By Corey Robin
August 3, 2024
Illustration by Chloe Cushman
My first and only experience of antisemitism in America came wrapped in a bow of care and concern. In 1993, I spent the summer in Tennessee with my girlfriend. At a barbecue, we were peppered with questions. What brought us south? How were we getting on? Where did we go to church? We explained that we didn’t go to church because we were Jewish. “That’s O.K.,” a woman reassured us. Having never thought that it wasn’t, I flashed a puzzled smile and recalled an observation of the German writer Ludwig Börne: “Some reproach me with being a Jew, others pardon me, still others praise me for it. But all are thinking about it.”
Thirty-one years later, everyone’s thinking about the Jews. Poll after poll asks them if they feel safe. Donald Trump and Kamala Harris lob insults about who’s the greater antisemite. Congressional Republicans, who have all of two Jews in their caucus, deliver lectures on Jewish history to university leaders. “I want you to kneel down and touch the stone which paved the grounds of Auschwitz,” the Oregon Republican Lori Chavez-DeRemer declared at a hearing in May, urging a visit to D.C.’s Holocaust museum. “I want you to peer over the countless shoes of murdered Jews.” She gave no indication of knowing that one of the leaders she was addressing had been a victim of antisemitism or that another was the descendant of Holocaust survivors.
It’s no accident that non-Jews talk about Jews as if we aren’t there. According to the historian David Nirenberg, talking about the Jews—not actual Jews but Jews in the abstract—is how Gentiles make sense of their world, from the largest questions of existence to the smallest questions of economics. Nirenberg’s focus is “anti-Judaism,” how negative ideas about Jews are woven into canons of Western thought. But as I learned that summer in Tennessee, and as we’re seeing today, concern can be as revealing as contempt. Often the two go hand in hand.
Consider the Antisemitism Awareness Act, which the House of Representatives recently passed by a vote of 320–91. The act purports to be a response to rising antisemitism in the United States. Yet the murder of Jews, synagogue shootings, and cries of “Jews will not replace us” are clearly not what the bill is designed to address. Nearly half of Republicans believe in the “great replacement theory,” after all, and their leader draws from the same well.
The bill will instead outfit the federal government with a new definition of antisemitism that would shield Israel from criticism and turn campus activism on behalf of Palestinians into acts of illegal discrimination. (Seven of the definition’s eleven examples of antisemitism involve opposition to the State of Israel.) Right-wingers who vocally oppose the bill—Marjorie Taylor Greene, Matt Gaetz, Tucker Carlson, and Charlie Kirk—have little problem with its Zionist agenda. They just worry that it will implicate those who believe the Jews are Christ killers.
The G.O.P. is not the only party whose solicitude for the Jews betrays an underlying unease. President Biden has said repeatedly that without Israel no Jew in the world is safe. It sounds like a statement of solidarity, but it’s really a confession of bankruptcy, a disavowal of the democratic state’s obligation to protect its citizens equally. As Biden told a group of Jewish leaders in 2014, nine months before Trump announced his Presidential campaign, “You understand in your bones that no matter how hospitable, no matter how consequential, no matter how engaged, no matter how deeply involved you are in the United States . . . there is really only one absolute guarantee, and that’s the State of Israel.” I’ve lived most of my life in the United States; three of my four grandparents were born here. If the President of my country—a liberal and a Democrat, no less—is saying that my government can’t protect me, where am I supposed to go? I’m Jewish, not Israeli.
Some Jews might feel cheered by Republican crusades against antisemitism or Democratic affirmations of Israel. But there is a long history to these special provisions and professions of concern. Repeating patterns from the ancient and medieval world—and abandoning the innovations pioneered by Jews in the United States—they are bad for democracy. And bad for the Jews.
Contrary to popular myth, the history of Jews and Gentiles is not one of unremitting hostility or eternal antisemitism. It is a chronicle of oscillation, Hannah Arendt argued, a cycle of “special discrimination” and “special favor,” with sovereigns bestowing—then revoking—power and privilege upon the Jews. Jewish leaders, lacking sovereignty of their own, eager to defend their brethren from twitchy neighbors, made themselves indispensable, providing resources to Popes and emperors, lords and kings. They used their favored status to create autonomous communities for their people. Despite their success, or perhaps because of it, they never erased the fine line that separates persecution from protection.
Texts sacred and secular tell the story. A seldom discussed chapter in Genesis lets slip that long before the Israelites were enslaved by Pharaoh, Joseph was ensconced in Pharaoh’s court. As Pharaoh’s right-hand man, Joseph compelled Egypt’s farmers to sell their land for food during a famine, effectively rendering them serfs of the state. Not long after, Exodus opens with a report that “there arose a new king over Egypt, who did not know Joseph.” This new king turned the Egyptians against the Israelites.
After the Greeks conquered Egypt, the Jews of Alexandria were largely denied citizenship in the Hellenic empire. They still managed to curry favor with rulers, which placed them above native Egyptians in the social hierarchy. Centuries later, after the Romans took over, the new regime continued this tradition, adding the envy of the Greeks to the hatred of the Egyptians, stirring up a riotous stew.
Christianity, the child of Judaism, introduced a dangerously Oedipal ingredient to the mix. Despite Christian teaching that the Jews were responsible for Christ’s death, Augustine explained that the Jews should be treated as a people of witness, suitable for preservation rather than punishment. Alive, they testified to the truth of the Hebrew Bible, the Gospels’ predecessor. Dispersed and miserable, they proved the peril of refusing Christ. It was the obligation of Christian rulers to look after the Jews, Augustine claimed, to maintain them “separate in their observance and unlike the rest of the world.”
By providing a theological gloss on an old idea, Augustine put Jews in the crosshairs of Christian politics. At moments of calm, they received privileges and charters granting them levels of autonomy, access, and security that not all groups enjoyed. In thirteenth-century Poland, the historian David Myers writes, Christians could even be fined if they “failed to heed the cries of Jews in the middle of the night.” At moments of change, they were targets of persecution and slaughter. Either way, their fortunes were tied to that of the sovereign, who could be accused of granting the Jews too much protection or not enough.
That left Jewish leaders forever scanning the horizon for trouble—usually from the sovereign or the Gentiles surrounding them, and sometimes from their own people, who were suspicious of their contacts outside the community. As they came to play the role of the “court Jew,” advising the rulers of the medieval era and financing the treasuries of early modern states, they accumulated power and incurred resentment. But with the consolidation of modern nation-states, which claimed to speak for peoples rather than through kings, the hard-won lessons of Jewish élite politics grew increasingly obsolete. Across the Atlantic, a new, more democratic, model beckoned.
Not a single Jew signed the Declaration of Independence or deliberated at the Constitutional Convention. That probably had more to do with numbers—they were a mere twenty-five hundred of 2.5 million people—than with animus. For long before America’s revolutionaries affixed their names to the ideals of freedom, equality, and republican governance, Jews in America had been learning the arts of democracy.
Throughout the eighteenth century, Jews petitioned colonial governments for the democratic rights of membership and participation, responding to leaders like Roger Williams, the founder of Rhode Island, who saw the polity as “a receptacle for people of several Sorts and Opinions.” They built a coalition with the Huguenots of South Carolina to demand their rights. Even before the Revolution, they secured the right, with Quakers, to affirm their allegiance to the government without taking an oath of Christian faith. After the Revolution, they were primed to convert that victory into the right to hold government office. They avowed no special virtues, disavowed no special vices, invoked no high connections. They simply stood by the Constitution, which prohibits religious tests for federal office, and their service to the revolutionary cause.
In Europe, emancipation was often conditioned on cleaving the citizen from the Jew. “The Jews should be refused everything as a nation,” one delegate to the French National Assembly declared, “but granted everything as individuals.” Many American Jews sought to avoid that separation. Instead of abandoning Judaism or relegating it to the private sphere, they designed their institutions in the image of the democracy they were helping to build. As the historian Hasia Diner has shown, synagogues wrote their own constitutions, with democratic procedures, a bill of rights, and provisions for amendment. Government officials were invited to address congregations rather than negotiate with individual élites. Where Jews in modern Europe worked with states to anoint one body to represent them all, continuing the medieval tradition of a single interceding voice between sovereign and Jewry, Jews in America created a multiplicity of organizations, some more democratic than others, none with the power or authority to speak for the whole.
The climax of this distinctively modern approach to Jewish politics came not in defense of the Jews but in support of the New Deal and the Black Freedom struggle. This may seem paradoxical, instances of Jewish do-gooders acting on behalf of others. The protagonists saw things differently. As the Jewish Community Relations Council of Cincinnati declared in 1963, “The society in which Jews are most secure, is itself secure, only to the extent that citizens of all races and creeds enjoy full equality.” This was the opposite of the lesson that Jews had learned across the European millennia.
Although struggles for reform in the United States could provoke antisemitic backlashes, American Jews understood that only in a full and complete democracy could they live full and complete lives. After decades of splitting their votes between Democrats and Republicans, more than ninety per cent of Jewish voters cast their ballots for Franklin Delano Roosevelt in 1944. Orthodox and Reform Jews alike united to welcome the Brown decision, declaring integration, in the words of one Jewish leader, “a veritable fulfillment of our own Jewish purpose and our American dream of destiny.”
In recent years, it’s become fashionable to argue that democracy cannot withstand antisemitism. At moments of intense polarization or economic insecurity, anxious voters look for scapegoats—immigrants, Blacks, Jews—and racist demagogues to get rid of them. In keeping with this waning faith in democracy, influential Jews have reverted to the European model. Instead of organizing or joining democratic movements to fight racism, defend immigration, and build social democracy, Jewish leaders and donors supplicate sovereigns or would-be sovereigns who are antisemitic, or aligned with antisemitism, yet promise special protection for the Jews at home or in Israel. The result is a curious coalition of Jew-lovers and Jew-haters, reminding us that, as Arendt wrote, “society always reacted first to a strong antisemitic movement with marked preference for Jews.”
A forgotten episode from the most polarizing moment in American history, compactly reconstructed by the historian Jonathan Sarna, suggests that democracy has more to offer us than special dispensations from the sovereign. On December 17, 1862, in the midst of the Civil War, General Ulysses S. Grant ordered the expulsion of all Jews living in his zone of command, which spanned parts of Tennessee, Mississippi, and Kentucky. “The most sweeping anti-Jewish regulation in all American history,” Grant’s order had the potential to affect thousands of Jewish men, women, and children in the region, many of them recent immigrants.
Jews had reasons to worry. Wars seldom go well for the Jews, and this one had stirred up all sorts of antisemitism, notably in the North. Jews held prominent positions in the Confederacy. Long identified with money and greed, they were associated in the northern mind with cotton speculators, gold smugglers, corruption, and illegal trade. Grant had his own demons when it came to the Jews, but, even if he hadn’t, he had a penchant for collective punishment. Expelling Jews as a wartime measure against smuggling—and that is what General Orders No. 11 was—was the least of it. Everything seemed primed for a repeat of expulsions past: from ancient Israel; from medieval England, France, and Spain; from cities and towns in Central and Eastern Europe; and now from the “Department of the Tennessee.”
But then that rarest thing in Jewish history happened: nothing. With a few exceptions, Grant’s order was hardly enforced. At least one commander initially defied it, claiming that “he was an officer of the army and not of a church.” As soon as President Lincoln learned of it, on January 3, 1863, he ordered it revoked, which Grant did three days later. “To condemn a class,” Lincoln said, “is, to say the least, to wrong the good with the bad. I do not like to hear a class or nationality condemned on account of a few sinners.”
Of course, a lot happened between December 17th and January 6th, but it belongs to the history of democratic action, rather than Jewish suffering. As soon as a Union captain tried to implement Grant’s order, in Paducah, Kentucky, the Jews mobilized. A group of Paducah locals sent an angry telegram to Lincoln. They went to the national press, which reported the story, and many newspapers editorialized against the order. Isaac Mayer Wise, one of America’s leading rabbis, reminded his fellow-citizens that the order was “everybody’s business,” not just the Jews’. As a final step, the Jews marched on Washington (really, they just travelled in small delegations to the capital). With the help of a sympathetic former congressman, they met with Lincoln, who assured them of his opposition to the order.
It’s no accident that Lincoln’s revocation of Grant’s order came two days after he issued the Emancipation Proclamation. The war turned the battle against slavery into a more general struggle for freedom and equality, which continued long after the fighting was done. In 1868, the Presidential election pitted the Republican Grant against the Democrat Horatio Seymour, whose running mate was a firm opponent of Black equality. Though Reconstruction and Black suffrage were the main issues on the ballot, Jews played an unprecedented role in the election. Anticipating a close result, particularly in battleground states in the Midwest, both parties courted the Jewish vote. Democrats reminded Jewish voters that Grant had shown his true colors with General Orders No. 11. They also warned that Jews would be replaced by Black freedmen, who were Christian. Countering these narrow appeals to Jewish particularity, Jewish Republicans pointed out that Grant had atoned for his order, and that his party’s belief that “all men of all races should be equal” made him “the best man for us Israelites.”
After Grant won, he aggressively pursued the twin causes of Black and Jewish equality, which he saw as the cornerstones of human rights. He stood fast against various efforts to make the United States a Christian nation, pushing for a constitutional amendment that would create free public schools with no teaching of religion. His eight years in office saw the building of many new and beautiful synagogues. Grant appointed more Jews to government office than any President before him. Simon Wolf—who declared a triple identity for himself as “German by birth, an Israelite by faith, and . . . a thorough American by adoption”—was named Recorder of Deeds for the District of Columbia. Affirming that “a Jew must not have any prejudice,” Wolf proclaimed to have appointed the first Black man to a clerkship in his office; that man was the son of Frederick Douglass. After James Garfield was elected President in 1880, he made Douglass Recorder of Deeds, a position continuously held by a Black person until 1952.
History seldom offers any lessons, but this one is clear. American Jews pioneered a new way of being Jewish and democratic. They did it in coalition with other subjugated groups. In the twentieth century, their lodestar was a multiracial egalitarian society. The fading of that vision is a symptom not of rising fascism or even increasing antisemitism but of regression—to an early, eerie, European way of doing things. It’s not good for democracy. And it’s never been good for the Jews.
Corey Robin is the author of “The Enigma of Clarence Thomas,” “The Reactionary Mind,” and “Fear.” He is Distinguished Professor of Political Science at Brooklyn College and the CUNY Graduate Center.
Source (Archive)
August 3, 2024
Illustration by Chloe Cushman
My first and only experience of antisemitism in America came wrapped in a bow of care and concern. In 1993, I spent the summer in Tennessee with my girlfriend. At a barbecue, we were peppered with questions. What brought us south? How were we getting on? Where did we go to church? We explained that we didn’t go to church because we were Jewish. “That’s O.K.,” a woman reassured us. Having never thought that it wasn’t, I flashed a puzzled smile and recalled an observation of the German writer Ludwig Börne: “Some reproach me with being a Jew, others pardon me, still others praise me for it. But all are thinking about it.”
Thirty-one years later, everyone’s thinking about the Jews. Poll after poll asks them if they feel safe. Donald Trump and Kamala Harris lob insults about who’s the greater antisemite. Congressional Republicans, who have all of two Jews in their caucus, deliver lectures on Jewish history to university leaders. “I want you to kneel down and touch the stone which paved the grounds of Auschwitz,” the Oregon Republican Lori Chavez-DeRemer declared at a hearing in May, urging a visit to D.C.’s Holocaust museum. “I want you to peer over the countless shoes of murdered Jews.” She gave no indication of knowing that one of the leaders she was addressing had been a victim of antisemitism or that another was the descendant of Holocaust survivors.
It’s no accident that non-Jews talk about Jews as if we aren’t there. According to the historian David Nirenberg, talking about the Jews—not actual Jews but Jews in the abstract—is how Gentiles make sense of their world, from the largest questions of existence to the smallest questions of economics. Nirenberg’s focus is “anti-Judaism,” how negative ideas about Jews are woven into canons of Western thought. But as I learned that summer in Tennessee, and as we’re seeing today, concern can be as revealing as contempt. Often the two go hand in hand.
Consider the Antisemitism Awareness Act, which the House of Representatives recently passed by a vote of 320–91. The act purports to be a response to rising antisemitism in the United States. Yet the murder of Jews, synagogue shootings, and cries of “Jews will not replace us” are clearly not what the bill is designed to address. Nearly half of Republicans believe in the “great replacement theory,” after all, and their leader draws from the same well.
The bill will instead outfit the federal government with a new definition of antisemitism that would shield Israel from criticism and turn campus activism on behalf of Palestinians into acts of illegal discrimination. (Seven of the definition’s eleven examples of antisemitism involve opposition to the State of Israel.) Right-wingers who vocally oppose the bill—Marjorie Taylor Greene, Matt Gaetz, Tucker Carlson, and Charlie Kirk—have little problem with its Zionist agenda. They just worry that it will implicate those who believe the Jews are Christ killers.
The G.O.P. is not the only party whose solicitude for the Jews betrays an underlying unease. President Biden has said repeatedly that without Israel no Jew in the world is safe. It sounds like a statement of solidarity, but it’s really a confession of bankruptcy, a disavowal of the democratic state’s obligation to protect its citizens equally. As Biden told a group of Jewish leaders in 2014, nine months before Trump announced his Presidential campaign, “You understand in your bones that no matter how hospitable, no matter how consequential, no matter how engaged, no matter how deeply involved you are in the United States . . . there is really only one absolute guarantee, and that’s the State of Israel.” I’ve lived most of my life in the United States; three of my four grandparents were born here. If the President of my country—a liberal and a Democrat, no less—is saying that my government can’t protect me, where am I supposed to go? I’m Jewish, not Israeli.
Some Jews might feel cheered by Republican crusades against antisemitism or Democratic affirmations of Israel. But there is a long history to these special provisions and professions of concern. Repeating patterns from the ancient and medieval world—and abandoning the innovations pioneered by Jews in the United States—they are bad for democracy. And bad for the Jews.
Contrary to popular myth, the history of Jews and Gentiles is not one of unremitting hostility or eternal antisemitism. It is a chronicle of oscillation, Hannah Arendt argued, a cycle of “special discrimination” and “special favor,” with sovereigns bestowing—then revoking—power and privilege upon the Jews. Jewish leaders, lacking sovereignty of their own, eager to defend their brethren from twitchy neighbors, made themselves indispensable, providing resources to Popes and emperors, lords and kings. They used their favored status to create autonomous communities for their people. Despite their success, or perhaps because of it, they never erased the fine line that separates persecution from protection.
Texts sacred and secular tell the story. A seldom discussed chapter in Genesis lets slip that long before the Israelites were enslaved by Pharaoh, Joseph was ensconced in Pharaoh’s court. As Pharaoh’s right-hand man, Joseph compelled Egypt’s farmers to sell their land for food during a famine, effectively rendering them serfs of the state. Not long after, Exodus opens with a report that “there arose a new king over Egypt, who did not know Joseph.” This new king turned the Egyptians against the Israelites.
After the Greeks conquered Egypt, the Jews of Alexandria were largely denied citizenship in the Hellenic empire. They still managed to curry favor with rulers, which placed them above native Egyptians in the social hierarchy. Centuries later, after the Romans took over, the new regime continued this tradition, adding the envy of the Greeks to the hatred of the Egyptians, stirring up a riotous stew.
Christianity, the child of Judaism, introduced a dangerously Oedipal ingredient to the mix. Despite Christian teaching that the Jews were responsible for Christ’s death, Augustine explained that the Jews should be treated as a people of witness, suitable for preservation rather than punishment. Alive, they testified to the truth of the Hebrew Bible, the Gospels’ predecessor. Dispersed and miserable, they proved the peril of refusing Christ. It was the obligation of Christian rulers to look after the Jews, Augustine claimed, to maintain them “separate in their observance and unlike the rest of the world.”
By providing a theological gloss on an old idea, Augustine put Jews in the crosshairs of Christian politics. At moments of calm, they received privileges and charters granting them levels of autonomy, access, and security that not all groups enjoyed. In thirteenth-century Poland, the historian David Myers writes, Christians could even be fined if they “failed to heed the cries of Jews in the middle of the night.” At moments of change, they were targets of persecution and slaughter. Either way, their fortunes were tied to that of the sovereign, who could be accused of granting the Jews too much protection or not enough.
That left Jewish leaders forever scanning the horizon for trouble—usually from the sovereign or the Gentiles surrounding them, and sometimes from their own people, who were suspicious of their contacts outside the community. As they came to play the role of the “court Jew,” advising the rulers of the medieval era and financing the treasuries of early modern states, they accumulated power and incurred resentment. But with the consolidation of modern nation-states, which claimed to speak for peoples rather than through kings, the hard-won lessons of Jewish élite politics grew increasingly obsolete. Across the Atlantic, a new, more democratic, model beckoned.
Not a single Jew signed the Declaration of Independence or deliberated at the Constitutional Convention. That probably had more to do with numbers—they were a mere twenty-five hundred of 2.5 million people—than with animus. For long before America’s revolutionaries affixed their names to the ideals of freedom, equality, and republican governance, Jews in America had been learning the arts of democracy.
Throughout the eighteenth century, Jews petitioned colonial governments for the democratic rights of membership and participation, responding to leaders like Roger Williams, the founder of Rhode Island, who saw the polity as “a receptacle for people of several Sorts and Opinions.” They built a coalition with the Huguenots of South Carolina to demand their rights. Even before the Revolution, they secured the right, with Quakers, to affirm their allegiance to the government without taking an oath of Christian faith. After the Revolution, they were primed to convert that victory into the right to hold government office. They avowed no special virtues, disavowed no special vices, invoked no high connections. They simply stood by the Constitution, which prohibits religious tests for federal office, and their service to the revolutionary cause.
In Europe, emancipation was often conditioned on cleaving the citizen from the Jew. “The Jews should be refused everything as a nation,” one delegate to the French National Assembly declared, “but granted everything as individuals.” Many American Jews sought to avoid that separation. Instead of abandoning Judaism or relegating it to the private sphere, they designed their institutions in the image of the democracy they were helping to build. As the historian Hasia Diner has shown, synagogues wrote their own constitutions, with democratic procedures, a bill of rights, and provisions for amendment. Government officials were invited to address congregations rather than negotiate with individual élites. Where Jews in modern Europe worked with states to anoint one body to represent them all, continuing the medieval tradition of a single interceding voice between sovereign and Jewry, Jews in America created a multiplicity of organizations, some more democratic than others, none with the power or authority to speak for the whole.
The climax of this distinctively modern approach to Jewish politics came not in defense of the Jews but in support of the New Deal and the Black Freedom struggle. This may seem paradoxical, instances of Jewish do-gooders acting on behalf of others. The protagonists saw things differently. As the Jewish Community Relations Council of Cincinnati declared in 1963, “The society in which Jews are most secure, is itself secure, only to the extent that citizens of all races and creeds enjoy full equality.” This was the opposite of the lesson that Jews had learned across the European millennia.
Although struggles for reform in the United States could provoke antisemitic backlashes, American Jews understood that only in a full and complete democracy could they live full and complete lives. After decades of splitting their votes between Democrats and Republicans, more than ninety per cent of Jewish voters cast their ballots for Franklin Delano Roosevelt in 1944. Orthodox and Reform Jews alike united to welcome the Brown decision, declaring integration, in the words of one Jewish leader, “a veritable fulfillment of our own Jewish purpose and our American dream of destiny.”
In recent years, it’s become fashionable to argue that democracy cannot withstand antisemitism. At moments of intense polarization or economic insecurity, anxious voters look for scapegoats—immigrants, Blacks, Jews—and racist demagogues to get rid of them. In keeping with this waning faith in democracy, influential Jews have reverted to the European model. Instead of organizing or joining democratic movements to fight racism, defend immigration, and build social democracy, Jewish leaders and donors supplicate sovereigns or would-be sovereigns who are antisemitic, or aligned with antisemitism, yet promise special protection for the Jews at home or in Israel. The result is a curious coalition of Jew-lovers and Jew-haters, reminding us that, as Arendt wrote, “society always reacted first to a strong antisemitic movement with marked preference for Jews.”
A forgotten episode from the most polarizing moment in American history, compactly reconstructed by the historian Jonathan Sarna, suggests that democracy has more to offer us than special dispensations from the sovereign. On December 17, 1862, in the midst of the Civil War, General Ulysses S. Grant ordered the expulsion of all Jews living in his zone of command, which spanned parts of Tennessee, Mississippi, and Kentucky. “The most sweeping anti-Jewish regulation in all American history,” Grant’s order had the potential to affect thousands of Jewish men, women, and children in the region, many of them recent immigrants.
Jews had reasons to worry. Wars seldom go well for the Jews, and this one had stirred up all sorts of antisemitism, notably in the North. Jews held prominent positions in the Confederacy. Long identified with money and greed, they were associated in the northern mind with cotton speculators, gold smugglers, corruption, and illegal trade. Grant had his own demons when it came to the Jews, but, even if he hadn’t, he had a penchant for collective punishment. Expelling Jews as a wartime measure against smuggling—and that is what General Orders No. 11 was—was the least of it. Everything seemed primed for a repeat of expulsions past: from ancient Israel; from medieval England, France, and Spain; from cities and towns in Central and Eastern Europe; and now from the “Department of the Tennessee.”
But then that rarest thing in Jewish history happened: nothing. With a few exceptions, Grant’s order was hardly enforced. At least one commander initially defied it, claiming that “he was an officer of the army and not of a church.” As soon as President Lincoln learned of it, on January 3, 1863, he ordered it revoked, which Grant did three days later. “To condemn a class,” Lincoln said, “is, to say the least, to wrong the good with the bad. I do not like to hear a class or nationality condemned on account of a few sinners.”
Of course, a lot happened between December 17th and January 6th, but it belongs to the history of democratic action, rather than Jewish suffering. As soon as a Union captain tried to implement Grant’s order, in Paducah, Kentucky, the Jews mobilized. A group of Paducah locals sent an angry telegram to Lincoln. They went to the national press, which reported the story, and many newspapers editorialized against the order. Isaac Mayer Wise, one of America’s leading rabbis, reminded his fellow-citizens that the order was “everybody’s business,” not just the Jews’. As a final step, the Jews marched on Washington (really, they just travelled in small delegations to the capital). With the help of a sympathetic former congressman, they met with Lincoln, who assured them of his opposition to the order.
It’s no accident that Lincoln’s revocation of Grant’s order came two days after he issued the Emancipation Proclamation. The war turned the battle against slavery into a more general struggle for freedom and equality, which continued long after the fighting was done. In 1868, the Presidential election pitted the Republican Grant against the Democrat Horatio Seymour, whose running mate was a firm opponent of Black equality. Though Reconstruction and Black suffrage were the main issues on the ballot, Jews played an unprecedented role in the election. Anticipating a close result, particularly in battleground states in the Midwest, both parties courted the Jewish vote. Democrats reminded Jewish voters that Grant had shown his true colors with General Orders No. 11. They also warned that Jews would be replaced by Black freedmen, who were Christian. Countering these narrow appeals to Jewish particularity, Jewish Republicans pointed out that Grant had atoned for his order, and that his party’s belief that “all men of all races should be equal” made him “the best man for us Israelites.”
After Grant won, he aggressively pursued the twin causes of Black and Jewish equality, which he saw as the cornerstones of human rights. He stood fast against various efforts to make the United States a Christian nation, pushing for a constitutional amendment that would create free public schools with no teaching of religion. His eight years in office saw the building of many new and beautiful synagogues. Grant appointed more Jews to government office than any President before him. Simon Wolf—who declared a triple identity for himself as “German by birth, an Israelite by faith, and . . . a thorough American by adoption”—was named Recorder of Deeds for the District of Columbia. Affirming that “a Jew must not have any prejudice,” Wolf proclaimed to have appointed the first Black man to a clerkship in his office; that man was the son of Frederick Douglass. After James Garfield was elected President in 1880, he made Douglass Recorder of Deeds, a position continuously held by a Black person until 1952.
History seldom offers any lessons, but this one is clear. American Jews pioneered a new way of being Jewish and democratic. They did it in coalition with other subjugated groups. In the twentieth century, their lodestar was a multiracial egalitarian society. The fading of that vision is a symptom not of rising fascism or even increasing antisemitism but of regression—to an early, eerie, European way of doing things. It’s not good for democracy. And it’s never been good for the Jews.
Corey Robin is the author of “The Enigma of Clarence Thomas,” “The Reactionary Mind,” and “Fear.” He is Distinguished Professor of Political Science at Brooklyn College and the CUNY Graduate Center.
Source (Archive)
