IN SHYLOCK'S OWN WORDS

 

Living through these times has not been easy.

There is a growing sense that the world has become a more hostile place. I am speaking, of course, about the resurgence of antisemitism. Almost daily, we hear reports of attacks against Jews somewhere in the world. We see demonstrations by students, professors, politicians, activists, and celebrities condemning Israel, and, increasingly, Jews in general.

Whatever one's views on the actions of the State of Israel, and however legitimate some criticisms may be, it is difficult not to notice the double standard. Israel is often judged by criteria rarely applied to other nations engaged in conflicts that are equally tragic, bloody, and morally complex.

What troubles me most, however, is something more personal.

It is seeing people I respect - people I consider intelligent, compassionate, and fair-minded -suddenly speaking about Jews as though we were collectively responsible for every action of a government thousands of miles away.

Yet I cannot say I am surprised.

Members of minority groups learn early in life that acceptance is often conditional. Jews, Black people, Latinos, Roma, LGBTQ+ individuals, and countless others know that social acceptance can be fragile. Sometimes all it takes is a shift in political winds, an economic crisis, or a cultural upheaval for old prejudices to reemerge.

And sooner or later, every Jew asks the same question:

Why?

In 1596, William Shakespeare placed into the mouth of Shylock, the Jewish moneylender in The Merchant of Venice, one of the most powerful defenses of our common humanity ever written:

"Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die?"

More than four centuries have passed since Shakespeare wrote those words. Yet they remain astonishingly relevant.

If Jews are human beings like everyone else, why do we continue to be viewed differently?

Antisemitism is a peculiar form of prejudice. Unlike many other hatreds, it often disguises itself as reason. Its advocates rarely admit to hating Jews. Instead, they claim to oppose bankers, globalists, Zionists, capitalists, communists, intellectuals, or some other category that Jews have, at one time or another, been associated with. But the result is often the same: the tendency to hold an entire people responsible for problems that are infinitely more complex.

Part of the confusion may arise from the difficulty of defining exactly what a Jew is.

Many people assume Judaism is merely a religion. It is not.

Jews are also a people, a culture, a civilization, a shared history, and, for many, a national identity. We do not fit neatly into modern categories. We are not simply a faith, an ethnicity, or a nationality. We are, in varying degrees, all of these at once.

Perhaps that complexity has always made us difficult to understand.

A few days ago, here in Los Angeles, I attended the annual Critics Choice Association celebration honoring members of the LGBTQ+ community. As a longtime member of the organization, I was proud to be there.

Among the honorees was actress Hannah Einbinder, recognized for her work in Hacks. Hannah is Jewish and has been outspoken in her support for the Palestinian cause. During her introduction, a colleague highlighted her activism, and part of the audience responded with enthusiastic applause.

There was nothing wrong with that.

Yet as I watched the room react, I found myself reflecting on something larger.

We had gathered to celebrate a community that, like the Jewish people, has endured generations of discrimination, exclusion, and violence. And yet, even within a space dedicated to empathy and inclusion, one could sense how easily sympathy for one vulnerable group can coexist with suspicion, or even hostility, toward another.

As I sipped a glass of white wine, I was reminded of how often history repeats familiar patterns.

Jews number roughly sixteen million people in a world of more than eight billion. We represent about two-tenths of one percent of humanity, one of the smallest peoples on Earth.

And yet we occupy an extraordinary place in the world's imagination.

Few peoples are discussed as often. Few are scrutinized as intensely. Few are so frequently blamed for events far beyond their control.

I am not suggesting that Israel is above criticism. No nation is.

Nor am I suggesting that Jews are somehow better than anyone else. We are not.

We are simply human beings, with virtues and flaws, achievements and failures, wisdom and folly, just like everyone else.

Which brings me back to Shylock.

More than four hundred years ago, Shakespeare gave voice to a question that still echoes today. It is a question that remains unanswered:

If we have the same eyes, the same hands, the same hopes, the same fears, and the same capacity to suffer as everyone else, why are we still so often treated as something apart?

After a lifetime spent observing the world, as a writer, a traveler, and a Jew, I confess that I still do not know the answer.

I only know that Shylock's question remains as urgent today as it was in Shakespeare's time.