opinion
Benjamin Kerstein
T he question of what does and
does not constitute antisemitism is
seemingly perennial, and despite
attempts to codify a definition, it is a question
that shows no signs of going away.

The latest dust-up over the issue
involved the second-richest man in the
world. Last week, Twitter owner Elon
Musk found himself in hot water after
slamming his fellow controversial billionaire
George Soros.

On May 16, Musk tweeted, “Soros reminds
me of Magneto,” a reference to the primary
villain from the comic book X-Men and its
film adaptations.

As a left-wing philanthropist, Soros is often
Elon Musk
criticized, but Musk’s tweet set off alarm bells
because while Magneto is a super-powered
“mutant,” he is also a Jewish Holocaust survivor.

therefore be legitimate targets of criticism. Indeed, there
Tech entrepreneur Brian Krassenstein pointed this out are similar figures on the right, and those who leap to
to Musk, tweeting, “Fun fact: Magneto’s experiences Soros’s defense have no problem with attacking his
during the Holocaust as a survivor shaped his perspective counterparts on the other side of the aisle.

as well as his depth and empathy. Soro [sic], also a
There is also the issue of Soros’s personal and
Holocaust survivor, get’s [sic] attacked nonstop for his professional behavior, a great deal of which has been
good intentions.”
unbecoming. His financial machinations once forced
Musk replied, “You assume they are good intentions. Britain to devalue the pound. His influence over the U.S.

They are not. He wants to erode the very fabric of legal system through massive campaign funds for various
civilization. Soros hates humanity.”
judicial offices can be legitimately considered malign by
ADL chief Jonathan Greenblatt promptly waded opponents. His general interference in the politics of
in, tweeting, “Soros often is held up by the far-right, various countries — including, perhaps especially, Israel
using antisemitic tropes, as the source of the — is seen by many as undermining civil society. This is all
world’s problems.”
legitimate cause for criticism.

Greenblatt asserted that Musk’s tweet was
For Jews, moreover, there is a certain irony to the
“dangerous” and would “embolden extremists charge of antisemitism, given that Soros’s philanthropy
who already contrive anti-Jewish conspiracies and has completely ignored Jewish issues and he has
have tried to attack Soros and Jewish communities expressed open hostility towards Israel. Indeed, he once
as a result.”
went so far as to blame Ariel Sharon, Israeli policies and
In response to the uproar, Musk doubled down, saying the “pro-Israel lobby” for the current rise in antisemitism.

his tweet was “really unfair to Magneto.” He advised the To blame Jews for antisemitism is thoroughly monstrous
ADL to “drop the ‘L.’ ”
and antisemitic in and of itself.

This fracas, while relatively minor, raised a more
Nonetheless, the issue is more complicated than
general issue because of the figure of Soros himself.

it appears, because it remains an inescapable fact
Soros and his Open Society Foundations are, that Soros is a Jew. As such, he is inherently different
unquestionably, among the most powerful forces on the from non-Jews of similar influence and stature. When
Western left. They fund a multitude of organizations and people point to him as an evil supervillain who “hates
movements dedicated to advancing progressive politics humanity” and wants to destroy civilization — all
and policies.

ancient slanders of the Jews — this has inevitable
As such, Soros and his philanthropy do affect many resonances that it does not in other cases, and there
aspects of political and social life in the West, and should is no sense in denying it.

12 MAY 25, 2023 | JEWISH EXPONENT
Indeed, while Musk did not do so, it is
not unusual to hear people on the far right
accuse Soros of more or less controlling
the world, a libel with obvious antisemitic
connotations. Greenblatt is right to point out
that this is, at the very least, dangerous.

This raises another question: Is all criticism
of Soros antisemitic?
The easy answer is to say: No, one can
criticize Soros but avoid antisemitism in
doing so. But this is not enough. While
criticism of Soros’s wealth, influence and
undeniable power may not be subjectively
antisemitic in all cases, it is difficult to see
how it is not objectively antisemitic in most
cases. One can love or hate Soros and
his work, but whether we like it or not,
attacks on him — even quite accurate
attacks — are bound to be seized upon
by antisemites, who will see such attacks
as confirmation of their fantasies of Jewish conspiracy
and omnipotence.

A similar phenomenon is at work regarding criticism
of Israel. It is all fine and good to say that of course you
can criticize Israel as you would any other nation, but
Israel is not like any other nation. It is a Jewish state, and
this comes with millennia-old civilizational baggage that
is inescapable. An attack on Israel cannot but have, on
some level, antisemitic connotations.

In a free society, these unpleasant realities present us
with an insoluble dilemma. We cannot simply shut down
all criticism of Soros. Criticism and the right to criticize
are essential to liberal democracy, and to censor and
cancel are inherent threats to the same. The slippery
slope is obvious and ominous. And yet, the unpleasant
realities remain.

The answer, it seems to me, is to adopt a certain
moral imperative: Work toward less antisemitism. That
is, engage in justified criticism, but always keep the
possible collateral damage in mind. Understand that
antisemitic resonances are, on some issues, inevitable
and seek to minimize them.

If we adopt this imperative, we must admit that Musk
conspicuously failed to honor it. He did not consider the
sinister echoes of his statement. When they were pointed
out to him, he did not take them seriously. Whatever
one thinks of George Soros, we should be willing to
acknowledge that this, at least, is unacceptable. ■
Benjamin Kerstein is a writer and editor living
in Tel Aviv.

Flckr / Bret Hartman / TED
Elon Musk and the Inevitability
of Antisemitism



opinion
As a Rabbi in a Small Town,
I Understand the Jewish Class Divide
Rabbi Rachel Isaacs
W hen you walk into the back door at my home
away from home, Beth Israel Congregation
of Waterville, Maine, you’re greeted with a
faint scent of kosher matzah ball soup mixed with the
slightest hint of mildew from a 70-year-old building that
can’t quite manage its moisture anymore.

On your left, you’ll see the kitchen, the heart and soul
of our congregation. It is often where the most invaluable
Torah is taught and learned. That happened a few years
ago, when my wife, Mel, was joined one snowy Saturday
night by our rabbinical intern.

“Mel,” he asked, “do you always need to make this
many sandwiches for the food pantry?”
“No,” she replied. “Demand has gone up over the past
few years, but we always need to make double at the
end of the month.”
“Why,” he inquired, “should you need to make any
more at the end of the month than at the beginning?”
Mel stood there somewhat stunned by a question
that should not have felt like a Talmudic riddle. How
could he not know? I am sure he knew why we blessed
two challahs for each Shabbat meal (to remember
God’s grace in the desert when, ahead of Shabbat, the
Israelites were able to gather double the amount of
manna [Exodus 16:22]). But why did he not know why we
need to double the number of sandwiches we make at
the end of the month?
“Most of the clients we serve, some of whom are
members of our own congregation,” she explained, “rely
on WIC and EBT, government benefits that are issued at
the beginning of each month and that often run out by
the end, especially in families with children.”
“Oh, OK. I didn’t know that,” he said with a humility that
endeared him so deeply to all of us at Beth Israel.

He didn’t understand the significance of the double
portion at the end of the month, but the truth of the
matter is before I came to Waterville, I didn’t either. I
knew nothing about communities like Waterville. And
what I thought I knew was not only wrong, but actually,
in retrospect, was harmful and offensive. And if I did think
about class differences when I lived in Brooklyn, I rarely
thought about it in connection to the Jewish community.

But my ignorance and that of my student should not
surprise us. Because how many of us really talk honestly
about class? Class isn’t just about money. It’s a messy
alchemy of financial wealth, social connections, political
and cultural power, the opportunities people encounter
in their lifetime and the communal regard they receive.

To put it more concretely, someone can have the money
— through personal resources or scholarships — to attend
a Jewish summer camp. But class is also knowing which
brands everyone else is wearing, knowing where to access
those in-fashion clothes and being able to own them.

The trickiness of class is what brought one of my Maine
rabbinic colleagues to warn me about sending the kids in
my congregation to major Jewish summer camps, “Even if
you can get them the scholarship, Rachel,” she said, “the
teasing they might endure might not make it worth it.”
Why aren’t we talking about class? The topic is tender
because class is inextricably linked with our dignity.

In Hebrew, the word for dignity is kavod and it shares
the same root with kaved, heavy. Dignity is about how
much leverage we have — in creating a world that gives
us what we need and brings us into spaces with the
promise of fullness, respect and agency. And the inequi-
table distribution of this kavod is impacting the ability of
the American Jewish establishment to sustain functional,
holy communities equitably nationwide.

For many small-town rabbis like myself, who travel back
and forth regularly between large cities and our small-
town synagogues, the disparity in services, luxuries and
opportunities we witness between urban communities
and our home shuls is striking and often painful.

Synagogues like ours are struggling to pay their
heating bills so that their pipes don’t freeze. Our congre-
gants often cannot make their rent or pay college appli-
cation fees, and our boards struggle mightily to raise the
funds for paltry part-time rabbinic salaries. These heroic
small-town lay leaders work the equivalent of unpaid,
full-time jobs so that every member of their congregation
can have a human hand to hold when life gets real —
during times both of transcendent joy and deep distress.

Over the past 50 years wealth and social power have
been increasingly concentrated in 12 metro areas to
the exclusion of large swaths of our nation. The organi-
zation I lead, the Center for Small Town Jewish Life at
Colby College, estimates that one in eight American
Jews lives outside one of these areas. At the same time,
we must also see that class disparities exist within every
locale. And so, as we plan programs and craft policies
as an American Jewish community, I would challenge all
of us to ask ourselves and our institutions questions out
loud that we usually don’t ask.

Who is included or excluded by the price of this event
or membership?
What services should every member of a Jewish
community be able to access, regardless of price? Who
will provide it? Who will pay those who are providing
those services and will they be paid a fair wage?
How do we work to address the pain and shame
caused by unacknowledged class differences within
our community?
Not all of these questions have simple answers, but we
have to start addressing them. There are three steps we
should be taking as an American Jewish community to
make our community more economically equitable now.

First, even though livestreaming has been a blessing
and increased accessibility and access in ways that
cannot be overstated or taken for granted, we still need
to reiterate — in all of our communities — that it doesn’t
replace the importance of physical presence.

Second, every state in America should have at bare
minimum one full-time, at-large, pluralistically oriented
rabbi with an endowed salary that serves the entire
Jewish community of that state.

Third, we need to find ways to make sure that every-
one has a seat at the table, so that every Jew’s soul is
fed. We cannot afford to lose anyone. The eternal faith of
the people Israel is a covenant that should not be contin-
gent on one’s class — it is up to all of us to make sure that
every member of our people is spiritually sated, held by
community, known and called by name.

Recently I turned to Central Synagogue in New York City
to support the work of the Center for Small Town Jewish
Life. They answered the call immediately — partnering
with us not only financially, but as thought partners in
building community and capacity through Central’s The
Neighborhood online community and my organization’s
programs. Two other Manhattan synagogues — Rodeph Sholom
and Park Avenue Synagogue — came in alongside them,
eager to help us spread the story of small-town Jewish life
and advance our mission. They are funding our National
Impact program, Makom, that trains small-town lay leaders
and Jewish communal professionals to make small-town
Jewish life sustainable.

But there is so much more to be done on a strategic,
national scale to ensure that we are touching and serving
every member of the American Jewish community with
dignity. We will need to continue this work together, large
and small Jewish congregations working together to
serve the entirety of our people with dignity.

On every Shabbat to come, let’s dream of lechem
mishneh, a double portion for all, and let’s start ensuring
that everyone, at the very least, has the flour for a single
loaf. As our rabbis teach, “eyn kemach, eyn Torah” —
without flour, without physical sustenance, our Torah
cannot live. ■
Rabbi Rachel Issacs is the executive director of the
Center for Small Town Jewish Life at Colby College.

This op-ed was adapted from a guest sermon given
by the author at Central Synagogue in Manhattan.

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