November 4, 2025

Precedent provides lifeblood for any democratic republic. Practicality dictates that only a limited number of government practices can be required or prohibited expressly by law. Such laws can be viewed as the “hardware” of government practice. But respect for tradition, the “software,” is critical as well. Harm to precedent may prove to be the most damaging legacy of the Trump years.

Trump is not the first president to trample precedent. Until Franklin Roosevelt’s 1940 re-election, no American president ever served more than two terms. When Washington created the precedent by leaving power voluntarily after his second term, he was hailed widely as a hero reminiscent of Roman General Cincinnatus. A Republican slogan from 1940 claimed that “Washington wouldn’t, Grant couldn’t and Roosevelt shouldn’t.” But in the wake of Hoover’s disastrous tenure and with European war threatening, Americans endorsed breaking the informal term limit. In the 1950s, with conservatives again ascendant, tradition-conscious Republicans codified the two-term limit in the 22nd Amendment.

New precedents can also become problematic. The means of managing potential criminality in the White House had never been fully established before Trump’s first term.

We may have benefitted from the absence of formal precedent. Presidents considering illegal action might be restrained by the fear of future prosecution. Indeed, Richard Nixon had been prosecuted for alleged Watergate crimes until pardoned by President Ford.

That pardon, however, was a one-off. A precedent emerged only in the Supreme Court’s 2023 ruling in Trump v. United States. The Court showed great deference for presidential power, shielding any actions potentially related to official presidential duties.

This unfortunate precedent now offers protection for presidents who would violate the law. They need only a fig leaf of legitimacy. Nixon once claimed falsely that, “when the President does it … it is not illegal.” The Supreme Court virtually endorsed that once dubious claim.

Ironically, an administration that undermines American political tradition also styles itself as conservative. Nothing could be less conservative than breaking precedents that protect us all. Conservative Republican office holders who would be expected to defend precedents have stayed on the sidelines. They know that Trump’s power in their party is so undisputed that he can “primary” any of them and end their careers.

In a recent exception, Senator Cruz of Texas protested FCC Chair Brendan Carr’s threat to the Jimmy Kimmel Show’s broadcast rights. Cruz warned correctly that nixing shows expressing liberal views might create a precedent that could threaten conservative shows in a future Democratic administration. Good point. But where are Cruz and others on Trump’s sending unwanted federal troops to American cities and exploiting federal research funds to promote an ideologic agenda at American universities?

Political re-districting poses perhaps the greatest threat to American governmental traditions.

Political re-districting poses perhaps the greatest threat to American governmental traditions. In the past, no matter how foolish the government’s actions seemed, the next election offered voters the unfettered option to “throw the bums out” and change directions.

Until now.

At Trump’s behest, Republicans in Texas have broken the longstanding tradition that re-districting occurs every ten years following the census. That practice made simple sense, as the census can change the number of districts and require new maps. Under Texas’s previous Congressional district map, the 42% of Democrats voting for Harris in the 2024 election controlled only 29% of Texas’s congressional seats. With the new hyper-partisan districting, the 42% are expected to control only 21% of the seats. The Texas scheme takes the hands of the voters off the levers of power. If competitive, hyper-partisan districting becomes the norm, fair and truly representative government my prove difficult to restore.

This November Californians face a difficult choice. They can stand aside and ignore the redistricting in Texas and Missouri. Or they can break our non-partisan re-districting precedent to counterbalance anti-democratic changes elsewhere. Control of the House of Representatives and a potential critical check on Trump’s power are at stake.

Are Democrats just using the crisis as an excuse to rid the state’s delegation of Republicans? No.  If they were, they would not have included a provision restoring non-partisan re-districting in 2030. That feature reflects hope for restoration of political fair play in a post-Trump America.

Should Californians sacrifice our non-partisan practices to resist Trump’s assault on our political traditions? Though we might prefer even-handed politics, you cannot bring boxing’s Marquis of Queensbury rules to a knife fight.

Dr. Daniel Stone is Regional Medical Director of Cedars-Sinai Valley Network and a practicing internist and geriatrician with Cedars Sinai Medical Group. The views expressed in this column do not necessarily reflect those of Cedars-Sinai.

Recently, I read Ayelet Tsabari’s “Songs for the Brokenhearted.” It’s a novel about grief and love, mothers and daughters, and the complexities of Sephardi and Israeli identity — set, in part, in 1995. One thread follows a teenage boy drawn into the same ideological currents that gave rise to Yigal Amir. As I read, I found myself traveling back in time: from Petah Tikvah to Jerusalem to the Tel Aviv peace rally that changed history — and changed me.

Perhaps the book especially resonated because I spent the summer of 1994 in Israel. It was a season that now feels almost euphoric. The first Oslo Accords had been signed, and hope was palpable everywhere. I remember climbing Masada at sunrise and being told we’d have to descend early: King Hussein of Jordan was coming. The impossible suddenly seemed possible.

A year later, in November 1995, I was in my New York apartment when the news came of Rabin’s assassination. I remember the darkened room, the walk to the Israeli Consulate, the swollen eyes after Rabin’s funeral. That night, I understood that my identity was bound to am Yisrael — that when Israel mourned, I mourned too.

While I am neither historian nor political analyst, I am not alone in saying that Rabin’s death changed the course of Israeli history. Even today — maybe especially today — the “what ifs” still reverberate across Israeli society and Jewish communities around the world. Looking back, I can trace the ways I was profoundly changed on and by that night; I leave it to the scholars to do the same for Israel and world Jewry.

This fall, as the 30th anniversary approached, I found myself drawn to “Class of 95/Machzor 95″— a collection of Israeli poetry that looks back on that night and all it changed. Reading it, I was struck by how the voices of that generation — the ones who came of age in that grief — are still asking the same questions I am: what broke that night, and what might still be repaired.

And yet, even as I write this, I can still hear that song — the one Rabin sang just moments before he was shot: “Shir LaShalom,” the song for peace. I can hear the crowd’s voices rising, the paper lyrics fluttering in the night air like fragile prayers. “Don’t say the day will come — bring the day.”

Since Oct. 7, 2023, I’ve thought often of that night — and of how the crowds still gather in Tel Aviv, not in Kikar Rabin but in Kikar HaChatufim, Hostages Square. Different plaza, different decade — but the same ache in the air, the same need to stand shoulder to shoulder and sing. I think of what it means to be a part, deeply, of am Yisrael — to love, to grieve and still to yearn for the promise of Medinat Yisrael.

Maybe that’s what endures: the insistence that we keep showing up, keep singing. That to believe in peace, after all that has been shattered, might seem naïve but is actually holy. That the act of standing together — with candles, with songs, with tears — is itself a form of faith.

Thirty years later, I still believe the melody matters. To remember, to grieve, to dream — and to keep singing “Shir LaShalom,” even when the harmony feels impossible. Because hope, too, is a form of courage.

“Don’t whisper a prayer —
sing a song for peace with a loud shout.
Don’t say the day will come —
bring the day.
Because it is not a dream —
and in all the city squares,
sing only for peace.”

(“Shir LaShalom,” Lyrics: Yaakov Rotblit; Music: Yair Rosenblum)

To the memory and legacy of Yitzchak Rabin, z”l. 

Rabbi Sari Laufer is the Chief Engagement Officer at Stephen Wise Temple and Schools in Los Angeles.