Why I Don’t Use the Word ‘Antisemitism’

On a normal day, I get about a dozen screeds like the one I’ve shared at the end of this essay.

I was asked recently — by someone less experienced than I in receiving blathering screeds — what the best response is to “antisemitism.” I won’t tell you everything I wrote to her, but I’ll start by reiterating my feelings about the word antisemitism. I try my best to use another term. It’s simple and far more direct: Jew-hater.

The term antisemitism was coined in 1879 by the German agitator Wilhelm Marr to give the dislike of Jews a pseudoscientific gloss and to strip Jews of their unique identity — casting them instead as just another desert tribe. The man was not our friend. 

Secondly, to call someone an antisemite these days is not only toothless — given the term’s ubiquity — but it’s also become a badge of honor for many. Yes, some might say we needn’t quibble over words, but words are how we communicate. Their misuse, their erosion, is not merely inconvenient — it is dangerous. Look at what’s happened to the word genocide. It has lost both its meaning and its moral force.

Third — and I’ve been harping on this for years — when our attention is drawn constantly to those who hate us, when it’s directed at our foes (yes, foes are fair game; lines have been drawn), rather than to the traditions, customs, and singular strengths of our peoplehood, our unity falters.

It’s a simple fact of life: if we’re constantly alert to the negatives in our lives, we will be riven through with cortisol, unable to think, to love, to nurture, or to evince our humanity. Our task, among other things, is not to obsess over those who wish to destroy us, but to become more Jewish — to observe Shabbat and other traditions, to study from the vast, timeless treasury of wisdom passed down by our forefathers and foremothers.

Okay, I get it. You’re not religious. You’re a modern person, fully adapted to modernity, and you feel that ancient rites — and the generations upon generations of Einsteins — have nothing to teach you. But this is who you are. This is who your grandparents, great-grandparents, and great-great-grandparents were — going back 3,000 years. And these very things — Shabbat, Torah, prayer — are what they hoped for, prayed for, died for. They expected that you would care deeply about them, and pass them on to your children, and your children’s children.

I often ask myself: did people in 1525 think they were unquestionably modern too? Of course they did. Everyone who isn’t rooted in the past or thinking about the future lives in a kind of void space, a numbness — circumscribed by the prison of the present.

I’m not a mystic or a prophet — God knows, I can hardly remember where I last left my car keys — but I do have my eyes and ears open at least a little. I assume you do too. You see the times we’re living in … how should I put this … have become quite different from the way we assumed they would be when we were growing up — even from just a few years ago.

Our expectations for the future — a safe, peaceable time, free from the horrors of the 1930s — have, if not exploded, then at least had a match lit beneath them. The fuse is burning toward the bomb.

That is why I write about this subject so often.

Israel, Jews.

Israel, Jews!

Enough already — why doesn’t Himmelman shut up and go back to writing songs?

All good questions. They’re ones I ask myself. But the thing is, for me at least, the music business — such as it is — along with the very idea of living a carefree, creative life, is like sitting with perfect sangfroid on my living room couch while my bedroom is on fire.

It’s not possible.

So, back to my original premise: how do we respond to the hate, to the insanity, to the onslaught of vitriol?

1. Make sure you can protect yourself and your family.

2. Stay awake and aware.

3. Don’t engage directly with it. Don’t drive yourself crazy — as I have admittedly done — debating or responding to every vitriolic screed that comes your way.

4. Think instead about becoming more Jewish, in whatever way feels right for you. Most of all, don’t be afraid to speak out.

5. Imagine how your ancestors are looking at you right now.

6. Think about what it means to be proud. To be strong.

7. Our unity doesn’t come from shared oppression. It comes from shared values. That’s what makes us unique. We are a Tribe, a Peoplehood of 15 to 20 million. Not a lot for a religion. But it’s an amazing number for a tribe — a tribe with 15 million extraordinary members.

As promised, here is a section of the letter I recently received (author’s name omitted — why give this great moral thinker the publicity?):

“It’s odd that you want the world to rise up against Palestine but you shrug off the thousands of rapes and murders by Israel upon innocent civilians. For f—’s sake, they’re raping doctors to death … You would think history would make Israel less likely to commit their own holocaust, but it seems to be the opposite. It was never about Hamas. But it sure is a good recruitment tool …”

My response? You just read it.

Am Yisrael Chai.

Peter Himmelman is a Grammy and Emmy nominated rock and roll performer, songwriter, film composer, visual artist and award-winning author. He has been profiled in Time Magazine, Rolling Stone, The Wall Street Journal, Tablet, and NPR. His newest book is: “Suspended By No String: A Songwriter’s Refections On Faith, Aliveness, and Wonder” (Regalo Press/Simon and Schuster)