Contradictory Conditions: Jewish Life in East Germany, Past and Present

It’s a decidedly blustery day on Karl Marx Street in Eisenach, in the eastern German state of Thuringia. Gold and rust-tinted leaves scatter the ground of a small park marking the site of the town’s former synagogue—burned down by a Nazi mob on Kristallnacht, the nationwide pogroms on November 9, 1938.

Tucked away in a quiet corner not far from Eisenach’s theater, the memorial is one of 32 sites across Thuringia—spots where synagogues were desecrated or destroyed that night in 1938. Of the many previously active synagogues, only a few remain today. Only one has been rebuilt for weekly services. The others are marked by memorial stones and stairways leading to nowhere—including empty lots or garden plots, apartment buildings, and even a grocery store. Where the small town of Vacha’s synagogue once stood, there is now a hobby shop.

These places dot the east German landscape, from Potsdam to Zwickau, Dresden to Magdeburg. Along with other memorials like Stolpersteine—stones with brass plates bearing the names of Holocaust (Shoah) victims, laid in the pavement in front of their former homes and businesses—they stand as stark reminders of the absent presence of the region’s once thriving Jewish population. They are places where the palpable influence of eastern Germany’s Jews remains potent, even where they are no longer present.

They also signal the Jewish community’s present absence. Since the Shoah, under sometimes radically conflicting conditions, a range of diverse Jews have returned, resettled, and restored a sense of Jewish life across the former East German Republic (GDR). But the community is less-than-half what it was in pre-war Germany.

In places like Berlin, Leipzig, and Erfurt, Jews’ stories over the last century speak to lives lived between far-right politics and those of the far-left, communism and capitalism, growth and decline, remembrance culture (Erinnerungskultur) and an ominously encroaching antisemitism. Looking at East Germany–past and present–through Jewish eyes reveals today’s controversies are nothing new.

The challenges Jews in Germany faced following the Holocaust, including perils to their very existence, have shaped Jewish lives in the east for decades. The story of how under such conditions they still preserved their heritage is decades long. Now, facing declining demographics, a resurgent antisemitism, and fearing a far-right political turn, eastern Germany’s Jewish communities are once again under threat. And, once more, they are not only preserving their heritage, but claiming their place in German society.

War in Ukraine: covering the conflict's religious contours

Religion often plays a role in violent conflicts. Entangled with ethno-national, economic and territorial issues, religious actors, leaders and institutions can exacerbate and ameliorate both the causes and course of a conflict. While some religious actors provide care and appeal for peace, others contribute to the brutality and provide faith-filled fuel to already tenacious confrontations.

The warfare currently engulfing Ukraine is no exception. Religion played a role as the specter of Russian invasion grew over the last several years. Now, after Russian forces began their aggressive assault on Feb. 24, 2022, religious communities within Ukraine, Russia and across the globe are responding.

“While the secular media tries to guess Vladimir Putin’s motives in Ukraine, one important aspect of the current situation has gone largely ignored: religion.”

— Diana Butler Bass, Religion News Service

The latest edition of ReligionLink gives you a rundown of all the headlines, experts, and background research on the religious contours of a war whose impacts will reverberate around the world.

The Little-Known Jewish History in the Heart of Germany

Berkach lies in the bucolic borderlands between the German states of Bavaria and Thuringia. Formerly divided by the hard boundary between former East (GDR) and West Germany, the one-time international frontier is now marked by an old watch tower, about a half mile outside the village.

But I’m not in Berkach today to chronicle its accounts of living on the fringes of the former GDR. Instead, I’m here to discover another significant aspect of the hamlet’s history, its once robust and significant Jewish life. 

As Germany looks back on 1,700 years of Jewish life in the country, dating back to a decree in Cologne in 321 they are recalling Judaism’s long, if complicated, history in central Europe. 

Visiting sites like Peter Eisenman’s Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe in Berlin or renowned Jewish museums in Frankfurt, Berlin, or Munich, one gets a sense of the enormity of what was lost in the Holocaust — in human lives, in culture, in knowledge, in history and heart. 

Yet, despite the ways each institution seeks to personalize the ambivalence of German Jewish life over the years, there is an intimacy and immediacy that is missed if those are the only places one goes. 

To get a sense of the absent presence that Germany continues to wrestle with, one must also explore smaller, provincial places like Berkach. 

Weimar: The Capital of Contemporary Yiddishland?

In a clear homage to the Beatles’ 1967 “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” album cover and its wonderful whirl of colorful visuals, the poster for this year’s Yiddish Summer Weimar (YSW) festival features a menagerie of cut-out visages: from Johann Sebastian Bach and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, to wandering cattle and a bedecked bass drum reading, “Makonovetsky’s Wandering Stars Club Band.”

Together, the collage symbolizes the transcultural and time-spanning story of Yiddish culture and music — its progenitors and critics, its historical influences and contemporary performative interpreters.

At the center of it all stands Alan Bern.  

Bern playing the accordion. PHOTO: Yulia Kabakova, courtesy of Alan Bern

The Bloomington, Indiana-born composer, musician, educator and cultural activist made his way to Berlin, Germany in 1987. There, he helped found Brave Old World, a band described by The Washington Post as the first “supergroup” of klezmer music’s contemporary revival movement.

Klezmer music is an instrumental tradition of Ashkenazi Jews of Europe. Simply meaning “musician,” the word “klezmer” reflects, and conveys, its broader Yiddish roots.

A spoken language of a considerable portion of Ashkenazi Jews for centuries, Yiddish emerged in 9th-century Europe as a mix of German vernacular, written Hebrew, and Aramaic, Slavic, and Romantic linguistic influences and vocabulary. Meaning “Jewish” in the language itself, Yiddish is also the vehicle for a rich culture heritage of everyday Jewish life and celebration: proverbs, humor, idioms and music.

Over the last 30-odd years, klezmer – and Yiddish language and culture in general – has been enjoying quite the comeback.

Knoblauch Klezmer Band · Moustache

In the midst of this rejuvenation, Bern and Brave Old World were invited to conduct a workshop on Yiddish music in the central German city of Weimar as part of the European Summer Academy in 1999. The workshop was a wild success and Bern became the founding artistic director of what is now known as YSW — a five-week summer institute and festival for the study, creation and performance of Yiddish culture and music in the heart of Germany.

Today, it is one of the most widely recognized programs for the renewal of Yiddish culture in the world, receiving awards from the European Union and the German Music Council, among others. In 2016 Bern was awarded the Weimar Prize in recognition of his significant cultural contributions to the city.

For Bern, YSW is about more than showcasing Yiddish music; it’s about exploring Yiddish culture as a complex, and continually evolving, convergence of European and non-European customs. It’s also about empowering people for creativity and connection on a continent evermore marked by diversity and difference.

After 1,700 years of complicated history, Germany's Jews look to the future

Just a few steps down from Erfurt’s famous Krämerbrücke and its boutique shops, bespoke ice cream, and local charm, you’ll a mikveh (bath used for ritual purification) that dates back to the 13th-century. It’s a testament to the rich, and long, history of Jews and Jewish life in the central German city.

As I was standing in Erfurt’s mikveh a few weeks ago, I took a silent moment to reflect on the immensity of 900 years of Jewish history in the city.

Staring at the steps, I imagined the women who would descend them to bathe in the Gera river’s waters and wondered what their lives were like, what stories they could tell, what histories were embedded in the dusty sandstone and murky water of the memorial right in the midst of Erfurt’s old town.

I was humbled by the immensity of that history, the honor of standing in such a space and being given the opportunity to share such stories.

Mühlhausen citizens Nancy Krug, Pastor Teja Begrich, and Dr. Antje Schloms, pictured here in the town’s 19th-century synagogue, are part of honoring the history of Jewish life in the city. PHOTO: Ken Chitwood.

Thankfully, there are plenty of opportunities to learn about Jewish history in Germany — from well-known museums and monuments in Frankfurt and Berlin to lesser-known, but equally valuable, synagogues in places like Mühlhausen and Berkach.

But for this piece, I wanted to learn about more than history. And so, I spoke to Jewish leaders, researchers, historians, and other experts to learn what their history can tell us today and what Jewish life looks like in Germany now and in the near future.

The result is my latest piece with Religion News Service: “Germany celebrates a historic milestone of Jewish culture — while looking forward.” 

*Many thanks go to the various people I spoke to for this piece. I am working on a couple of other articles related to this research, but for now I wanted to mention all the people who contributed background, provided coordination, or otherwise assisted with this piece: Kristin Luther with the city of Erfurt; Dr. Maria Stürzebecher, also with the city of Erfurt; Carolina von Stojentin with Thüringer Tourismus; Gundela Bach in the village of Berkach; Nancy Krug of the city of Mühlhausen; Pastor Teja Begrich of Mühlhausen; Dr. Antje Schloms of the Mühlhausen city archives, Prof. Dr. Annegret Schüle of Erinnerungsort Topf & Söhne; Prof. Dr. Carsten Schapkow of the University of Oklahoma; Alan Bern with Yiddish Summer Weimar; Helene Shani Braun in Berlin; Rabbi Alexander Nachama of the  Jüdische Landesgemeinde Thüringen; Manfred Levy, education director at Jüdischen Museum Frankfurt; Alexandra Husemeyer of the Tora ist Leben project; and Martin Kranz of the Achava Festspiele Thüringen.

"Said & Lody": Combatting hate with a one-two punch in Amsterdam

A Dutch rabbi and a Moroccan boxer walk down the streets of Amsterdam – what may sound like the beginning of a joke has formed the basis for one of the Netherlands’ most powerful interfaith partnerships.

A prominent leader in Holland’s Jewish community, Rabbi Lody B. van de Kamp is a former politician, and a member of the KAICIID-supported Muslim Jewish Leadership Council. In contrast, Said Bensellam recalls being a Moroccan youth from the borough of Bos en Lommer, adrift before he was admitted to the local kickboxing school. Today he is a self-made youth-worker and role model for his community, having been voted “Amsterdammer of the Year” in 2007.

Together, they form the duo “Said and Lody,” working to counter anti-Semitism and Islamophobia in their community – an inclusive partnership forged in the fires of hate and discrimination.

Bensellam and van de Kamp trace their first meeting back to a Nazi salute.

In 2010, while van de Kamp was serving as director of an Orthodox Jewish school in Amsterdam, he received complaints from students who reported facing discrimination and racial slurs during their daily walks home. Wanting to see for himself, van de Kamp and a partner brought a film crew on a 10 hour walk through the streets of Amsterdam. Both men wore traditional kippahs (head coverings for Jewish men).

During the walk, they encountered two explicit incidents of hate. At first, they were called names. Then, a teenager stood up in front of his friends and raised his arm in a Nazi salute while staring at van de Kamp.

The incident made national news and prompted renewed debates about integration, anti-Semitism and Muslims in Dutch society. Watching at home, Bensellam decided he had to do something on behalf of his community.

“After talking with Dutch authorities, I received a second call about the video,” said van de Kamp. “It was Said and he was asking me, ‘how can we solve this together?’” After much discussion, Bensellam reached out to the teenager, encouraging him to meet with van de Kamp. He then facilitated a reconciliation between them.

Said Bensellam makes up half the “Said & Lody” duo, fighting prejudice and discrimination in Holland. (PHOTO: KAICIID Communications)

The incident marked the beginning of a fruitful 10-year partnership. But, at times, Bensellam and van de Kamp admit they have faced an uphill battle. Over the last decade, the Netherlands has had to confront numerous public incidents of anti-Semitism and Islamophobia. Jews and Muslims have faced both physical and symbolic dangers from wide sectors of society.

According to experts, anti-Semitism and Islamophobia are not distinct phenomena, but instead often reinforce one another in a twisting helix of hate. For example, anti-Semitism within the Muslim community can exacerbate Islamophobia in Dutch society as a whole and, in turn, embolden elements of the public to express anti-Muslim and anti-Semitic rhetoric side-by-side.

From the beginning, Bensellam and van de Kamp’s primary motivation has been to ensure that hostility is not allowed to fester in their communities. “How can we make sure that antipathy doesn’t arise? That hate doesn’t grow?” van de Kamp asked. “Our answer was that our communities do not know each other.”

Bensellam and van de Kamp started with their own friendship and invited others to join them. They also reached out to youth in each community who were facing exclusion and discrimination. Working with schools, government agencies, and religious institutions, the two men found a willingness and welcoming hospitality to work together on both sides.

Perhaps an unlikely pair, Said and Lody are more than collaborators, but friends. (PHOTO: KAICIID Communications)

Over the past decade, van de Kamp says there have been countless stories of inclusion and reconciliation. For example, when a group of Muslim boys were found playing football in one of Amsterdam’s historical Jewish cemeteries, “Said and Lody” reached out to help them make amends.

“The police got involved because a cemetery is usually not a place for football,” van de Kamp said, “but when Said asked the boys what they were willing to do to make things right, they said they would clean the cemetery.”

Bensellam and van de Kamp took the offer a step further, inviting 20 Jewish youth to join the 20 Muslim youth in their clean-up initiative. “The idea wasn’t just to clean, it was to bring the two communities together. To have a common project. To get to know one another as we worked together,” van de Kamp said.  

Dr. Matthew Kaemingk, professor of ethics who has written on Christian-Muslim relations in the country, says that in order to defend against stereotypes, misinformation, and aggression, different religious subcultures in the Netherlands must come together.

Referring to “Said and Lody,” Kaemingk said, “Judaism and Islam are profoundly different theologically, culturally, and politically. The temptation to ignore those differences is very real. They have to find ways to collaborate across their deep differences.”

Neither Bensellam nor van de Kamp deny these dividing lines. Still, they emphasise how their friendship has led to meaningful discussions and a lot of laughs along the way. “It’s not comedy, it’s just conversation. It’s not a formal dialogue, it’s not a system. It’s just getting to know each other. Being there for each other. When you live life together, it’s organic,” van de Kamp said.

It’s also contagious. Following “Said and Lody’s” example of reaching out to one another in times of crisis, a group of Dutch Muslims recently brought flowers to a Jewish retirement home in order to help elderly individuals suffering from loneliness due to the COVID-19 pandemic.

This makes van de Kamp proud. “It’s not hard to reproduce the ‘Said and Lody system,’ if you want to call it that. This kind of work is not a luxury these days, it’s a necessity. What we do, anyone can do it,” he said.  

“And,” he emphasised, “they should be doing it.”

As societies across the world address the challenges and opportunities of globalisation, multi-ethnic communities, and alterations in national identity, Bensellam and van de Kamp’s influence has begun to extend beyond the Netherlands too.

When Dr. Amy Peloff and Dr. Nicolaas P. Barr of the University of Washington in the United States brought a group of 18 study abroad students to Amsterdam in June 2019, they spent an afternoon with van de Kamp. Barr said the students were struck by his gentleness, presence, and candor.

When it comes to dialogue between communities, I think that what Rabbi Lody embodies is the willingness to show up in a real way with, and for, others,” Barr said.

Barr says that although this doesn’t magically solve all disagreements, “it shows a willingness to hear where people are coming from, and building relationships with others, even if you don't agree on every single issue.”