arriver aux « Juifs », câest-Ă -dire aux gens comme moi, non seulement en IsraĂ«l, mais ailleurs.
Ma mĂšre a grandi Ă Vienne. Elle avait 14 ans en 1938, lorsque lâarmĂ©e allemande est arrivĂ©e et a Ă©tĂ© accueillie par des dĂ©filĂ©s. Elle passait les semaines suivantes Ă faire des courses pour ses parents car il Ă©tait dangereux pour eux de se retrouver dans la rue. Ils nâĂ©taient pas seulement juifs, mais aussi gens de gauche, et ils ont compris immĂ©diatement quâils devraient partir. C’Ă©tait plus facile de sortir dans les premiers mois, et ils sont venus aux Ătats-Unis. Mon grand-pĂšre a aidĂ© d’autres membres de la famille Ă sortir. Il a essayĂ© d’aider son frĂšre prĂ©fĂ©rĂ© et la cousine prĂ©fĂ©rĂ©e de ma mĂšre, mais pour diverses raisons ceci nâont pas quittĂ© le pays avant qu’il ne soit trop tard. Ils ont Ă©tĂ© transportĂ©s vers l’est dans les wagons Ă bestiaux et exterminĂ©s.
Ma mĂšre a vĂ©cu cette expĂ©rience jusqu’Ă sa mort Ă l’Ăąge de 90 ans. Elle s’est toujours considĂ©rĂ©e comme une rĂ©fugiĂ©e. Elle a trouvĂ© la sĂ©curitĂ© aux Ătats-Unis, mais ne sây est jamais sentie chez elle. Elle a Ă©galement dĂ©couvert quâaux Ătats-Unis, elle Ă©tait traitĂ©e comme une personne blanche et que dâautres Blancs lui parlaient des Noirs de la mĂȘme maniĂšre que les Autrichiens allemands parlaient des Juifs. MĂȘme de nombreux Juifs amĂ©ricains parlaient des Noirs de la mĂȘme maniĂšre que les Autrichiens allemands parlaient des Juifs.
Elle avait vĂ©cu lâexpĂ©rience des nazis et avait constatĂ© que de nombreux AmĂ©ricains blancs se comportaient comme des nazis. Donc plutĂŽt que d’Ă©lever ma sĆur et moi dans la peur des nazis ou que de nous apprendre Ă poser la question : « qui nous cacherait si les nazis arrivaient ? » â elle nous a Ă©levĂ©s pour ne pas ĂȘtre des nazis. Elle nous a appris Ă mĂ©priser le militarisme et le racisme, et Ă dĂ©fendre les personnes exclues ou opprimĂ©es, les immigrĂ©s, les rĂ©fugiĂ©s, les personnes considĂ©rĂ©es ou traitĂ©es comme diffĂ©rentes. Pour elle, ces gens Ă©taient « les Juifs », les gens comme elle, quels quâils soient.
Aucune boussole morale nâest parfaite. Il est parfois difficile de dĂ©terminer qui sont les « bon gars ». Parfois, il nây a pas de bons gars. Mais il est toujours possible de choisir de ne pas ĂȘtre nazi â de dire que peu importe Ă quel point on est poussĂ©, Ă quel point on peut se sentir dĂ©sespĂ©rĂ© ou en colĂšre, ou Ă quel point on a peur, il y a des choses quâon ne fera pas.
Ma mĂšre nous a appris que les bombardements dâHiroshima et de Nagasaki Ă©taient des atrocitĂ©s impardonnables, comme lâHolocauste â et que nous devons faire tout notre possible pour empĂȘcher que de telles choses ne se reproduisent. Quand jâai lu « Abattoir 5 » de Kurt Vonnegut et que je lui ai posĂ© des questions sur lâattentat Ă la bombe incendiaire contre Dresde, elle a rĂ©pondu que câĂ©tait la mĂȘme chose : une atrocitĂ© visant une population civile. Le fait quâils Ă©taient Allemands, dont beaucoup Ă©taient vraisemblablement nazis, nâexcusait pas le choix de les Ă©liminer, hommes, femmes et enfants. Assassiner aveuglĂ©ment des dizaines ou des centaines de milliers de personnes en raison de leur identitĂ© ou de leur lieu de rĂ©sidence, c’Ă©tait se comporter comme les nazis.

Ma mĂšre n’Ă©tait pas exceptionnelle. De nombreux rĂ©fugiĂ©s et survivants de lâHolocauste nazi ont eu des rĂ©actions similaires. CâĂ©tait presque un clichĂ© des Ă©crits israĂ©liens sur la formation de lâĂtat juif et lâexpulsion des Palestiniens : le moment oĂč un soldat juif a regardĂ© autour de lui et a rĂ©alisĂ© quâil se comportait dĂ©sormais comme un nazi et les Palestiniens Ă©taient les Juifs. Certains auteurs ont poussĂ© cette mĂ©ditation jusquâĂ sa conclusion logique (pour moi) et se sont retournĂ©s contre le projet dâĂtat sioniste â certains sont partis ; certains ont continuĂ© Ă vivre en IsraĂ«l/Palestine, mais ont travaillĂ© Ă façonner un avenir multiethnique et multireligieux, que ce soit dans un Ătat ou deux. Dâautres ont tirĂ© une leçon plus douteuse (pour moi), concluant quâils faisaient quelque chose dâhorrible mais quâils nâavaient pas le choix : lâanalogie frĂ©quente Ă©tait que les Juifs ont sautĂ© dâun bĂątiment en feu, atterrissant malheureusement sur la tĂȘte de quelquâun dâautre ; ils ont blessĂ© un passant et en ont Ă©tĂ© dĂ©solĂ©s, mais l’essentiel Ă©tait qu’ils ont dĂ» sauter.
Je continue dâentendre de nombreuses personnes faire Ă©cho Ă cette affirmation, selon laquelle les IsraĂ©liens font quelque chose de terrible, mais nâont pas le choix. Mais de plus en plus, jâentends une affirmation diffĂ©rente : que les Palestiniens â ou plus prĂ©cisĂ©ment le Hamas â sont les nazis. Je nâai pas besoin de cĂ©lĂ©brer ou dâexcuser le Hamas pour rejeter cette analogie. Si les nazis avaient Ă©tĂ© une bande de fanatiques dĂ©sespĂ©rĂ©s menant occasionnellement dâhorribles attaques contre des civils, on se souviendrait Ă peine dâeux, car il y a eu des centaines de groupes comme celui-lĂ , partout dans le monde. Ce qui distinguait les nazis nâĂ©tait pas quâils dĂ©testaient les Juifs â câest un clichĂ© de lâhistoire juive que nous avons toujours eu des ennemis â mais quâils exploitaient la puissance dâun Ătat-nation moderne et de la technologie moderne pour tuer non seulement des centaines ou des milliers de personnes, mais des millions.
Je ne vais pas rejeter une fausse analogie avec les nazis pour en adopter une autre. Le fait que de nombreuses personnes, dans de nombreuses guerres, aient eu des moments oĂč ils ont rĂ©alisĂ© quâils se comportaient comme des nazis ne signifie pas que ce quâils ont fait Ă©tait comparable. Les nazis ont commis un gĂ©nocide mĂ©thodique qui nâavait jamais Ă©tĂ© tentĂ© Ă tel Ă©chelle et qui nâa jamais Ă©tĂ© Ă©galĂ© â ils nâĂ©taient en aucun cas la seule nation Ă commettre ou Ă tenter un gĂ©nocide, mais ils lâont gĂ©rĂ© avec une efficacitĂ© qui Ă©tait unique, et en ce sens uniquement horrible.
Mais, en tant que fils de ma mĂšre, je pense Ă son histoire et je mâen laisse guider. Ma mĂšre sâest opposĂ©e inconditionnellement Ă la peine de mort : elle ne croyait pas que lâĂtat devrait jamais tuer des gens calmement et efficacement, peu importe ce quâils avaient fait â et encore moins tuer toute leur famille, leurs enfants. Elle avait particuliĂšrement horreur des Ătats « civilisĂ©s » qui tuaient avec lâefficacitĂ© moderne : si une nation larguait des bombes sur des gens qui nâavaient pas dâavions, elle sâimaginait toujours sous les bombes, pas dans les avions. Elle pouvait s’imaginer Ă Dresde ou Ă Hiroshima ; elle aurait pu sâimaginer dans un kibboutz le 7 octobre, se cachant des assassins, mais elle aurait beaucoup plus facilement pu sâimaginer Ă Gaza, sous les bombes. Il mâest beaucoup plus facile de mâimaginer Ă Gaza, sous les bombes. Câest un sort beaucoup plus courant dans notre monde moderne ; Les victimes voient rarement ceux qui les tuent, et les tueurs ne les voient pas non plus.
Il y a quelques annĂ©es, je suis allĂ© en Pologne, Ă Przemysl, pour voir d’oĂč venaient ma grand-mĂšre et aussi le pĂšre de mon pĂšre. Certains amis juifs ne comprenaient pas pourquoi je voulais visiter cet endroit ni comment je pouvais en ressentir de la nostalgie. Ils me disaient : « Les Polonais Ă©taient encore pires que les Allemands ». Ce commentaire m’a paru bizarre, alors ils m’ont envoyĂ© des histoires pornographiques violentes, sur des paysans Ă©ventrant des femmes juives avec des faux, ou rassemblant des Juifs dans une synagogue avec des gourdins et y mettant le feu. Ces histoires Ă©taient horribles, mais l’implication Ă©tait pire : que les paysans qui Ă©taient habituĂ©s Ă abattre des animaux avec des couteaux de boucher et Ă massacrer les Juifs de la mĂȘme maniĂšre Ă©taient pires que les Allemands civilisĂ©s qui achetaient leur viande dans les magasins et envoyaient les Juifs se faire gazer efficacement par millions. Pour moi, câest ce qui dĂ©finit le fait dâĂȘtre « comme les nazis » : des meurtres mĂ©thodiques sanctionnĂ©s par lâĂtat, utilisant les derniĂšres technologies et anĂ©antissant familles entiĂšres sans mĂȘme avoir Ă regarder les personnes quâon tue.
Ceci ne sâagit pas dâun Ătat ou dâun autre. Il sâagit dâavoir le pouvoir de tuer avec efficacitĂ©, avec les mains propres, comme la grande majoritĂ© des gens ont Ă©tĂ© tuĂ©s dans la plupart des guerres de ma vie. Et oui, je pense que c’est encore plus horrible que tuer Ă l’ancienne, parce qu’il est plus facile de prĂ©tendre que vous ne le faites pas, ou que vous prĂ©fĂ©reriez ne pas le faire – et quand vous pouvez faire semblant de ne pas le faire, vous pouvez en faire bien plus, et dĂ©sactiver les images, ou les rejeter comme de la propagande, ou dĂ©plorer les morts, mais en tant que chiffres, pas en tant que personnes.
Je vois les photos des IsraĂ©liens tuĂ©s le 7 octobre, avec leurs noms et leurs biographies. Les images de Gaza montrent des quartiers entiers dĂ©truits, des masses de blessĂ©s et de morts â j’entends des chiffres plutĂŽt que des noms : trente mille tuĂ©s, quarante mille tuĂ©s. C’est le langage des statistiques, le langage de l’abattoir, du nombre de hamburgers vendus par McDonald’s. La plupart dâentre nous ressentent une horreur plus viscĂ©rale face Ă la mort dâune personne que nous connaissons par son nom et son visage que face Ă la mort abstraite de dix mille ou cent mille personnes. Mais je mâimagine aussi plus facilement sous les bombes que dans les avions. Et tout ce que je veux, c’est que les bombardements s’arrĂȘtent.
Ce nâest pas la rĂ©ponse Ă des problĂšmes Ă long terme, ni Ă des traumatismes et Ă des haines qui remontent Ă plusieurs dĂ©cennies et gĂ©nĂ©rations. Mais câest la rĂ©ponse vitale et immĂ©diate Ă ce qui doit ĂȘtre fait maintenant, aujourdâhui. Cessez-le-feu ; arrĂȘtez le massacre. Ensuite, faites tout ce quâil faut pour rĂ©duire la haine, le traumatisme ; faites le long et dur travail de construction, qui est toujours plus difficile et prend plus de temps que de dĂ©truire. Mais dâabord, arrĂȘtez. ArrĂȘtez les bombardements. Apportez de la nourriture, de l’eau, du carburant et des fournitures mĂ©dicales aux personnes coincĂ©es et mourantes. Ce nâest pas une rĂ©ponse Ă toute lâhistoire profonde et douloureuse, ni aux questions infinies sur ce quâil faut faire ensuite â mais pour l’instant, câest la seule rĂ©ponse qui compte.
five months: the region’s only university; the oldest Christian church; a mosque; the zoo; a cultural center; an orphanage; a park â the trees bulldozed â and smaller places: a bakery, a pizzeria…
The Post story refers to this as “urbicide,” the destruction of a city, but it is more than that, and does not require an academic term. It is an attempt to destroy memory; to destroy culture; to destroy hope.
Vienna was not a paradise for Jews; it had a deep history of antisemitism, and my mother had direct memories of the Nazis marching, the books being burnt, the Jews being forced to scrub the streets; but when she took us back there, it was to share the Prater, the Riesenrad, the Stephansplatz, the Brueghels in the national museum, the restaurants where you could order a schnitzel and hear the cook hammering in the kitchen.




Japanese geishas traditionally whiten their faces with rice powder. If we agree that Perry is white, in color-swatch terms it would seem ridiculous to protest against her wearing white make-upâŠ


within categories marked as Black culture. There is a great deal of writing on Black artists who performed ragtime, blues, and jazz, but the deep history of African American classical music has had far less study, and likewise the many Black singers and musicians who performed in other styles that were not marked as Black, such as mainstream pop, hillbilly, Hawaiian, Italian, and so forth.
Periods of high immigration and intense anti-immigrant agitation come and go, but the bedrock of anti-Black racism remains. The Black ethnic delineators are an interesting byway of US culture, but their history does not in any way mitigate the enduring racism of blackface minstrelsy. On the contrary, the fact that you could perform pretty much any kind of ethnic caricature in blackface underlines the extent to which racism directed at African Americans has served as a more general paradigm.
I live up the street from a mural of South Philadelphia singers of the 1950s, and aside from the Jewish Eddie Fisher and the Black Chubby Checker, all the others are Italian (though many changed their names to play down their ethnicity, Bobby Ridarelli becoming Bobby Rydell, Jimmy Ercolani becoming Jimmy Darren).
Men, like bees, want elbow room. When the hive is overcrowded, the bees will swarm, and will be likely to take up their abode where they find the best prospect for honey. In matters of this sort, men are very much like beesâŠ. The same mighty forces which have swept to our shores the overflowing populations of Europe; which have reduced the people of Ireland three millions below its normal standard; will operate in a similar manner upon the hungry population of China and other parts of Asia. Home has its charms, and native land has its charms, but hunger, oppression, and destitution, will dissolve these charms and send men in search of new countries and new homes….
I spent my second day in Hebron walking around, taking pictures, getting a better sense of where everything was. I went through a couple of full-scale checkpoints with turnstiles and metal detectors, and others with just a couple of soldiers with automatic rifles, and wherever I went they waved me through with a smile, even when I set off the metal detectors — I was asked my nationality a couple of times and once asked for my passport, but just to see I had one, not to open it and check my photo… because I was obviously a tourist and everybody wants more of those.
the hills above… it’s weird and fascinating, because these inimical populations are completely intertwined, sometimes on different floors of the same house. And no one was bothering me — some people didn’t return my hellos, but the soldiers were consistently polite and cheerful, and when I asked if I could take their picture they said, “Sure, you can do anything you want…”
They were very helpful, telling me how things were different in various periods, and we gradually made our way down the hill and back to the street in front of the Ibrahimi Mosque, which I had already walked up and down at least three times. They introduced me to a Palestinian man who runs a souvenir shop there, and while we were chatting the Israeli soldiers who were guarding that end of the street came over from the checkpoint and asked the women who they were and what they were doing. Then the women left to catch their ride back to Tel Aviv, and I had a coffee in the souvenir shop and headed back towards that street in front of the mosque, which was also the street to the hostel where I was staying…
they’d seen me with. I said no, and they asked where I was going. I said I was going back to my hostel. They asked, “You are a Jew?” I said yes. They said, “You cannot go here.”
I walked up the dirt road that led behind the mosque, into a thoroughly Arab neighborhood, wandered up dirt roads and down alleys, asked a couple of people for directions, and eventually wound my way down to the other end of the same street in front of the mosque… where another pair of soldiers who hadn’t seen me consorting with elderly Israeli peace observers waved me through with a smile. So that was that. I walked back through the market, bought a handful of almonds and a falafel sandwich with roast eggplant, hot pepper sauce, and pickled vegetables, retrieved my guitar and pack from the hostel, and caught a minibus to Bethlehem.
I didnât understand that until I spent a month traveling in Israel and the West Bank. I had heard about the wall there, both from supporters of the Israeli government who credit it with ending terrorist bombings and from supporters of the Palestinians who see it as an instrument for grabbing Palestinian land, dividing Palestinian farmers from their fields, making life difficult for Palestinians who need to cross into Israel, and reminding Palestinians that they are trapped and isolated.
and motion sensors. Given all the stories of Palestinian climbers, I would not be surprised if these less imposing stretches are actually a more effective barrierâbut the towering concrete wall is far more impressive, and it struck me that its massive ugliness is no accident. Its size and weight are a constant reminder to Israeli Jews of the horrors lurking on the other side, the enemies so fearsome that mere wire cannot keep them out. It is theater; theater of fear.
and what better way to divide than with a towering wall?
That was the original idea that drew people to travel as a caravan, and it remains the idea for the people involved. They set off this month because this is the best season to travel through Mexico, after the heat of summer and before the cold and rains of winter.
I’m writing this post in Villers-CotterĂȘts, a small town about an hour outside Paris on the road to Laon. Like most tourists I came here because of Alexandre Dumas, Franceâs most famous writer, thanks to The Three Musketeers, The Count of Monte Cristo, and dozens of other books. The walk from the center to the hotel where Iâm staying led past the royal palace that inspired young Alexandre with dreams of derring-do, then down a wide and grassy lane bordered with towering trees to narrower path along an ancient, moss-covered stone wall. It felt like Dumas scenery, except on the other side of the wall was a modern low-income housing estate.
The streets and buildings in it are named for places and characters in Dumasâs novels, the people are the mix typical of modern France: some look like native Picards, some look West African, some wear Muslim headscarves.
European and African ancestry. He is from the Island of Mauritius and the action involves his romance with a lady from the islandâs ruling class of French plantation owners. Itâs an interesting book in a lot of ways, and one is Dumasâs insistence that the prejudice Georges faces from the wealthy French planters is a quirk of the colonial slave system. At the governorâs ball, his lady love is pleased to see him seated between two recently-arrived English ladies, since âshe knew that the prejudice which pursued Georges in his native land possessed no influence on the minds of foreigners, and that it required a long residence in the island to cause an inhabitant of Europe to adopt it.â
This is a complicated story, with plenty of contradictions. Dumas occasionally described himself as Mulatto, but more often was cagey and at times misleading. He always referred with great pride to his father, a general in the French army and hero of the Revolution and the Napoleonic wars, but tended to gloss over the details of his fatherâs youth and wrote in his memoirs that his father was known to the Austrians as âthe Black Devil,â and owed âhis brown complexionâŠto the mix of Indian and Caucasian races.â (That is âCaucasianâ as in from the Caucasus, and a print in the Dumas museum here shows Dumas himself in traditional Caucasian garb.)
sales contract for Thomas-Alexandre included a clause allowing his father to buy him back within five years. His father exercised the clause, brought him to France as his legitimate son, sent him to the best schools, and raised him as a French aristocrat. His siblings were never heard from again.
The answer turns out to be exquisitely complicated, and itâs going to take more than this visit to make any sense of it. On the one hand the town has a grand statue of Alexandre Dumas on the main square, and a Dumas museum with rooms dedicated to the general, the novelist, and Alexandre Dumas, fils (junior), who was likewise a famous writer. The stone plaque on the house where General Dumas died notes his African ancestry and his birth in Haiti, and the street in front of it has been the site of an annual celebration on May 10, the anniversary of Franceâs passage of a law abolishing slavery.
sympathetic to newcomers from its ex-colonies, and declaring that the town government would no longer take part. All the news stories about this incident noted the irony of anti-immigrant activists standing under the statue of Alexandre Dumas and lamenting the demise of an ethnically homogeneous France.
Julian Tuwim. Tuwim is a major figure in Polish literature, a poet, songwriter, and author whose songs and childrenâs poems are still widely known and performed, but I came across him because of one piece that â not accidentally â was left out of the official five-volume edition of his collected works.
âI am a Pole because that’s how I like it. This is my completely private affair which I have no intention of explaining, clarifying, demonstrating or justifying to anyone. I do not divide Poles into âpureâ or ânot pure,â but leave that to the pure racists, to native and not native Hitlerites. I divide Poles, just as I do Jews and other peoples, into wise and stupid, polite and nasty, intelligent and dull, interesting and boring, injured and injuring, gentlemen and not gentlemenâŠâ
But some of the complications and messiness feel very familiar to me. As those of you who follow my
Meanwhile, my mother grew up thoroughly Viennese, daughter of two physicians, one of whom was also a concert-quality pianist, immersed in Mozart, Goethe, the earthy Viennese street dialect, and the certainty that she was at the cultural center of the universe. Her childhood foods werenât latkes and gefilte fish; they were schnitzel, Kaiserschmarrn, and pastries slathered in whipped cream. When the Nazis labeled her a Jew, that changed the course of her life but didnât change how she thought about herself. She felt rejected by Vienna and often referred to herself not as Viennese but as European, but her views remained thoroughly Viennese, and socialist, and atheist.