/ עד הנה: סיפורה של יהדות ברית המועצות לשעבר

Putin allowed civil society to flourish culturally, as long as they didn't oppose his political power. The Jews also cooperated with this unwritten agreement, and the war in Ukraine and the collapse of civil society now demand soul-searching.

Simon Parizhsky

January 4, 2023

Kh’hob zikh yorn gevalgert in der fremd, itzt for ikh valgern in der heym

Translation:

For years I wallowed about in the world, now I'm going home to wallow there.

–Itzik Manger

With the outbreak of the war in Ukraine, we were all thrown back into the grand history that Fukuyama had declared dead three decades before. Bubbles burst and dreams shattered, among them the utopian experiment that had begun to materialize in Russia's big cities: the formation of a vibrant civil society of NGOs, activists, and partners.

In the early 2000s, Putin began to consolidate his autocratic rule by constructing a hierarchy of power. At the same time, seemingly disconnected from this system of power, Putin left ample space for an apolitical civil society, which was allowed to engage in matters of culture, literature, education, art, welfare, ecology, care for the vulnerable, and more.

Thus, an unspoken deal was formed: Putin would allow this cultural environment to thrive and flourish, and sometimes even support it, as long as it did not interfere in the political sphere or confront his power structure.

On the surface, this was a win-win deal: Putin managed to channel political energy into areas that didn't threaten his position and received 'immunity' from civic criticism, while cultural and art figures gained freedom and were able to establish associations and organizations, develop a vibrant cultural scene, build museums, and invest in the urban space.

Non-institutional Jewish activity was an integral part of this cultural ferment: Jewish discourse left the walls of the ghetto and the ivory tower of academia to enter the big city streets – into parks, museums, libraries, bars, and nightclubs. Behind all this stood a vision of a 'thick' Russian Jewish identity, as opposed to a 'thin' Jewish identity associated with the 'silent Jewry' of the Soviet Union. The new generation that grew up in the 1990s and 2000s and did not suffer from external antisemitic labeling, saw Jewish culture as a world of ideas that enriched their experience and made it multidimensional.

They felt that there was no point in being Jewish if you weren't interested and somewhat proficient in the language, texts, Jewish thought, art, music, and so on. This serious and in-depth approach to Jewish content was intertwined with a noticeable aversion to the Jewish establishment in its various forms. The vast majority of that generation did not want to experience Jewish culture in synagogues, community centers, and youth movements, but rather in an open urban environment.

Good years of intellectual hedonism and creation in a safe space began. Uncomfortable thoughts about the partnership in the social contract with Putin were pushed into the depths of the subconscious. But now the time has come for soul-searching and a ruthless examination of these conventions. It turns out that this deal with the devil is what enabled the current war in Ukraine and led to the complete collapse of that new public sphere.

The ideal that guided us, members of the generation who were partners in the vibrant Jewish civil society, was that of a diaspora Jew possessing (at least) two cultures, languages, or thick identities—an artist of mediation and translation between them. However, we never conducted a genuine examination of the moral and political stance implied by this ideal.

We thought that we left all the big existential questions behind us in the twentieth century, but it is clear that we were mistaken. In the coming years, we are destined to see the extent of our mistake, and what prices we will have to pay for it.

Our dual, Jewish-Russian, identity was supposed to provide us with a different, critical view of the majority society in which we lived. The ability to be 'strangers' and at the same time belong, to look at reality with a double gaze, from inside and outside, could have given us an additional cultural perspective through which to decipher what was happening. Instead, we exploited the social contract with Putin for our own benefit and enjoyment.

At the same time, we also gave up on a significant connection or solidarity with the State of Israel, and in doing so, we failed another test—the test of power and sovereignty. As the common pseudo-Brennerian aphorism goes, “A Jew who boasts of his morality in exile is like a eunuch boasting that he doesn't commit adultery.”

So, what did we bring this time in our hastily packed suitcases? Not physics and not mathematics. Not ballet and not bard poetry. We brought with us the insight—acquired too late—that we will never again sign the contract of 'the quiet citizen' or 'the non-engaged intellectual'.

We have not lost the multiplicity of our identities and the choice is ours: We can feel committed to what's happening in Russia and be active opponents of Putin's regime, even based on Jewish motives. We can adopt a new Israeli identity and fight for social ideals here in Israel, we can even accept citizenship of the 'New Novgorod' conceived by journalist Ostap Karmodi—a network-republic of Russian exiles around the world, based on radical political commitment.

As in previous exiles, when we build a new home, we will remember the home that was destroyed and collapsed on the heads of others and on our own heads because we 'wallowed' in it as inner emigrants.