Israel, die USA und Gaza

Omer Bartov: I’m a Scholar of Genocide. We’re Entering a Terrifying New Era. 

The New York Times. 21.7.2026

https://www.nytimes.com/2026/07/21/opinion/israel-gaza-palestinians-genocide.html?unlocked_article_code=1.zlA.njxc.qWVgnifx3TD2&smid=url-share

Dr. Bartov is a professor of Holocaust and genocide studies at Brown University.

How do genocides end? In most cases, there are two options. Either the perpetrators accomplish their goal, or a military force stops them and accountability ensues.

In 1904, the Imperial German Army began a campaign that nearly wiped out the Herero and Nama peoples in what was then German South West Africa, now Namibia, through fatal expulsions into the desert, incarceration in forced labor camps and outright murder. No one intervened. In 1915, the Ottoman Empire either murdered vast numbers of Armenians it sought to remove from the heartland of Anatolia or caused their death by forced marches. Feeble efforts to bring former Ottoman heads of state to account were quickly abandoned. To this day Turkey denies the genocide.

Conversely, because the Nazi regime was defeated in World War II, its genocide of the Jews and its other mass crimes were adjudicated at Nuremberg. Other genocides that also ended with the military defeat of the perpetrators — such as in Cambodia in 1979, in Rwanda in 1994 and in Bosnia in 1995 — all culminated in some sort of reckoning, however belated and incomplete. Denial of what occurred thus became impossible.

In the earlier case of genocides that “succeeded” because of impunity at the time or the absence of subsequent accountability, the perpetrator state went on to benefit from its criminal actions. The invention and codification of the concept of genocide after World War II was meant to prevent the persistence of this dynamic of impunity and profit.

What we have seen unfold in Gaza, where Israel stands accused in the International Court of Justice of committing genocide in the aftermath of the Oct. 7 Hamas attacks, appears to portend a new future for the crime.

It is a future in which other nations or leaders may have an incentive to pursue genocidal policies knowing they will not only get away with murder but may even benefit from it. It is a future in which the countries and international organizations that had been committed to stopping and punishing genocide may give license to its recurrence.

Since the current cease-fire in Gaza went into effect on Oct. 10, and President Trump’s 20-point plan was endorsed by the Security Council on Nov. 17, more than 1,000 Palestinians have been killed by Israeli attacks. The military now controls nearly 70 percent of the Strip. Two million Palestinians, who had previously lived in one of the most densely populated areas in the world, are now confined to a third of it, trying to survive in devastated spaces lacking the most basic humanitarian infrastructure.

After the cease-fire and exchange of Israeli hostages for Palestinian prisoners, Phase 2 of Mr. Trump’s plan began in mid-January, which intends to bring about the full demilitarization and reconstruction of the Strip, to be managed by a transitional technocratic Palestinian body. Overseeing the process is an international Board of Peace chaired by Mr. Trump. In the long term, the Trump administration has spoken about creating a multibillion-dollar futuristic “New Gaza,” and is reportedly planning to build a major military and personnel base for multinational forces. This will inevitably consign Palestinians in Gaza to the role of construction workers and service providers for the rich inhabiting what used to be their land.

How did we get here?

The Israeli political and military leadership conducted an operation in Gaza that killed at least 70,000 people (as admitted now by the Israeli military), most of them civilians; wounded close to 200,000; and caused vast numbers to die indirectly because of the utter destruction of medical facilities, housing and infrastructure, as well as the deprivation of food and clean water. As I wrote in July 2025, as a scholar of genocide, I believe this was a concerted attempt to destroy the Palestinians in Gaza, in whole or in part, and that the operation therefore reached the high bar of the 1948 Genocide Convention’s definition of this crime.

Israel is unlikely to face a reckoning for its actions. The International Criminal Court has issued arrest warrants for Mr. Netanyahu and his former Minister of Defense Yoav Gallant for war crimes and crimes against humanity, as well as for a Hamas official, who turned out to have been killed. The United States has tried to undermine the court, and Mr. Netanyahu has repeatedly visited the White House to, among other things, try to reportedly persuade Mr. Trump to launch his attack on Iran. Israel may eventually be found guilty of genocide by the International Court of Justice, where South Africa has lodged a separate case against Israel, but the implications of such a ruling are unclear as long as Israel retains U.S. support on the U.N. Security Council, which acts as the enforcement arm of the I.C.J.

And so Israeli leaders will probably not be held to account, unless they are at some point handed over to the I.C.C. by a new Israeli government unwilling to bring them to justice in Israel and eager to restore the nation’s international standing. That possibility is remote. Indeed, Mr. Trump’s 20-point plan effectively bypasses any possible accountability or punishment for the authors of this crime by promising a bright future for everyone involved, although calls for the restoration of a semblance of normality for the Palestinians are unlikely to gain much sympathy when Israel and its allies are engaged in constructing an ideal city. What would be the point of stirring up old accusations when a brave new world is about to emerge?

It is true that Israel is experiencing increasing global isolation and disapproval among Americans across the political spectrum, but that is precisely what the glossy plans for a new Gaza may attenuate or even reverse: by persuading distracted publics in a troubled world that the issue of Gaza has been settled to everyone’s satisfaction.

The Trump plan, if its vision is ever realized, would mean that the U.S. government or American businesspeople working on its behalf would be selling rights for leasing and construction on land expropriated from its residents, whose value is expected to rise sky high.

A collection of real estate moguls, possibly including Jared Kushner, Steve Witkoff and Mr. Trump himself, or companies they promote, would in that way reap a financial bonanza for businesses and investors, transforming the erasure of the Strip into an international investment opportunity. While the coastline would be dominated by prime real estate made up of mixed-use towers seemingly for foreign purchase and tourism — providing profits for developers — Palestinians will almost certainly be priced out of housing on what used to be their land. The plan will not only all but eradicate Gaza’s history and society, but also transform it into a free-market economy for foreign corporations being offered “amazing investment opportunities,” as Mr. Kushner put it.

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Building Mr. Trump’s so-called Riviera would depend on Saudi Arabia and the Gulf states putting up vast amounts of money on the promise of ensuring even tighter strategic and economic links with the United States. For now, Saudi Arabia and Qatar, as well as Turkey, Egypt and Indonesia, have signaled interest by joining Mr. Trump’s Board of Peace. Israel, as the Board of Peace consolidates control and Gaza is redeveloped, would take another step in its long-term objective of obliterating Palestinians’ hopes for an end to the Israeli occupation of their territories.

Other nations, by declining to hold Israel accountable, will also benefit. Germany is Israel’s second-biggest supplier of arms after the United States and has signed major contracts purchasing military technology from Israel. Germany is defending itself at the I.C.J. against accusations by Nicaragua of facilitating genocide in Gaza by funding Israel and cutting aid to the U.N. Palestinian refugee agency, UNRWA, so it has every political and economic interest in taking the issue off the table. (Germany has denied the allegations.) The United Kingdom is believed to have used its military bases in Cyprus to support Israel, and is laboring to improve its relations with the United States. France is trying to maintain its political influence in the Levant and to move on from the question of genocide in Gaza, which, according to President Emmanuel Macron, will be determined by “historians, in due time.”

Israel, too, is profiting. Even though some European governments have canceled weapons deals and sanctioned Israeli defense firms in response to Israeli violence in Gaza, business has remained brisk for Israel’s arms industry. Israeli export arms sales rose by 30 percent last year over 2024, to a record $19.2 billion, according to Calcalist, an Israeli financial news site, and the battle-testing of weapons systems in Gaza serves as a selling point, Calcalist reported. In other words, wreaking destruction brings profits.

For now, Israel’s impunity will enable its Jewish citizens to continue to ignore the genocide, the consequences of which will be a deepening degradation of Israeli ethics and morality, erosion of the rule of law, internal police violence against the state’s Palestinian and Jewish citizens and the undermining of whatever is left of Israeli democracy. Beyond being deprived of any justice and accountability for their suffering, the Gazan victims of Israeli actions will continue to live in dire conditions, under military supervision and with very limited future prospects.

Since Defense Minister Israel Katz reportedly proclaimed last July that Israel was planning to establish a “humanitarian city” in the southern part of the Gaza Strip, actual conditions on the ground have only deteriorated. It appears conceivable that Trump’s plan will be facilitated by an international force aided by Palestinian security personnel and the I.D.F. to enclose the population in such cities, from which they will be able to emerge only to service the wealthy residents of the so-called New Gaza. In those extensive parts of the Strip remaining under Israeli control, new flourishing Jewish settlements are likely to be planted.

Mr. Trump has said that the Board of Peace behind this transformation will at some point collaborate with the United Nations, but many fear that it will undermine the world body. One effect of this shift in the postwar order would be the gutting of international humanitarian law and of the two international courts set up to preserve it, ensuring that any hopes to bring Israeli policymakers to justice will remain nothing more than a pipe dream and signaling to other nations that impunity will be open to them too.

Some may argue that the case of Gaza is singular because Israel enjoys a unique international position thanks to its tight alliance with the United States and its reliance on the legacy of the Holocaust. Perhaps other states cannot expect to be rewarded and may even be punished for genocide. Yet what we are seeing today sets an extraordinary precedent, one that has the potential of undermining the entire premise of genocide as a crime punishable under post-World War II international law.

If the plans that are currently being elaborated for Gaza go forward, genocide may come to be seen by some nations as the legitimate and lucrative extension of politics by other means. At the least, other nations that will have benefited in some way from the genocide may be less likely to hold future perpetrators accountable. Raphael Lemkin, the man who coined the term in 1944 and fought for the adoption of the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide four years later, had hoped to prevent exactly this outcome. It may well be the future of genocide.

Grundsätze der Solidarität

Die derzeitige Situation, die durch den an Grausamkeit nicht zu überbietenden Angriff der Hamas und Israels Reaktion darauf geschaffen wurde, hat zu einer Kaskade von moralisch-politischen Stellungnahmen und Demonstrationen geführt. Wir sind der Auffassung, dass bei all den widerstreitenden Sichtweisen, die geäußert werden, einige Grundsätze festzuhalten sind, die nicht bestritten werden sollten. Sie liegen der recht verstandenen Solidarität mit Israel und Jüdinnen und Juden in Deutschland zugrunde.

Das Massaker der Hamas in der erklärten Absicht, jüdisches Leben generell zu vernichten, hat Israel zu einem Gegenschlag veranlasst. Wie dieser prinzipiell gerechtfertigte Gegenschlag geführt wird, wird kontrovers diskutiert; Grundsätze der Verhältnismäßigkeit, der Vermeidung ziviler Opfer und der Führung eines Krieges mit der Aussicht auf künftigen Frieden müssen dabei leitend sein. Bei aller Sorge um das Schicksal der palästinensischen Bevölkerung verrutschen die Maßstäbe der Beurteilung jedoch vollends, wenn dem israelischen Vorgehen genozidale Absichten zugeschrieben werden.

Insbesondere rechtfertigt das Vorgehen Israels in keiner Weise antisemitische Reaktionen, erst recht nicht in Deutschland. Es ist unerträglich, dass Jüdinnen und Juden in Deutschland wieder Drohungen gegen Leib und Leben ausgesetzt sind und vor physischer Gewalt auf der Straße Angst haben müssen. Mit dem demokratischen, an der Verpflichtung zur Achtung der Menschenwürde orientierten Selbstverständnis der Bundesrepublik verbindet sich eine politische Kultur, für die im Lichte der Massenverbrechen der NS-Zeit jüdisches Leben und das Existenzrecht Israels zentrale, besonders schützenswerte Elemente sind. Das Bekenntnis dazu ist für unser politisches Zusammenleben fundamental. Die elementaren Rechte auf Freiheit und körperliche Unversehrtheit sowie auf Schutz vor rassistischer Diffamierung sind unteilbar und gelten gleichermaßen für alle. Daran müssen sich auch diejenigen in unserem Land halten, die antisemitische Affekte und Überzeugungen hinter allerlei Vorwänden kultiviert haben und jetzt eine willkommene Gelegenheit sehen, sie ungehemmt auszusprechen.

Nicole Deitelhoff, Rainer Forst, Klaus Günther und Jürgen Habermas

7. Oktober ist nicht der Beginn der Geschichte der Gewalt

Philosophin Judith Butler spricht im Interview mit der Frankfurter Rundschau über moralische Argumente in Bezug auf den Nahost-Konflikt und warum die Hamas bestraft und Israels Krieg verurteilt werden muss.

Judith Butler ist weltweit eine der bekanntesten Persönlichkeiten im Feld der Philosophie. In Deutschland gibt es eine breite Anhängerschaft besonders unter Studierenden, das belegt der Zuspruch bei ihren Auftritten an deutschen Universitäten. Aufgrund ihrer Haltung zu Israel ist Judith Butler aber in den letzten Jahren in die Kritik geraten, besonders in Deutschland. Gestern erklärte sie daher in einigen kurzen Statements für die Wochenzeitung „Die Zeit“, dass sie Angst habe, sich in Deutschland öffentlich zu zeigen, da sie massiv bedroht werde.

Sie ist Mitunterzeichnerin des Briefes „Philosophy for Palestine“, der aufgrund einer mangelnden Inblicknahme des Terroranschlags der Hamas am 7. Oktober kritisiert worden ist. Unter anderem kritisierte die Politologin Sheyla Benhabib den offenen Brief in scharfer Form. Wir hatten die Gelegenheit, Judith Butler einige Fragen zu stellen, um ihre Position, die genau wie die der anderen Interviewpartner:innen nicht die Position der Frankfurter Rundschau wiedergibt, darzustellen, so dass die Leserschaft sich selbst ein Urteil über den komplexen Sachverhalt bilden kann.

Philosophin Judith Butler im Interview – „7. Oktober ist nicht der Beginn der Geschichte der Gewalt“

Professor Butler, wie bewerten Sie den Terrorangriff der Hamas auf Israel und die israelische Reaktion im Gazastreifen?

Ein Grund, warum es für mich schwierig ist, der deutschen Presse Interviews zu geben, ist, dass es nicht viele gemeinsame Annahmen zwischen dem deutschen Diskurs und dem Rest der internationalen Gemeinschaft gibt. Viele Deutsche reagieren reflexartig, indem sie Israel bedingungslos unterstützen, aus Angst, dass jede Kritik ein Zeichen von Antisemitismus sein könnte. Weil es wichtig ist, seine Unterstützung für Israel zu signalisieren, stellt man sich die Frage: Wer ist schuld? Und dann muss die Antwort lauten: die eine oder die andere Partei. Wenn man sich für die eine Seite entscheidet, ist man ein Antisemit, wenn man sich für die andere Seite entscheidet, hat man sich erfolgreich gegen den Vorwurf des Antisemitismus gewehrt.

Bei allem Respekt möchte ich also darauf hinweisen, dass wir, wenn wir fragen, wer die Schuld trägt, alle Schäden und alle Akteure benennen müssen, auch wenn die Schäden nicht alle gleich sind, auch wenn nicht alle Akteure die gleiche Macht ausüben.

Das heißt?

Die an der israelischen Zivilbevölkerung begangenen Gräueltaten waren entsetzlich und können weder hingenommen noch rationalisiert werden. Aber wenn wir uns für die Gründe interessieren, warum es zu dieser Gewalt kam, sollten wir in der Lage sein, die Geschichte zu rekonstruieren, um sie besser zu verstehen. Historisch zu verstehen, warum es zu dieser Gewalt kam, ist nicht gleichbedeutend mit der Billigung von Gewalt. Eine Geschichte darzustellen und ein moralisches Urteil zu fällen, ist nicht dasselbe.

Wenn wir aber sagen, dass wir nur ein moralisches Urteil wollen und dass die Geschichte in dieser Angelegenheit nicht wichtig ist, dann haben wir eine Entscheidung getroffen, unsere Welt und ihre Entstehung nicht zu verstehen. Das ist eine gefährliche Entscheidung, wenn Unwissenheit und Slogans an die Stelle von historischen Untersuchungen und klaren moralischen Argumenten treten. So wie Sie diese Frage stellen, beginnt das Ereignis am 7. Oktober. Aber der 7. Oktober ist nicht der Beginn der Geschichte der Gewalt.

Sondern?

Wenn wir nur daran interessiert sind, zu klären, wer für die Anschläge am 7. Oktober verantwortlich ist, dann beginnen wir die Geschichte an diesem Tag. Wenn wir aber verstehen wollen, wie es zu diesen Anschlägen kam, dann müssen wir viel früher mit der historischen Erklärung beginnen. In der Tat müssten wir die letzten 75 Jahre verstehen, die Nakba, den Verrat an den Palästinensern durch das Oslo-Abkommen, die Geschichte der Bombardierungen des Gazastreifens und die Gewalt der Siedler gegen palästinensische Dörfer. Jetzt, wo ich diese Liste anbiete, könnte man sagen: Siehst du, Butler rechtfertigt die Gewalt, aber nein, ich versuche, eine Geschichte zu kontextualisieren, die nicht am 7. Oktober beginnt. Wenn wir wissen wollen, wer für den 7. Oktober verantwortlich ist, dann nennen wir die Hamas.

Wenn wir wissen wollen, was die Gewalt in der Region reproduziert, um der Gewalt endgültig Einhalt zu gebieten, dann müssen wir mit den Historikern zusammenarbeiten, um die selbsternannte Kolonisierung dieser Länder durch die politischen Zionisten, die Bedingungen, unter denen der Staat Israel gegründet wurde, und die Geschichte der Enteignung, Entrechtung, Inhaftierung, Belagerung und Bombardierung zu verstehen. Wenn wir Frieden für die Region und eine Zukunft anstreben, in der alle Bewohner des Landes unter Bedingungen der Gleichheit und Freiheit leben, dann müssen wir gemeinsam neu darüber nachdenken, wie sich Staatsgebilde im Laufe der Zeit verändern können und sollten.

Hysterische Debatte

 Als Mitunterzeichnerin des Manifests "Philosophy for Palestine" ist die US-Philosophin Nancy Fraser jüngst in die Kritik geraten: Verhindert das Eintreten für die palästinensische Sache die Empathie mit den israelischen Opfern der beispiellosen Terrorattacke vom 7. Oktober? Israels Eingreifen in Gaza wird von Fraser, Judith Butler und rund 200 anderen Mitunterschreibenden als "sich entfaltender Genozid" bezeichnet. Anstatt Empathie mit den Opfern des Anschlags zu bekunden, wird Israels Rolle als "Aggressor" hervorgehoben und ihm gegenüber ein kulturell-akademischer Boykott heraufbeschworen.

STANDARD: Verstehen Sie Einwände gegen "Philosophy for Palestine" wie denjenigen von Seyla Benhabib? Solcher, die das Leid der Palästinenser sehen und zu beendigen wünschen und dennoch die beispiellose Barbarei des Massakers vom 7. Oktober nicht einfach beiseitewischen?

Fraser: Die türkischstämmige US-Philosophin Seyla Benhabib ist eine langjährige Freundin von mir. Ihre Antwort auf "Philosophy for Palestine" hat mich aus einer Reihe von Gründen enttäuscht. Zunächst halte ich die Art und Weise für sehr unangebracht, in der sie das Manifest wiedergibt. Unser Statement verkleinert in keiner Weise die Brutalität und abstoßende Gewalt des Anschlags, den Hamas-Attentäter am 7. Oktober begangen haben. Benhabib stellt fälschlich fest, wir würden die Hamas unterstützen – als hätte diese Organisation die Vorreiterrolle bei der Befreiung Palästinas inne. Nichts dergleichen wird von uns behauptet.

STANDARD: Wie kann es dann zu solchen Auffassungsunterschieden kommen?

Fraser: Das Ganze erscheint mir als Symptom einer Hysterie. Das erschwert die Führung einer angemessenen Debatte. Statements wie dasjenige von Benhabib zerstören die Hoffnung auf einen sofortigen Waffenstillstand. Nur ein solcher könnte aber den Auftakt bilden zu politischen Verhandlungen. Es muss das Ziel sein, eine Form der Autonomie und politischen Selbstbestimmung für Palästina zu finden. Ob das nun einen selbstständigen Staat meint, der an der Seite Israels existiert, oder eine Zweistaatenlösung in Form einer Föderation: Ich halte eine ganze Reihe von Modellen für denkmöglich. Wir, die Unterzeichner, lehnen kein einziges von ihnen von vornherein ab. Trotzdem bedarf es eines Waffenstillstands und des sehr ernsthaften Willens, einen solchen Prozess unverzüglich in die Wege zu leiten.

STANDARD: Auf welcher Grundlage soll das geschehen?

Fraser: Nicht auf derjenigen der Abrahams Accords Declaration von 2020. Eine Normalisierung der Beziehungen zwischen Israel und Saudi-Arabien, die die Frage nach der Zukunft Palästinas komplett vernachlässigt, hat eine tickende Zeitbombe hinterlassen. Diese ist soeben mit verheerenden Auswirkungen explodiert. Ich persönlich möchte die Hamas nicht im Geringsten als führende Vertreter der palästinensischen Sache sehen. Mich wird nur niemand fragen.

STANDARD: Wo bleibt in diesen Überlegungen die israelische Perspektive? Die eines Landes, das von lauter Todfeinden umgeben ist?


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Fraser: Das palästinensische Anliegen ist von höchster, drängender Bedeutung. Umgekehrt ist es richtig, dass sich die Gründungsgeschichte Israels in vielfacher Weise von der Geschichte anderer Siedlungskolonisatoren unterscheidet. Es wurde von Flüchtlingen gegründet, die der Vernichtung durch den Holocaust entronnen waren. Es ist weiters richtig, dass Juden durch ihre Überlieferung eine außerordentliche enge Beziehung zum Heiligen Land unterhalten. In der Geschichte der jüdischen Diaspora spielt folgender Satz eine ausschlaggebende Rolle: "Nächstes Jahr in Jerusalem!" Ich betone: Das lässt sich zum Beispiel nicht mit den Buren vergleichen, die sich einen Teil Afrikas aneigneten.

STANDARD: Aber damit beglaubigen Sie die berechtigten Ansprüche Israels.

Fraser: Es ist fortlaufend zu Enteignungen durch Israel gekommen, zu einem Verdrängungsprozess. Von ihm betroffen war die Mehrzahl der Bewohner Palästinas. Ich halte, mit Blick auf die aktuelle Situation, den Begriff Apartheid für angemessen.

STANDARD: Weckt er nicht völlig unangebrachte Assoziationen? Israel ist eine Demokratie.

Fraser: Sobald man darüber diskutiert, setzt man sich dem Antisemitismusvorwurf aus. Susan Neiman hat den vor allem in Deutschland wirksam werdenden Mechanismus in der New York Review of Books unlängst recht eindrucksvoll beschrieben. Sie bezeichnet ihn als eine Art von "philosemitischen McCarthyismus". Künstler und Intellektuelle, die Kritik an Israel üben, werden antisemitischer Umtriebe in ähnlicher Weise beschuldigt, wie es in den 1950ern der republikanische Senator McCarthy mit seiner antikommunistischen Hexenjagd – unter dem Vorwand "unamerikanischer Umtriebe" – tat.

STANDARD: Hinkt dieser Vergleich nicht?

Fraser: Die Idee lautet: Die Deutschen müssen, um sich von ihrer Holocaust-Schuld frei zu wissen, die Juden in die Rolle unschuldiger Opfer drängen. Mir geht es um den Mechanismus, der dabei wirksam wird, ein "McCarthy-haftes" Abwürgen jeglicher Debatte. Würde man unser "Philosophy for Palestine"-Manifest im STANDARD zum Wiederabdruck bringen, es würde allen Leserinnen und Lesern schlagartig klar: Der Text enthält nichts Anstößiges. Unter seinen Unterzeichnern finden sich zahlreiche jüdische Menschen. Das Manifest wird durch eine stark verzerrende Linse gelesen. Das wirft ein trauriges Licht auf die Beschaffenheit heutiger Öffentlichkeit.

STANDARD: Stößt Philosophie zu solchen Gelegenheiten nicht an ihre Grenzen? Gerade dann, wenn sie glaubt, Unrecht anprangern zu müssen?

Fraser: Viele palästinensische Stimmen artikulieren sich zum ersten Mal in den USA. Dazu kommt, dass viele jüngere Juden sich von der Politik der israelischen Regierung distanzieren. Es verläuft ein Riss durch die jüdische US-Bevölkerung. Es entstehen neue Allianzen, etwa zwischen Black Lives Matter und palästinensischen Gruppen. Solche Bündnisse gründen auf geteilten Erfahrungen, zum Beispiel durch Polizeigewalt. Aktuell entstehen neue Räume, und eine Vielzahl von Meinungsbekundungen dringt an die Öffentlichkeit. Viele von ihnen werden mit dem Antisemitismusvorwurf konfrontiert. Mir scheint durch die aufgeheizte Debatte der Beweis erbracht: Etwas am Diskurs steht im Begriff, sich zu verändern.

STANDARD: Nochmals: Woher beziehen Philosophinnen und Philosophen ihr Wissen über Unrecht?

Fraser: Philosophen besitzen keine spezielle "Expertise", wir sprechen als Staatsbürger. Für Intellektuelle ist es nichts Ungewöhnliches, Verantwortungsgefühl zu verspüren. Speziell beeindruckt hat mich dieser Tage ein Protest jüdischer Aktivisten, die plakatierten: "Nicht in unserem Namen!" Das verstehe ich unter einem kraftvollen Eintreten für jüdische Identität. Das hat nichts zu tun mit der aktuellen israelischen Regierungspolitik. Wer glaubt, ein Angriff auf diese Politik ist ein Angriff auf die Juden schlechthin, befindet sich im Irrtum.

Interviewer Ronald Pohl, 14.11.2023 Der Standard

The Compass of Mourning

 Judith Butler: The Compass of Mourning

The matters most in need of public discussion, the ones that most urgently need to be discussed, are those that are difficult to discuss within the frameworks now available to us. Although one wishes to go directly to the matter at hand, one bumps up against the limits of a framework that makes it nearly impossible to say what one has to say. I want to speak about the violence, the present violence, the history of violence and its many forms. But if one wishes to document violence, which means understanding the massive bombardment and killings in Israel by Hamas as part of that history, one can be accused of ‘relativising’ or ‘contextualisation’. We are to condemn or approve, and that makes sense, but is that all that is ethically required of us? In fact, I do condemn without qualification the violence committed by Hamas. This was a terrifying and revolting massacre. That was my primary reaction, and it endures. But there are other reactions as well.
 

Almost immediately, people want to know what ‘side’ you are on, and clearly the only possible response to such killings is unequivocal condemnation. But why is it we sometimes think that asking whether we are using the right language or if we have a good understanding of the historical situation would stand in the way of strong moral condemnation? Is it really relativising to ask what precisely we are condemning, what the reach of that condemnation should be, and how best to describe the political formation, or formations, we oppose? It would be odd to oppose something without understanding it or without describing it well. It would be especially odd to believe that condemnation requires a refusal to understand, for fear that knowledge can only serve a relativising function and undermine our capacity to judge. And what if it is morally imperative to extend our condemnation to crimes just as appalling as the ones repeatedly foregrounded by the media? When and where does our condemnation begin and end? Do we not need a critical and informed assessment of the situation to accompany moral and political condemnation, without fearing that to become knowledgeable will turn us, in the eyes of others, into moral failures complicitous in hideous crimes?
 

There are those who do use the history of Israeli violence in the region to exonerate Hamas, but they use a corrupt form of moral reasoning to accomplish that goal. Let’s be clear, Israeli violence against Palestinians is overwhelming: relentless bombing, the killing of people of every age in their homes and on the streets, torture in their prisons, techniques of starvation in Gaza and the dispossession of homes. And this violence, in its many forms, is waged against a people who are subject to apartheid rules, colonial rule and statelessness. When, however, the Harvard Palestine Solidarity Committee issues a statement claiming that ‘the apartheid regime is the only one to blame’ for the deadly attacks by Hamas on Israeli targets, it makes an error. It is wrong to apportion responsibility in that way, and nothing should exonerate Hamas from responsibility for the hideous killings they have perpetrated. At the same time, this group and its members do not deserve to be blacklisted or threatened. They are surely right to point to the history of violence in the region: ‘From systematised land seizures to routine airstrikes, arbitrary detentions to military checkpoints, and enforced family separations to targeted killings, Palestinians have been forced to live in a state of death, both slow and sudden.’
 

This is an accurate description, and it must be said, but it does not mean that Hamas’s violence is only Israeli violence by another name. It is true that we should develop some understanding of why groups like Hamas gained strength in light of the broken promises of Oslo and the ‘state of death, both slow and sudden’ that describes the lived existence of many Palestinians living under occupation, whether the constant surveillance and threat of administrative detention without due process, or the intensifying siege that denies Gazans medication, food and water. However, we do not gain a moral or political justification for Hamas’s actions through reference to their history. If we are asked to understand Palestinian violence as a continuation of Israeli violence, as the Harvard Palestine Solidarity Committee asks us to do, then there is only one source of moral culpability, and even Palestinians do not own their violent acts as their own. That is no way to recognise the autonomy of Palestinian action. The necessity of separating an understanding of the pervasive and relentless violence of the Israeli state from any justification of violence is crucial if we are to consider what other ways there are to throw off colonial rule, stop arbitrary arrest and torture in Israeli prisons, and bring an end to the siege of Gaza, where water and food is rationed by the nation-state that controls its borders. In other words, the question of what world is still possible for all the inhabitants of that region depends on ways to end settler-colonial rule. Hamas has one terrifying and appalling answer to that question, but there are many others. If, however, we are forbidden to refer to ‘the occupation’ (which is part of contemporary German Denkverbot), if we cannot even stage the debate over whether Israeli military rule of the region is racial apartheid or colonialism, then we have no hope of understanding the past, the present or the future. So many people watching the carnage via the media feel so hopeless. But one reason they are hopeless is precisely that they are watching via the media, living within the sensational and transient world of hopeless moral outrage. A different political morality takes time, a patient and courageous way of learning and naming, so that we can accompany moral condemnation with moral vision.
I oppose the violence that Hamas has inflicted and have no alibi to offer. When I say that, I am making clear a moral and political position. I do not equivocate when I reflect on what that condemnation presupposes and implies. Anyone who joins me in this condemnation might want to ask whether moral condemnation should be based on some understanding of what is being opposed. One might say, no, I don’t need to know anything about Palestine or Hamas to know that what they have done is wrong, and to condemn it. And if one stops there, relying on contemporary media representations, without ever asking whether they are actually right and useful, whether they let the histories be told, then one accepts a certain ignorance and trusts in the framework presented. After all, we are all busy, and we cannot all be historians or sociologists. That is a possible way to think and live, and well-intentioned people do live that way. But at what cost?
 

What if our morality and our politics did not end with the act of condemnation? What if we insisted on asking what form of life would release the region from violence such as this? What if, in addition to condemning wanton crimes, we wanted to create a future in which violence of this sort came to an end? That is a normative aspiration that goes beyond momentary condemnation. To achieve it, we have to know the history of the situation, the growth of Hamas as a militant group in the devastation of the post-Oslo moment for those in Gaza to whom promises of self-governance were never made good; the formation of other groups of Palestinians with other tactics and goals; and the history of the Palestinian people and their aspirations for freedom and the right of political self-determination, for release from colonial rule and pervasive military and carceral violence. Then we might be part of the struggle for a free Palestine in which Hamas would be dissolved, or superseded by groups with non-violent aspirations for cohabitation.
For those whose moral position is restricted to condemnation alone, understanding the situation is not the goal. Moral outrage of this sort is arguably both anti-intellectual and presentist. Yet outrage could also drive a person to the history books to find out how events such as these could happen and whether conditions might change such that a future of violence isn’t all that is possible. It should not be the case that ‘contextualisation’ is considered a morally problematic activity, even though there are forms of contextualisation that can be used to shift the blame or to exonerate. Can we distinguish between those two forms of contextualisation? Just because some think that contextualising hideous violence deflects from or, worse, rationalises the violence, that doesn’t mean we should capitulate to the claim that all forms of contextualisation are morally relativising in that way. When the Harvard Palestine Solidarity Committee claims that ‘the apartheid regime is the only one to blame’ for the attacks by Hamas, it is subscribing to an unacceptable version of moral accountability. It seems that to understand how an event has come about, or what meaning it has, we have to learn some history. That means we have to widen the lens beyond the appalling present moment, without denying its horror, at the same time as refusing to let that horror represent all the horror there is to represent, to know, and to oppose. The contemporary media, for the most part, does not detail the horrors that Palestinian people have lived through for decades in the form of bombings, arbitrary attacks, arrests and killings. If the horrors of the last days assume a greater moral importance for the media than the horrors of the last seventy years, then the moral response of the moment threatens to eclipse an understanding of the radical injustices endured by occupied Palestine and forcibly displaced Palestinians – as well as the humanitarian disaster and loss of life happening at this moment in Gaza.
 

Some people justifiably fear that any contextualisation of the violent acts committed by Hamas will be used to exonerate Hamas, or that the contextualisation will take attention away from the horror of what they did. But what if it is the horror itself that leads us to contextualise? Where does this horror begin, and where does it end? When the press talks about a ‘war’ between Hamas and Israel, it offers a framework for understanding the situation. It has, in effect, understood the situation in advance. If Gaza is understood as under occupation, or if it is referred to as an ‘open-air prison’, then a different interpretation is conveyed. It seems like a description, but the language constricts or facilitates what we can say, how we can describe and what can be known. Yes, the language can describe, but it gains the power to do so only if it conforms to the limits imposed on what is sayable. If it is decided that we don’t need to know how many Palestinian children and adolescents have been killed in both the West Bank and in Gaza this year or over the years of occupation, that this information is not important for knowing or assessing the attacks on Israel and the killings of Israelis, then we have decided that we do not want to know the history of violence, mourning and outrage as it is lived by Palestinians. We only want to know the history of violence, mourning and outrage as it is lived by Israelis. An Israeli friend, a self-described ‘anti-Zionist’, writes online that she is terrified for her family and friends, that she has lost people. And our hearts should go out to her, as mine surely does. It is unequivocally terrible. And yet, is there no moment where her own experience of horror and loss over her friends and family is imagined to be what a Palestinian might be feeling on the other side, or has felt after the years of bombardment, incarceration and military violence? I am also a Jew who lives with transgenerational trauma in the wake of atrocities committed against people like me. But they were also committed against people not like me. I do not have to identify with this face or that name in order to name the atrocity I see. Or, at least, I struggle not to.
In the end, though, the problem is not simply a failure of empathy. For empathy mainly takes form within a framework that allows for identification to be accomplished, or for a translation between another’s experience and my own. And if the dominant frame considers some lives to be more grievable than others, then it follows that one set of losses is more horrifying than another set of losses. The question of whose lives are worth grieving is an integral part of the question of whose lives are worth valuing. And here racism enters in a decisive way. If Palestinians are ‘animals’, as Israel’s defence minister insists, and if Israelis now represent ‘the Jewish people’ as Biden insists (collapsing the Jewish diaspora into Israel, as reactionaries demand), then the only grievable people in the scene, the only ones who present as eligible for grief, are the Israelis, for the scene of ‘war’ is now staged between the Jewish people and the animals who seek to kill them. This is surely not the first time that a group of people seeking release from colonial shackles has been figured as animals by the coloniser. Are the Israelis ‘animals’ when they kill? This racist framing of contemporary violence recapitulates the colonial opposition between the ‘civilised ones’ and the ‘animals’ who must be routed or destroyed so as to preserve ‘civilisation’. If we adopt this framework in the course of declaring our moral opposition, we find ourselves implicated in a form of racism that extends beyond the utterance to the structure of everyday life in Palestine. And for that a radical reparation is surely in order.
 

If we think that moral condemnation must be a clear, punctual act without reference to any context or knowledge, then we inevitably accept the terms in which that condemnation is made, the stage on which the alternatives are orchestrated. In this most recent context, to accept those terms means recapitulating forms of colonial racism which are part of the structural problem to be solved, the abiding injustice to be overcome. Thus, we cannot afford to look away from the history of injustice in the name of moral certitude, for that is to risk committing further injustice, and at some point our certitude will falter on that less than firm ground. Why can’t we condemn morally heinous acts without losing our powers to think, to know and to judge? Surely we can, and must, do both.
The acts of violence we are witnessing in the media are horrible. And in this moment of heightened media attention, the violence that we see is the only violence we know. To repeat: we are right to deplore that violence and to express our horror. I have been sick to my stomach for days. Everyone I know lives in fear of what the Israeli military machine will do next, whether Netanyahu’s genocidal rhetoric will materialise in the mass killing of Palestinians. I ask myself whether we can mourn, without qualification, for the lives lost in Israel as well as those lost in Gaza without getting bogged down in debates about relativism and equivalence. Perhaps the wider compass of mourning serves a more substantial ideal of equality, one that acknowledges the equal grievability of lives, and gives rise to an outrage that these lives should not have been lost, that the dead deserved more life and equal recognition for their lives. How can we even imagine a future equality of the living without knowing, as the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs has documented, that Israeli forces and settlers had killed nearly 3800 Palestinian civilians since 2008 in the West Bank and Gaza even before the current actions began. Where is the world’s mourning for them? Hundreds of Palestinian children have died since Israel began its ‘revenge’ military actions against Hamas, and many more will die in the days and weeks to come.
It need not threaten our moral positions to take some time to learn about the history of colonial violence and to examine the language, narratives and frameworks now operating to report and explain – and interpret in advance – what is happening in this region. That kind of knowledge is critical, but not for the purposes of rationalising existing violence or authorising further violence. Its aim is to furnish a truer understanding of the situation than an uncontested framing of the present alone can provide. Indeed, there may be further positions of moral opposition to add to the ones we have already accepted, including an opposition to military and police violence saturating Palestinian lives in the region, taking away their rights to mourn, to know and express their outrage and solidarity, and to find their own way towards a future of freedom.
 

Personally, I defend a politics of non-violence, in the knowledge that it cannot possibly operate as an absolute principle to be applied on all occasions. I maintain that liberation struggles that practise non-violence help to create the non-violent world in which we all want to live. I deplore the violence unequivocally at the same time as I, like so many others, want to be part of imagining and struggling for true equality and justice in the region, the kind that would compel groups like Hamas to disappear, the occupation to end, and new forms of political freedom and justice to flourish. Without equality and justice, without an end to the state violence conducted by a state, Israel, that was itself founded in violence, no future can be imagined, no future of true peace – not, that is, ‘peace’ as a euphemism for normalisation, which means keeping structures of inequality, rightlessness and racism in place. But such a future cannot come about without remaining free to name, describe and oppose all the violence, including Israeli state violence in all its forms, and to do so without fear of censorship, criminalisation, or of being maliciously accused of antisemitism. The world I want is one that would oppose the normalisation of colonial rule and support Palestinian self-determination and freedom, a world that would, in fact, realise the deepest desires of all the inhabitants of those lands to live together in freedom, non-violence, equality and justice. This hope no doubt seems naive, even impossible, to many. Nevertheless, some of us must rather wildly hold to it, refusing to believe that the structures that now exist will exist for ever. For this, we need our poets and our dreamers, the untamed fools, the kind who know how to organise.
 

13 October 2023

Grauzone. Der Terror von Paris und die Grenzen der Kritik an ihm

Slavoj Zizek

In The Grey Zone

The formula of pathetic identification ‘I am …’ (or ‘We are all …’) only functions within certain limits, beyond which it turns into obscenity. We can proclaim ‘Je suis Charlie,’ but things start to crumble with examples like ‘We all live in Sarajevo!’ or ‘We are all in Gaza!’ The brutal fact that we are not all in Sarajevo or Gaza is too strong to be covered up by a pathetic identification. Such identification becomes obscene in the case of Muselmänner, the living dead in Auschwitz. It is not possible to say: ‘We are all Muselmänner!’ In Auschwitz, the dehumanisation of victims went so far that identifying with them in any meaningful sense is impossible. (And, in the opposite direction, it would also be ridiculous to declare solidarity with the victims of 9/11 by claiming ‘We are all New Yorkers!’ Millions would say: ‘Yes, we would love to be New Yorkers, give us a visa!’)

The same goes for the killings last month: it was relatively easy to identify with the Charlie Hebdo journalists, but it would have been much more difficult to announce: ‘We are all from Baga!’ (For those who don’t know: Baga is a small town in the north-east of Nigeria where Boko Haram executed two thousand people.) The name ‘Boko Haram’ can be roughly translated as ‘Western education is forbidden,’ specifically the education of women. How to account for the weird fact of a massive sociopolitical movement whose main aim is the hierarchic regulation of the relationship between the sexes? Why do Muslims who were undoubtedly exposed to exploitation, domination and other destructive and humiliating aspects of colonialism, target in their response the best part (for us, at least) of the Western legacy, our egalitarianism and personal freedoms, including the freedom to mock all authorities? One answer is that their target is well chosen: the liberal West is so unbearable because it not only practises exploitation and violent domination, but presents this brutal reality in the guise of its opposite: freedom, equality and democracy.

Back to the spectacle of big political names from all around the world holding hands in solidarity with the victims of the Paris killings, from Cameron to Lavrov, from Netanyahu to Abbas: if there was ever an image of hypocritical falsity, this was it. An anonymous citizen played Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’, the unofficial anthem of the European Union, as the procession passed under his window, adding a touch of political kitsch to the disgusting spectacle staged by the people most responsible for the mess we are in. If the Russian foreign minister, Sergei Lavrov, were to join such a march in Moscow, where dozens of journalists have been murdered, he would be arrested immediately. And the spectacle was literally staged: the pictures shown in the media gave the impression that the line of political leaders was at the front of a large crowd walking along an avenue. But another photo was taken of the entire scene from above, clearly showing that behind the politicians there were only a hundred or so people and a lot of empty space, patrolled by police, behind and around them. The true Charlie Hebdo gesture would have been to publish on its front page a big caricature brutally and tastelessly mocking this event.

As well as the banners saying ‘Je suis Charlie!’ there were others that said ‘Je suis flic!’ The national unity celebrated and enacted in large public gatherings was not just the unity of the people, reaching across ethnic groups, classes and religions, but also the unification of the people with the forces of order and control – not only the police but also the CRS (one of the slogans of May 1968 was ‘CRS-SS’), the secret service and the entire state security apparatus. There is no place for Snowden or Manning in this new universe. ‘Resentment against the police is no longer what it was, except among poor youth of Arab or African origins,’ Jacques-Alain Miller wrote last month. ‘A thing undoubtedly never seen in the history of France.’ In short, the terrorist attacks achieved the impossible: to reconcile the generation of ’68 with its arch enemy in something like a French popular version of the Patriot Act, with people offering themselves up to surveillance.
The ecstatic moments of the Paris demonstrations were a triumph of ideology: they united the people against an enemy whose fascinating presence momentarily obliterates all antagonisms. The public was offered a depressing choice: you are either a flic or a terrorist. But how does the irreverent humour of Charlie Hebdo fit in? To answer this question, we need to bear in mind the interconnection between the Decalogue and human rights, which, as Kenneth Reinhard and Julia Reinhard Lupton have argued, are ultimately rights to violate the Ten Commandments. The right to privacy is a right to commit adultery. The right to own property is a right to steal (to exploit others). The right to freedom of expression is a right to bear false witness. The right to bear arms is a right to kill. The right to freedom of religious belief is a right to worship false gods. Of course, human rights do not directly condone the violation of the Commandments, but they keep open a marginal grey zone that is supposed to be out of the reach of (religious or secular) power. In this shady zone I can violate the commandments, and if the power probes into it, catching me with my pants down, I can cry: ‘Assault on my basic human rights!’ The point is that it is structurally impossible, for the power, to draw a clear line of separation and prevent only the misuse of a human right without infringing on its proper use, i.e. the use that does not violate the Commandments.
It is in this grey zone that the brutal humour of Charlie Hebdo belongs. The magazine began in 1970 as a successor to Hara-Kiri, a magazine banned for mocking the death of General de Gaulle. After an early reader’s letter accused Hara-Kiri of being ‘dumb and nasty’ (‘bête et méchant’), the phrase was adopted as the magazine’s official slogan and made it into everyday language. It would have been more appropriate for the thousands marching in Paris to proclaim ‘Je suis bête et méchant’ than the flat Je suis Charlie.’

Refreshing as it could be in some situations, Charlie Hebdo’s ‘bête et méchant’ stance is constrained by the fact that laughter is not in itself liberating, but deeply ambiguous. In the popular view of Ancient Greece, there is a contrast between the solemn aristocratic Spartans and the merry democratic Athenians. But the Spartans, who prided themselves on their severity, placed laughter at the centre of their ideology and practice: they recognised communal laughter as a power that helped to increase the glory of the state. Spartan laughter – the brutal mockery of a humiliated enemy or slave, making fun of their fear and pain from a position of power – found an echo in Stalin’s speeches, when he scoffed at the panic and confusion of ‘traitors’, and survives today. (Incidentally, it is to be distinguished from another kind of laughter of those in power, the cynical derision that shows they don’t take their own ideology seriously.) The problem with Charlie Hebdo’s humour is not that it went too far in its irreverence, but that it was a harmless excess perfectly fitting the hegemonic cynical functioning of ideology in our societies. It posed no threat whatsoever to those in power; it merely made their exercise of power more tolerable.

In Western liberal-secular societies, state power protects public freedoms but intervenes in private space – when there is a suspicion of child abuse, for example. But as Talal Asad writes in Is Critique Secular? Blasphemy, Injury and Free Speech (2009), ‘intrusions into domestic space, the breaching of “private” domains, is disallowed in Islamic law, although conformity in “public” behaviour may be much stricter … for the community, what matters is the Muslim subject’s social practice – including verbal publication – not her internal thoughts, whatever they may be.’ The Quran says: ‘Let him who wills have faith, and him who wills reject it.’ But, in Asad’s words, this ‘right to think whatever one wishes does not … include the right to express one’s religious or moral beliefs publicly with the intention of converting people to a false commitment’. This is why, for Muslims, ‘it is impossible to remain silent when confronted with blasphemy … blasphemy is neither “freedom of speech” nor the challenge of a new truth but something that seeks to disrupt a living relationship.’ From the Western liberal standpoint, there is a problem with both terms of this neither/nor: what if freedom of speech should include acts that may disrupt a living relationship? And what if a ‘new truth’ has the same disruptive effect? What if a new ethical awareness makes a living relationship appear unjust?

If, for Muslims, it is not only ‘impossible to remain silent when confronted with blasphemy’ but also impossible to remain inactive – and the pressure to do something may include violent and murderous acts – then the first thing to do is to locate this attitude in its contemporary context. The same holds for the Christian anti-abortion movement, who also find it ‘impossible to remain silent’ in the face of the deaths of hundreds of thousands of foetuses every year, a slaughter they compare to the Holocaust. It is here that true tolerance begins: the tolerance of what we experience as impossible-to-bear (l’impossible-a-supporter’, as Lacan put it), and at this level the liberal left comes close to religious fundamentalism with its own list of things it’s ‘impossible to remain silent when confronted with’: sexism, racism and other forms of intolerance. What would happen if a magazine openly made fun of the Holocaust? There is a contradiction in the left-liberal stance: the libertarian position of universal irony and mockery, making fun of all authorities, spiritual and political (the position embodied in Charlie Hebdo), tends to slip into its opposite, a heightened sensitivity to the other’s pain and humiliation.

It is because of this contradiction that most left-wing reactions to the Paris killings followed a predictable, deplorable pattern: they correctly suspected that something is deeply wrong in the spectacle of liberal consensus and solidarity with the victims, but took a wrong turn when they were able to condemn the killings only after long and boring qualifications. The fear that, by clearly condemning the killing, we will somehow be guilty of Islamophobia, is politically and ethically wrong. There is nothing Islamophobic in condemning the Paris killings, in the same way that there is nothing anti-Semitic in condemning Israel’s treatment of the Palestinians.
As for the notion that we should contextualise and ‘understand’ the Paris killings, it is also totally misleading. In Frankenstein, Mary Shelley allows the monster to speak for himself. Her choice expresses the liberal attitude to freedom of speech at its most radical: everyone’s point of view should be heard. In Frankenstein, the monster is fully subjectivised: the monstrous murderer reveals himself to be a deeply hurt and desperate individual, yearning for company and love. There is, however, a clear limit to this procedure: the more I know about and ‘understand’ Hitler, the more unforgiveable he seems.

What this also means is that, when approaching the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, we should stick to ruthless and cold standards: we should unconditionally resist the temptation to ‘understand’ Arabic anti-Semitism (where we really encounter it) as a ‘natural’ reaction to the sad plight of the Palestinians, or to ‘understand’ Israeli measures as a ‘natural’ reaction to the memory of the Holocaust. There should be no ‘understanding’ for the fact that in many Arab countries Hitler is still considered a hero, and children at primary school are taught anti-Semitic myths, such as that Jews use the blood of children for sacrificial purposes. To claim that this anti-Semitism articulates, in a displaced mode, resistance against capitalism in no way justifies it (the same goes for Nazi anti-Semitism: it too drew its energy from anti-capitalist resistance). Displacement is not here a secondary operation, but the fundamental gesture of ideological mystification. What this claim does involve is the idea that, in the long term, the only way to fight anti-Semitism is not to preach liberal tolerance, but to articulate the underlying anti-capitalist motive in a direct, non-displaced way.
The present actions of the Israel Defence Forces in the West Bank should not be judged against the background of the Holocaust; the desecration of synagogues in France and elsewhere in Europe should not be judged as an inappropriate but understandable reaction to what Israel is doing in the West Bank. When any public protest against Israel is flatly denounced as an expression of anti-Semitism – that is to say, when the shadow of the Holocaust is permanently evoked in order to neutralise any criticism of Israeli military and political operations – it is not enough to insist on the difference between anti-Semitism and criticism of particular policies of the state of Israel; one should go a step further and say that it is the state of Israel which, in this case, is desecrating the memory of Holocaust victims, instrumentalising them as a way to legitimise political measures in the present. What this means is that one should flatly reject the notion of any logical or political link between the Holocaust and current Israeli-Palestinian tensions. They are two thoroughly different phenomena: one of them is part of the European history of rightist resistance to the dynamics of modernisation; the other is one of the last chapters in the history of colonisation.

The growth of anti-Semitism in Europe is undeniable. When, for example, the aggressive Muslim minority in Malmö harasses Jews so they are afraid to walk the streets in traditional dress, it should be clearly and unambiguously condemned. The struggle against anti-Semitism and the struggle against Islamophobia should be viewed as two aspects of the same struggle.
In a memorable passage in Still Alive: A Holocaust Girlhood Remembered (2001), Ruth Klüger describes a conversation with ‘some advanced PhD candidates’ in Germany:

One reports how in Jerusalem he made the acquaintance of an old Hungarian Jew who was a survivor of Auschwitz, and yet this man cursed the Arabs and held them all in contempt. How can someone who comes from Auschwitz talk like that? the German asks. I get into the act and argue, perhaps more hotly than need be. What did he expect? Auschwitz was no instructional institution … You learned nothing there, and least of all humanity and tolerance. Absolutely nothing good came out of the concentration camps, I hear myself saying, with my voice rising, and he expects catharsis, purgation, the sort of thing you go to the theatre for? They were the most useless, pointless establishments imaginable.

We have to abandon the idea that there is something emancipatory in extreme experiences, that they enable us to open our eyes to the ultimate truth of a situation. This, perhaps, is the most depressing lesson of terror.

London Review of Books, http://www.lrb.co.uk/2015/02/05/slavoj-zizek/in-the-grey-zone