Perspectives on Syrian refugees: Finding commonality in Jewish history

In 1939, the United States denied entry to the MS St. Louis, a ship filled with Jewish refugees fleeing Nazi persecution. Half of the passengers subsequently perished in the Holocaust. In 2015, the now iconic image of a drowned Syrian child illustrated the human cost of the Syrian Civil War and the consequences of closed borders.

The parallels between these two historical tragedies are clear to most in the progressive community, but some in the Jewish community hesitate to draw too close a comparison between the experiences of Holocaust and Syrian refugees. Phoebe Maltz Bovy provides an example of the instinct to separate Jewish suffering from others in an article for The New Republic, even as she argues for an empathetic policy with regards to Syrian refugees. However, a Judaism of true solidarity and historical awareness will only come when we understand that our ancestors did not live and die in a vacuum, that their tragedy is inextricably linked with the pain of others, and that our history teaches us both to stand alongside, and identify with, victims of oppression.

This is a concern worth dwelling on, because Maltz Bovy marshals an important series of arguments. Lurking beneath these attempts to differentiate our ancestors from today’s refugees, there’s an unwillingness to write non-Jews into a Jewish story, to share ourselves with others. Many in the Jewish community fear that particularistic Jewish history will simply become universal history, no longer ours but everyone’s to leverage and interpret as they please. We worry that if we say each new atrocity evokes some historic harm against the Jews, we will lose our own exclusivity, and by extension our identity. The Holocaust and other instances of Jewish trauma will no longer be ours to mourn, our unique contribution to the tapestry of human suffering — but rather just another act of violence indistinguishable from all the others.

Many in our community see the St. Louis as a parable about the Jewish imperative to welcome refugees, and use it as a rallying cry to galvanize support for a more humane refugee policy. However, we should not forget a second, deeper insight of this episode, one that should imbue us with a deeper measure of solidarity as opposed to a continuation of the separateness we often view as the inevitable result of Jewish history. We must remember that Jews were not the only ones with cause to flee the Nazi regime. The Holocaust consumed five million non-Jews in addition to its six million Jewish victims. Our ancestors were imprisoned in camps alongside Roma, ethnic Poles and Slavs, LGBTQ people, Communists, and ideological dissidents. For many, the Pink Triangle is as notorious as the Yellow Star. Simply put, Jews and non-Jews share the Holocaust.

Acknowledging that our history is inseparable from the history of others opens us up to powerful lessons for how we can work most effectively for justice in today’s world. The impulse to separate ourselves from others is understandable. However, not only does it ignore the myriad ways our histories are intertwined, but it also prevents us from building a more powerful and united movement for change, because when we intertwine our narratives with those of other communities, we perform an act of radical solidarity. The barriers between us fall away as we allow ourselves to see the reflections of our ancestors and ourselves in others. We can speak in a common language of justice, and the full weight of our history becomes something we can summon to remind the world of what our ancestors (all of them) lived through. Suddenly none of us is alone—those that came before stand alongside all of us.

The value of intertwining histories is important to understand as the Jewish community grapples with its place in the debate about Syrian refugees. Admirably, many in the Jewish community have drawn upon our own experience as stateless refugees fleeing violence and oppression to argue for a policy of compassion and tolerance. Yet even as the Jewish community stands relatively united in condemning Donald Trump and the xenophobic right, we often do so in a way that continues to separate us from other communities. When we refuse to draw comparisons between others and ourselves, we tacitly reinforce a hierarchy of suffering, with Jews suffering a unique degree of oppression separated from others’ experiences by bright lines. When we reinforce these divisions, either tacitly or through explicit differentiation, we inhibit the true solidarity needed to confront this latest wave of hateful nativism.

I understand the worry that articulating the commonalities our story shares with others will diminish our story’s worth, but the truth is that emphasizing these commonalities will do the opposite. There is no better way to honor the struggles of those who came before us than by standing with those who struggle in similar ways today. By doing so we ensure that our past, and those that lived it, continue to live on and inspire new generations. Building these historical bridges is the best way to ensure that their stories continue to be told, and that their experiences continue to shape the world.

A number of organizations, including the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society (HIAS) and Bend the Arc, are engaged in this inspirational work. They remind the Jewish community, and the country as a whole, about the lessons that spring from our shared historical experiences. In doing so they strengthen today’s Jewish communities’ connection with our past, our connection with those who shared this past, and our connection with those who aspire to share a future. They also ensure that the world does not forget what we have been through, nor try and cordon it off and remember the specific events but willfully forget the lessons that follow.

We do our ancestors no favors by standing aside and letting others suffer as they did. Too many communities are forced to become fluent in the language of oppression. We are better off learning each other’s dialects, and not speaking in hushed whispers. Together we can speak loudly and proudly in a collective chorus, and in so doing come together to confront those who would do any of us harm.

 

Danny Blinderman graduated from Wesleyan University in 2014. He is currently a fellow with the JOIN for Justice organizing program.