Historical Antisemitism, Populism & Modern Jewish Identity

Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen

Publication (Outlet/Website): The Good Men Project

Publication Date (yyyy/mm/dd): 2025/05/13

Dr. Weixelbaum, a historian, writer, filmmaker, and organizer, explains his background and his work on the dramatized film “A Nazi on Wall Street,” which follows a Jewish FBI agent investigating Nazi espionage during World War II. He outlines two academic approaches to antisemitism: one that views it as a persistent, centuries-old prejudice and another as a dynamic, evolving phenomenon shaped by historical and cultural contexts. The conversation examines how conspiracy theories—from The Protocols of the Elders of Zion to modern references involving Henry Ford, George Soros, and Elon Musk—fuel anti-Semitic sentiments. They also explore populist rhetoric’s role in designating “the enemy” and discuss how terms like “self-hating Jew” are used to cancel critical viewpoints. Additionally, the speaker considers generational shifts in Jewish identity, respectability politics, and the importance of solidarity, critical thinking, humour, and hope in countering hate. Both maintain a scholarly tone and stress the need for historical understanding and evidence-based analysis to address and overcome contemporary hate and division. Their conversation comprehensively examines hate, accountability, and the power of informed discourse.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: Today, we’re here with Dr. Jason Weixelbaum. He is a writer, producer, musician, and organizer. He grew up in Los Angeles in a family involved in the entertainment industry. After witnessing ethical failures in the mortgage securities sector, he pursued a Ph.D. in history, focusing on American corporate involvement with Nazi Germany. In May 2020, following the passing of his father, he founded Elusive Films to bring critical historical narratives to the screen—most notably developing, as previously discussed, A Nazi on Wall Street.

I’ve encountered—not a wide range, but—a variety of orientations regarding the definition of antisemitism. That is likely a more accurate way to phrase it. Definitions tend to be relatively consistent when experts are asked directly. However, what I have found more distinctive is the framing or philosophical orientation behind these definitions.

One common approach is to treat antisemitism as a persistent phenomenon—something that has manifested over many centuries. Another sees it as dynamic and evolving, suggesting that any fixed or narrowly defined concept of antisemitism is inherently limited due to its historical and cultural fluidity.

So, how do you approach antisemitism in an academic context, and how do you define it—if you believe a precise definition is even appropriate, whether complex or simple?

Dr. Jason Weixelbaum: That’s a great question. And, as with any meaningful inquiry, I stand on the shoulders of giants—many brilliant scholars have written extensively on the subject. As I glance at my working library next to my desk, I see works by Hannah Arendt, Elie Wiesel, Deborah Lipstadt, and many others.

My understanding probably lies somewhere between the two orientations you mentioned. Scholars often refer to antisemitism as the oldest form of hatred or prejudice. It has existed in various forms for over two millennia. And, like all historical phenomena, it evolves. The manifestations of antisemitism during the Holocaust, for instance, are different in character and form from how it appears today.

Contemporary scholars tend to explore what aspects of antisemitism have remained consistent and what has changed over time. Today, of course, we are navigating a very complex and painful moment, particularly with the ongoing Israel–Hamas conflict that has ignited a significant global rise in anti-Semitic rhetoric and violence. At the same time, it is a humanitarian crisis for Palestinians as well. The broader geopolitical situation is tragic and fraught.

For my work, I find it somewhat more straightforward to focus on World War II and the Holocaust, where antisemitism was systemic, codified, and genocidal. It was ideologically explicit and institutionally enforced, which makes it somewhat easier to analyze historically.

It’s also worth noting that, in the United States, during my father’s childhood—which would have been in the 1940s and 1950s—it was still legal for universities and private institutions to practice discriminatory admissions policies against Jews. Quotas limiting Jewish enrollment at prestigious schools like Harvard, Yale, and Princeton, among others, were only formally dismantled in the following decades. That is not ancient history; it was within living memory.

As Faulkner once wrote: “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”

We could spend much more time discussing antisemitism. Still, I want to underscore one key motivation behind A Nazi on Wall Street. I chose not to make it a documentary but rather a dramatized narrative with a strong human perspective so viewers can engage emotionally and personally.

At the story’s center is a Jewish character—an FBI agent. Historically, there were very few Jewish agents in the FBI during the early 1940s. This character is based on real individuals and is intended to bring visibility to a Jewish protagonist in a position of moral and civic leadership during a time when Jews were often portrayed as victims or outsiders.

He happened to be an authority on organized crime—specifically on prosecuting the mob. So, he had some clout, and he was tasked with tracking down a Nazi spy. That creates a fascinating dynamic.

Amazingly, this is a true story. I constantly have to pinch myself, and I remain surprised that no one else has tried to tell this story yet. So yes, it was important to me.

Although the character at the center of the story may harbour doubts—about his faith, his country, or even about democracy—this is, after all, a film noir true crime story. In such stories, all of those foundational ideals are under threat. Our protagonist—who may or may not be a traditional “hero”—must confront his values to make it to the other side. I try to draw as much from historical material as possible. However, I dramatize and fill in certain blanks regarding that specific character.

But anyway, I digress.

Jacobsen: Regarding the contemporary roots of antisemitism, how would you frame a feasible explanation or description, particularly across the 20th century and into the present, beginning with the early 2000s through 2025? Where do you locate the manifestations we are seeing today?

Weixelbaum: Yes. As I mentioned in our earlier conversation, one of the reasons I am particularly attuned to the dangers of populism is the phenomenon of the politics of outrage. This political framework is constantly constructed as “the people versus a vague elite.” The targets of this outrage shift over time. Still, the underlying mechanism is the same: a group of anxious and fearful individuals looking for enemies—people to blame, dominate, and feel powerful in the face of their insecurities.

The truly frightening aspect of populism is that the identity of the so-called “enemy”—this amorphous, shadowy elite—eventually becomes associated with Jews. This is something you can observe repeatedly throughout history.

Modern antisemitism is deeply rooted in this populist mechanism. Many scholars may disagree with my perspective—and that is fine—but based on my reading of history and my scholarly work, I would argue that this dynamic unfolds as: it is “the people” versus “the rich,” “the people” versus “the bankers,” then “the people” versus “the politicians,” and eventually, “the Jews are behind it all.”

A widely accepted historical narrative is relevant here. There was immense political upheaval in the early 20th century, particularly in Russia during the lead-up to the revolution. The ruling elites in the Russian Empire—using “elite” here in a non-populist, descriptive sense—sought to suppress the Bolsheviks, Communists, and Socialists who were rising against them.

One of the tools they used was weaponized antisemitism. During this period, a document emerged called The Protocols of the Elders of Zion. It is a fabricated text that falsely claims a secret cabal of Jews is conspiring to control the world’s governments, financial systems, and societies for their benefit and amusement. It is, in essence, a conspiracy theory steeped in bigotry and hatred.

The problem arises when this toxic narrative intersects with people of wealth or influence who are uneducated or highly susceptible to conspiracy thinking. One prime historical example is Henry Ford. Ford, a self-made industrialist, was enormously wealthy and powerful. Still, he lacked a formal education and became one of the most prominent purveyors of anti-Semitic conspiracy theories in the United States. He funded the distribution of The Protocols of the Elders of Zion. He published anti-Semitic content in his newspaper, The Dearborn Independent, which had a significant impact on public opinion in the 1920s and beyond.

This pattern—the confluence of fear, populist rhetoric, conspiracy theory, and power—remains a central mechanism for understanding the persistence of antisemitism in the modern era. The people around Henry Ford played a significant role in shaping his worldview. In particular, he had a German secretary in the United States who introduced him to The Protocols of the Elders of Zion. And, of course, populist rhetoric always offers a simple answer to complex global problems—“obviously, it’s the Jews.”

Ford embraced this narrative. And because he possessed immense wealth and influence, he amplified the reach of the Protocols in a way that might never have occurred otherwise.

Some argue with my interpretation, but history unfolded as it did. Unfortunately, this kind of conspiracy can take on a life of its own. Even in the pre-internet era—during the age of newspapers and radio—it spread explosively.

As the old saying goes, “A lie can travel halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on.” And here we are. The myth of a secret Jewish cabal remains a potent instrument of antisemitism. It has evolved, but its core remains the same.

Today, instead of invoking the Protocols, many conspiracists use “George Soros” as a shorthand. Simply saying “Soros” is now enough to invoke the entire anti-Semitic trope for some—recasting the old narrative in modern terms.

Jacobsen: My take on cabals is similar to that of Pete Holmes—the comedian. He once made a great point about Conan. He said that whenever someone starts talking about “realms” in fantasy stories, he immediately checks them out.

Similarly, whenever someone starts talking seriously about “cabals,” for me, it’s usually a sign that a conspiracy theory has taken them. 

Weixelbaum: This kind of medieval, fantastical language. 

Jacobsen: It’s fascinating how language reveals the underlying framework of someone’s worldview. Certain ideas and biases attach themselves to specific vocabulary—often without the speaker realizing it.

I did an interview earlier today with a well-known gospel group. They’ve been performing for decades, and their father was famous before them. One thing that stood out was the concreteness of the Southern language. To a Canadian ear—particularly mine, from a small town in British Columbia—it’s striking. Maybe less so for someone from Alberta. But for me, it’s vivid and tactile: “tin can,” “brick house,” “wood fireplace,” “stove.” The language feels like what it’s describing.

So yes, when people use the word “cabal,” it sounds medieval—just like “realm” does. And I’ve realized that this language can be an early warning sign. It can raise my radar.

Weixelbaum: And for someone like you—with a heightened sensitivity to language and how people express themselves—I’m sure it resonates even more deeply.

Jacobsen: Sure, yes. It’s like the difference between “New Yawk” and “Noo Joisey”—subtle but distinct.

Weixelbaum: In A Nazi on Wall Street, the main character is from New Jersey, but he ends up running the New York office. Is there tension there? Perhaps.

Jacobsen: But please, continue with your thoughts on the concept of a “cabal.”

Weixelbaum: Yes, absolutely—it’s become a buzzword. Any time you can pack a multitude of complex ideas into a single word, it becomes a powerful rhetorical device, and antisemitism is no exception. These narratives travel well.

They spread virally, and they are then amplified by individuals who are eager to do so. Again, Henry Ford comes to mind. So does Father Charles Coughlin, who was essentially the Rush Limbaugh of his era—a populist radio host in the 1930s who reached tens of millions of listeners.

Antisemitism always could spread widely and quickly. The sad part is that today’s social media platforms are even more potent for disseminating these ideas. I am unsure how much we need to review the history again—Gamergate, the rise of Trumpism, 4chan, and the Groypers. All of it has entered the mainstream to the point where someone like Elon Musk feels comfortable amplifying conspiratorial or white nationalist rhetoric and even reportedly appearing in photos making gestures that have been interpreted as Nazi salutes.

So, that is where we are.

It is terrifying to be a Jewish person in this environment. It is deeply unsettling to see anti-Semitic ideas gaining traction both on the populist right and, increasingly, on the populist left. It’s not a great feeling.

As an American Jew, I feel confident saying that the vast majority of us are uncomfortable with the current leadership in Israel and with the war. Many of us are also troubled by how this conflict has created cover for anti-Semitic rhetoric, even within movements that are grounded in legitimate concerns—such as the Free Palestine movement.

The Free Palestine movement certainly raises important, valid arguments. Absolutely. But then we see right-wing figures wearing keffiyehs and joining protests—not out of solidarity with Palestinians but as a means of co-opting the message to promote anti-Jewish sentiment. That is extremely disturbing.

I have seen it online, too: white Christian nationalists—bad actors—aligning themselves with a movement that, on the surface, appears left-wing but which they are instrumentalizing for their hateful agendas. It is not a good time. Not for anyone.

And so, again, I feel morally obligated, as a member of the Jewish community, to tell a positive Jewish story. One is about an American FBI agent trying to stop Nazism—trying to defend democracy. He is not perfect. He is deeply uncertain whether democracy in America can endure, especially given the extent of public support for authoritarianism in the 1930s.

The “America First” movement, which we still hear about today, has its historical roots in that era. And there was a lot of debate and disagreement within the Jewish community at that time. How should we respond to Nazism? Should we fight back? Did we fight back enough?

I think about books like I Cannot Forgive by Rudolf Vrba and Legends of Our Time by Elie Wiesel. These are complex, painful reflections on Jews—then and now.

What we are facing today is overwhelming. It can be isolating.

And, of course, that isolation is precisely what anti-Semites want to see. So, it is essential that even if our voices shake, we speak out. When we talk about solidarity, it is not conditional. We do not get to decide that one group is excluded.

If we are serious about solidarity, we must advocate for Jewish people, Palestinians, and everyone in between.

Jacobsen: Group psychology can offer a helpful framework when analyzing sociopolitical dynamics.

On the far right, we often see overt forms of anti-Semitic language—explicit imagery, dog whistles, innuendo—especially on platforms like 4chan and 8chan. Things like placing names in triple parentheses, referring to “the bankers” or “the elite” as veiled stand-ins for Jews, and so forth.

When called out, these individuals often frame themselves as victims—part of some imagined, persecuted group—within a larger conspiratorial narrative, just as you mentioned earlier.

On the political left, the dynamic is different. It’s less about outright denialism and more about obfuscation or misrepresenting context. I do not know if this comes from the fact that left-leaning discourse often emerges from academic circles, where there’s a higher literacy rate. Thus, the language must be more nuanced or sophisticated to justify certain positions.

That is what I see, or at least what interview experts share with me. How do you see these things being framed today? Do you note any historical parallels in how groups on the right and the left engage with these ideas? Is there anything relevant that contributes to this line of inquiry?

Weixelbaum: Yes, I agree with your observations. On the right is this “wink and nod” approach—the classic schoolyard bully behaviour of “I’m not touching you” while causing harm. It’s a way of bullying while pretending not to, and it is very much intentional.

On the left, the issue is often buried in rhetoric. I have been disappointed by parts of the academic community. It has felt isolating as a scholar to watch post-colonial research and discourse get twisted into an older, more insidious form of discrimination.

You can criticize the Israeli government, of course. But suppose you are making the argument that Israel should not exist. In that case, you are—knowingly or not—making an argument for ethnic cleansing.

No matter how much Frantz Fanon you cite, the core of the argument becomes apparent when you ask a person plainly: “What is your plan for removing all the people who currently live there?” And, “What if they do not want to leave?”

At that point, every single time, the response is obfuscation. As you said—it’s a pivot to rhetoric, a shift to some vague ideological talking point that avoids addressing the practical, moral implications of the argument. If you are advocating for ethnic cleansing, at least own it.

On the right, it is less about obfuscation and more about trolling. Unfortunately, this tactic also has a long history.

Let me give you a historical example. In the late Weimar Republic—after the temporary ban on the Nazi Party was lifted in the late 1920s—the Nazis entered parliament alongside other parties. But when sessions were gaveled into order, the Nazis would often all stand up in unison, smile, and march out of the chamber.

Then, immediately afterward, they would hold a press conference and claim that the government was paralyzed. “See?” they would say. “This is why democracy doesn’t work. This is why we need more power.” They were the ones who deliberately paralyzed the system and then used that dysfunction as propaganda against democracy itself.

Jacobsen: How are global responses failing—from local institutions to international frameworks—in addressing the rise of antisemitism? For instance, there have been dramatic spikes in anti-Semitic incidents in places like New England. It is harder to tell in some regions because the hatred has always been virulent. In others, antisemitism remains low, likely due to a lack of historical traction.

Weixelbaum: It is incredibly disappointing, upsetting, and alienating to watch people conflate eliminationist views toward Israel with broader post-colonial liberation struggles.

This has been especially painful to witness within specific segments of the Black American community. It created real tensions during the 2020 election. Many people wanted to support Kamala Harris—a woman of colour—and Black Americans, who are the base of the Democratic Party.

But a vocal minority also framed the anti-Israel movement as inherently aligned with the Black struggle. Public intellectuals like Ta-Nehisi Coates, for example, have drawn such connections. While those arguments are often made in good faith, the implications can be problematic when they collapse in nuance.

We also see something structurally similar in Ireland: the argument that Ireland’s historical struggle for independence from British rule mirrors the Palestinian cause. And that, somehow, this justifies advocating for the nonexistence of Israel. That kind of framing is alarming.

Unfortunately, antisemitism spreads virally across borders and cultures. What we are seeing now echoes the rhetoric of the 1930s—“The Jewish question.” “What are we going to do about the Jews?” “No one wants them.”

I co-edited among a few others a book with some of my mentors called FDR and the Jews. It recounts an often-overlooked historical episode: the Évian Conference of 1938. President Roosevelt sponsored the conference to persuade other countries to accept Jewish refugees fleeing Nazi Germany.

Delegates from more than 30 nations attended—though I may be off slightly on the exact number; scholars, please do not crucify me for that. But what is essential to remember is this: almost no country agreed to take in Jewish refugees, not even the United States. Congress rejected the premise outright. The only country that volunteered to accept refugees was Cuba. That was it.

It was a heartbreaking spectacle. And the question we must ask ourselves now is: if something similar were to happen today—if Jewish refugees were once again seeking safety—would the international community respond any differently? The answer might be no. And that is a chilling thought.

Jacobsen: Let me pivot to something more reflective: among Gen Z Jewish kids, do they still anchor themselves in Holocaust memorialization the way older generations—say Boomers or even pre-Boomers—might have? Not necessarily in the “remember trauma” sense alone, but in the tradition of familial and communal remembrance—of using memory to contextualize the present and energize resistance to any resurgence of fascism or authoritarianism?

Or are they more like a Norwegian-American kid whose grandparents immigrated to Minnesota in the 1950s or 1990s, and within a generation, they no longer speak Norwegian, no longer know Danish, and identify as thoroughly American—disconnected from their ancestral past?

Weixelbaum: Yes. That’s a sore spot for me. I’m Gen X. And among my younger millennial colleagues and friends—and certainly among Gen Z—I’ve noticed a significant generational shift in how they view Israel and Jewish identity more broadly.

I am not particularly religious myself, but after Trump’s election in 2016—especially after Charlottesville—I felt the need to reconnect more intentionally with the Jewish community. It was the first time I joined a synagogue and started attending services more regularly—not just on the High Holy Days. I come from the Reform tradition—what we jokingly call the “bacon-eating Jews”—not particularly observant, but culturally and communally Jewish.

I still have my grandfather’s tallit, the prayer shawl he passed down to my father, and the prayer shawl my father passed on to me. Unsurprisingly, Jews often return to or become more involved with religious or cultural traditions as they age. That is not unique to Jews—it is a broader human pattern.

However, I have noticed that many younger Jews do not feel the same connection to Israel. Part of that may stem from growing up more secular and less rooted in religious tradition. If you go to a Shabbat service—even one happening right now on a Friday evening, just down the street from where I am—you cannot help but notice how deeply embedded the concept of Israel is in Jewish liturgy, memory, and culture.

Of course, there is a distinction between the modern political state of Israel—founded after World War II—and the idea of Israel in religious and cultural tradition. These are not identical concepts, and they sometimes overlap in contradictory ways.

But I do wonder—when I hear younger, often secular, assimilated American Jews saying things like “I’m an anti-Zionist Jew”—what does that mean in practice? How do you reconcile being observant, even loosely, with rejecting the very concept of Israel? It feels, to me, antithetical to the foundations of Jewish religious tradition.

And how much of this comes down to a lack of knowledge. Some of these individuals are highly assimilated and do not observe much. Then, some observe but seem to twist themselves into rhetorical pretzels to hold their views. The Jewish faith does allow space for questioning, argument, and reinterpretation. That’s one of the things I love most about Judaism—it embraces debate.

That’s what the Talmud is: rabbis writing in the margins, disagreeing with one another, sometimes even saying, “No, that’s wrong—here’s how I see it.” That’s why so many Jews became scholars and lawyers—it’s part of the intellectual tradition. It’s a stereotype, but like many stereotypes, there’s a grain of truth.

Still, I find it alienating and disturbing. I want to share some of them and say: “Hey—come listen. When you’re at a service, actually listen.” There are Jews who violently disagree with me on this, and I understand that. But it does not make it any less painful.

I’m probably ruffling feathers by saying this—but it’s my perspective. When everyone is standing in the synagogue with their hands covering their eyes, reciting the Shema—the literal opening words are “Shema Yisrael” or “Hear, O Israel.” Those are the first three words of one of Jewish tradition’s oldest and holiest prayers.

How can someone reject the idea of Israel entirely on the one hand while fully embracing Jewish faith and ritual on the other? Of course, people do—and that is their right. But I find it very difficult to reconcile. I struggle to understand that position.

Moving from the theological back into the political, what we see today—especially in populist movements—is a departure from rational, fact-based discourse. Populism thrives in an emotional world, not a logical one. Its primary engine is sustained outrage and the relentless manufacture of enemies.

Once the identity of “the enemy” is established, everything else—facts, policy, history—must be shaped to fit that narrative. That narrative must fuel resentment and elevate a hero figure or demagogue.

People may be upset with me for saying this, but what the right wing is doing now mirrors this dynamic exactly. One day, they were championing unregulated capitalism. The next day, they are saying things like: “It’s good that the stock market is down,” “Tariffs are good,” or “Economic collapse is good—we don’t need all these material possessions.” The logic shifts to fit the political moment and supports whomever the hero of the day happens to be.

That is where this all starts to intersect with Judaism again. It is painful. And yes, eventually, these movements tend to move on to some other shiny object to be angry about. They already are. But for now, Trumpism has captured and focused the energy of so many.

It is extraordinarily frustrating to witness this, and it is heartbreaking to grieve the loss of friends along the way—friends I’ve lost because of these deep, polarizing disagreements.

Jacobsen: So—here’s the question: Zionism, in the most generic sense, refers to support for the existence of a Jewish state. But even that broad definition opens up much complexity.

It does not imply a monolithic ethnostate of 100% Jewish heritage, culture, or ethnic background. That would be a naïve assumption, especially considering that last I checked, the third-largest political party in Israel was an Arab Palestinian party.

And then there’s Christian Zionism in the United States—people like Mike Huckabee who actively support the existence of Israel, often for theological reasons tied to end-times prophecy. Some in that camp go further, rejecting the two-state solution altogether and framing Jewish sovereignty in purely religious terms.

Weixelbaum: All right—wow. That’s a big question with three major parts. I’ll start with Christian nationalism because I have some family members on my spouse’s side who believe in it. And to be precise—it does not just frustrate me; it repulses me.

They deserve to know exactly how I feel. Christian Zionism, as promoted by many evangelicals, is directly tied to an apocalyptic fantasy in which Jews burn in hellfire unless and until they abandon their faith. That is the theological underpinning of their support for Israel. It is disgusting.

We should not sugarcoat it with all the flowery rhetoric they use. That’s what it is: a belief that conflict in Israel will trigger the apocalypse, leading to the Second Coming, during which Jews will either convert to Christianity or face eternal damnation. That is the basis of their so-called support for a Jewish state.

And it disturbs me deeply that so many right-wingers and members of the Republican Party back Israel for that reason. It is not welcome support. I reject it. It is grotesque—there is no other word for it.

Essentially, they believe that everything will eventually be OK—for them—if I, as a Jew, am tortured for eternity unless I admit I was “wrong” for being Jewish. No, thank you. They can take that and shove it. You can print that. Anyway, that’s the first part.

Part two—the Zionist extremists who reject a two-state solution—are also deeply problematic. Democracy cannot coexist with an ethno-nationalist project that excludes large swaths of people. Despite some criticisms from the left, inclusion must be fundamental. If you are going to govern democratically, you must include everyone. As you mentioned, one of the largest political parties in Israel is Arab. There are at least two million Arab citizens living in Israel. That fact is routinely ignored by anti-Israel critics.

Now, it is a thorny and complex issue. More must be done to expand democratic inclusion within Israel. It is undeniably challenging to do that when you are surrounded by groups and governments that openly call for your destruction.

Let us also not forget that Jews have been ethnically cleansed from many surrounding countries. Take Yemen, for example. There were once thousands of Jews there. Today, there are virtually none. That’s not just sad—it is alarming.

I believe firmly in a two-state solution, which has long been the internationally recognized path forward. However, I am frustrated by the failures of earlier generations that left this unresolved. I am incredibly frustrated by UNRWA’s role in perpetuating the problem. In many cases, it has helped foster environments in which anti-Israel forces can thrive unchecked.

And let’s be honest—Hamas tunnels were discovered underneath UNRWA facilities. That is not a minor issue. That is a profoundly problematic breach of humanitarian neutrality. Trying to spin that as a non-event is absurd.

The institutions enabling this cycle need to go extinct so we can get back to the hard but necessary work of building two states. That is the only path forward that honours the rights and lives of both Israelis and Palestinians.

And frankly, for the sake of the Jewish people, we must pursue this. Because, as we are seeing yet again, unresolved conflict brings the old spectre of antisemitism right back to life. And on a personal level, I would love to see that spectre buried once and for all. So—those are the first two. What was the third part again? Remind me.

Jacobsen: To recap the three threads, the first involves what a theologian described as “apocalyptic Christian Zionism”—the type Mike Huckabee endorses. It differs from more moderate forms of Christian Zionism in that it is rooted in eschatological fantasy. These believers view the reclamation—not only of the occupied Palestinian territories but of all surrounding lands, including current Israeli territory—as essential to triggering the Second Coming of Christ. In this narrative, the end of days arrives, and the Jewish people must either convert, recant their Judaism (whether Orthodox, Conservative, or otherwise), or suffer eternal damnation. That is their theological framework, and it is deeply troubling.

The second thread is the rejection of the two-state solution by some of these Christian Zionists, often aligned with far-right political actors in the United States. They oppose any diplomatic resolution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, favouring instead a maximalist, biblically justified annexationist vision. And yes, we would need several days to explore the complex history of the two-state framework—how it has been supported in theory and subverted in practice by different actors. However, since we focus on antisemitism, I will leave a deeper geopolitical analysis aside.

The third form is perhaps the most socially corrosive: a soft exclusion that emerges in progressive spaces in the West—particularly on college campuses. A clinical social worker and two clinical psychologists, all of Jewish heritage, recently raised this in a published group dialogue. They shared an example from Columbia University: a Jewish student, who may or may not have a strong stance on Israel, is asked to renounce support for Israel to join a gardening club. This is not a political debate but a condition for participation in basic student life.

It is that kind of gatekeeping—of requiring ideological alignment as a prerequisite for inclusion—that places young Jews, especially those just entering adulthood and university, in an impossible position. These students may not have sophisticated political views yet; they may be ethnically or culturally Jewish, but that alone becomes grounds for exclusion. That’s a deeply troubling trend. Of course, there are many other Zionisms—labour, political, cultural, revisionist, and post-Zionist—but the three we discuss here are the most socially visible and practically consequential today.

Weixelbaum: Yes—exactly. Why do they not just say, “No Jews allowed”? That is the subtext of so much of this. Come on. That’s what is so frustrating.

And, yes, say what you will about the tenets of national socialism—but at least it was overt about its ethos. (That’s a Big Lebowski quote, by the way, but also relevant.) What we see now, especially from the far left, is obfuscation. There’s this constant effort to bury the message under euphemisms. “We’re not anti-Jewish—we’re just anti-Israel.” But then I want to stop them and ask, “Wait—are you saying I cannot join your club or be part of your space simply because I believe the State of Israel, born in the aftermath of the Holocaust and surrounded by hostile neighbours who have repeatedly sought its destruction, has a right to exist?”

That is the prerequisite for my exclusion?

I want to quiz them. I want to ask, “What do you know about Judaism? Can you recite the Shema prayer’s first three words—one of our tradition’s most sacred prayers?” What are those first three words?

Shema Yisrael—“Hear, O Israel.”

Jacobsen: Also, gold star for the most Jewish word I’ve heard this year: Shema.

Weixelbaum: The Shema—that’s right. And for me, the level of obfuscation I hear from some people when discussing Israel and Judaism tells me they fundamentally do not understand Judaism at all. Judaism and the concept of Israel are deeply interconnected—religiously, historically, and culturally.

Some of the rhetoric today veers into outright historical revisionism. You hear people claim, absurdly, that Jews are not native to the land of Israel. But we know that’s false. The oldest Jewish cemetery in Jerusalem, on the Mount of Olives, contains graves that are thousands of years old. You can visit them. It is not theoretical—it’s a literal place. This is not a people who “sprang into existence in 1949.” Jewish presence in the region spans millennia.

If you applied that same revisionist logic to any other group—say, Indigenous nations in North America—and told them, “Sorry, your connection to this land is invalid,” or “Your nation should not exist,” it would be rightly recognized as ridiculous, even comically racist. But somehow, when it comes to Jews, there’s an asterisk. There’s always an exception. And that isn’t comforting.

When the solidarity movement on the left starts drawing ideological lines where Jews are excluded or uniquely scrutinized, then we are no longer talking about leftism. We are talking about populism. And that’s the problem.

For the cheap seats, let me say it clearly: populism is very good at co-opting social justice rhetoric. But its core mechanism is always the same—identifying and destroying enemies. Once Jews are designated as that enemy, populist movements will twist, adapt, and steal whatever rhetoric suits the moment. The outcome is always the same: destruction.

If I may digress for a moment—because this is personal and painful—let me tell you what leftism means.

Leftism means public health. It means people who do not spend their time posting memes on social media but are instead in hospitals, schools, and nonprofits trying to find real solutions to improve people’s lives. I work with those people every day.

Many of them have lost their jobs for the so-called “crime” of trying to protect others—people doing their best to keep communities safe and healthy. That is solidarity, and I respect that kind of moral seriousness.

It is not about saying, “This group gets extra privilege” or “That group should be excluded.” It is not about playing oppression Olympics or creating racial hierarchies. It is about making sure we do our best for everyone. We try, we fail, and we try again.

We must think carefully about the terms we use, the ideas we promote, and how they affect real people. That is what solidarity looks like: not spending all your time online finding enemies to destroy or dunking on people for clout.

That is not leftism, as far as I’m concerned.

Jacobsen: How do you build this into your writing?

Weixelbaum: Ah, great question. As a science writer, especially before the previous administration, I found it relatively easy to advocate for public health. It was meaningful work—you could go to sleep at night knowing you were helping highlight the critical efforts of hardworking scientists, often those behind the scenes, doing the essential work that now—only now, in their absence—people finally seem to recognize and care about.

My experience in public health informs a great deal of my political writing. I have written for Democratic campaigns and nonprofit initiatives, and I’ve always believed in advocating for the public good. That is an area where you can generate real buy-in. If we drill down into ideology, yes—it is often a left-wing concept, the idea of “the commons”—that solidarity has no boundaries and everyone deserves access to shared public goods.

And you know what? Even conservatives—especially in regions like rural Pennsylvania—often care about public parks, clean air, open space, and wildlife preservation. Those are shared values. I worked on a voter guide during the 2020 election. I was told that it reached over 300,000 unique voters in Pennsylvania alone. I used that kind of framing to create common ground.

That matters. That is how we can move people. We need more of that. We need to de-radicalize this culture and walk people back from the ledge. It cannot always be about what we are against—about what we hate. I know it is frustrating, and I am ranting now.

Jacobsen: We also saw similar political undercurrents and troubling spikes in Europe. Take Germany, for example—the rise of the AfD (Alternative für Deutschland) marks a sharp uptick in populist rhetoric and far-right sentiment within a previously more reasoned political environment. In the United States, antisemitism has manifested across nearly every sector of society. Every demographic and every political bloc has seen some level of it—there is no clear partisan divide.

Here in Canada, looking at the most recent census data and hate crime statistics, the majority of reported hate crimes are anti-Semitic. That is followed at some distance by Islamophobic or anti-Muslim crimes, and then anti-Catholic ones—which surprises some people but makes demographic sense given that roughly 40% of Canada identifies as Catholic.

What I have not seen as much attention paid to, however, is the experience of atheists, agnostics, and humanists. In Canada and the U.S., I do not believe the state data fully reflects the animus many from those communities report. However, early-stage studies suggest that non-religious individuals face widespread hostility. In the U.S., the hatred directed at secular people appears to be tri-partisan—coming from Republicans, Democrats, and Independents alike. I am unsure how the Green or Libertarian parties factor into that, but the trend is worrying.

That’s more of a side comment. But to bring us back on track: in Europe today, what are you observing regarding the current manifestations of antisemitism? How would you compare that to what we see in the United States? After that, maybe we can touch on other regions as well.

Weixelbaum: Germany is understandably the most frightening case because of its historical legacy. I was relieved to see recent electoral results in which the AfD (Alternative für Deutschland) lost ground, and cooler heads prevailed. But still, the echoes of the 1930s and the viral spread of far-right populist movements globally are alarming.

And not to sound like a broken record, these movements often emerge from a profound anxiety—a deep sense of unease about one’s place in the world. This is something that has been studied extensively. Everyone always wants to know: how did the Nazis come to power? What led an advanced society, filled with culture and learning, into such darkness?

When I taught courses on the Holocaust and Nazi Germany—both to undergraduates and graduate students—the book I consistently used was The Nazi Seizure of Power by William Sheridan Allen. Despite the generic-sounding title, it is an incredibly insightful text. It focuses on a medium-sized town—not a major city, but a large town—in Germany between the late 1920s and a year or two after the Nazis took power.

The value of the book is that it dives into the local dynamics. Who became a Nazi? Who resisted? What patterns emerged? And some of the answers are surprising. While many supporters did come from the working class and those devastated by the Great Depression, some of the most ardent Nazi loyalists were middle-class citizens—people who still had something to lose. It was precisely their sense of vulnerability, their fear of downward mobility that made them susceptible.

They had a measure of comfort and stability but were plagued by fears of losing it—about their status, identity, and place in a rapidly changing world. Those are the same underlying dynamics fueling far-right movements today. It is not always the most downtrodden who turn to extremism. Often, it is the anxious middle class.

We live through intense and accelerating change—culturally, politically, economically, and scientifically. With the advent of instant communication and real-time information, the velocity of change feels overwhelming. The only constant in history is change, which now feels turbocharged.

So it’s not surprising that amid this paradigm shift—this moment when new world order is forming—right-wing populist movements are surging. And to be fair, populism is not exclusive to the right. Left-wing populism can also emerge from the same base of anxiety. The language may differ. The targets may vary. But the emotional mechanism is strikingly similar.

What is perhaps most unsettling—and this goes back to Allen’s book—is the role of the so-called “respectable people.” These were well-educated individuals, people from liberal or centrist traditions, who you would expect to resist extremism. But they became true believers. That’s always the danger.

It reminds me of the darkly humorous line: “I voted for the leopard-eating-face party, but I didn’t think they’d eat my face.” And now, in America, we’re watching people panic as their stock portfolios suffer under the chaos they helped usher in.

At the core of all this is status fear. It is not about poverty—it is about fear of falling. That is what fuels so much of today’s radicalism.

Jacobsen: How do you see Reform Jewish communities responding to this rise in antisemitism? We can also talk about Conservative and Orthodox communities. Still, I understand your personal experience and commitments might be more grounded in the Reform tradition.

Weixelbaum: That’s a thorny one. The Anti-Defamation League (ADL) is one of the oldest and most visible Jewish organizations in the United States. They’ve been around for a long time and are often seen speaking for the broader Jewish community. But I want to be precise—I can not speak for the Reform Jewish community. As the saying goes, “Two Jews, three opinions,” right?

That said, there is a bifurcation happening. The ADL appears to be increasingly aligned with the political right in the United States, at least in terms of what they excuse or remain silent about. For example, I believe they downplayed Elon Musk’s very public gesture, which many interpreted as a Nazi salute. Unless I hallucinated that, they publicly suggested it was not a Nazi salute. Did that happen? Because if so, that’s extraordinarily disturbing.

Who exactly are they protecting in that scenario? It certainly is not the majority of American Jews—most of whom are deeply unsettled by the sharp rise in anti-Semitic rhetoric, attacks, and threats.

As a Holocaust scholar, I find all of this more than worrisome. I see patterns repeating. And it is paralyzing. Many of us are shocked, frozen, watching this unfold. I cannot help but think of relatives a couple of generations back—Jews living in Germany in the early 1930s, after the Nazis rose to power. What were their conversations like around the dinner table?

“What do we do?” “Do we stay? We have jobs. We have family here.” “But if we leave, where do we go?” “Is anywhere else safer?” Those same conversations—impossible calculations—are happening again around modern dinner tables. That I can tell you with confidence. And the terrifying part is that no one knows where it leads. All we know is that we are in a worsening crisis that feels familiar and unprecedented.

So yes, the Reform community has a wide range of reactions and disturbances. When I attend synagogue, almost every sermon includes some reflection on the rise of antisemitism, the sense of isolation, and the complexity of the moment—especially in light of the Israel-Gaza conflict. Many are leaning deeper into their Jewish communities for support. But even those spaces can feel isolating, particularly when everything gets tangled up in the geopolitics of the Middle East.

As for consensus? I do not think there is one yet. What we can say—based on voting patterns—is that the vast majority of American Jews supported the Democratic candidate in the last election, mainly because they hoped it would reduce the threat of antisemitism and far-right extremism. But then we hear rhetoric from Trump claiming that Jews who support Democrats “aren’t real Jews.” That isn’t comforting.

As one of my mentors joked—thank you, Dr. Lichtman—“Ah yes, noted rabbinical scholar Donald Trump is now deciding who counts as Jewish.” I’ll cite my source there. He was on my dissertation committee, and, funny enough, he still is. I don’t know what the next move is for my community. I know this: I do not feel safe right now.

Jacobsen: There was a roast once of Joan Rivers by Gilbert Gottfried. And… the guy who always talked like this and used to squint all the time. He had this entire bit, one of the funniest comedic monologues I’ve ever heard. It was at a roast of Joan Rivers, and the whole thing was wrapped around this outrageous story of them supposedly making love.

He begins with: “There’s been much talk about the much-maligned Joan Rivers’ vagina.” Then he dives in: “How old is it? How dry is it? How many men died during its construction?” And from there, it just keeps escalating.

I have always thought that kind of ribbed, ruthless humour would make brilliant advisory commentary—biting, observational, but disarming. It would also make a good framework for writing something timely.

Weixelbaum: You are touching on something vital there. Humour matters—deeply. And it is something I have been thinking about since our last conversation.

People often ask me, as someone who studies fascism and authoritarianism, “What’s going on?” “Help me understand.” So, I explain the dynamics. And then they say, “Now I’m depressed. What can I do?”

For a while, I struggled with how to respond. But I do have an answer now: humour. Humour is one of the most potent tools we have against populism, right-wing extremism, and fascism—ideologies that thrive on fear, anger, and isolation.

Populist and fascist movements feed on rage. Their ecosystem depends on sustaining grievance, amplifying resentment, and keeping people in constant outrage. But humour—especially the kind deeply rooted in Jewish culture—can deflate that. Humour says, “Why are you so angry? It could always be worse.”

That kind of wry, self-aware humour takes power out of authoritarianism. It exposes how brittle and ridiculous it is. Humour interrupts fear, and fear is what fascism feeds on.

Right now, I am looking across the room at my copy of Hannah Arendt’s The Origins of Totalitarianism. So much of that book is about the psychological dimension of authoritarianism. How it isolates people from each other, creates internal fragmentation, and dissolves the social glue. I have felt that. I am living it. These past few months have been tough. I’ve struggled.

But I remind myself—and others—that maintaining a sense of humour is not frivolous. It is essential. Humour disarms the very forces trying to isolate us. And Jewish humour, in particular, has always had that capacity. It is both cathartic and piercing. Think about Springtime for Hitler—one of the greats. That’s Mel Brooks turning fascism into farce and, in doing so, stripping it of its menace.

Jacobsen: I was a drama student in high school. I wrote two plays and acted in a few others. I remember the feeling of trying to put complex things into words—translating emotion into performance. Humour lets you turn the angle, even just 15 degrees, maybe 40. As George Carlin once said, something has to be out of proportion for something to be funny. There must be a distortion, which creates the comedic break. He was probably right.

Now, we’ve talked about Europe. We’ve talked about America. What about the Middle East? What do you see there—in terms of literature, plays, or cultural and artistic output—that could be considered universal, cosmopolitan, or inclusive? And how does that compare to material that is explicitly or implicitly antisemitic? What’s the cultural landscape like there?

Weixelbaum: What’s coming out of the region, culturally? I wish I could point to specific examples right now. I do. But I would be dishonest if I tried to speak with authority on the current Israeli or Palestinian cultural scenes. I’ve just been too distracted lately—consumed by the immediate, by what is unfolding right in front of me.

That said, this conversation is a prompt—a reminder to pay more attention to what is happening beyond the headlines and my professional tunnel vision. What I would like to see, what I hope is happening, is that somewhere—amid all of this darkness—there are Jews, Arabs, and Palestinians using humour, art, and culture to build bridges. That is where hope lives.

As Mister Rogers used to say, “Look for the helpers.” The artists—the people who build connections through creativity—are helpers, too. That matters to me on a deep level. Even though I went into a technical, scholarly, scientific career, art is where my soul resides. It is where healing begins, where we can address even the most entrenched, painful problems.

I will not pretend to be familiar with specific plays, films, or cross-cultural artistic collaborations right now. I do not know. But I am sure they exist. And I urge anyone who sees, hears, or experiences them to amplify them. We need so much more of that. We need more beauty, courage, and humanity in this space. That is how we start to reverse this damage.

Everything that is made can be unmade—including violence, division, and hate. And it must be unmade. One of the tragic yet redemptive features of the human condition is that we do not live very long. That means that every new generation brings an opportunity for change. Every student, every curious young person, has a chance to do things differently—to break cycles of inherited trauma and violence.

We need to nurture that. We need to commit to that. And I say this while fully acknowledging that I have been caught up in the acrimony. These past months have been deeply upsetting. I’ve felt defensive and anxious—like I am under attack all the time simply for being Jewish.

That’s not a sustainable emotional state for anyone. And yet, it is the reality for many of us. That is why we need to stand together, yes, and also work together. I know it sounds trite—but it is essential.

Jacobsen: Who do you see as having the most significant influence in these cycles? Not in the conspiratorial sense—because, of course, both the far right and far left love to cast blame in ways that feed their narratives. On the far right, the MAGA crowd is obsessed with George Soros. On the far left, it is often white nationalists or Christian nationalists who are scapegoated.

But not through that lens—through a sober lens. Who do you think is most emotionally invested in perpetuating anti-Semitic tropes? Who are the real influencers of this?

Weixelbaum: Unfortunately, it is becoming an increasingly familiar roster. Elon Musk is now at the top of that list. I wish more of my friends had been skeptical ten years ago when so many had stars in their eyes about Mars missions and underground tunnels and electric cars. I remember telling people, “I saw him make a crude ejaculation joke at a sitting senator on social media—are we sure this is the visionary you think he is?”

That was a decade ago. And now we’re seeing the consequences. It does not surprise me. Musk has become a central figure in this disconcerting space—one that combines right-wing bullying, antisemitism, racism, and the broader aesthetic of fascism. It is not just rhetoric anymore—power, influence, and cultural permission to hate.

And then, of course, there’s Steve Bannon. He is deliberately trying to build an international network of far-right—and frequently antisemitic—organizations and parties. He is not subtle about it. He’s a strategist for global extremism.

Of course, there is the elephant in the room: Donald Trump. Ever since he said, “wonderful people on both sides” after Charlottesville, he has empowered and emboldened a movement that had long been lurking in the shadows. He mainstreamed it. He gave permission.

And the result has been a disturbing rise of far-right, fascist-adjacent sentiment—not just in America but globally.

And in practice, of course, the consequences are devastating. Look at what happened in Oklahoma City—evacuating buildings rebuilt after earlier bombings by far-right racists. It is hard not to see the throughline—the ideological connections—between the present and the violent past. And we cannot ignore the other elephant in the room that we should have talked about much earlier: Vladimir Putin.

Putin has been deliberately amplifying antisemitic groups and narratives, stoking division in Western societies for years—mainly through disinformation and social media manipulation. This is not speculation; this is well documented. Peer-reviewed research papers, intelligence briefings, and journalistic investigations all point to the same conclusion.

Jacobsen: Regarding President Vladimir Putin and the leadership around him in the Kremlin—this is not theoretical to me. I’ve been to the region twice. The first time, I stayed for two or so weeks; the second time, it was just shy of a month. I was initially doing war journalism alongside a Romanian journalist and then with two journalists the second time. I returned in mid-September last year.

The second book of those conversations will be out either this weekend or next week. I have all the materials ready now.

One Ukrainian Jewish researcher I spoke to—someone I trust—explained that there’s significant antisemitism being spread online within Ukraine. But—and this is key—it is not organically Ukrainian. It is generated by bots or external forms of influence operating within Ukrainian digital spaces.

So, what we are looking at is not simply internal cultural bigotry but an externally imposed disinformation campaign. It is a very different kind of front—psychological and cultural.

A lot of this weaponized antisemitism ties back to disinformation campaigns that distort historical memory, particularly around sensitive topics like the Maidan protests and Independence Square commemorations—for example, debates about which symbols should be allowed during national remembrance ceremonies. Christian crosses were broadly accepted—seen as representing “real” Ukrainian history—while Jewish symbols like the menorah were rejected, with the implicit message that Jewish history is somehow foreign or lesser.

This kind of symbolic exclusion is powerful. It says: your history doesn’t count here.

And that is just one layer. There are more profound, more academic forms of distortion—historical revisionism, outright denialism, and tropes echoing longstanding antisemitic slurs. Some of the antisemitic language in Ukrainian is either metaphorical or explicitly refers to antisemitic archetypes.

So yes, this is an ongoing and growing phenomenon. The real questions become: How widespread is it? Who are the sources? What networks are responsible—bots, trolls, foreign agents, or localized enablers? And most importantly, how do you deal with it? How do you respond meaningfully?

There’s also the matter of broader propaganda systems operating in the region, which we can reevaluate momentarily. I’ll let you respond first—and if I remember the other thread I was thinking of, I’ll gently nudge us back to it.

Weixelbaum: Yes. There is an undeniable irony here—because Ukraine has a profound Jewish history. The city of Odessa, for example, had one of the most vibrant and vital Jewish communities in Eastern Europe. Then came the devastation of the Holocaust during World War II. And after that, the repression under Stalin. These communities were deeply wounded—historically, demographically, and spiritually.

And yet, Ukraine now has a Jewish president. That is extraordinary. It complicates every lazy narrative about antisemitism being innate or immutable in Eastern Europe.

Still, I had some difficult conversations with friends at the beginning of this horrific war Putin has launched against Ukraine. Many of the online attacks that emerged in those early months were not even focused on Ukrainians themselves—but were broader attempts to muddy the waters, sow confusion, fracture alliances, and revive ancient hatreds under the guise of nationalism.

Putin has used antisemitism not just as a domestic tool—but as a geopolitical weapon. These disinformation campaigns—especially antisemitic ones—have not remained confined to Eastern Europe. They are percolating into the West. And it isn’t comforting. I have friends—ostensibly left-wing, progressive friends—who are now parroting Kremlin propaganda, insisting that “Ukraine is full of Nazis.”

One of the tactics antisemitic trolls love to use is calling Jews “Nazis.” They know exactly how hurtful that is: Holocaust inversion, which is an academic subfield specifically devoted to studying this They do it precisely because it is emotionally brutal for us. And now we are seeing the left-wing version of it as well—people saying that “Jews are committing a Holocaust in Gaza” or that “Israel is a Nazi state.”

I have had to bite my tongue at family gatherings—hearing distant relatives or friends say this to my face. I have had to sit there and… breathe because it is not just an intellectual insult but a deep personal wound.

Anyway, circling back to Russia and Ukraine—there is a longstanding connection between trolling and fascism. They go hand in hand. Nazi rhetoric always had that element of winking, nodding plausible deniability. “What? I’m not bullying you—I’m just asking questions.” It is trolling in its most dangerous form. And online, that style of communication has been supercharged.

Putin and his massive troll infrastructure have taken this model and run with it. Over the past decade, they have waged not only a physical war in Ukraine but a sustained psychological war across Western societies—using antisemitism as one of their most effective wedge tools.

As we noted earlier, some call antisemitism the oldest form of racism. And in terms of weaponization, it is undoubtedly one of the most enduring and effective ways to fracture liberal coalitions. So, no—it does not surprise me that this is happening in Ukraine. I only hope that my Ukrainian brethren—especially those resisting both invasion and ideological pollution—stay strong.

I say this personally. I am half Ukrainian—on my maternal side, ironically, the non-Jewish side of my family. And with both the war in Ukraine and the escalating crisis in Israel and Gaza, this past year has been incredibly difficult for me. I care deeply about both conflicts. I follow developments on both fronts daily.

To answer your question—what can we do to combat this?—we need to use every tool available to fight trolls and disinformation. That means humour, blocking, and zero-tolerance policies. It means well-designed moderation tools in digital spaces. These are not optional anymore. They are necessities.

Above all, teaching critical thinking. My spouse is a university librarian, and this is what they do—teach media literacy, especially to young people immersed in online spaces. It is one of the reasons I married them. The front line in this battle is teaching people to analyze, evaluate, and contextualize.

Interestingly, New Jersey—the same state we joked about earlier—is the first state in the U.S. to mandate media literacy instruction in high schools. That is huge and incredibly important. So yes, these are our tools: humour, education, moderation, and community standards. And we have to use them. because what we are up against is not just offensive—it is corrosive.

And I remembered the other point I wanted to raise: the irony that the culture which sacrificed the most soldiers and civilians in the fight against Nazism—namely the Soviet Union, and in particular, Russians—is now one of the largest global exporters of neo-Nazi rhetoric and antisemitic propaganda.

It is stunning. And it has brought me to a rather bleak thought. You know how the old saying goes: “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice”? Lately, I have started to feel like… maybe it bends toward irony.

Jacobsen: The arc of the moral universe may lead toward irony. Maybe not toward justice but toward irony. Not necessarily in the cosmic sense but in the rhetorical and moral one. That feels about right. Perhaps the larger arc is justice, but the subtext—its lived texture—is irony. There’s a kind of tragic subset of moral physics where irony is inescapable.

And it reminds me—there was a famous director, brilliant in his craft but less so in his personal life. He did some awful things involving his stepdaughter—Woody Allen. I remember an interview he gave maybe five or ten years ago. He said, “The longer you live, you stick around, and you start to see that about every hundred years, everything gets flushed again.” There’s this sense that no matter how much progress we think we’ve made, it cycles back.

That’s why irony feels so present. We can have these elevated conversations about moral arcs and cycles, but the reality—the texture of it—feels more ironic than linear. Even though lifespans have doubled, and we have access to medicine, infrastructure, and relative safety, we still carry the existential dread our ancestors had.

Shakespeare wrote about the brevity of life when people were dying at 30 from cholera or dysentery. Today, we say the same things in a world where we can live into our eighties, albeit often at the cost of financial ruin due to medical debt. So yes, there’s an irony in that, too: I have so much and still feel like it’s never enough.

All of this folds back into a broader loss—not just of ethics but of what I’d call the aesthetic of ethics—the performative veneer of moral seriousness without its substance. 

Weixelbaum: You asked earlier what informs my writing and communication. The more I reflect on it, the more I realize that when I advocate for hope, resilience, and humour in the face of terrible things, I’m not just writing for others.

I’m writing to myself. I’m saying: Jay, don’t lose hope. Don’t become hardened. Don’t become cynical. Stay human. If I can convince myself, I can convince one other person, too.

I once wrote a piece called Observation on Hope about my Holocaust research. I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but it explores how people found hope even in the absolute darkest circumstances. That’s important right now because, without hope, there is no resilience. Without resilience, there is no humour. And humour, as we’ve discussed, is a powerful antidote to despair.

And hope—real hope—is not dependent on facts. It is not about optimism. It’s about maintaining agency over our attitudes when the external world is spinning out of control. And I’ll admit: I need to work on that myself.

Jacobsen: Which playwrights or authors do you think are most insightful—most nuanced—about antisemitism? Who manages to poke at it pointedly and profoundly?

Weixelbaum: Oh man, that’s a tough one. There are so many, and I should have done some homework before this conversation. I can point to plenty of scholars who’ve shaped me. We already mentioned Hannah Arendt, of course.

But I will have what the French call l’esprit de l’escalier—staircase wit. I’ll think of the best answer after we finish talking.

The name that comes to mind right now is Rudolf Vrba and the book I Escaped from Auschwitz. It’s not a work of fiction or a play, but it reads with literature’s intensity and moral clarity. It’s a true story.

Vrba was a young man when the Nazis captured him and sent him to Auschwitz. The way the camp was structured, the Nazis needed inmates to serve as a skeleton crew to help run operations—while the rest of the Jews were murdered wholesale. Vrba arrived with a small group of other young men. Slowly, one by one, he watched each of them lose hope.

And the conditions were beyond inhumane. The electric fences were nearly complete. The Nazi army was winning battles in the East. Death was constant—gas chambers operating continuously, corpses piling up, no apparent escape.

There was absolutely no rational reason for hope.

And yet, Rudy held onto something—a spark, a conviction that if he could escape and tell the world, it might change something. It might matter.

That’s why the story stayed with me. It’s not just a tale of survival—it’s a story of moral defiance. A refusal to surrender to nihilism, even in a world designed to erase you.

And so, Rudolf Vrba’s companions lost hope individually. Auschwitz was not only emotionally and spiritually devastating—it was physically excruciating. People died constantly. It was easy to catch cholera. As you said earlier, death by diarrhea was very real. If you were assigned to corpse duty—handling the dead—you were essentially given a death sentence. The bodies were diseased, the work was degrading, and the conditions were impossible.

Sometimes, a guard might simply decide to shoot you. There was no logic. No justice. It was terror by design.

Vrba, against all odds, ended up being one of the last surviving members of his cohort. But as he watched his companions fade—one by one—he made a decision. He would not lose hope. And what’s remarkable is that his hope wasn’t rooted in optimism or evidence. It was, in my reading, an act of defiance—a conscious refusal to let the Nazis strip him of his humanity.

He chose to keep hope out of spite for the horror surrounding him.

Once he took that stance—once he reclaimed his attitude—it unlocked a kind of clarity. He began to observe his surroundings with fresh purpose. He started asking: What can I learn here? What information can I gather? How can I escape? How can I warn the world about what’s happening?

Eventually, he secured a job near an office—close enough to overhear guards and staff talking. He began collecting fragments of information. In Auschwitz, information was more valuable than food. And over time, through small acts of connection and trust, he formed a plan. He learned that a portion of the electric fence was not yet complete. He pieced together a disguise—a costume he could use in the countryside—and managed to obtain forged papers, money, and supplies.

His escape plan was to hide in a trash pile near the unfinished section of the fence, wait until the timing was right, and then slip out undetected.

And he did it.

He hid while the Nazis searched for days—with dogs, with patrols. But they never found him. Vrba became one of the few people ever to escape from Auschwitz and live to tell the world what was happening inside.

The lesson I take from that is simple but profound: Hope is not based on data. It’s not “I have hope because X, Y, and Z factors line up.” Hope, in its most accurate form, is an act of will. It’s a decision—an act of resistance in despair.

And if you can hold on to hope under those conditions—when the world is on fire around you—it is one of the most powerful things you can do.

Because here’s the other insight: Attitudes are viral.

We have spent so much time in this conversation talking about the virality of grievance—how anger spreads online, how trolling works, how authoritarianism capitalizes on emotional contagion.

However, negative emotions are not the only thing that spreads.

Hope is also viral.

When one person holds onto hope and refuses to break, that resilience inspires others, building courage, community, and friendship.

Yes, the online world is designed for rage clicks and hostile engagement. But we can counteract that, saying, “No, I will not give into despair. I am going to stand for connection, for decency, for hope.”

That’s what I take from Vrba’s story.

There are many other examples—many other brilliant Jewish figures, especially comedians, who have used humour to fight antisemitism. But this is the story I wanted to share today because it reminds us that even in the most horrifying circumstances imaginable, a spark of human dignity can survive. And sometimes, that spark is enough to change everything.

You mentioned Elon Musk earlier in connection with all of this.

Jacobsen: I recently heard a joke that made me laugh, albeit darkly: Elon Musk is the first person in history to be radicalized by his algorithm. It’s funny—and also devastatingly accurate.

Weixelbaum: This is no longer the premise of a speculative film—it is not probable, perhaps, but entirely plausible. It is no longer science fiction. What we are seeing now is a highly targeted reality, facilitated by rapid technological advancement and openly encouraged by political operators who have a well-documented history of stoking disinformation campaigns—especially those built on antisemitic conspiracy theories. One of the most prominent figures in this regard is Steve Bannon. His sociopolitical and cultural influence, though perhaps more subdued in recent months, remains ever-present, particularly in the advancement of antisemitic and white nationalist rhetoric masked beneath the thin veil of right-wing populism.

Bannon is the perfect case study for my argument throughout this conversation about populism. Ironically, he began his political journey aligned with left-wing populist movements. And if you trace his ideological trajectory, it is no surprise that he ended up on the other side of what some call the “horseshoe”—where the extreme ends of the political spectrum begin to resemble one another. What’s deeply troubling is that Bannon sees the potential of transnational right-wing alliances and actively works to cultivate them. His alignment with Viktor Orbán in Hungary, his sympathies toward Putin’s regime, and his likely connections to similar elements in Germany and elsewhere illustrate a more significant, chilling truth: this is an international movement. This is not an American problem—it is a global one.

And that fact has clear historical parallels. One of the core themes of the Nazi on Wall Street project I’ve been developing is the international nature of Nazism itself—how it crossed borders, how financial and ideological alliances supported its rise. The protagonist in that story—though maybe not a hero—is tasked with confronting this exact ideological export. Bannon, in many ways, is today’s equivalent. He understands and exploits the mechanisms that make populist movements dangerous: rhetorical subversion, half-truths, conspiracies mutating into antisemitic beliefs, and, critically, the addictive emotional thrill of trolling and dominance. He leverages all of these to expand his reach and strengthen his networks.

What makes Bannon especially dangerous is his precision. He knows exactly how these movements feed on emotional energy. He’s aware that populism thrives not on policy but on grievance. He exploits the mechanisms of conspiracy, engages in the “wink-and-nod” language of plausible deniability, and rewards people for their cruelty. This little endorphin rush comes from trolling others online. It is dominated by design, and Bannon is its engineer.

The most disturbing aspect, perhaps, is how the legal system—despite occasional action—has failed to stop him. Individuals like Bannon are often rebuked or penalized but rarely neutralized. They’re usually empowered once they’ve gone through the system and come out the other side. They have a martyr complex and a renewed sense of purpose. They double down. They go harder. And that terrifies me.

Many felt relieved when they heard rumours that Bannon and Elon Musk were at odds. But even that is not necessarily reassuring. What we are witnessing might be what I call “competing authoritarianism”—where influential individuals vie to out-fascist one another, not because of ideological differences but because of egotism and rivalry. And that, too, is rooted in history.

This dynamic reminds me of the Führerprinzip—the “leader principle” from Nazi Germany. The concept holds that there can be only one ultimate authority. These kinds of leaders do not believe in succession planning. They believe in dominance, not continuity. They see themselves as indispensable. And once the “load-bearing villain,” as I sometimes call them, begins to falter—physically, politically, or otherwise—everything beneath them starts to collapse.

Trump is a perfect example of this. His influence, while immense, is tied to his persona. If he declines—as it seems he might—that entire structure destabilizes. And while that may cause hope, it also opens up dangerous power vacuums. The Bannons of the world are not gone. They are waiting in the wings.

This is why I often draw comparisons between scientific progress and political authoritarianism. There’s an old saying in science: progress happens one funeral at a time. Because people do not change their minds about fundamental truths, they hold onto them—desperately, irrationally—until they die. And in politics, particularly in these authoritarian and antisemitic circles, we see the same principle. These figures will not relinquish their grip voluntarily. They will not evolve. They are fossilized in their ideologies. They are not just individuals but outcrops—manifestations—of a system and worldview. And when they are gone, their structures often go with them.

And maybe that’s what gives me some hope: not that things will improve naturally, but that history moves—sometimes with terrible cost—but always with movement. And in that movement, in those moments of rupture, there’s a chance for something better to emerge.

Jacobsen: Because you mentioned that these are “load-bearing villains,” and they tend to be terrible at succession, the natural question is whether we can find some hope in that fact—that they do tremendous damage but rarely pass on their legacy in any formalized, robust way. 

Weixelbaum: And that is exactly right. It might be a good way to emphasize this conversation and yesterday’s one. Populism and fascism, by their very nature, contain the seeds of their destruction. These movements flourish in liberal societies. That’s the paradox. It is precisely the openness, the pluralism, and the tolerance of liberal systems that allow them the space to emerge and grow.

It is easy to be seduced by the politics of grievance by emotionally charged movements built on outrage and fantastical, irrational thinking. You get drawn into this world where nothing matters except what you are mad about and how you can further your divisive cause through rhetoric. But these movements cannot sustain themselves on that anger alone. They spring from liberal societies because they have to. You cannot get a populist or fascist uprising in a political vacuum. They require institutions to target. They need freedom to exploit. And ultimately, they are corrosive. They destroy the very institutions that allowed them to exist in the first place.

Populism thrives on division. It is anti-coalition by nature. It is my way or the highway, and it escalates through dominance. And on a long enough timeline, the hero of a populist movement almost always becomes its next enemy. That is the entire function of populism: to create enemies to destroy. So, these movements eventually kill themselves. In the process, they cause catastrophic damage to the liberal societies from which they sprang. But they cannot last forever. Because, in the end, you cannot eat anger. You cannot be sheltered by rage. Anger cannot quench your thirst or fill your stomach. Outrage and grievance are powerful mobilizers but do not build stable societies.

People need the basics. People need clean water, safety, jobs, and public services. That is why we created governments in the first place. That is why civilizations exist. So, it is not a question of if the populist movement will implode. It will. The real question is: how many people will suffer before that happens? That’s the tragedy. Hitler envisioned a thousand-year Reich. He got twelve. He and his inner circle were far more disciplined, organized, and ideologically coherent than the band of opportunists and tech demagogues currently circling Trump, Musk, Bannon, and others. So yes, they, too, will burn out. But the concern—the fear—is that they will take many people down with them before they do.

Are there acute examples of this dynamic in American culture? Absolutely. One of the clearest examples is the Populist Party of the late 19th century. It was born out of a legitimate crisis. There was widespread anxiety, especially among farmers suffering from unregulated capitalism. There were few protections against the boom-bust cycles of the economy. These farmers lacked access to credit. A restrictive monetary system punished them. And so they formed a movement—the Populist Party—one of American history’s most dramatic grassroots movements.

It rose quickly. There was genuine energy behind it. The arguments were valid—about the elites and economic injustice. But as with most populist movements, they turned to demagogues. The most famous was William Jennings Bryan, a fiery evangelical preacher who fused religious revivalism with political rhetoric. Ultimately, the movement collapsed. It burned out fast. It could not hold its coalitions together. The internal contradictions were too great.

There’s even a cultural artifact of this moment that most people don’t realize is tied to that political era: The Wizard of Oz. It’s often read as a populist allegory. The Yellow Brick Road represents the gold standard. The Emerald City is Washington, D.C. The Scarecrow symbolizes the American farmer. The Tin Man represents industrial workers. The Cowardly Lion as Bryan himself—loud, blustering, but ultimately ineffective. It’s a brilliant metaphor for how populist movements often begin with legitimate grievances but collapse under the weight of their mythology and internal contradictions.

So yes, they implode. But we should never assume that their implosion is without cost. The Wizard of Oz, yes. L. Frank Baum was a political commentator of his time and wrote The Wizard of Oz, a parable about the populist movements. Dorothy is in Kansas, the symbolic heartland of the American farmer and populist base. Along the way, she travels on the Yellow Brick Road, which is widely interpreted to represent the gold-based monetary system of the time. She’s heading to the Emerald City—green, of course—symbolizing the idea of flexible money, or “greenbacks” as they were called in those days. In Baum’s original story, Dorothy doesn’t have ruby slippers; she has silver slippers—another reference to the silver standard advocated by populists as a more forgiving and inclusive economic model than gold.

And who does she need to convince along the way? First, she meets the Tin Man, who represents industrial workers. The issue is that he has no heart—cold, machine-like, and dehumanized by the industrial economy. Then there’s the Scarecrow, who represents farmers. He’s portrayed as lacking a brain—not because he is unintelligent, but because farmers were often viewed as uneducated or politically naive. Then there’s the Cowardly Lion—widely accepted as a caricature of William Jennings Bryan himself: all thunder and roaring rhetoric, but ultimately a coward who falters when real courage is required.

And, of course, they discover the man behind the curtain once they reach the Emerald City—the so-called elite. It’s all smoke and mirrors. It’s a performance, a trick. There’s no wizard, no magical solution. That’s the final blow of Baum’s allegory: populism often revolves around spectacle, but it’s all illusion behind the curtain. So yes, we have a deep tradition of political metaphor embedded in our cultural texts—texts like The Wizard of Oz—that many Americans and people worldwide do not realize are coded critiques of political movements like populism.

Many historians will likely bristle at this interpretation. I can feel their hackles rising already. This is my read. My expertise is more focused on the far-right and Nazi variants of these movements. Some may argue it’s only “populism” if it originates with the 19th-century American farmers’ movement. But we need to expand our definitions if we are going to understand what is happening before our eyes today.

Jacobsen: Do “load-bearing heroes” in positive movements suffer from similar issues in terms of legacy, sustainability, and passing along institutional wisdom? Or do they tend to be more successful than their authoritarian counterparts?

Weixelbaum: That’s a great question—and yes, it’s a serious problem. Historians have a term for this: the “Great Man Theory.” It’s the idea that singular, towering individuals drive historical progress. And that is a problematic lens because it oversimplifies how real, lasting change happens. While people certainly gravitate toward figures like Lincoln or FDR here in the United States, we too often forget that their successes came from legions of people working behind the scenes—drafting legislation, managing logistics, creating new bureaucracies like the Social Security Administration, or organizing massive efforts like the Allied invasion of Normandy.

These aren’t one man’s achievements—they’re many’s achievements. There’s an essential place for individual inspiration, no doubt. But the danger—especially with populism—is the temptation to attach the movement’s identity to one charismatic person. And once that person is gone, the whole thing often collapses. Populism loves a demagogue. It loves a figurehead who personifies grievance and rage. Maybe it’s just human nature—we want a hero to show up with a cape. But we keep making the same mistake: hoping someone will save us.

We need leaders who understand that solidarity is not a one-person show. We need heroes who are humble enough to empower others, decentralize their influence, build sustainable institutions, and show—by example—that real change takes everyone. Leadership should be about lifting others, not consolidating power. The more people involved in shaping that future, the more resilient it becomes.

Jacobsen: That’s a compelling point. Thanks for the insight. Now, I heard a trope—the first time I heard it, it was thrown at Dr. Norman Finkelstein, the independent political scientist. Depending on one’s point of view, he’s had a mixed career because he tends to divide people—often due to his stances or barbed commentary.

Weixelbaum: Yes.

Jacobsen: Or barbed—or I guess you could say—cutting humour, often used as punctuation to his historical work. So, I’ve done some interviews with him. He took part in my first book between 2019 and 2021, along with many others: Gideon Levy from Haaretz and Omar Shakir from Human Rights Watch. We did ten long-form interviews—many citations and very academic-leaning coverage. John Dugard, Michael Lynk, S. Michael Lynk was the UN Special Rapporteur at the time, before the current one. In between, while based in Malaysia, another interim rapporteur quit and became the executive director of ASEAN—the organization, not the political union. That was an interesting contextual detail.

So, those were some of the great center— and left-wing voices. International organizations like the UN—non-political bodies—were also included. I had a group discussion with all three of those special rapporteurs. Since they’re all legal minds, the conversation revolved around one technicality: Is the annexation of Palestinian territory de jure or de facto?

That ended up being the only distinction that the entire conversation focused on. We did not have much time, but we still discussed that issue long.

So, when I first heard the phrase “self-hating Jew” used about Norman—Norm—it was used derisively or as a term of contempt. That term raises a lot of questions and emotions. So, on first take—in an academic sense—what is the meaning behind the term politically, and what is the purpose of such a term when it is not used purely as a descriptor? Then, we can touch on the deeper aspects also at play.

Weixelbaum: Yes. I’ve known that term since I was a kid in the early ’80s. I know it’s been around even longer than I have. It doesn’t originate with the current conflict or crisis in Israel and Gaza.

At least from an academic perspective, this is a subset—a mechanism or phenomenon that I’ve encountered with other minority groups as well. It falls under what’s called respectability politics. That term comes from the Black American experience I’ve learned about and encountered. It describes the way individuals within marginalized communities may try to curry favour with groups that are oppressing them, which in turn creates division within the leading minority group—whether it is Jewish people, Black people, or others.

We’ve seen this, too, with some immigrants who voted for Trump and then later found themselves being deported. It’s quite something to witness.

There are many great scholarly works on this. The main factor I’ve observed in scholarly discussions is a negotiation between the oppressor and the oppressed. Historians have used “agency” to emphasize that oppressed people still maintain some power in shaping their reality. But what can be disturbing is how that negotiation sometimes plays out—with members of minority groups identifying with their oppressors and attempting to emulate them.

You also see this dynamic in women’s history scholarship. Some of the most virulent supporters of anti-feminist movements can be women who view their status through the lens of, “If I become the best enforcer of this patriarchal system, I’ll gain special favour.” If they push other women down, they might believe they’ll gain acceptance or status within that anti-feminist framework.

So, this is not unique to Jews—it’s a phenomenon that appears across different historically marginalized groups. It stems from that negotiation mechanism, and it is divisive and difficult. Particularly malign actors—those who know precisely how divisive such dynamics can be—are adept at weaponizing these respectability politics.

Think about the example of Black Republicans. Take Herman Cain, for instance. He seemed so invested in Trump that he attended a Trump rally and contracted COVID, which ultimately led to his death. Talk about making the ultimate sacrifice for a group that had, at that point, shown considerable hostility toward the Black community—especially amid the Trump administration’s rhetoric and actions against the Black Lives Matter movement.

I could go on about this, but that gives a solid picture.

Jacobsen: Outside of that term’s political or academic analysis, there are deeper aspects to its usage—especially geopolitically. In Norman’s case—disregarding where someone stands politically, whether on the left, right, or center—the term “self-hating Jew” was not being used purely as a descriptor. It was deployed in a very particular way. When I saw it being used, it seemed to be a term of convenience. It was being employed to immediately discredit or cancel his line of reasoning in political science about the Israeli–Palestinian conflict.

Now, on cancel culture—I’ve seen this happen across the political spectrum, so I do not think it is a culture so much a tactic. Then, some bad actors in specific political orientations use it, which can be mistaken for an entire culture. So how are you seeing this term—”self-hating Jew”—used? And how do you see people describe how it feels to be called that?

Weixelbaum: Yes. The irony is—and this connects to our earlier discussion—through my encounters and the loss of friendships since October 2023, some of those people have been Jewish. And ironically, someone else might call them self-hating Jews. I never have—because, yes, it’s a trope. It’s a way of shutting down conversation.

My response, of course, is to ask questions. “What do you know about Judaism?” “Let’s talk about the historical connection between the idea of Israel and Judaism.” Let’s unpack that instead of using a term like “self-hating Jew” to end a discussion.

Typically, though, that moment of shutdown happens when I start asking those questions—because I’m the one who gets shut down. I am not the one using that label to cancel someone. Instead, the cancellation often comes toward me.

Now, I know of Norman Finkelstein and understand the criticisms. He leans heavily into genocide rhetoric, and many who use the term “self-hating Jew,” in his case, believe that is a line he has crossed. However, that rhetorical framing is often a perversion of more rigorous discourse. Genocide scholars, in general, are much more careful about using that term. It’s specific. It’s weighty.

So, yes, it’s easier for someone to shut him down with, “Oh, you’re just a self-hating Jew,” rather than interrogate the argument. But what does genocide mean? That’s the question. Then, we would have to talk about Raphael Lemkin, who coined the term and wrote the UN Convention on Genocide.

But does anyone want to go there when they are scoring points on the internet?

Jacobsen: Their first question would be, “Who?”

Weixelbaum: Yes, exactly. That’s the point. So, this becomes a teachable moment. But then, also—what? What comes after that? If you are going to open that genocide door, then follow me. Let me put on my historian hat and take you by the hand. We will explore the problematic conversations among international lawyers about what genocide is and what it is not.

They knew the term could become continuously expansive—used to describe every instance of mass violence. And unfortunately, war continues to exist. Those legal scholars and human rights advocates at the time were concerned about misuse, which is why they were so specific when defining the term in the Genocide Convention.

There’s also a companion document—the UN’s Universal Declaration of Human Rights. A great book that discusses this is No Enchanted Palace. The author is Mark Mazower. It dives into the early days of the UN and the foundational debates. We need to demystify these types of things—the terms we use.

So, yes, to go back to “self-hating Jew,” it is, in a way, our community’s particular flavour of cancellation. Our version of “pull up your pants” was the language used in the 1990s as a form of internalized respectability politics.

When we talk about respectability politics within the Black community, it was that old line: “You’re sagging, you’re listening to gangster rap, and you’re making us all look bad.” It is the same thing today—except, instead of listening and interrogating arguments that might have some validity, there is this instinct to shut them down entirely.

I disagree profoundly with Norman Finkelstein’s definition of genocide. What is happening with Israel and Gaza is a terrible war—I do not think it is genocide. However, who am I to argue against the masses who feel otherwise? There is a scholarly debate to be had, of course.

But yes, it is a way of cancelling someone, as you noted. On a personal level, how does it feel when someone uses that label? If someone were to call me a “self-hating Jew,” yes—it would be shocking and frankly absurd. Which Jews are we even talking about? I certainly do not identify with the small minority of right-wing Jews.

Wait—I have been called that. I was called a self-hating Jew by a childhood friend who is now a far-right-wing Jew. His argument was basically: if you vote for Democrats, obviously you hate Israel because a subset of American Democrats are highly critical of Israel or anti-Israel. Therefore, I must be a self-hating Jew.

How does that feel? It feels ridiculous that we even had this conversation. I worked as a researcher at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum in D.C. It seems ridiculous to me that someone would throw that at me.

Especially throughout this conversation, I hope you’ve seen that I feel more protective than ever of my Jewish community in the face of growing antisemitism. I think this reflexive urge to circle the wagons, to protect. At the same time, what the state of Israel is doing under Netanyahu is horrendous. He should not be in power. He should be in jail.

He is another politician we’ve talked about whose only reason for seeking and holding power is that he’s running from the law. We have a big problem with that. Someone—I forget who, but a Jewish leader—once said, “Netanyahu is probably the worst leader for Jews since the Bronze Age.” Some terrible Bronze Age kings made us look quite bad, so I do not know.

To be called a self-hating Jew—especially by a non-Jew—is incredibly divisive. These are internecine conflicts: who deserves to be in the in-group or the out-group? It is not good. It is corrosive. We should stay away from it.

Jacobsen: Jay, thank you very much for speaking with me today. I appreciate it. This was a substantive conversation.

Weixelbaum: I look forward to reading your writing, and I appreciate your listening. Thank you so much. 

Jacobsen: Thanks. I appreciate it, Jay.

Last updated May 3, 2025. These terms govern all In Sight Publishing content—past, present, and future—and supersede any prior notices. In Sight Publishing by Scott Douglas Jacobsen is licensed under a Creative Commons BY‑NC‑ND 4.0; © In Sight Publishing by Scott Douglas Jacobsen 2012–Present. All trademarks, performances, databases & branding are owned by their rights holders; no use without permission. Unauthorized copying, modification, framing or public communication is prohibited. External links are not endorsed. Cookies & tracking require consent, and data processing complies with PIPEDA & GDPR; no data from children < 13 (COPPA). Content meets WCAG 2.1 AA under the Accessible Canada Act & is preserved in open archival formats with backups. Excerpts & links require full credit & hyperlink; limited quoting under fair-dealing & fair-use. All content is informational; no liability for errors or omissions: Feedback welcome, and verified errors corrected promptly. For permissions or DMCA notices, email: scott.jacobsen2025@gmail.com. Site use is governed by BC laws; content is “as‑is,” liability limited, users indemnify us; moral, performers’ & database sui generis rights reserved.