Not the New Jerusalem: American Political Development and the Jewish Experience

A few years ago, I felt like I was struck by lightning when I read Malcolm Feeley’s opening keynote address at a conference, published in the Boston Law Review. Along with many interesting ideas, Feeley tackles a perennial question in punishment studies–namely, American exceptionalism. How can we be the only Western industrialized country that has retained the death penalty? How can we be the world leader in mass incarceration, leaving Western industrialized countries so far behind?

A seasoned comparative political thinker, with a mind that quickly traverses time and place, Feeley rejects American exceptionalism as a framework for discussing these questions. Instead, he joins forces with a valuable perspective in political science, American Political Development, which seeks to strip American political science scholarship from its rosy-eyed, idealized perspectives on America, and look at it instead through the same rigorous methodologies that we use to study other countries in the world.

The best way to explain the standpoint of American Political Development is to remember a wonderful column Joshua Keating used to write for Slate called If It Happened There, in which Keating covers current events as we would if they had happened in a foreign country. This, for example, is how Keating covered SCOTUS in 2016:

The nine unelected justices who sit for lifetime terms on the Supreme Court are tasked with ensuring that laws passed by the democratically elected government don’t violate the ancient juridical texts upon which the country’s laws are based. As such, they wield immense powers and have the ability to overrule even the president himself. The aged, scholarly jurists, cloaked in long black robes, conduct their deliberations behind closed doors, shielded from the scrutiny of the media, and their most important decisions are often released to the public with great drama but little warning. 

When we read this text, it’s worth asking ourselves: what makes it funny? It will ruin the joke, but it will bring about greater understanding. Can you tell the slightly smug, condescending, patronizing voice, the disrespect for the country’s sanctified constitution, etc.? This is the tone we use to talk about those whom we consider “less than.”

It’s no coincidence that Keating wrote some of his best columns during the first Trump administration, when it was easy to patronizingly lampoon the looney-tunes headlines and the eau-de-banana-republic was especially pungent. By now we’re used to it, and it’s probably no coincidence that I’m writing this on January 21, 2025, a day after we were treated to this word salad. Thing is, the more used to are to this, the more ridiculous and quaint it seems to wonder why the U.S. seems so out-of-step with Western Europe. If anything, the fair question is: why not compare the U.S. to countries that share more similarities with it?

This is exactly the question Feeley raises in his keynote speech, and he answers it in true APD fashion: it’s not that America is unique – it’s that we’ve been comparing it to the wrong type of country. North America is best understood in comparison to… South America. We’ve tended to view North America as part of the “global North”, contrasted to “the global South,” the latter typically characterized by political instability, high level of interpersonal violence, wide gaps in income, and painful histories of slavery and racial oppression. But an unflinching gaze at the U.S. can’t but lead to the conclusion that, as Feeley explains, “by many of the indicators I have set out above, the United States is ranked well below Western Europe, and toward the Latin American end of the spectrum.” Incidentally, this sort of diagnosis led me elsewhere to speculate that Israel’s tendency to borrow, and sometimes adopt, ineffective–and sometimes outright destructive–criminal justice trends from the U.S. stems not from the latter being a good role model, but from the pathologies the two countries share: you guessed it, political instability, high levels of interpersonal violence, a history of colonialism and infighting, wide gaps in income, an abundance of weapons in civilian hands, and a legacy of police overreach and abuse excused as a national security imperative.

What does all of this have to do with Jewish experiences and Jewish thought? At HUC rabbinical school (which we started earlier this month to great fanfare, hooray! What an excellent program and amazing classmates!), we’ve just started taking American Jewish Thought with Prof. Michael Marmur. Our journey started with the question whether there is something idiosyncratic, different, unique, about the Jewish experience–and Jewish thought–in America.

In the 1950s, when American exceptionalism was a dominant perspective in political science, it extended to a variety of contexts, one of them being the Jewish experience in America. Ben Halpern wrote a famous 1955 essay titled “America Is Different” (later to appear in his book), in which he identified certain idiosyncrasies about American Jewry compared to Europe. American Jewry, Halpern argued, was younger (it had celebrated its tricentennial in the 1950s, and the bulk of immigration and institutions dated only to the 19th century); it did not have to face an emancipatory struggle as in European countries, as there was never a divisive moment involving Jews in America. Assimilation happened within one generation, which meant no long “culture of the ghetto” evolved. And any development of Zionism or anti-Zionism occurred against this backdrop, rather than against the backdrop of nationalistic antisemitism as in Europe.

Some of these points are well taken, and were echoed (in more nuanced tones) by later commenters. For example, in How America Met the Jews, Hasia Diner, who by no means hails the U.S. as a “new Jerusalem,” does point to a few idiosyncrasies, again, through a comparison to Europe. First, she points to the centrality and nature of immigration to America–en masse and, at least regarding its critical mass, over a relatively short period of time. Second, the nation’s enduring obsession with color, where Jews don’t quite fit the framework through which race, racism, and race scholarship operate. Third, American materialism, which is linked to its economic materialism, as a way to assimilate and advance. Fourth, the American religious landscape, which by default and design fostered the existence of multiple denominations–of Jews and of everyone else (which created egalitarian opportunities for women in Jewish congregations where none were available elsewhere in the world). And fifth, the two-party system in America’s political life.

Others, however, critiqued these perspectives to point out that the wholesale comparison between the U.S. and Europe is too generalized and does not acknowledge variation across space and time. Tony Michels, for example, points out that comparing one country to an entire continent makes no sense; indeed, comparing the Jewish experience in the U.S. to that of cities such as Odessa and St. Petersburg reveals scenarios that evince similar degrees of independence and success. Michels also argues that many of the rosier accounts of Jewish assimilation minimize the levels and vehemence of American antisemitism, which was far from negligible, sometimes violent, and certainly destructive when considering America’s inaction during WWII. Even the idea of an immediate emancipation as unique has its detractors: David Sorkin identifies times and places in which “port Jewry” experienced similar rapid assimilation and relative success, as well as places within the U.S. where state law affirmed and cemented institutional antisemitism (e.g., job and education caps).

Reading Michels and Sorkin made me think of APD and of Feeley’s alternative comparison. There are valid points made on behalf of exceptionalism and on behalf of similarities between U.S. Jewish experiences and perspectives in other times and places in Europe. But what if the problem is that we’ve missed out on a far more relevant, and useful, comparison–that is, again, between North and South America?

Here are some similarities that might have an important impact on assimilation, immigration experience, political and theological ideologies, etc. North and South America include many countries with legacies of slavery, colonialism, and civil war that did not involve Jews in any meaningful way. As is the case with the U.S.’s obsession with color and race, and the painful enduring legacy of slavery and the Civil War, many South American countries experienced violent struggles for liberation from the European metropoles, which bore strong elements of indigenous rights. The Americas did not experience a full-blown holocaust, though the specter of escaped Nazis hiding in Brazil and Argentina would be a factor here, and in both parts of the continent there was a critical mass of people arrived from Europe with the legacy of the Holocaust. In many of these countries, the Jewish newcomers could not be calibrated or perceived according to the existing racial hierarchies and benefitted from being coded white, or at least non-native; and all these countries have legacies of political violence and police overreach, as well as bouts of scary unrest, which can be alarming to immigrants and incentivize people to color within the lines in their adopted countries.

I thought that having grown up in Ecuador and Barbados, and experienced the Jewish community there through my dad’s performing rabbinical functions de facto in those places and others, made the South American comparison more salient for me, but it turns out (of course) that I was not the only one. In his fantastic book The Seventh Heaven, Ilan Stavans offers a travelogue/ethnography of the diverse Jewish experience in Latin America, which includes in-depth analysis of specific places and times that defy the “new Jerusalem” narrative. In the introduction to his book, he talks candidly about how Trump’s ascent (and the parallel animus on the left) resembled other global developments:

There are, of course, important differences (aren’t there always? if everything were the same, would we even need analogies?), and I think many of them are a factor of scale. The U.S. has the second-largest concentration of Jews in the world, whereas the numbers of Jews in South American countries are much smaller. Institutionally speaking, this means Jews in the U.S. can organize and speak more effectively than in South America. There’s also the fact that the ubiquity and prominence of mainstream Protestant Christianity in the U.S. impacts how other religions (including Judaism) are practiced, whereas in Latin America the dominant culture is Catholic Christianity (with some important syncretic elements). But I still think the comparison is worthwhile, and I plan to keep it in mind whenever I feel myself succumbing to the delusion that what is happening here is nonpareil and special. In some ways, of course it is. But unique features do not mean that there is nothing to learn from other times and places–in criminal justice, in theology, in political thought.

Book Review: Zohar Gazit’s A Struggle to the Death

Following the tragic passing of my father, I spent a lot of time thinking about mourning rituals, and particularly about the invaluable work of Menuha Nekhona (“A Righteous Rest”), the all-volunteer organization that runs the secular-civil cemetery in my parents’ town. I was so impressed with them that I started drafting a book proposal about secular burials in Israel, but a few days later found out that someone has already written a book about alternatives to religiously sanctioned deaths: Zohar Gazit’s A Struggle to the Death (Tel Aviv: Resling, 2016) (Hebrew.) The original title, “Osim et HaMavet” (“making death”) is a double entendre: it’s a figure of speech meaning “haranguing someone” and also, in this context, implies the creative remaking of a hegemonic ritual in a way that fits the needs and concerns of deeply underserved populations.

Gazit’s book, which is based on his doctoral dissertation, examines three alternative death initiatives: in addition to Menuha Nekhona, he looks at Path to Life, an organization devoted to the healing and welfare of family survivors of suicide and to the destigmatizing of these deaths, and at Lilach, an organization promoting death with dignity (passive euthanasia) for terminally ill patients. Gazit’s theoretical framework heavily relies on Bordieu’s “field” concept (what sociological work doesn’t?) and shows the complicated relationship that each of these organizations has with the death “field.” All three of these organizations struggle against the hegemonic death rituals and perceptions in Israeli society: the religious concept of suicide (and any other actively chosen form of death, including some forms of euthanasia) as defying halakhic rules; the aggressive and greedy religious monopoly on burials in Israel, run by Orthodox Hevre Kadisha organizations who perform alienated, antiquated rituals, discriminate in plot allocations, and humiliate the dead and their loved ones; and the Israeli hierarchy of death, which glorifies military casualties and features a constant contest among other groups about their relative prestige, access to services, and differential stigma.

Gazit’s analysis is incisive and sensitive. His ethnography (participation in meetings and rituals, plenty of interviews, clever media analysis) shows internal conflicts and contradictions within the organizations he examines. What they want to highlight, and who they want to associate themselves with, is a delicate and carefully strategic dance of courting legitimacy and support. For example, Path to Life activists fiercely oppose efforts to downgrade the status of soldiers who committed suicide beneath that of supposedly legitimate military casualties; at the same time, they assiduously avoid even the semblance of supporting suicide as a legitimate option. They also contest professional opinions that discourage open talk of suicide as potential encouragement, arguing that open conversation can invite attention, help, and saving lives. Similarly, Lilach activists try to disengage from suicide organizations and stick to passive euthanasia, so as not to invite displeasure. And Menuha Nekhona have faced a complicated relationship with the very few people in Israel who sought cremation, an option associated with deeply negative stigma in Israel due to the legacy of the holocaust; at the same time, they’ve had to partner sometimes with Hevre Kadisha for burial services, among other surprising disclosures in procuring coffins: traditional Jewish burials are in shrouds, with no coffin, but bodies flown in from abroad arrive in coffins and Hevre Kadisha sell these to Menuha Nekhona.

Gazit’s book is full of fascinating information for anyone interested in social movements, sociology of religion, political theory, and constitutional law. I learned a lot. There is plenty I’m interested in that I didn’t find in the book (such as the negotiations of individual burial styles, headstones, and maintenance), but there’s only so much one can include in one work. My only quibble–a minor one, and by no means limited to Gazit’s book–is that he repeatedly relies on the terms “good death” and “bad death” for, respectively, the hegemonically sanctioned death and the alternatives. I know these are both well-established sociological terms of art and Gazit is correctly using them. But terms of art in sociological theory can sometimes sound jargony and, in this case, given that these organizations fight deep injustices, come off a bit precious and more than a bit jarring in their aesthetic and moral removal. I would have preferred “hegemonic” and “alternative.”

This minor issue aside, Gazit’s book is an important and worthy addition to other texts investigating national-religious hegemonies in Israel and those who try to contest them, such as Daphne Barak-Erez’s Outlawed Pigs and Michal Kravel-Tovi’s When the State Winks. I’ll end with my favorite passage (in my own translation from Hebrew):

All three organizations have emblazoned death on their flag, but they carry a message of life. Better, safer, richer, more mindful life, achieved through dealing with the “bad death.” From an event that happens to us, death is shaped as an event that we are active in. Passive social isolation, leaving decisionmaking to the medical establishment and later to Hevre Kadisha with no input from the individual and their loved ones, are replaced by decisions, choices, and action. Addressing “bad death” is framed as an empowering resource in the activists’ lives–an expression of courage, principled stance, and a struggle against injustice.

Everyday Bavli Project: Brachot 1 – Evening and Morning Rituals, and a Dead Man on the Train

Every January, lots of people I know (and lots more whom I don’t know) resolve to be better in a variety of ways. Some of these have to do with adopting healthier habits: meditating every morning or every night, listening to some app, reciting affirmations, dunking oneself in an ice bath, getting one’s workout out of the way, drinking or eating something good for us, you name it. The Internet is brimming with advice about these various things, pouring out arguments for an against this ritual or other.

The Talmud Bavli opens with a tractate about the whens and hows of the different blessings, and its first page deals with the question of timing the “shma” blessing, the one many believing Jews recite morning and evening as part of their daily prayer structure. The Jewish day, just like the day in many religions, belief systems, and communities, is rather regimented with habits, and it looks like the conversation between the Talmudic teachers focuses on the best timing for the habits. These suggestions are remarkably fresh in their reasoning–they sound a little bit like a group of health hackers debating the exact timing and components of drinking their bullet coffee or taking their supplements.

Some scholars tie the blessing to the early temple days (long in the rearview mirror when this was written), linking its timing to the timing of sacrifices in the temple. Some, like Raban Gamliel, tie them to the natural world (debating the timing of sunrise.) And some seem to set a deadline for the blessing–midnight–to distance the person from evildoing.

This plan–tying virtuous behavior to a certain hour at night to prevent oneself from drifting into, well, less virtuous behavior–speaks to a dispute that pops up once in a while in criminal justice policy: to what extent is criminal behavior situational? Take a look, for example, at San Jose’s teenage curfew policy: Under a city ordinance, a person under the age of 16 cannot be in a public place within the City of San Jose without adult supervision between the hours of 10:00pm and 5:00am. Minors who are 16 or 17 years old cannot be in a public place within the city without adult supervision between the hours of 11:30pm and 5:00am.

Can one get into trouble at noon, or at 3pm, or at 5pm? Sure (indeed, many of those who balk at the puritanism of U.S. sex education point out that, if one prevents their teenager from having sleepovers with their partners, they’ll have sex in the daytime, in cars or in other places, arguably less safe and with less disclosure to the adults in the teenager’s life.) But then there’s opportunity theory, which claims that offenders make rational choices and thus choose targets that offer a high reward with little effort and risk. Nighttime creates opportunities and risks that are not present during the day.

I should know: twice a week this semester required an early morning BART commute with my bicycle. In the last few years, there is a lot more visible suffering on the train, and the hour of travel makes an important difference: the early morning features a lot of the aftermath of whatever bad things happened during the night. It’s not rare to see people injured (sometimes profusely bleeding) on the train; fights; exhausted folks sleeping, eating, and eliminating unhygienically on the train, on the platform, or in the elevators; and sometimes outright scary and dangerous activity, like people lighting up joints inside a closed train car. Most people on the train try to ignore this stuff even when it’s flat-out hazardous, because who wants to get in trouble, but sometimes our determination to mind out own beeswax has horrendous consequences.

This is what happened last Wednesday. I was on my way from Berkeley to San Francisco on the early afternoon train. At some point, I realized that the man sitting close to me was not breathing. He seemed pale. I asked the other passengers whether they had seen him breathe or move. No one had. I tried to touch the man. “Don’t do it, he’ll jump at you” someone said. “Junkie sleep,” someone else chuckled. But no. The man was dead. He was in his twenties, with a head full of curly hair like my son’s, wearing clothing that was somewhat disheveled (but who doesn’t look disheveled on BART?). For all I know, he might’ve ridden the train from the early morning hours, or even slept on it, and died at some point in the morning, continuing to ride unnoticed by the people around him. What happened to him–overdose, cardiac arrest–is anyone’s guess. He was found in the daytime. Did it happen at night? I’m not sure.

I’ll write more about my dead fellow passenger in the weeks to come – finding him was deeply saddening and unsettling and made me think of many ways in which our communal spirit needs an infusion of fresh compassion. But for today, this incident is relevant not only in that it raises the question of whether bad things happen at night, or early in the morning, but also in that it provokes the question, how we can leverage our habits and attention to meet each day (even on BART) with a larger reserve of compassion for others.

The next part of the mishna deals with the morning blessings, and it looks like the New Agey idea that you create your own reality by setting the tone for your day is not all that new. Brachot 1 offers us two approaches on when to punch the Shma prayer card. Shammai is all about consistency: make sure you say your blessing as you get up and as you go to sleep. Hillel, always the mellower of the two, is all about “just make sure it happens at some point during the day.” I’m generally part of the Hillel crew (big shocker there, I’m sure), but this time, I gotta say, I can see the logic in Shammai’s prescription, as I have (forgive the tiresome idiom) some lived experience in this department.

On the early morning commute days, I usually start my day in one of three ways: praying and singing (I created a morning blessing playlist with a meditative component), listening to classic literature (something I’ve read many times before, like Jane Austen), or listening to a true crime podcast. The podcasts are very engaging and I feel a strong pull to dive into these horrendous stories, but I’ve noticed that, when I do that first thing in the morning, I spend the rest of the day in a mental fog, and am somewhat more watchful and suspicious of people around me. I don’t think serious crime does not exist. It is definitely a part of reality. But I do think that disproportionately inclining my mind toward these scary and traumatizing scenarios does set a more somber tone to my day. The best of the three commute beginnings is the one that involves praying, singing, and meditating, but it definitely requires setting a habit.

Which is where being secular can be a bit difficult and, at the same time, freeing. When you read the Talmud as a follower of orthodox theistic edicts, you pray in the morning, or at night, or both, because your wise ancestors said you should. When you read it as a freethinking secular person, you are the boss of you, and you decide if and when to pray based on what, if anything, it contributes to your life. If that’s the case for you, you have the freedom and the responsibility to figure out which of your habits takes you in a direction you appreciate. Would we all be quicker to detect a fellow passenger in medical distress on the train if we took a moment in our busy morning–a clearing in the dense forest of our lives–to incline our mind toward compassion and caring?