Amos N. Guiora on Institutional Complicity and Legal Reform

Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen

Publication (Outlet/Website): The Good Men Project

Publication Date (yyyy/mm/dd): 2025/05/10

 Amos N. Guiora, J.D., Ph.D., is a legal scholar and former IDF Lieutenant Colonel whose work focuses on institutional complicity and the legal accountability of bystanders and enablers. Shaped by his Holocaust-survivor parents and counterterrorism background, Guiora pioneered legal frameworks addressing bystander culpability, authoring The Crime of Complicity, Armies of Enablers, and The Complicity of Silence. His advocacy inspired Utah’s 2021 bystander law. Through the Bystander Initiative at the University of Utah, he campaigns for criminalizing enablers, arguing that religious, educational, or athletic institutions often protect perpetrators rather than victims. Guiora draws a direct line from the Holocaust to contemporary abuse cases, highlighting the recurring failure of institutions to act. He emphasizes that through silence or action, enablers perpetuate harm and must be held accountable under the law. His tireless work seeks systemic reform through legislative change, education, and survivor-centered justice. “All hands on deck,” he says, summarizing his approach.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: Amos N. Guiora, J.D., Ph.D. He is an Israeli-American legal scholar, a retired Lieutenant Colonel in the Israel Defense Forces (IDF), and a Professor of Law at the S.J. Quinney College of Law, University of Utah. He is a global authority on institutional complicity and bystander accountability. He authored The Crime of Complicity: The Bystander in the Holocaust, Armies of Enablers: Survivor Stories of Complicity and Betrayal in Sexual Assaults, and The Complicity of Silence: Confronting Ecosystems of Child Sexual Abuse in Schools. His work, shaped by his family’s Holocaust legacy and decades of counterterrorism legal experience, helped inspire Utah’s 2021 bystander criminalization law—one of the first of its kind in the United States.

He previously chaired Gymnastics Canada’s Task Force on Abuse and is an advisor to S.E.S.A.M.E. (Stop Educator Sexual Abuse, Misconduct & Exploitation). His academic roles include Distinguished Fellowships at the Consortium for the Research and Study of Holocaust and the Law (Chicago-Kent College of Law) and the International Center for Conflict Resolution (University of Pittsburgh). He directs the Bystander Initiative at the University of Utah. He is a widely cited advocate for confronting institutional ecosystems that enable abuse in schools and other settings. That will be our focus today. So, how did your personal background and military legal career shape your focus on clergy abuse and institutional complicity?

Dr. Amos N. Guiora: Those last two topics may converge: When I retired from the IDF 21 years ago and entered American academia, my early scholarship focused on what I had done during my two decades in the IDF—mainly counterterrorism and national security law. But around twelve years ago, while training for the Salt Lake City Marathon, my running partner—who is not Jewish—asked me, “How did this happen?” This means the Holocaust. I gave what I thought was a smart academic answer: “I don’t know.”

Both of my parents—now deceased—were Holocaust survivors. I’m an only child. I was raised in a home where the Holocaust was never discussed. When I was twelve, my father took me canoeing—why canoeing, I still do not know—and he said, “In one minute, I’ll tell you my story. In one minute, I’ll tell you your mother’s story. And this will be the first and last time we discuss it.” The word Holocaust was never mentioned in the house. There were no books on the subject at home.

When my running partner asked me that question, I realized I didn’t know. I decided to become an autodidact on the Holocaust. Of course, you can’t read everything—there are thousands of books—but it became clear to me that one issue had never been analyzed through the law’s lens: the bystander’s legal culpability.

There were two notable books on the bystander—one by historian Raul Hilberg and another by sociologist Victoria Barnett. But no one had addressed it from a legal standpoint.

When I first met with Dr. Barnett, a senior scholar at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington at the time, I told her I was thinking of writing about bystanders and the law. I was admittedly nervous. She told me, “You’ll be the first to do it. You’ll set the bar.” I thought, “Okay, here we go.”

I went on to write The Crime of Complicity: The Bystander in the Holocaust, which has been translated into Dutch and Chinese. I’ve lectured worldwide on the book. I was done with this topic. I had written about the Holocaust, about my parents, and the bystander—I finally thought I understood my parents’ story. I was right about my dad.

I thought I understood my mom’s story, too, but not fully—I’ll get to that moment.

Then, I was having dinner with my editors at the American Bar Association in Chicago, and the editor—a great guy, Brian K.—asked me, “What’s next?”

I said, “I’m done. Going back to counterterrorism. Thank you very much.”

He said, “Yes, but you’ve heard about the Catholic Church?”

I said, “Well, Brian, even though I’m Jewish, yes—I have.”

He replied, “You’re a huge sports fan.” And it’s true. I used to have a radio show in Israel about American sports.

Then he said, “Well, there’s your next book.”

Like a dummy, I said, “Okay.”

That book became Armies—plural—of Enablers. I interviewed survivors from USA Gymnastics, Michigan State, football athletes and students from Ohio State. I couldn’t get to the boys from Penn State. That book changed my life in many ways. Since then, I’ve written articles on the topic.

Then, about three years ago, I came across a complicated story—the murder of a 12-year-old boy named Jeremy Bell. He was murdered in West Virginia in 1997 by a teacher who was a known pedophile. Everyone knew—and enablers surrounded him. It was all about enablers.

That case has become a focal point for me. I still occasionally write about counterterrorism—especially after October 7and what happened in Israel—but my primary focus now is enablers and bystanders.

You referenced the Bystander Initiative at the S.J. Quinney College of Law. I’ve just finished a new book that looks at societal enablers during the Holocaust and modern-day enablers in Israel—specifically, those who enable Prime Minister Netanyahu. For me, all of these issues are connected.

In plain English, I’m focused on the bystander and the enabler. And if we’re being honest, I’m probably obsessive about it—because all roads run through the enabler and the bystander.

Jacobsen: How would you describe the bystander effect within the context of clergy-related abuse?

Guiora: The bystander is the person who is physically present—they see the abuse occur. That’s distinct from the enabler, who either knows of the harm or should know of the harm based on their role, position, or institutional status.

Three or four legislative sessions ago, in Utah, mandatory reporting laws were expanded to include bystanders, thanks to Representative Brian King and Senator Curtis Bramble. That was a critical step. As for the enabler, we haven’t had legislative success yet—not in Utah. We came close in the Netherlands, but it didn’t pass.

In the context of priest abuse—whether the bystander is another priest in the room or a church official nearby—most of the cases I’ve examined don’t involve someone physically present during the abuse.

But in general—particularly with the Catholic Church—the institutional response, as highlighted in the Pulitzer Prize-winning Spotlight reporting and film, has been to move the priest to another parish. That’s what’s often called “passing the trash.” I don’t love the term, but the label is stuck.

And the result is that the priest—the abusive priest—is just shuffled off to another parish and becomes someone else’s problem. But these guys are not one-and-done. It’s repeat behavior. So, if they did it in Parish A, they can do it in Parish B. That same behaviour repeats itself, frankly, regardless of denomination. There was a rabbi in Israel who was convicted either last week or two weeks ago.

Same story. When you hear the boys’ accounts—he abused boys—when you listen to their accounts, you could just as easily be hearing about the Catholic Church. Or this church, or that church—whatever the denomination. In all of them, nothing is more important than the institution. And—pardon my English—the victim be damned. That is what enablers do.

Jacobsen: So, you got your story about the Holocaust quickly while canoeing. By the way, what you were told was accurate. What was the misinformation from your dad?

Guiora: My father and both my parents were from Hungary. My father was in a work camp in Yugoslavia called Bor. He told me in that one-minute story that nothing bad ever happened there. That was 100% not accurate. I met with a Hungarian scholar, Professor Czapádi. It took him nineteen years to write the history of that camp. White Holocaust historians have defined it as the single most brutal work camp there was.

My mother was the Hungarian version of Anne Frank—in the attic with my grandmother. She was twice taken to be shot. I know how she was saved the first time—when she was already lined up against the wall. I figured out how she was saved the second time.

What I did not know when I wrote The Crime of Complicity—what I only learned after my mother died three years ago during the shiva—were additional facts about her life after the Holocaust: how she escaped and how she was imprisoned in Czechoslovakia. None of that I knew.

When I was writing the book, my father was dying. I wanted to finish it before he passed. When I met with Professor Czapádi, he told me how my father had survived two death marches. When I asked my mom, “How did he survive?” she told me word for word what he had told me when I was 12. And I said, “That’s not the story. That’s not it.”

She was surprised. “Why didn’t he ever tell me?” And I asked, “Why didn’t you guys ever tell me?” They had made a decision when they got married that they would never share their Holocaust stories with their children. I’m an only child, and they had promised each other never to tell me their story.

There’s a long discussion in Holocaust literature about how survivors choose whether—or how—to educate or share their stories with their children. But my parents decided not to discuss it at all.

Jacobsen: In conversations with other children of Holocaust survivors throughout your life, is that a common theme?

Guiora: Yes. It’s a mixed bag. I have friends who, at dinner, the main conversation—not the only one, but a central piece—was the Holocaust. I have other friends who knew more than I did but less than those others. It’s a mixed bag. Like me, I also have friends in Israel who knew nothing about their parents’ stories.

Recently, I’ve spoken to about a thousand sixth, seventh, and eighth graders in Salt Lake City about this. Sixth graders—beautifully unfiltered—asked me if I was mad at my parents for not sharing their stories with me. Not at all. I’m not judgmental in the least. It was their decision, and I respect that. But I am glad I now know their story, and I’m in a position to write about it.

Jacobsen: Do you think this significantly influenced the trajectory of your academic and research interests?

Guiora: If you had asked me fifteen years ago, I would have said no. But after training for the marathon and the life-changing question asked by my running partner, there’s no doubt about it. It changed everything. For me, all roads—when I examine the enabler—run through the role of the enabler during the Holocaust.

So yes, to your question: 100%, it frames—consciously or unconsciously—how I view the enabler. Without a doubt, that lens is the Holocaust.

What is also important to note—and we can talk about this more—my grandfather, who was murdered in Auschwitz in May of 1944, took four books with him. That’s what he had. He took them because, as they were told, “You’re going to be resettled in the East.” Those four books somehow made their way from Auschwitz—we don’t know how—to the private library of Julius Streicher, who was the editor of Der Stürmer and one of the chief Nazi ideologues.

It’s an extraordinary story, which we could talk about at length. But those books, eighty years later, are now in my possession. It’s an incredible, full-circle story. There have been articles written about it. To your excellent question—yes, the issue of enablers and bystanders for me is completely framed by the Holocaust and my parents’ experiences.

Jacobsen: How much do the books cost?

Guiora: Which books?

Jacobsen: The ones from the editor are from Streicher.

Guiora: So it’s interesting—Streicher, I’ve read a lot about him recently. He viewed himself as an expert on Judaism, particularly the Talmud or Jewish scripture. Those are the four books my grandfather took with him.

My father grew up in abject poverty. So when my grandparents—on May 12, 1944—were deported from their town in Hungary to Auschwitz, they were told to bring their belongings. What my grandfather had were books. That’s what he took with him. Those were his belongings.

I now have them—not with me where I am currently, but at home—and they’re the only thing I have of my grandfather. I don’t have any photos, and I don’t have anything from my grandmother. I have one picture. Now I have, in my possession, what my grandfather took with him to Auschwitz. My grandparents were gassed—murdered—we believe on May 26, 1944.

Streicher, by contrast, was hanged after the Nuremberg Trials. So my grandfather was gassed, and Streicher was eventually sent to the gallows. And now, I have the books. And those four books—for me, it’s full circle.

Jacobsen: Why is there this weakness in traditionalist religious structures, where a percentage of highly trained academicians or clergy commit crimes—primarily against two categories: young boys and adult women? In one quadrant, you have pedophilia; in the other, you have sexual assault.

Guiora: I’m not an expert on perpetrators or pedophiles. A significant body of literature about their needs, cravings, attractions, etc. But the larger question—which is the one you’re asking—is why the institution enters institutional protection mode.

There are a variety of reasons for that. No institution wants its name splashed across a New York Times headline—”Another Priest,” “Another Rabbi,” “Another Abuser.” So, the instinctive response of any institution, including faith-based ones, is institutional protection mode.

The enabler within a religious institution—or in sports teams or elsewhere—directly protects the institution. They’re indirectly protecting the perpetrator. The perpetrator benefits from the institution being protected. However, the result is the continued vulnerability of the victim. I hate the phrase, but it’s pretty literally like leading sheep to slaughter—because the institution must be protected, and the consequences be damned.

It’s a pattern that repeats itself repeatedly. Unfortunately, the enabler is never held accountable. Now, again, I’m a law professor. I’m not a moralist. I’m not an anthropologist. I’m not a psychologist. For me, it’s all about accountability—through the lens of the law. That’s where the Bystander Initiative comes in. The effort is to convince legislators to enact laws that hold enablers criminally accountable. Because otherwise—nothing will change.

Jacobsen: Does the shuffling of clergy over decades inadvertently create the perception that abuse is more prevalent than it is? Say, three out of a hundred clergy are offenders—but if you shuffle those three between multiple parishes, it can appear as if twelve out of a hundred are offenders. These recidivists are not held accountable and keep getting moved.

Guiora: I understand the question. But the point is that the recidivist starts in Parish A, is shuffled to Parish B, and then again to Parish C. Along the way, you have enablers in A, B, and C. The enablers don’t care how many priests are perpetrating the crime. That’s not the metric. The real question—the only question—is: How many children are in harm’s way?

It doesn’t matter whether there are three, six, or nine priests. What matters is the number of children who are being exposed to harm. The same is true for teachers, who are also shuffled. This only continues to place vulnerable children at risk—that’s the cost of enabling.

If you think about Edgar Fredericks—the teacher and principal who murdered Jeremy Bell after over thirty years of abuse—he moved from place to place, from school to school. And who knows how many boys he attacked? It’s a lot. He knew that wherever he went, he would be protected by enablers. That protection—sorry for repeating “enable”—allowed him to act with impunity and immunity because he knew he would be shielded. No school administrator or district official wants a banner headline screaming: “Pedophile Teacher, Perpetrator in Our Midst.” Nobody wants that.

So, what do they do? They shuffle him off, or they ignore the complaints. That is precisely what happened in his case, and it ultimately resulted in the murder of a child. What kinds of theological excuses are given? What types of standard social excuses are offered? And are those excuses sufficiently distinct to be considered different categories? No. When it comes to the perpetrator, no.

The priest assaulted the Catholic church survivors whom I interviewed. One of the women I interviewed was in high school when the priest attacked her, and she was laughing about it. She’s a little bit younger than me. She was laughing about it. She said, “I felt for the oldest line in the world, which was, to know the Lord, you must know my body.” She asks, “Can you believe I felt for that?” And she was on this camping trip with her friend.

She says, “My friend, dumb as me, also fell for the same line. Today, we laugh.” I don’t know if they laugh, but we’ll go with a laugh. That’s an old line. When I told other church survivors, they said, “Yep.”

That line works. “Lord, to know the lord, you must know my body. “One of the women who I interviewed was assaulted by the family priest from the age of seven till 14. He was a master groomer. He knew that the family had issues. He locked in on her.

And when it was brought to the mother’s attention that the priest was abusing her daughter, the mom said, “Oh, he loves her.” That’s what groomers do: They do the child and the parent. Another person, a guy who was 12 when he was assaulted. He had a great relationship. This is positive from his perspective. Had a great relationship with the priest.

The priest took advantage of that and was quietly shuffled off. However, the victim I spent significant time with had a great relationship with him. The priest was an important figure in his life and took complete—nefarious would be the polite word—nefarious advantage of that. One interviewee even framed it as having “two fathers,” a poignant play on words.

Yes. And, basically, not even with much reluctance. The person who committed the abuse was also someone the victim loved. That was part of the abuse. He was a paternal figure in the victim’s life—a platonic, paternalistic form of love.

The two victims I’ve spent significant time with both saw the priest as a genuinely important person in their lives. Absolutely. And that probably makes it more devastating—when they realize that the priest was taking full advantage of what I suppose you could call affection or even adoration.

I don’t know. But whether it’s a seven-year-old or a twelve-year-old, the last thing in the world a priest should be doing is engaging with them sexually. And when they’re simply shuffled off, it means the next victim is just around the corner—which is precisely what happened with the boy, Jeremy Bell. It’s clear that the killer, Friedrichs, should never have been in contact with that little boy. That child should never have even seen that teacher.

Friedrichs should have been in jail years earlier. In the same way that, in sports, you have these systems—these armies of enablers—I wrote about this in connection with the girls who were assaulted by Dr. Larry Nassar, who was exalted for his work with USA Gymnastics. Or Dr. Richard Strauss at Ohio State: if you wanted to play, you had to see him. Or Dr. Robert Anderson at the University of Michigan—same thing. If you wanted to play, you had to go through Anderson.

These individuals often take full advantage of their positions of authority and are frequently enabled—actively or passively—by the institutions in which they operate. That is why I say that whether it is a school, a church, or a faith-based institution, there tends to be a recurring pattern of behaviour. The perpetrator often feels confident and protected, which emboldens continued abuse.

Perpetrators act with the assurance that they will be shielded from consequences. That is the core issue. While I understand that the media, prosecutors, and the courts focus heavily on the perpetrator—and I have met with many in those systems—the systemic failure often lies in the protection offered by the institution itself.

We must hold the enablers accountable if we are genuinely committed to meaningful change in churches, schools, or any environment. Without that, no real progress can occur.

I was recently asked whether I have seen examples of small church communities or other institutions where the internal culture has changed enough to create safe ecosystems without relying on external oversight or security. The truth is, I have not. That does not mean such communities do not exist. Still, the people who contact me are almost always victims or survivors—not representatives of successful reforms. 

Jacobsen: So, do you have positive examples to point to?

Guiora: No. But again, that may be because individuals in healthy environments are not the ones reaching out. I hear from those who have been harmed.

Jacobsen: Are there differences between religious institutions and other settings, such as sports organizations or schools, when perpetrators are protected?

Guiora: Structurally, no. The pattern remains the same: institutions prioritize their reputation over accountability. However, in faith-based settings, the justification may sometimes involve religious language or spiritual rationalizations—phrases like “know your body, know the Lord.” That kind of rhetoric is typically absent from schools or sports environments.

But language aside, the effects are comparable. In all contexts, the harm increases vulnerability for children or other individuals under institutional care. Whether in faith, education, or athletics, the core issue is institutional protection of offenders, not protection of the vulnerable.

Jacobsen: You mentioned Canadian gymnastics.

Guiora: Yes. I was chair of the federal government’s Working Group on Gender Equity in Sport, which produced recommendations in 2019. Across the board, we saw the same pattern: harm, denial, and institutional self-preservation.

In religious contexts, the behaviour may be obscured with theological framing. However, regardless of how it is presented, the outcomes are consistent, and to call them merely “damaging” would be an understatement.

What becomes clear when speaking with survivors is the profound injustice they realize in hindsight: they never should have come into contact with the perpetrator in the first place. In many cases, the offender had prior allegations or investigations and remained in their role.

That retrospective awareness is a form of revictimization. Survivors often say, “I never should have met that person,” once they understand that the perpetrator could—and should—have been removed long ago. Yet institutional protection kept them in place.

Jacobsen: It reminds me of physicist Richard Feynman’s idea of the “paths forward for science.” In these institutional cases, we can also imagine paths forward—at least three: faith, sport, and education. However, we remain stuck in repeating the cycle unless we confront the enabling systems.

Regarding survivors’ healing arc, I see three general paths. Of course, there’s more nuance, but broadly speaking, one path is the most tragic: suicide, self-injury, stagnation—surviving but still very much suffering from the incidents. The second is a state of suspended harm, where people function but remain deeply affected. The third path is thriving. These individuals have integrated the trauma into their narrative and gone on to build fulfilling lives for themselves and often with others. In your experience, what is more likely in these instances?

Guiora: From the people I have interviewed—someone once tried to keep count—I have interacted in one way or another with sexual assault survivors from over 30 countries. I do not have the statistics to break down the proportions of those who remain suffering, those who stagnate, or those who move forward and thrive.

The easy answer is that I would never want to be in their shoes. Some have become powerful advocates, and they deserve every ounce of praise for that.

But people reach out to me—across all three domains, whether faith, sport, or school—as I have been told repeatedly because I focus almost exclusively on the legal culpability of the enabler. I am not saying I am the only one doing it, but I’ve been told I’m most actively engaged on that issue.

Some survivors have had a tough time. In at least two cases I know personally, family members did not believe them when they came forward, and they took their own lives. Yes, there is anger—but what stands out is how that anger is directed.

When I interviewed the women—who refer to themselves as “girls”—who were assaulted by Larry Nassar, the doctor affiliated with Michigan State and USA Gymnastics, they were not focused on him. Yes, he did terrible things, and he was a predator. But their most profound anger was directed at the enablers. When they begin to reverse engineer what happened and start to articulate it—this is the word survivors often use: articulate—it is a turning point.

It is a form of healing, I believe, to understand that as evil as Nassar was—and he was—the broader, more insidious issue was the people who protected him: the coaches, doctors, and trainers who, whether out of self-interest or institutional loyalty, kept him shielded. Those individuals directly or indirectly protected him, whether at Michigan State or within USA Gymnastics. He was the beneficiary of their inaction.

Jacobsen: That same pattern seems to occur in religious contexts as well. The same institutional dynamics exist in church abuse cases. When trying to codify legal frameworks and consequences for enablers, how do we distinguish between degrees of culpability—between those with apparent, intentional complicity and those without?

Guiora: Context is essential to creating a legally sound and morally reasonable framework. When I testified four or five years before the Parliament of Victoria in Australia, I made a mistake—one I now publicly acknowledge. I initially defined the enabler’s role as a “crime of omission.” But that was incorrect. It is a crime of commission because the enabler has decided not to act. That choice is itself an act.

For that decision, the enabler must be held criminally accountable. The challenge, from both a jurisprudential and legislative perspective, is that enablers are often not physically present at the scene of the abuse. So, to hold them accountable, you must legally prove that they were aware of the abuse or the risk of abuse and prove intent under the standard of mens rea, or guilty mind. This is what makes enabler accountability legally complex but no less necessary.

I understand because I have been repeatedly told that pursuing enablers is challenging. I accept that challenge. On the other hand, I am fully aware of the harm enablers cause and the consequences of their actions.

To say that this work is hard does not deter me from pushing forward. When you spend as much time with survivors as I do, you understand the depth of the harm inflicted by enablers. So yes, it is hard—absolutely. But so what? In case after case, I can document instances where the enabler knew what was happening and deliberately chose not to act on behalf of the vulnerable. Instead, they decided to protect the institution. For that, they must be held accountable. That is not a crime of omission; that is a crime of commission.

This is the same reasoning I used in my recent book, where I examined societal enablers in Hungary, focusing on the period leading up to and during the Holocaust—something I wrote about because of my parents’ experiences. I see parallels today in Israel with those enabling Prime Minister Netanyahu. They know the harm he is causing in the same way people knew what was happening eighty years ago.

To hide behind a claim of “lack of knowledge” does not stand up to scrutiny—because I can prove that they did know.

Jacobsen: Does this become more complicated when dealing with adult survivors who were abused as children?

Guiora: Absolutely. The people I work with are now adults, but they were harmed when they were children. I applaud them for coming forward—it takes immense courage.

Think about the Michigan State, Penn State, and Ohio State survivors. These were student-athletes. Or consider the survivors of religious institutions or children abused by teachers in schools. Some of them had a tough time moving forward. Not everyone welcomes or supports them.

One woman I spent time with wasn’t even sure she was assaulted—she believed she had been in a consensual relationship. It is, sadly, the same old story. She faced, in polite terms, hostile social media attacks from people she went to school with.

Another woman who came forward about Larry Nassar told me—pardon my language; I am quoting her directly—she was “slut-shamed.” And only after others came forward confirming her account did they apologize. But the damage was done. There is always a price for speaking out.

Some survivors become emotionally exhausted from being seen as “professional victims.” They want to move on with their lives—which I completely understand. One woman said speaking publicly so her children would know her whole story was vital. That is incredibly courageous, and it is not easy by any means.

Some survivors feel strongly that the public should see a name and face attached to the experience—not just “victim.”They want to claim their identity and their agency. On the other hand, some prefer anonymity—Jane Doe or John Doe—because they want to protect themselves, their families, and their children. And I fully respect that.

Anyone who comes forward deserves to be applauded and supported—not physically embraced—many do not want that—but embraced in spirit, acknowledged, and believed. That is the least we can do.

Jacobsen: Now, the image we have in our minds, which is statistically substantiated, is men who abuse boys and adult women. So pedophilia in the first instance, as you’re noting in, sex results in sex results in the latter. A few cases are not that, and it goes against the stereotypes you have about these things with generalizations.  Those are important to cover in case there are any differences. So, for instance, in Canadian media, there was some news about nuns who were in there, I believe, eighties or even nineties, who were going to court because people had come forward against them for abuse.

There might be physical imposition differences in terms of the amount of damage that can be done if there’s physical abuse involved. But, when it comes to the stuff in terms of its psychology and, more to your point, more of your expertise around its ecosystem, are there big, small, or no differences? Is it even a reasonable question?

Guiora: No.  It’s a reasonable question, but for anybody who abuses a child knowing that the institution protects them, it doesn’t matter if it’s in the church context, whether it’s a priest or a nun. I have heard of cases of nuns abusing in the same way that I don’t know about in Canada, but there have been several instances here. One of the guys who I interviewed, a little bit older than me, when he was in seventh grade, had sex daily with his female teacher, k, in her house with her husband in the house.

When they met later in life, he asked her, “Do you understand how much harm you caused me?” Her response was, “We have to understand.” I hate that line. “You have to understand. You have to understand what a difficult time I was going through.”

If you’re going through it, you’re an adult.

He was 12. However, there are cases of female teachers having sex with high school boys. I don’t think it’s in the exact numbers as with male teachers, female or female students, or male students, but that’s also out there. And when we met, when we talked, sure, there was, “This, maybe, is uncomfortable,” but when you were in seventh and eighth grade, there was a cool factor in having sex with your teacher. On the other hand, the harm caused him was significant.

Jacobsen: In your interviews, what words describe the experience? If not specific words, what emotional tones do you use? 

Guiora: Well, the best example I can give you is her name. I’ve written that we’ve spent many hours together and about her. Her name is Tiffany Thomas.

She was a softball player at Michigan State University. She was violated by Larry Nassar somewhere 50 times, and we were on Skype. I was home in Israel. It’s not important where she lives. She starts grabbing her throat.

I’m screaming at her because she’s choking. 

I’m thinking, “Well, here’s the irony of ironies. I’m the bystander guy.” 

I’m picking up my cell phone. I said, “Who the hell do I call?” 

“Barbara, she lives here.”

I say, “What the hell do I do?” Screaming at her.

“Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.” She finally stopped.

And I said, “What was that?” She calls me “Mister G.” 

She said, “Mister G, that’s how I wake up every morning.” 

“What do you mean that’s how you wake up every morning?”

She said, “I wake up every morning like that.” 

I said, “What was that?” 

She said, “Well, they’re choking me.” 

I said, “Who’s choking you?” 

And her answer was one word: “enablers.” Not Nassar.

In Tiffany’s case, what happened on one Thursday was especially telling when she played softball at Michigan State. She went to the female trainer of the women’s softball team. But instead of telling her what Larry Nassar had been doing, she demonstrated it—she did to the trainer what Nassar had done to her.

The trainer’s reaction was, “Oh my God. Oh my God. This is bad.” Well—yes, it wasn’t good. The trainer told her, “You need to talk to the head female trainer for all women’s sports at Michigan State.”

So she did—all by herself, without the first trainer’s accompaniment. And that’s what enablers do. The head trainer and the coach then conspired and manipulated the situation to frame Tiffany in a way that led to her removal from the team. She left school the very next day and never returned to college.

That choking incident I described earlier happened roughly five years ago. It was twenty years after what happened at Michigan State. And yet, she was still waking up every morning with that choking sensation.

When she reverse-engineered it—and we’ve spent much time together—she had what you might call an “Oh shit”moment. She realized Nassar wasn’t just the predator—he was protected. She had gone to that trainer and demonstrated, on her own body, precisely what he had done. But instead of saying, “We need to protect Tiffany,” the trainer passed her off to someone who ultimately had her removed from the team.

That is what enablers do. And for that, they must be held accountable.

Jacobsen: My impression—based on what you’re saying—is that people who have been abused in this way are often in a kind of suspended state. It is not static but almost disassociated, and that dissociation can reemerge at seemingly random moments in the day or throughout the year. To me, the choking phenomenon you described feels like a reenactment.

Guiora: I don’t know—I’m not a psychologist. My late father was a psychologist, so it’s too late to ask him. But I leave that to those who specialize in it. At my age, I know what I don’t know.

What I do know—and what I’ve learned from Tiffany and other survivors—is that the harm caused by enablers is real. That motivates all of my work. It’s the foundation of the Bystander Initiative. It’s also what drives my research on the Holocaust and my other projects: making the case to the public that this is real, actionable harm for which people must be held accountable.

Jacobsen: Are there any legal models in place that address this?

Guiora: I’ve testified in the Netherlands, Australia, and the United States. In the Netherlands, the process is different. First, they pass the bill, and then they draft the law. So, yes—a law was passed that criminalized the role of the enabler. But unfortunately, the government fell shortly afterward. And politics being politics—much like in Canada this week—it is unclear whether the current Dutch parliament will reenact that law anytime soon.

That was the closest we came, however.

Jacobsen: When assigning punishment—considering both the direct perpetrator and the enabler as culpable—how would you approach the balance? What kind of ratio or weight would you assign?

Guiora: In Utah, where a bill criminalizing enablers was introduced, we did not have success. If I recall correctly, it would have created a Class D misdemeanour—punishable by up to six months in jail and/or a $1,500 fine. The proposed bystander legislation used the same classification: Class D misdemeanour, six months, and/or $1,500.

I’ve given hundreds of talks over the years, and at one of them—though I cannot recall exactly where—a young person, younger than you even, asked me a thoughtful question:

“If you’re an enabler to a serious crime, shouldn’t you receive a greater punishment than an enabler to a less serious crime? Shouldn’t there be a differentiation based on the severity of the offence?”

I shared that question with Representative King in Utah. Ultimately, the decision was made not to differentiate between levels of severity. Under the bill, all enabler offences would be treated equally, regardless of the nature or magnitude of the underlying crime or harm to the victim.

But it’s a compelling point. I thought, “That kid’s going to be a future law student.”

Jacobsen: Can silence—or failure to report—be ethically distinguished in court from a cover-up?

Guiora: That’s a critical question. The title of one of my books is either Complicity of Silence or The Silence of Complicity—I can never remember which, and I apologize for that.

But my position is clear: If your silence enables harm, you must be held accountable as someone actively participating. However, you protected the perpetrator—whether through omission or commission—and helped them. That should not require legal or moral differentiation.

Let me add this: I occasionally read criticisms of my work online. It’s essential to engage with dissent. Someone once wrote that I am “victim-centric.” They meant it as a critique, but I took it as a compliment.

Jacobsen: Are there survivors who defend or excuse enablers? And do enablers themselves offer any other justification beyond “I was just doing my job” or “I was following orders”?

Guiora: No. Sometimes, there are different dynamics, and I have studied a few other cases. But generally, in most of my interactions, survivors—when they do the reverse engineering—realize that, if not for the enabler, the perpetrator could not have acted.

Just the other day, a woman contacted me. I asked her to create a scorecard categorizing enablers, bystanders, and perpetrators. She told me the list of critical enablers in her case was incredibly long.

As for what enablers say, especially during trials: yes, you hear excuses like, “I was just following orders,” or “I was a cog in the wheel.”

Unfortunately, that echoes Hannah Arendt’s treatment of Adolf Eichmann in Eichmann in Jerusalem, where she referred to the “banality of evil.” Interpretation gave him a free pass. That was a terrible, unforgivable mistake.

That defence—you were doing your job—does not hold water. It may be used, yes, but it should not be tolerated.

Especially in the era of mandatory reporting, saying “I didn’t understand,” “I didn’t realize,” or “I was just doing my job”is entirely insufficient. Your obligation is to the vulnerable individual.

So, to return to your earlier question, we must hold enablers accountable, both legally and morally.

Again, for me, all roads lead through the Holocaust. That line—”I was just following orders”—must never be tolerated, especially given the harm it ultimately enables. You are right to call it out.

Jacobsen: Do survivors feel more emotionally harmed by the abuser, the enabler, or those who ignored them?

Guiora: Yes. By the second group—those who ignored them. One survivor I interviewed at length, Maddie Larson, was sexually violated by Larry Nassar 750 times. You can watch her victim impact statement on YouTube. During her testimony, she looked Nassar in the eye and said, “Do you know how much I fucking hate you?”

And that makes perfect sense. The judge allowed the survivors to speak however they needed to. But from that moment on, Maddie’s focus shifted not to Nassar but to the enablers.

I completely understand that. Jamie Dantzscher, an Olympic bronze medalist, also gave a powerful statement. When Nassar began what sounded like an apology, she responded, “How dare you fucking apologize to me?” Then, she moved beyond him and turned her focus to the broader ecosystem of abuse.

I applaud them for speaking their truth. That is not easy.

For context, the last time anyone touched me was in seventh grade—during floor hockey. I have been fortunate never to experience that kind of harm. 

Jacobsen: The last time someone laid a hand on me seriously was during a Melchizedek priesthood ceremony in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints—but I’m joking, of course.

Religion still commands respect in most societies—even in North America, where religious authority is declining. There’s still legal deference. Financially, too—tax-exempt status, access to grants, and benefits unavailable per capita to secular or humanist institutions. Groups like The Satanic Temple, with their protest-oriented messaging—as in the documentary Hail Satan?—highlight those double standards.

So, if we shift our focus away from individual clergy or laity and look instead at institutional structures, do religious institutions have a special legal or cultural protection compared to institutions like USA Gymnastics or Hollywood?

Guiora: Yes—and no. Regarding cultural deference, religious institutions often enjoy a shield of legitimacy, even privilege. But from the survivor’s perspective—from those harmed—I have not seen a difference in the magnitude of trauma based on the type of institution.

Whether the abuse occurred in a church, a school, or a sports environment, the psychological damage is profound. The harm itself is the overwhelming constant. I have not observed that survivors measure their suffering based on whether it came from a religious figure, a coach, or a teacher.

Jacobsen: There have been various atheist movements over the years—New Atheism, for example, with Hitchens, Dawkins, Harris, and Dennett; then more militant, online-based versions; and finally, Firebrand Atheism, which was more confrontational. Some of those groups weaponized institutional abuse scandals to attack religion as a whole.

But that seems like an overreach. It is a broad brushstroke—unfair and unhelpful here—especially given that many members of the clergy and laity alike genuinely want reform and accountability.

Guiora: I agree. 

Jacobsen: Painting all religious institutions or individuals with the same brush is unfair and counterproductive. Many spiritual leaders have been at the forefront of reform efforts. The conversation must focus on accountability and systemic change, not a blanket condemnation.

In most faith-based institutions, the laity typically does not possess the same formal education or institutional authority as the clergy. That imbalance often creates power dynamics that can be exploited, and sweeping condemnations of all religious participants can be both inappropriate and unhelpful.

So, on a more constructive note, what is helpful? How do we move from identifying the flaws to working with communities and institutions for reform, accountability, and justice at the relevant levels—especially concerning these crimes?

Guiora: I do not know if you follow sports, but very often, when misconduct is brought to a coach’s attention, the response is: “We’ll take care of it internally.” I’ve heard that line a lot. “It’s a team problem. We’ll handle it.”

But that is a huge red flag.

That language—whether intentional or not—protects the institution. It ensures the problem stays quiet and ultimately enhances the vulnerability of the individual victim.

There is one case I know of involving a major American university’s football team. Some players were engaging in serious misconduct, and one player came forward, calling out what he described as a rape culture. Instead of being supported, the coach gathered the entire team and publicly singled out the whistleblower.

The results were predictable. The player who spoke out was socially shunned, marked with a giant X. As you gestured, it was the code of silence—everyone becoming a “gangster rapper,” as you said, embracing silence as loyalty.

That is a textbook case of complicity of silence or silence of complicity. The fact that the coach led that meeting and shamed the player who dared to speak up—is, to put it politely, damning beyond damning.

Jacobsen: What about external communities? How should they respond? Or do people outside these institutions usually take a “not my backyard” approach—NIMBY?

Guiora: Exactly. That’s the attitude many take—unless it is in the headlines or unless it involves a high-profile team or organization. Otherwise, most people look the other way.

But again, I am not an anthropologist, psychologist, or sociologist. I’m just a modest law professor. It comes down to one thing: criminalizing the actions of the enabler.

I genuinely believe this: until we do that, nothing will change. The perpetrator knows they are protected. And when they know they are protected, they have no reason to change. They feel untouchable. Larry Nassar was untouchable—until he wasn’t.

Jacobsen: Let me offer a legal framing. If we assume that laws and policies shape the institutional “ecosystem,” is there an even higher-order source—something upstream from law and policy that informs the entire system? For example, the philosophical argument: What comes first—the law or the moral code of a society?

Guiora: That’s a great question, but I leave it to others. I’m not a philosopher.

I’m efficient. The straightforward way to stop this is to criminalize the enablers’ conduct and hold them accountable. I respect the larger moral and philosophical questions and understand their importance, but they’re outside my purview. What I know is this: real accountability, codified in law, is what stops the cycle of abuse.

Jacobsen: Is that an admission that, to a carpenter, everything looks like a nail—and to a lawyer, everything looks like the Code of Hammurabi?

Guiora: [Laughing] That’s the classic line: “If I had a hammer, I’d have a nail—and I’d call it Simon’s son.”

But it’s a fair question: How do you hold people accountable?

Again—not to repeat myself—but while I understand the value of moral and philosophical questions and respect them deeply, my focus is shaped by the lived experiences of people like Tiffany, Maddie, Jamie Dantzscher, and many others. For them, what matters most is this: hold the enablers accountable in a court of law.

That is what grounds my approach. And again, much of my thinking stems from my understanding of the Holocaust. 

Jacobsen: There’s a conceptual merger between what these survivors have experienced and how I interpret historical accountability—particularly around the Holocaust. For me, it’s a practical, grounded analysis.

Let us consider two cases. One on the global-historical scale and one more parochial.

After World War II, we developed new legal codes and held the Nuremberg Trials. These served as a preventive mechanism against future atrocities—on the scale of genocide and crimes against humanity.

Meanwhile, at the more local level, corporal punishment—justified through “spare the rod, spoil the child” interpretations—was once widespread. Legal reform and social shifts have challenged that. In both cases, has the law reduced the incidence of harm in the long run?

Guiora: Nuremberg was of supreme importance. It was the first real opportunity for a post-conflict society to demonstrate vigorous justice—and to hold individuals criminally accountable for their roles in war and genocide.

Did Robert Jackson and others envision the long-term, historical impact of the trials? That, I do not know. I do not know enough to say.

But did they recognize the immediate necessity of accountability? Absolutely.

Did the Nuremberg Trials hold the Nazis accountable? Yes.

Was the denazification process—especially in the 1950s and 1960s—flawed? Certainly, but Justice Jackson’s focus was clear: those responsible for the Holocaust and for Nazi crimes must be held accountable. That was the priority.

I don’t know if there was also a broader historical vision. But from a legal perspective, this was one-plus-one-equals-two: you commit the crimes, you are held accountable.

Jacobsen: That makes sense. Now—playing the hypothetical New York politician here for a moment—let us say we imagine a large-scale, long-term educational initiative. One focused not on punishment but on prevention.

Let us say that one U.S. state allocates $10 million toward a multi-year program. Schools dedicate one or two days each year to teaching students how to recognize abuse, identify enabling behaviour, and avoid becoming passive bystanders.

Would that be worthwhile? Could that work?

Guiora: That would be enormously valuable. 

Jacobsen: In the Canadian Armed Forces under the Royal Canadian Navy, there are significant efforts towards culture change—similar to efforts underway in Japan, the U.K., Australia, Canada, and other countries—focused on how to address sexual assault in military contexts.

The challenge is that military personnel are technically subject to military and civilian law. So, theoretically, the disincentives should be doubled compared to the civilian population—but the outcomes do not always reflect that.

Let me focus on education—in hierarchical structures like the military or more lateral ones like public education systems. Do you think educational interventions could work in these environments? Are there examples of successful models?

Guiora: I would say that education and engagement—legitimate and unquestionably necessary—have a place. But they should never come instead of accountability.

As someone who served in the military for 20 years—in Israel and the United States—I know firsthand that military law is distinct from civilian law. I served as a JAG officer, so I lived it.

You can lecture, train, educate—I have done that many times. But at the end of the day—and maybe this is my legal background speaking—accountability is essential.

That does not mean education is unimportant. It is. But it is complementary, not a substitute. Training is helpful; it can reinforce values and awareness. However, it is not sufficient to change institutional behaviour.

In criminal law, which I teach, we emphasize deterrence. Punishment is not just about penalizing an individual—it is about sending a message to others.

That is why I believe, without reservation, that if we want to change enabling behaviour, we need to hold enablers accountable—and publicize it. Please put it on the front page of The Globe and Mail, metaphorically speaking. Otherwise, nothing will change.

Jacobsen: A follow-up on deterrence. The real question is not whether it works but how much deterrence works. For example, a 200-year sentence versus a 20-year sentence: beyond a point, the deterrent effect diminishes.

Guiora: Of course. I will leave Old and New Testament discussions to those better versed in scripture. I hang my hat on what I’ve seen proposed in Utah: a Class D misdemeanour—six months in jail and/or a $1,500 fine. That is enough to send a clear message. If we were talking about Methuselah, sure—then maybe we would need different deterrents. But for the average person, this kind of consequence is serious.

Jacobsen: Let’s say you implement that Class D misdemeanour. Add the $1,500 fine, which—especially in Canadian dollars—would be significant. Add six months of jail time. Then, supplement it with educational programs—not as a primary tool, but as a supportive one. That seems solid. What else do you consider helpful? You’re approaching this from a legal deterrence, public education, and engagement standpoint. What complements those efforts?

Guiora: Public exposure. The brighter the light we shine on enablers and the consequences of their actions, the better.

When I speak with people about enablers, it is often the first time they have considered the issue that way. Their reaction is often, “Oh—wow.” That realization is powerful. I can make a modest contribution by working with legislators and engaging with media, podcasters, and people like you.

I have done this in Israel, and more recently, my work has been cited in public demonstrations and on social media. Visibility matters, but it is a constant effort. You are right—there is a critical need to educate. I view that as a modest use of my platform as a law professor. That is what I do with it. So when I get up at 4:00 in the morning and go to bed late at night, this is what I do—day in and day out.

Jacobsen: With all these media interactions, many assumptions are inevitably floating around, but there are also taboos. What topics remain off-limits, even in a subject area already so sensitive? It feels like walking into a media room full of bear traps hidden on the floor and meat behind the walls. Earlier today, someone told me I was addressing issues they didn’t quite call taboo, but they used verboten. 

Guiora: Yes, that resonates. I am sixty-eight years old—as of thirty days ago. This is what I do now. This is what I consider my modest contribution.

At my age, you stop caring whether someone gets upset. If, through my efforts—or through the extraordinary work of the 20+ students who have worked with me over the past three years—we can move the needle, even slightly, it has been worthwhile.

As we say in Yiddish, it cannot get better than that. But yes, it isn’t easy. It is hard work. And I am deeply, deeply grateful to the students who have worked on this with me. I raised funds to support them, and I have a dean who is incredibly supportive of this initiative.

It is a process.

Jacobsen: What about the high-profile cases that dominate the headlines—cases that shape public understanding more than anything else—but then, a few years later, the consequences are significantly reduced?

Take Bill Cosby, for instance. In 2023, he was released. That case could be considered Tier One—hugely public and predatory.

Guiora: If I recall correctly—and here I’m speaking cautiously because I don’t want to overstate anything—I did not interact directly with any of the Cosby victims. I believe one may have contacted me, but I am not certain.

I understand that his release came about because of a procedural or technical issue related to due process or a jury-related matter. But I honestly don’t know the details. And at my age, if you don’t know, you say so.

Jacobsen: What about Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell?

Guiora: Maxwell—was she an enabler? Perhaps both?

Either way, jail is the right place for her. As for Epstein—was it suicide or murder? We could sit here until your hair looks like mine and still not get to the bottom of that. But yes, the Epstein case is classic—a classic example of institutional protection, elite silence, and systemic failure.

Jacobsen: I have a couple of friends in the Mega Society in the United States, and one case that came up in my discussions with them was Keith Raniere—known as “Vanguard” in the NXIVM cult. There’s a documentary about him called The Vow.

It was interesting to watch what unfolded while working on these interviews. Raniere surrounded himself with a group of women who revered him almost worshipfully. One of the inner circles was called DOS—which stood for a Latin phrase meaning “master over slave” or something along those lines.

The women were branded like cattle with his initials near their groins. Many of them had sexual relationships with him. One of them was actress Allison Mack, known from the Superman TV series Smallville. She became one of the central figures in that inner circle.

Jacobsen: I was also going to ask you about that particular case, but we can set it aside. Let’s get more specific. Outside of the national or federal level, are any U.S. states significantly better at effectively punishing enablers or enforcing deterrence? Do enablers in certain jurisdictions know there will be consequences?

Guiora: No. No state has yet criminalized the enabler. This is new ground. We’ll see where it leads. A bill was introduced in Utah, but it did not succeed. I am currently in direct and indirect contact with legislators in four other states, exploring similar legislation. It is a process, and we will see where it goes.

Again, not to repeat myself, but this is what I do. The fact that there is more engagement on this issue—more willingness from legislators or their staff to have the conversation—is encouraging. It does not guarantee success, but it shows progress.

I respect the process. I understand it. Before I went to law school, I worked for two years in the U.S. Congress as a representative from Michigan, so I know how legislation works. Still, because I focus on victims, I believe this is the best use of my time—modest though it may be.

Jacobsen: What are the counterarguments you regularly face when making the case for punitive legislation against enablers?

Guiora: The typical legal objections focus on proving intent and knowledge. That is, distinguishing between a crime of omission and commission. The question is: How do you prove that someone knew? How do you prove they intended to shield the perpetrator?

These are classic prosecutorial challenges. Five main objections are also commonly raised against bystander legislation—although we’ve made some progress in overcoming those. However, the central objection to enabler legislation is always about proof of knowledge and intent.

Take, for example, the case of Jeremy Bell—a young boy who was killed. I wrote a book and an article about that case. The detective who broke it was extraordinary. He entrusted me with 15,000 pages of documents.

My research assistant at the time worked through all of it and developed an appendix with detailed flowcharts. We could demonstrate, step by step, exactly when the enablers knew. That kind of documentation helps overcome the “lack of knowledge” defence.

But make no mistake—15,000 pages is a massive undertaking. Turning that into charts, timelines, and legal diagrams requires time, people, and resources. I am so profoundly grateful to the students who have worked with me. It is a big project, but it is essential.

Jacobsen: Is there a strange feedback loop in which perpetrators might defend their enablers to reduce their culpability—or at least weaken the case’s legitimacy overall?

Guiora: In the sense that the perpetrator might say, “They knew and did nothing”? Yes, that’s possible. But no, I have not personally seen perpetrators trying to defend enablers as a way of downplaying their guilt. That may exist, but it has not come up in the cases I have worked on.

I am not saying it does not happen; I have not seen it personally. So, I am not saying no; I have not heard it. You also rightly noticed that we have used the word enablers in the plural far more than the singular during this conversation.

Jacobsen: That is right. So, apart from a perpetrator protecting an enabler, do enablers protect one another?

Guiora: If Detective Barber—the man who broke the Jeremy Bell case—were here, he would tell you yes—one hundred percent. He would say they are part of the same club. But, to put on my legal hat for a moment—if I cannot prove it, I cannot prove it.

Mr. Barber, who worked on the case for three years and broke it after local law enforcement had covered it up, has said clearly that enablers protect one another. They are part of the same professional or institutional milieu, the same scheme, if you will.

In The Crime of Complicity, I wrote that this was Mr. Barber’s view. While I cannot independently prove it, I included it in the book to reflect his perspective. Readers need to understand that this view is grounded in deep investigative experience.

Jacobsen: When enablers get a whiff of potential punishment, do they ever quit or try to disappear?

Guiora: Yes—but here is the point: no enabler has ever been punished. So yes, you’re right—that instinct to flee or vanish may be real, but we have no legal or judicial structure to test it. That is the core of this entire effort: to change that paradigm.

Jacobsen: If you were to set a realistic timeline—under decent circumstances—how long until such legislation passes in at least one state, county, province, or territory?

Guiora: Where are we now, 2025? I want to think next year.

Jacobsen: If people begin pursuing the broader circle around the perpetrator—those enabling or shielding them—is there a risk that those same enablers will retaliate by attacking the victim or isolating the survivor’s support system?

Guiora: Absolutely. That dynamic is very real.

Let me give you a concrete example. I just finished a book about the enablers of Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. I do not know how closely you follow current events, but as of now, 59 hostages are being held in Gaza. Of those, 24 are believed to be still alive.

Netanyahu, in my view, has no interest in pursuing a ceasefire or an agreement with Hamas—because doing so would require releasing those hostages. His enablers—those around him—protect him from the political consequences of not securing their release. As a result, they are complicit.

They are enabling the continued captivity of those hostages. From my perspective, they have blood on their hands. That is the central theme of the book. And yes, I am involved in the protest movement. I attend demonstrations regularly. I am active. Have the police harassed me? Yes. Have Netanyahu supporters harassed me? Yes. Have I been named in social media campaigns? Absolutely.

At a recent demonstration in Haifa, one of the speakers even mentioned me by name. But again, I stay focused because the priority is the hostages. Your question is timely. When you go after enablers, especially those who protect influential individuals, there is always a risk of backlash. But that does not change the need to hold them accountable. In Israel, I am calling for legislation that would criminally prosecute those enablers—just as I am doing in the United States.

For me, there is a direct and unmistakable link between the Holocaust, the hostages, and the enablers. One hundred percent. That connection is central to my work. And part of that is this project—criminalizing enablers—whether in one of the three core paradigms we’ve discussed (faith, sport, education) or now, even more urgently, in national and political contexts like Israel. I am serious about this. I start my day at 3:30 or 4:00 a.m. This is what I do. It is an all-hands-on-deckeffort.

Jacobsen: Where does the media miss the boat?

Guiora: I would not say the media ‘misses the boat.’ I think the attention has historically focused on the perpetrator, and I understand why. That is what makes headlines. However, I am grateful that there is growing interest in the role of enablers.

I was recently featured on a podcast in Israel—actually, two: one major show in February or March and another just last week. I’m interviewed regularly here as well. I understand this is a process. I respect that.

Rome wasn’t built in a day. Mao had his long march. Gandhi had his. I get it. That’s why we created the Bystander Initiative. I’ve tapped into donors and raised money for this work. The media is part of that process. I do not know if “teaching” the press is correct, but I believe in engaging and working with them.

And I enjoy it. In addition to writing my articles and books, I genuinely enjoy talking to the media. It matters. Whether people agree with me or not is less important at my age. The point is to be heard, make the argument, and push the conversation forward.

Jacobsen: A typical dynamic in these systems is “power over”—where someone in a position of authority abuses someone of lesser power. Think of coach to gymnast, priest to parishioner, rabbi to follower, etc. But are there situations where that dynamic is reversed—where the subordinate has control or influence, but the relationship still appears legitimate?

Guiora: Yes, absolutely, I understand what you’re asking.

In the cases I have worked on, survivors were often directed to people like Larry Nassar. They were told to go to him. Sometimes, they even wanted to go to him because he was loved. That’s an important point to remember. Larry Nassar was trusted and beloved by many.

Take Dr. Robert Anderson at the University of Michigan. He sexually assaulted somewhere between 5,000 to 6,000 student-athletes. If you were a football player at Michigan, you had to go through Anderson. There was no choice. You weren’t invited—you were instructed.

The same goes for Dr. Richard Strauss at Ohio State. You had to go through Strauss to wrestle or swim competitively. That’s just how it was. Was there a power dynamic? Yes. And even among the football players, there was an expression among the football players at the University of Michigan. There was a saying: “If you’re in the tub, you’re not in the club.”

It meant that if you were in physical therapy, you were off the field—and everyone wanted to be on the field. These were guys who dreamed of going to the NFL. But to play on Saturday, you had to be cleared as healthy. And to be removed, you had to see Dr. Anderson. And if Anderson touched you inappropriately—grabbed you this way or that way—that was just the cost. It wasn’t perfect. Larry Nassar? Maddie Larson said he sexually violated her 750 times. That is not a typo. That is reality.

Jacobsen: I worked at a horse farm for 27 months as part of another project. Seven days a week—shovelling horse manure, scrubbing stall fronts, filling water buckets, breaking ice in the Canadian winter, feeding hay—Timothy, alfalfa, or local hay, depending on each horse’s digestion. Driving tractors, landscaping, gardening. It was a great experience. I interviewed many people—up to and including two members of Team Canada in show jumping.

Out of that came a book project involving extended conversations with equestrians. One relevant thing I learned is that the show-jumping community implemented a program called SafeSport.

Guiora: Yes, absolutely—SafeSport.

Jacobsen: Is SafeSport effective?

Guiora: I have interacted with SafeSport. Anything that pushes this issue out into the public sphere is essential. Effectiveness can be measured in different ways—short-term and long-term, by who is impacted and who is not. But I want to give a shout-out to SafeSport for elevating the conversation.

They deserve credit. They’ve had me participate in some of their sessions or internal engagements—I do not recall all the specifics—but I’ve been involved. This work is essential.

Jacobsen: Could similar programs be applied outside of sports—perhaps in education, faith settings, or elsewhere—as complementary measures?

Guiora: As part of a broader public awareness effort? Absolutely. But not as a replacement for legislation. That is the key. Programs like SafeSport are complementary, not substitutes. SafeSport is an excellent example of a helpful model, but it cannot stand alone. It must be accompanied by legal mechanisms that hold people accountable.

Jacobsen: Let’s go back to legislation. Hypothetically, what would be an example of going too far? In other words, what kind of law would be inappropriately punitive to these crimes?

Guiora: Great question. I believe the line would be crossed if a prosecutor—using discretion—brought charges against someone who did not know.

That would be casting the net too broadly. It would not be, and the courts would view that with disfavour. It would also risk negative, unintended consequences—like chilling legitimate professional behaviour or overburdening the justice system.

We must be precise. Look at the article we published on the Jeremy Bell case—we carefully delineated exactly who knew what and when. That specificity matters.

Jacobsen: Would such prosecutorial overreach happen often—or would it be rare?

Guiora: It is scarce. And again, that is where prosecutorial discretion becomes critical.

The prosecutor ultimately decides once legislation exists and a case is brought forward. I completely respect that role. It is essential.

Guiora: I was a prosecutor in a former life. So I’ll tell you this: if you have the legislation, and if I, as a prosecutor, can show knowledge, intent, mens rea—all of it—then there’s no reason not to go forward with prosecution.

But go back to what I told you earlier. In X years, you’ll have this conversation with someone else, and nothing will have changed.

And in the meantime, there will be countless additional victims—entirely preventable. That’s why I’ve been accused of being “victim-centric.” I can live with that.

Here’s how I see it: I am the only child of two Holocaust survivors. And now that I know what I know—if I weren’t doing this, I would be nothing more than a bystander. An enabler. And that’s not going to work. That does not sit right with me.

This is not about me. But I also can not be involved. Every time someone reaches out to me—and it happens a lot—they get my full, undivided attention. That’s the reason.

Jacobsen: It may not be about you, but every aperture has a narrative source. Let me ask: where is prosecutorial discretion typically the most difficult to parse?

Guiora: Knowledge. Without question. And prosecutors—look, I get it. I’ve been one. The decision involves more than just the facts. It’s about time, resources, and cost-benefit analysis. Can you win the case?

I’ve met with prosecutors and spoken with them at length and understand their thinking. I used to think that way myself. But again, it comes down to whether you can establish knowledge and intent. The Bell case is a classic example. But that kind of framework can also be built in other cases—just as rigorously.

Jacobsen: “Armies of Enablers”—tell me about the title.

Guiora: Lindsey Lemke, the women’s gymnastics team captain at Michigan State University, coined the term “armies.” I kept using the word “army”—singular—and she got frustrated. She said, “Jesus, it’s armies. How fucking stupid are you?”

And she was right. Everywhere she turned, someone was protecting Nassar. Everyone fell in line with the coach, trainer, administrator—tuck, tuck. That’s how I came to view it: the book’s title, Armies of Enablers, honours Lindsey. From the victims’ perspective, it was never one person. It was always plural. Always an army.

Jacobsen: For prosecutors, that’s a high bar.

Guiora: Sure, and I get that. However, my focus remains squarely on the present victim and preventing future victims. And just so it’s clear—though I know I’ve said this fourteen times—the Holocaust plays a foundational role in my understanding of all this. I know what happens when society chooses not to act.

Jacobsen: People engaged in this work often face an emotional and moral toll. Does that happen to you?

Guiora: No. Honestly, no. I feel fortunate to be involved in this work. I don’t experience it as a toll. When I’m done for the day, I will watch the NBA and have dinner. That’s it.

Jacobsen: [Laughing] That’s good. Let’s do that. Final question—do you have a favourite quote?

Guiora: It isn’t very easy. My favourite quote is a play on a quote from a complicated person. But for this conversation?

All hands on deck. There you have it.

Jacobsen: There you go. Thanks for joining me.

Guiora: Thank you for having me. That was fun.

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