The New Anti-Semitism: an article

washingtonpost.com

The New Anti-Semitism

By Denis MacShane
Tuesday, September 4, 2007; A17

Hatred of Jews has reached new heights in Europe and many points south and east of the old continent. Last year I chaired a blue-ribbon committee of British parliamentarians, including former ministers and a party leader, that examined the problem of anti-Semitism in Britain. None of us are Jewish or active in the unending debates on the Israeli-Palestinian question.

Our report showed a pattern of fear among a small number of British citizens -- there are around 300,000 Jews in Britain, of whom about a third are observant -- that is not acceptable in a modern democracy. Synagogues attacked. Jewish schoolboys jostled on public transportation. Rabbis punched and knifed. British Jews feeling compelled to raise millions to provide private security for their weddings and community events. On campuses, militant anti-Jewish students fueled by Islamist or far-left hate seeking to prevent Jewish students from expressing their opinions.

More worrisome was what we described as anti-Jewish discourse, a mood and tone whenever Jews are discussed, whether in the media, at universities, among the liberal media elite or at dinner parties of modish London. To express any support for Israel or any feeling for the right of a Jewish state to exist produces denunciation, even contempt.

Our report sent a shock wave through the British government. Tony Blair called us in and told his staff to fan out throughout government departments and produce answers to the problems we outlined. To Britain's credit, the Blair administration produced a formal government response setting out tough new guidelines for the police to investigate anti-Semitic attacks and for universities to stop anti-Jewish ideology from taking root on campuses. Britain's Foreign Office has been told to protest to Arab states that allow anti-Jewish broadcasts.

We made clear that criticism of actions of Israeli politicians was not off-limits. On the contrary, we noted that some of the strongest criticisms of Israeli policy come from Israeli campuses, journalists and political activists, and from the Jewish intellectual elite of many countries. American universities have provided a base for Noam Chomsky and the late Edward Said, among others, to launch campaigns of criticism against Israel, and the bulk of the West's university intelligentsia remains hostile to the Jewish state.

Tony Blair's successor as British prime minister, Gordon Brown, recently said in London that he stood with Israel "in bad times as well as good times," and one of the remarkable turnarounds of the new Labor leadership that governs Britain is a strong support for Israel and its commitment to combating anti-Semitism. The problem is worse in other European countries. The Polish politician, Maciej Marian Giertych, recently published a pamphlet under the auspices of the European Parliament that attacked Jews. No action has been taken against him. France and Germany have seen anti-Jewish attacks. Some references to Jews in the Lithuanian press do not bear translating.

Europe is reawakening its old demons, but today there is a difference. The old anti-Semitism and anti-Zionism have morphed into something more dangerous. Anti-Semitism today is officially sanctioned state ideology and is being turned into a mobilizing and organizing force to recruit thousands in a new crusade -- the word is chosen deliberately -- to eradicate Jewishness from the region whence it came and to weaken and undermine all the humanist values of rule of law, tolerance and respect for core rights such as free expression that Jews have fought for over time.

The president of Iran is the most odious example of this new state-sanctioned anti-Semitism. But from the Egyptian Writers Union to the notorious anti-Jewish articles in the charters of Hamas and Hezbollah, hatred of Jews is an integral element of a new ideology rising to prominence in many regions of the world.

Democracies always take their time, often too much time, to recognize and face a totalitarian threat when it is posed in ideological terms. In prewar Europe, conservatives were soft on right-wing ideologies because they were seen as being anti-communist and anti-labor. In postwar Europe, socialists were soft on the Soviet Union because the communists appeared to challenge capitalism and imperialism. Today there is still denial about the universal ideology of the new anti-Semitism. It has power and reach, and it enters into the soft underbelly of the Western mind-set that does not like Jews or what Israel does to defend its right to exist.

A counterattack is being organized. My own House of Commons has led the way with its report. The 47-nation Council of Europe, on which I sit as a British representative, has launched a lengthy inquiry into combating anti-Semitism in Europe. The European Union has produced a directive outlawing Internet hate speech originating within its jurisdiction.

We are at the beginning of a long intellectual and ideological struggle. It is not about Jews or Israel. It is about everything democrats have long fought for: the truth without fear, no matter one's religion or political beliefs. The new anti-Semitism threatens all of humanity. The Jew-haters must not pass.

The writer is a Labor member of the British House of Commons and has served as Britain's Europe minister.

A Sample of Absolutely Atrocious Poetry

by our new celebrity judge of poetry entries in the UNOFFICIAL MAD HATTERS'REVIEW ABSOLUTELY ATROCIOUS CLICHES CONTEST

A Mystical Moment

By Stephen Morse

The diaphanous butterfly in the night's rose-garden
fans lightly the faery blessed stem of some foreign

flower planted lustfully in a random miasmatic fitfulness
by the heavy thighed, scaly man, confident in his loathsomeness.

The almost tumescent butterfly remembers the heaving of oceans
the dark waters dragged fitfully by unending moons and delicate
notions,

the nascent moments unjoyously heralding the fall of infinite Edens,
the heaving and falling of many delicately penetrated maidens.

The echo of pollen laden wings beat softly, mourning the beast lover
who posed as a friend until the sated Unicorn within sighed, "it's over"

The heart broken butterfly beats a delicately silent pantomime of
loneliness
in the night rose-garden's sweet, erotic, dark crystal of shattered
fantasies.

You will always be remembered in the dark times ahead.

ANNOUNCING THE UNOFFICIAL MHR ABSOLUTELY ATROCIOUS CLICHES CONTEST

The Unofficial MHR Absolutely Atrocious Cliches Contest

Submit one micro flash (under 500 words) or poem (under 500 words) to madhattersreivew@gmail.com, subject line: Absolutely Atrocious Cliches Contest.

We gotta raise some money in order to continue publishing our out of this cyberworld mag, so I'm asking for $3.00 per piece to enter (via paypal to madhattersreview@gmail.com) if you want your entries to be considered for publication. Send no money if you simply want me to post your stuff on my blog here, at my whim and wish.

One absolutely atrocious poem and one absolutely atrocious fiction/whatnot will be chosen by an undisclosed judging committee of one, two, or three (whomever we can get). There may or may not be Honorable Mentions. MHR reserves the right to decline from publishing any entries if none of them meets the abyssmal standard set by the undisclosed judging committee. Editors of MHR (past, future, and present) may not enter the contest. Barking dogs, spitting, forni*at**g, and sm*king are not allowed.

Deadline: January 1, 2008

Here's a sample of an AAC fiction.

Satisfaction

By Carol Novack (original version published in Skive a long time ago)

We walked along the beach, holding hands. The sun was descending into the sea, offering a rosy fingered, late summer sunset that promised an autumn of shiny red apples and colorful, dappled, falling leaves. Nicole and I had met only hours before and already we knew that we were destined to be together forever. Her long golden hair gleamed in the rays of the sighing sun; her hand was feverish in mine. She stooped to pick up a clam shell and smiled as she brushed off the tiny dots of ancient mountains.

“Oh, Maurice,” she exclaimed. “This will be our first shell. We shall keep it on the mantelpiece and guard it as a legacy to our grandchildren.”

I smiled as I gazed into her blue eyes, the color of the western sky back in Arizona, where I was raised. I thought of those days of hardship, my poor, skeleton of a mother, cook, laundress and tender of pigs. And my salesman father, with his callous hands and birch canes. I remembered his sour whisky breath, how he’d return from his trips, cursing. Me and my six brothers and sisters would attempt to flee the minute he entered the house, bellowing for his dinner and his whiskey. Mom would stand by the door, meek as a mouse, her tongue caught by Tom, the housecat.

“Oh mamma, oh mamma,” I would plead, “don’t let the dog in, please, oh mamma.”

I would crawl on the ground and clasp her spindly legs in my arms. But she wouldn’t listen. She’d brush me off like a fly. Like she was in a trance, she let the dog of my father in and gave him whatever he wanted, which never satisfied the old man. Nothing satisfied him. So he killed my mother one day. But they could never find him.

Nicole sensed that I wasn’t altogether there, by the sea. She squeezed my hand so hard I had to laugh. And then suddenly, without warning, she stripped off her nifty Ralph Lauren jeans and diaphanous, gossamer Calvin Klein top. I gazed at the bursting brown bud nipples of her opulent breasts as she pulled me down onto the warm sand. A gull screeched happily as we kissed deep and long as eternity. I knew then that I was nothing like my old man. I was satisfied as the sun disappeared beneath the pounding waves.

some excerpts from my novel/la in progress

"Beautiful Hair"

The protagonist of this novel/la is Anna, a troubled young woman suspected of murdering Theresa, a young hair stylist (she'd stalked a few hair stylists before the murder). The following excerpts depict events ostensibly occurring after Anna's fled home (queens, ny) -- before the cops burst into her apartment in order to arrest her.

The Mothers

The mothers of Theresa, Lydia, Cherrie, Suzanne, Deb, Dolores, Fifi, and Tanya sit on plastic covered floral sofas and chairs in Mrs. Rodriguez’s living room in Sunnyside, Queens. The mothers have been re-arranging themselves on furniture in various living rooms in Queens and Brooklyn once a month, since the fatal day. Together, they plot and pray for revenge: Dear God, lend us light and insight to find the unholy, the unspeakably horrible she-beast in her lair. Together, the women discover an intoxicating surge of power and strength each alone would never feel. They wear black on this day, the first anniversary of Theresa’s murder, resemble widows who huddle on the doorsteps of white stone houses on Mediterranean islands. The topic of husbands has never arisen. Occasionally, one can hear a key opening the front door and assume.

Cherrie’s mother Doris, with three daughters, an MBA, and a penthouse apartment in Bayside, has emerged as the unchallenged leader. She knows the weather of the mothers. It’s hot and muggy today, scalding from the memory of scissors in a daughter’s heart. The weather turns dangerous during the viewing of Theresa’s childhood bedroom, a study in pink, now a shrine laid out with vases of polyester flowers, stuffed animals in various degrees of decomposition, a large golden crucifix, and photographs in gaudy faux gold frames. The mothers emit an inaudible moan as they enter the room. Some cross themselves, some cry. Theresa’s mother Carmen breaks down completely, sobbing and raging in equal measure. Then abruptly there is silence. Doris’s voice reigns, gathers the collective, herds them back to the living room. Carmen serves rum, tea, and cupcakes with sprinkles.

Doris reports: “As usual ladies, there is no news from the District Attorney … well, it’s even worse than that. When I called last week and managed to get by his secretary, he fed me the same line he’s been feeding us since the getgo. We all agree it’s a lost cause. He doesn’t care. Since the murder of the young stylist in Long Island City, he’s been focusing on other suspects, particularly one now. He makes short shrift of the evidence against the woman and has called off the hunt. We, of course, are wiser. And we are clever. Let’s proceed at full throttle, relying only on ourselves.”

Tanya’s mother Alla responds: “Yes, it’s time we set our plans in operation. Already, we have mothers in Bolivia, Mexico, Argentina, and Brazil.”

Dolores’s mother Maria adds: “We also have mothers in Trinidad, Martinique, Equador and Peru.”

Carmen says she’s making contacts in Guadeloupe, Uruguay and the Dominican Republic.

Lydia’s mother Adelaide pipes in: “.Cuba is difficult, but who knows with the woman? They say she went on protests.”

The Mother’s Network, as the women call their organization, is growing, gathering members like a chain letter that threatens violent death if it’s not forwarded for additional signatures. The mothers in cities will contact their relatives and friends in villages. They have photographs of the freak, with and without that violent red hair. It’s only a matter of time, assuming she’s somewhere south of the border.”

The Ugly Man

In the town of V, Ramon sits on his verandah, watching and waiting. She will soon pass by, the young American woman with hair like flames. He knows the hours she works, is intimate with her ways. She has never looked at him. Indeed, she appears to hasten her step when she nears his house, proceeding down the road to her modest, dilapidated apartment. The man is mustering courage to invite her to join him; perhaps she would care for a cool rum cocktail on this sweltering summer’s day. Instead, he does nothing when she passes by. Not today, possibly never. What was he thinking? He is too ugly for such fantasies. He has always been hideous, too short for a male, born with a hair-lip, deformed feet, respected for his brains, but shunned for his body. Even his ostensibly adoring students avoid looking at “el profesor horroroso.”

Ramon sighs, picks up the dog-eared Maupassant short story collection he’s been reading over and over again since he was a child. Maupassant’s tales about cruel egoists are hardly conducive to the acquisition of high spirits, he thinks. So he pours himself a rum and coke. It makes him sleepy. He pours another, hoping that it will dull his mind and quiet his incomprehensible emotions. Ramon has been burning for a connection with this woman, and has no idea why. He can only feel the reason: a poetry of sorrow that emanates from her, haunting him like the pale, delicate aura of a ghost without a home in family, place, or self.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ramon’s Dream

There is a woman on my verandah, more of a shadow than a woman. She is plunging scissors into a giant pomegranate or maybe a breast; I can’t tell. The pomegranate breast bursts. Its blood and seeds flood the verandah. I lie in bed, paralyzed. I try to move as the blood rushes indoors, coursing through the veins of the house like a river fleeing from an angry moon. I remember why I can’t move. My mother amputated my horrible feet, calling the act a mercy killing. Meanwhile, the blood has arrived at the top of the mattress. It smells meaty and sour, like menstrual blood.

The woman shadow moves into the house, rides the river into my room and lies down beside me. The blood has disappeared but for a trickle emerging from her vagina. I am looking into her vagina, which I’ve parted with my hands. There is a knitting needle inside that I remove carefully. The woman shadow cries in pain as a large, malformed fetus crawls out of her vagina. The fetus leaps off the bed and onto the rug. It starts to scream, its face growing redder and redder. It continues, but the woman’s breasts are vacant of nourishment and I have no milk in the house.

That is all I remember, he tells Anna, as she lies asleep beside him. More a shadow than a woman, one would think, though miserably real; he understands intuitively what she does not want him to know. She doesn’t stir when he leans over to rest his head on her belly, hoping to hear a tiny heartbeat in her womb. He hears nothing. She sleeps on her back, always rigid, hands clenched, mouth tight.

Once Upon a Time

Anna would tell this story:

There was once a man in a country far from here. He made me trust him, knew how to manipulate me with his tender, melodic voice, his erudition and honed affectation as a “gentleman.” We’d been drinking cocktails as the dog day summer’s day melted into night. I felt relaxed, almost limp, and I’d begun to imagine I was in love with this man, though I was wary of his mother. She was out to get me. I knew she was, though he never said so.

The man coaxed me into his bedroom, confessed he’d never done it with a woman. One night, when he was 18 and drunk, he’d scrutinized a ewe’s vagina, wondering whether it resembled a woman’s. I lay stiff as a dead snake as he undressed me with his large, hairy hands, and removed his clothes. Told me I had skin, smooth and white, like a carp’s flesh. His large hands massaged my head, shoulders, breasts, stomach, and thighs, as though he were molding me into a being of his own creation. He gazed at me too intently and he was salavating, so I closed my eyes.

He was an unsightly man, with a big red, hair-lipped mouth, small, squinty eyes, and deformed feet. Terrible skin, as though his mother’s womb had burned him on his way out of it. But I’d grown accustomed to his external appearance, or so I thought. Considering my own shortcomings, how could I be so foolish and arrogant as to dwell on his?

He brushed his lips over my body, this man, turned me around, covered every inch. I didn’t understand what was overcoming me as I breathed in his meaty, sour scent, so strong I could barely exhale. Odd how his scent had seemed enticing, even delicate. He tried to push his cock inside me, but could scarcely penetrate. I was dry and kept my eyes closed like lids on coffins as he tried to fuck me, repeatedly thrusting. I wished I had a knife, but didn’t have any idea what I’d do with one. I was paralyzed, unable to do anything. Finally, he gave up. When I opened my eyes, he was crying quietly. We dressed in silence and I knew I’d never see him again. I left the town the next evening, refusing to pick up the phone. I knew they’d come after me. Well, at least she would: the vengeful mother. Always those mothers, like the dogs on the other sides of the borders.