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"I like Hitler," he said. In an interview with Alex Jones, Kanye West praised Adolf Hitler and Nazis, denied the Holocaust, and verbally attacked the Jewish community. These words should astound me. But they don't. Antisemitism is so constant and so colossal that it's become expected in the lives of Jewish people. That needs to change.
Twenty-three years ago, I stood before a mural of a girl my age at the Holocaust Museum in Israel. My eyes locked with hers and I instantly wondered what talent she may have shared with our world. I envisioned the spouse she never met and a wedding under the chuppah that never was. I heard the pitter patter of children who would have run down the hallway to enter their parents' room on a brisk, winter morning. As her nonexistent life unraveled before me, I remembered the six million lives turned off like a light. I feel it is my duty to use the voice they lost.
As I awaken to daily news of antisemitic attacks—whether they be tweets from Kanye West, graffiti in Maryland, or online threats in New Jersey— I feel this seemingly never-ending string of hatred towards Jews has reached a sense of normalcy. But normalcy is a dangerous place for antisemitism to sit and wait. When we allow hatred to fit into our everyday lives, it becomes acceptable—even welcomed. The Holocaust began with words, too.
Antisemitic incidents reached an all-time high in 2021. The list is boundless and it will continue to unfold if we let it.
These incessant headlines remind me of antisemitism's impact on my own family. I remember my grandmother relaying the dangers of crossing her Philadelphia childhood street in 1939 because Jews weren't welcome on the other side. I recall stories of my great uncle from the 1940s returning home from school with bruises because his religion made him a target within his own Philadelphia community—one not far from where I live today.
My father tells the story of the time he left his Philadelphia synagogue on a Saturday morning in 1964 and was followed by newspaper delivery boys using their burlap sacks like baseball bats—his body, the baseball. Of course, I also remember learning of my great-aunt and uncles and their children in Poland, sent to their death during the Holocaust.
I remember in 1997, in my quiet suburban Pennsylvania hometown, when I was the center of an antisemitic remark during high school, as gruesome words were yelled in my face. And I can't forget the time, only a few years ago, when antisemitic flyers from the Ku Klux Klan found their way into the community I chose to raise my Jewish children in—the same town in which I grew up. I remember it all—and it's only getting worse.
Hitler tried to erase the Jewish people. He gathered a following and empowered others to kill in the most vicious of ways. No one—celebrity or not—has the right to praise someone so evil. Words can be dangerous. They have the potential to lead us down the road my ancestors traveled—a road with no return. Never again.
I feel the rising tide of hatred across our communities. It fills me with fear, but most of all, I am saddened. I am heartbroken for the new generation of youth being taught to facilitate an anti-bullying atmosphere, yet seeing the adults defeated at their own teachings. Our children deserve nothing less than kindness and they need us to show them the way.
I try to find a way to explain to my children why they are a target for simply being themselves—but words fail me. Thankfully, they have not been a direct target of antisemitism as of yet, but if we don't condemn acts of hatred, every Jewish child will find themselves in the midst of it eventually. As a mother, I worry for their future.
My Jewish friends and family feel the rising level of antisemitism, just as I do. In a recent conversation with my 91-year-old grandmother, she admitted, "It was just part of life," as we spoke about antisemitism during her childhood. But it shouldn't be that way.
Each day we face another headline on the news, it feels as though we're falling deeper, back into the shadows of our past. I see posts by friends and family on social media reminding the world that we're simply human beings, pleading with others to condemn antisemitic language, and urging our allies to see the danger that we know all too well.
There is no time to wait. We stand in this chaos together. If we drown out hateful words with overwhelming levels of acceptance, maybe kindness can prevail in the future. If we choose to stand up for those who differ from us, maybe we can all live here, together, in peace. But if we ignore the language we know to be dangerous, I believe we're no better than those who use it.
Lindsay Karp is a freelance writer with a background in speech-language pathology. She writes about parenting, life with MS and everything in between. You can follow Lindsay on Twitter @KarpLindsay.
All views expressed in this article are the author's own.
