For most of my life, I looked back at the Jews of the 1930s with a question I could never quite answer: Why didn’t they see it?
Why didn’t they recognize what was unfolding around them? Why did so many continue believing that reason would ultimately prevail, that institutions would protect them, that the political rhetoric wasn’t meant literally or that the hatred would eventually burn itself out?
Those questions become harder to ask with confidence when we look honestly at the world today.
Perhaps we owe the Jews of the 1930s an apology.
Perhaps they saw far more than we ever gave them credit for. Perhaps they understood exactly what was happening but found themselves trapped by institutions they trusted, political coalitions they had spent generations building and a natural human reluctance to believe that civilized societies could unravel as quickly as they eventually did.
That possibility should make every Jew stop and think.
History rarely repeats itself exactly, but it often rhymes with unsettling precision. The slogans change. The technology changes. The politics change. But human nature changes very little. Every generation convinces itself that it is more enlightened than the one before it; yet every generation eventually discovers that prejudice has an extraordinary ability to reinvent itself while insisting it is something entirely different.
Today’s antisemitism rarely introduces itself honestly. It often disguises itself as activism, social justice, anti-colonialism, academic theory or political purity. It changes vocabulary without changing intent. Hatred has always been remarkably adaptable. It learns the language of the moment because it makes it easier to recruit people who would never knowingly associate themselves with antisemitism.
That is what makes this moment so dangerous.
There are candidates seeking public office who have been trafficking in antisemitic rhetoric or repeatedly associating themselves with those who do. There are elected officials who cannot bring themselves to condemn antisemitism with the same clarity they demand on virtually every other form of hatred. There are universities where Jewish students increasingly question whether they can openly express their identity without becoming targets. There are institutions that seem more comfortable explaining antisemitism than confronting it.
None of this should feel normal.
Yet one of the most troubling aspects of this moment is not what antisemites are doing. History teaches us that antisemites will always exist. The more difficult question is why so many Jews continue struggling to acknowledge what is directly in front of them. Too many remain emotionally invested in political movements, ideological coalitions or institutions that have changed dramatically while their own assumptions have not.
Loyalty is an admirable quality until it becomes blindness.
Many American Jews spent decades helping build institutions dedicated to civil rights, education, philanthropy and social progress. That history deserves respect. Their contributions helped strengthen American society in countless ways. The problem is that some of those same institutions no longer consistently return that loyalty. Coalitions evolve. Priorities change. New ideological frameworks emerge. Relationships that once felt reciprocal sometimes become transactional or disappear altogether.
Recognizing that reality is not betrayal. Pretending it isn’t happening may be.
One of the hardest things for any individual or community to do is to admit that a strategy that once worked no longer does. Success creates habits. Habits become assumptions. Assumptions become doctrine. Eventually, people defend the strategy long after the conditions that made it successful have disappeared. That is not wisdom. It is inertia.
There is also a profound difference between tolerance and appeasement. Judaism has always valued dialogue, learning and engagement with people who see the world differently. Those values remain strengths. They become weakness only when dialogue replaces judgment or when engagement becomes an excuse to ignore conduct that should never be excused. Extending goodwill does not require suspending common sense.
The most painful lesson of Jewish history is not simply that antisemitism exists. The painful lesson is how often intelligent, accomplished, and well-intentioned people convince themselves that obvious warning signs were temporary, exaggerated or someone else’s problem. Like every generation, we tell ourselves that this time is different.
None of this is an argument for fear. It is an argument for clarity. Jewish history should produce confidence, resilience and a willingness to see the world as it is, rather than as we wish it were. The Jewish people have survived because they adapted, learned, rebuilt and refused to surrender their identity, even when circumstances demanded extraordinary courage.
If we truly want to honor the Jews of the 1930s, then we should stop asking why they failed to recognize the danger and start asking whether we are willing to recognize our own. We should examine our assumptions with the same honesty that we expect when studying history. We should measure people and institutions by what they do, not merely by what they say about themselves.
Perhaps the apology we owe is not for judging the Jews of the 1930s too harshly. Perhaps it is for assuming we would have done better.
History has a way of humbling that kind of certainty. The question facing the Jewish community today is not whether we know enough about the past. The question is whether we are willing to learn from it while there is still time to do so.
