When I was growing up, my father would go to bed with a transistor radio set to an all-news station. Even without a radio, my father was attuned to the menace of history.
A Jew born in Vienna in 1924, he fled his homeland in 1938; his parents were killed in the Holocaust. I sometimes imagined my father was listening for some repetition of past evils so that he could rectify old responses, but he may just have been expecting more bad news.
In any event, the grumbling static from the bedroom depressed me, and I vowed to replace it with music more cheerfully in tune with America.
These days, however, I find myself on my father's frequency. I have awakened to anti-Semitism.
I am not being chased down alleyways and called a Christ killer, I do not feel that prejudicial hiring practices will keep me out of a job and I am not afraid that the police will come and take away my family. I am, in fact, more grateful than ever that my father found refuge in this country. But in recent weeks I have been reminded, in ways too plentiful to ignore, about the role Jews play in the fantasy life of the world.
Jews were not the cause of the Second World War, but they were at the metaphysical centre of that conflict nonetheless, since the Holocaust was part of Hitler's agenda and a key motivation of his campaign.
Jews are not the cause of the Third World War, if that's what we are facing, but they have been placed at the centre of it is mysterious and disturbing ways.
I was born in 1963, a generation removed and an ocean away from the destruction of European Jewry. My mother was born here, so there was always half the family that breathed in the easy air of postwar America. You don't have to read a lot of Freud to discover that the key to healthy life is the ability to fend off reality to a certain extent. Deny reality too much, of course, and you're crazy; too little and you're merely miserable.
My own private balancing act has involved acknowledging the fate of my murdered grandparents and trying to live a modern American life. I studied English literature in college and in graduate school, where I toyed with a dissertation on Milton, a Christian concerned with justifying the ways of God to man.
I dropped out of graduate school to become a writer, but I always felt about my life in America what Milton says of Adam and Eve entering exile – the world was all before me.
Living in New York, I had the world forever all before me. I chose within it – I married and had a child. For 10 years I worked at a Jewish newspaper. But my sense of endless American possibility never left me – even working at a Jewish newspaper seemed a paradoxical assertion of American comfort.
My father's refugee sense of the world was something that both informed me and that I worked to define myself against. I felt it was an act of mental health to recognize that his world was not my world and that his fears were the product of an experience alien to me.
I was critical of the Holocaust Museum in Washington. I didn't want ancient European anti-Semitism enshrined on federal land. But now everything has come to American soil.
Recently, I read an interview with Sheik Muhammad Gemeaha – the representative in the United States of the prominent centre of Islamic learning, al-Azhar University, and imam of the Islamic Cultural Center of New York City. The sheik, who until recently lived in Manhattan on the Upper West Side, explained that “only the Jews” were capable of destroying the World Trade Center and added that “if it became known to the American people, they would have done to the Jews what Hitler did.”
In Kuwait, there were reports that New York rabbis told their followers to take their money out of the stock market before September 11th. In Egypt, the Mossad, the Israeli intelligence agency, was blamed for the attack. It is easy to dismiss such talk as madness, but because so many millions of Muslims seem to believe it, and because planes actually crashed into the World Trade Center, words have a different weight and menace than they had before.
So does history, or rather the forces that shape history – particularly the history of the Jews. It would be wrong to say that everything changed on the 11th of September for me. My awareness of things had also been growing slowly.
My father's sister escaped in the 1930s from Vienna to Palestine – now, of course, called Israel – and I have a lot of family there. I grew up knowing that Israel, for all its vitality, was ringed with enemies; I knew how perilous and bleak life had become after the collapse of the Oslo peace process a year ago and how perilous and bleak it could be before that.
I knew, too, that works such as the Protocols of the Elders of Zion, the Russian forgery about demonic Jewish power, have been imported into Arab society, like obsolete but deadly Soviet weapons.
By grafting ancient Christian calumnies onto modern political grievances, Arab governments have transformed Israel into an outpost of malevolent world Jewry, viewing Israelis and Jews as interchangeable emblems of cosmic evil.
So when the Syrian defence minister recently told a delegation from the British Royal College of Defense Studies that the destruction of the World Trade Center was part of a Jewish iconry, I wasn't really surprised.
I'd gotten a whiff of this back in early September, while following the United Nations conference on racism and discrimination in Durban, South Africa. There the Arab Lawyers Union distributed booklets at the conference containing anti-Semitic caricatures of Jews with fangs dripping blood – a mere sideshow to the isolation of Israel and the equating of Zionism with racism.
Singling out Israel made of a modern nation an archetypal villain – Jews were the problem and the countries of the world were figuring out the solution.
There was something so naked about the resurrected Nazi propaganda and the anti-Semitism fuelling the political denunciations that I felt kidnapped by history. The past had come calling.
I felt this in a different form reading coverage of Israel in European papers. Though public expressions of anti-Semitism are taboo in a post-Holocaust world, many Europeans, in writing about Israel, have felt free to conjure images of determined child killers and mass murderers.
Earlier this year, the Spanish daily La Vanguardia published a cartoon depicting a large building labelled Museum of the Jewish Holocaust and behind it a building under construction labelled Future Museum of the Palestinian Holocaust.
Tom Gross, an Israel-based journalist, recently pointed out to me that a BBC correspondent, Hilary Andersson, declared that to describe adequately the outrage of Israel's murder of Palestinian children one would have to reach back to Herod's slaughter of the innocents – alluding to Herod's attempt to kill Christ in the cradle by massacring Jewish babies.
After leading an editor from The Guardian on a tour of the occupied territories, Gross was astonished at the resulting front-page editorial in that highly influential British paper declaring that the establishment of Israel has exacted such a high moral price that “the international community cannot support this cost indefinitely.”
I understood that the editorial, speaking of the cost of the establishment of Israel – not of any particular policies – implied that Israel's very right to exist is somehow still at issue.
I had somehow believed that the Jewish Question, which so obsessed both Jews and anti-Semites in the 19th and 20th centuries, had been solved – most horribly by Hitler's “final solution,” most hopefully by Zionism.
But more and more I feel Jews being turned into a question mark once again. How is it, the world still asks – about Israel, about Jews, about me – that you are still here?
I have always known that much of the world wanted Jews simply to disappear, but there are degrees of knowledge, and after September 11th my imagination seems more terribly able to imagine a world of rhetoric fulfilled.
There are five million Jews in Israel and eight million more Jews in the rest of the world. There are one billion Muslims. How has it happened that Israel and “world Jewry,” along with the United States, is the enemy of so many of them?
To be singled out inside a singled-out country is doubly disconcerting. There are a lot of reasons why modernizing, secularizing, globalizing America, whose every decision has universal impart, would disturb large swaths of the world. Surely it is stranger that Jews, by their mere presence in the world, would unleash such hysteria.
And yet what I kept hearing in those first days in the aftermath of the attack on the World Trade Center is that it was America's support of Israel that had somehow brought this devastation down on them. It was a kind of respectable variant of the belief that the Mossad had literally blown up the World Trade Center.
It could, of course, be parried. After all, the turning point in Osama bin Laden's hatred of the United States came during the gulf war, when American troops were stationed in Saudi Arabia.
But it had a lingering effect. It was hard to avoid a certain feeling that there was something almost magical about Israel that made it toxic for friends and foes alike.
This feeling will not go away, if only because America's support of that nation makes it harder to maintain our coalition. Israel has somehow become an obstacle to war and an obstacle to peace simultaneously.
Bid Laden has added treatment of Palestinians to his list of grievances, and this may revive the sense that Israel bears some measure of responsibility. Large lies can be constructed out of smaller truths.
The occupation of the West Bank by Israel, though it grew out of a war Israel did not want, has been a nightmare for the Palestinians and a disaster for Israel morally, politically and spiritually.
It is a peculiar misery to feel this way and to feel, at the same time, that the situation has become a weapon in the war against Israel. Bin Laden would not want a Palestinian state on the West Bank, because he could not abide a Jewish state alongside it. Neither could many of our allies in the Muslim world, who keep euphemistically suggesting that if only the “Mideast crisis” were resolved, terrorism would diminish.
It has a plausible veneer – and indeed, it would be an extraordinary achievement if the Palestinians got a homeland and Israel got safe borders.
But since most of the players in the Middle East do not accept the existence of Israel, since “solving the Mideast crisis” would for them entail a modern version of Hitler's final solution, the phrase takes on weird and even sinister overtones when it is blandly employed by well-intentioned governments calling for a speedy solution.
And this Orwellian transformation of language is one of the most exasperating and disorienting aspects of the campaign against Israel. It has turned the word “peace” into a euphemism for war.
In the wake of the Holocaust, American anti-Semitism dissipated; the church expunged old calumnies. The horror had been sufficient to shock even countries like the Soviet Union into supporting a newly declared Jewish state. Israel after 1967 was a powerful nation – besieged, but secure. American Jews were safe as houses.
I am not writing this essay to predict some inevitable calamity but to identify a change of mood. To say aloud that European anti-Semitism is still shaping the way Jews are perceived. Arab anti-Israel propaganda has joined hands with it and found a home in the embattled Muslim world.
Something terrible has been born. What happened on September 11th is proof that people who threaten evil intend evil.
That a solution to one century's Jewish problem has become another century's Jewish problem is a cruel paradox.
This tragedy has intensified to such a degree that friends, supporters of Israel, have wondered aloud to me if the time has come to acknowledge that the Israeli experiment has failed.
This is the thinking of despair.
Israel has been at war for 50 years. Without that context, clear judgment is impossible, especially by those accustomed to the Holocaust notion that Jews in war are nothing but helpless victims.
I have a different way of looking at the Israeli experiment than my friends who wonder about its failure. It is connected to how I look at the fate of European Jewry. When the Jews of Europe were murdered in the Holocaust, one might have concluded that European Judaism failed: to defend itself, to anticipate evil, to make itself acceptable to the world around it, to pack up and leave.
But one could also conclude in a deeper way that Christian Europe failed – to accept the existence of Jews in their midst, and it has been marked ever since, and will be for all time, with this blot on its culture. Israel is a test of its neighbours as much as its neighbours are a test for Israel. If the Israeli experiment fails, then Islam will have failed, and so will the Christian culture that plays a shaping role in that part of the region.
I am fearful of sounding as though I believe that the Holocaust is going to replay itself in some simplified fashion. I do not. I am aware that an obsession with the Holocaust is seen as somehow unbecoming and, when speaking of modern politics, viewed almost as a matter of bad taste if not bad history. I do not wish to elide Israel's political flaws by invoking the Holocaust. But that very reluctance has been exploited and perverted in a way that makes me disregard it.
“Six million Jews died?” the mufti of Jerusalem, a Palestinian Authority appointee, remarked last year. “Let us desist from this fairy tale exploited by Israel to buy international solidarity.” (The utterance is particularly egregious because the mufti's predecessor paid an admiring visit to Hitler in 1941.)
Ten years ago, I interviewed Saul Bellow in Chicago and in the course of the interview asked him if there was anything he regretted. He felt that he had not been sufficiently mindful of the Holocaust. This surprised me because one of his novels, Mr. Sammler's Planet, is actually about a Holocaust survivor.
But Bellow recalled writing The Adventures of Augie March – the grand, freewheeling novel that made his reputation – in Paris in the late 1940s. Holocaust survivors were everywhere, Bellow told me, and, as a Yiddish speaker, he had access to the terrible truths they harboured. But, as Bellow put it, he was not in the mood to listen.
“I wanted my American seven-layer cake,” he told me. He did not wish to burden his writing at that early moment in his career with the encumbering weight of Jewish history. Augie March begins, exuberantly, “I am an American.”
I, too, want my American seven-layer cake, even if the cake has collapsed a little in recent months. There is no pleasure in feeling reclaimed by the awfulness of history and in feeling myself at odds with the large universalist temper of our society. Thinking about it makes me feel old, exhausted and angry.
In the Second World War, American Jews muted their separate Jewish concerns for the good of the larger struggle to liberate Europe. But Israel sticks out in this crisis as European Jewry stuck out in the Second World War, forcing a secondary level of Jewish consciousness, particularly because the anti-Zionism of the Arab world has adopted the generalized anti-Semitism of the European world.
The danger to American, which has already befallen it, and the danger to Israel, which so far remains primarily rhetorical are, of course, connected. And though it is false to imagine that if Israel did not exist America would not have its enemies, people making the link are intuiting something beyond the simple fact that both are Western democracies.
In Cultures in Conflict: Christians, Muslims and Jews in the Age of Discovery, Bernard Lewis points out that after Christians reconquered Spain from the Muslims in the 15th century, they decided to expel the Jews before the Muslims. The reason for this, Lewis explains, is that although the Jews had no army and posed far less of a political threat than the Muslims, they posed a far greater theological challenge.
Jews believed that adherents of other faiths could find their own path to God. Christianity and Islam, which cast unbelievers as infidels, did not share this essential religious relativism. The rabbinic interpretation of monotheism, which in seeing all human beings as created in God's image recognized their inherent equality, may well contain the seeds of the very democratic principles that the terrorists of September 11th found so intolerable.
Is it any wonder that in the minds of the terrorists and their defenders, Americans and Jews have an unholy alliance? Expressing my separate Jewish concerns puts me in tune with our pluralistic society since I am free to express all my identities – American, Jewish, Zionist.
Perhaps the optimistic American half of my inheritance isn't at odds with the darker Jewish component after all. In this regard, the double consciousness that has burdened my response to our new war need not feel like a division. On the contrary, it redoubles my patriotism and steels me for the struggle ahead.
Jonathan Rosen's most recent book, The Talmud And The Internet: A Journey Between Worlds, has just been published in paperback.