Antisemitism's Severe Psychological Toll

Indeed, we are forced to ask: What faith can we now have in humanity?

We must, first and foremost, stop demanding that we be strong all the time. (photo: Levi Meir Clancy/Unsplash)

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This is a guest essay written by Benjamin Kerstein, an Israeli-American writer based in Tel Aviv and Recipient of the 2024 Louis Rapaport Award for Excellence in Commentary from the American Jewish Press Association.

You can also listen to the podcast version of this essay on Apple Podcasts, YouTube Music, YouTube, and Spotify.

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Collective psychology is hard to quantify and even harder to analyze.

In recent weeks, however, I’ve seen increasing anecdotal evidence that the current eruption of antisemitism is starting to take a severe psychological toll on all of us.

I have had friends tell me that they no longer feel at home anywhere. Others say that, in their darker moments, they no longer wish to be Jewish.

Every few weeks, and sometimes more often than that, I am told another horror story of an encounter with antisemitic protester-terrorism and the psychological damage it caused.

I cannot put all this down to coincidence. A larger phenomenon is at work. It is becoming universal.

It seems as if the breaking point was the Amsterdam pogrom. The sight of Jews being hunted and beaten on the streets of an ostensibly civilized city, and then the authorities’ insistence on blaming the violence on the Jews themselves, appears to have finally convinced many Jews that they have no place in an evil world. Worse still, since that evil world will never hold our enemies accountable for their crimes, that world is not just evil but ruled by injustice.

Moreover, with Israel under constant assault and its existence always precarious, many feel that their one place of refuge and justice remains existentially endangered. Israel’s recent military gains, which to my mind have proven conclusively that Israel is not only here to stay but is now the most powerful nation in the Middle East — whether the world likes it or not — have understandably gotten lost amid the endless series of traumas.

All of this, in other words, is getting to us.

In a sense, this isn’t surprising. In some ways, it’s surprising that it’s taken so long to get to us. Many people I know feel that everyone hates us and, while I know this is not entirely true, I certainly understand the sentiment.

What’s more, the implications of this are horrifying, because it means that the vast majority of humanity is — at least when it comes to the Jews — more or less completely insane. I regret to say that I cannot tell my friends that they’re wrong to believe this. Perhaps they are right to despair of mankind.

Indeed, we are forced to ask: What faith can we now have in humanity? Not, I regret to say, a very great deal.

I am reminded of a story famed Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel recounted of a meeting with the Lubavitcher Rebbe. Wiesel, who suffered a lifelong spiritual crisis due to his experience of the Shoah¹, asked the Rebbe how he could believe in God after the Holocaust. The Rebbe replied: “What do I have to believe in after the Holocaust except for God?” Man, the Rebbe felt, had condemned himself. Again, it’s difficult to say that he was wrong to think so.

Worst of all, perhaps, is the general sense of the endlessness of all this. There appears to be no light at the end of the tunnel. The world will never learn its lesson. This will never end. The antisemites intend to keep doing this forever. Again, I can’t say that this is an unreasonable position to take.

There is some comfort to be had, of course. It may not feel like it, but the Jews do have many friends. There are good people out there. Israel is strong and getting stronger. It has decimated many of its enemies. Unlike in the past, Jews have the power to fight back and win. We have each other as well. There is immense power in Jewish solidarity and our capacity to empathize with and support each other. It can salve many wounds.

Nonetheless, the pressing question is how to treat the immediate problem. It is easy enough to tell Jews that they should stand up for themselves, resist, get involved, join the struggle, and embrace pride in themselves and their heritage. A Jew can do all of this and our enemies will still be there. They may not be able to win, but they can take a terrible toll in lives and souls. The trauma is there whether we like it or not.

I confess that I do not have a single answer as to how to deal with all this. I do sense, however, that it involves acknowledgment. Jews often take pride in their capacity for endurance; the strength we have displayed by defying and surviving an evil world. But I think this is not enough.

We must, first and foremost, stop demanding that we be strong all the time. We have to grant ourselves the right to, at certain points, admit to our brokenness; to admit that we are not always strong, that sometimes it is too much for us, and that there is no shame in this. The Jews are a traumatized people and we cannot overcome that trauma until we acknowledge it emotionally rather than historically or politically.

The Jewish writer Ben Freeman has written eloquently on this subject and I will not seek to add to his analysis. I will note only, he once told me that truly dealing with our trauma will involve a certain cultural shift.

For some 3,000 years, the Jews have tended to deal with trauma by blaming themselves. As far back as biblical times, Jews usually ascribed their troubles to their failure to observe God’s laws and their constant backsliding into idolatry. They believed that their inability to live up to their side of the Covenant resulted in divine punishment and they had no one to blame but themselves.

Freeman told me, and I agree, that we must finally accept that this is not true. The problem isn’t us. Antisemitism is the fault of antisemites, not the Jews. The victim is not to blame.

Perhaps if we can make this shift, we can finally deal with our shame, anger, sadness, and horror at what has been done to us. This does not mean embracing victimhood and helplessness. It does not demand a lachrymose understanding of Jewish history that acknowledges only persecution and suffering.

It demands only that we admit that we are human too, because this is the only way to truly assert our humanity. It is the only way to demand that the world acknowledge the reality of what it has done and take some measures to alleviate it.

Our true enemies, of course, will never do this. But there are enough people who will to give us at least some hope. By acknowledging our pain rather than simply lamenting it, we demand that the world finally live up to its fine promises. If it chooses not to do so, we will at least know that we have been honest with the world and with ourselves. This is not a panacea, but there is, I think, a certain dignity and nobility in it. It is, above all, what the beleaguered Jews of today require.

Yes, it is getting to us. Yes, it has broken us to some extent. But then again, as the Kabbalists tell us, the world is broken, which means everyone is broken and everyone is allowed to be broken. It is what we do after we acknowledge our brokenness that decides everything.

At the moment, I do not know precisely what this should be, but I do know that it is time for us to ask the question. This, perhaps, is the first step towards answering it.

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1. The Hebrew word for the Holocaust