A letter to my Jewish friends

Dear Friends,

I regret that for many reasons I cannot be present today in this place in Wrocław, on Paweł Włodkowic Street. I am writing this letter from my home in Dobrzyń nad Wisłą, just a few kilometers from where Paweł Włodkowic was born. I used to walk along a street bearing his name in Poznań on my way to school, and my father taught me history through street signs. Paweł Włodkowic was a remarkable jurist and a humanist. Contrary to the position of the Pope at the time, he defended Poland against the Teutonic Order in Rome, and later defended Jan Hus – not because he agreed with all his views, but because he believed it was right, because he opposed falsehood.

When people ask me why I always defend Israel, I usually respond with a laugh. The short answer is that if Israel’s existence depended on defenders like me, it would have ceased to exist long ago. Israel defends itself – I defend myself against lies about Israel. In such situations, I usually inform my interlocutor – openly or implicitly – that I am also defending myself against them, as they have, knowingly or not, succumbed to a campaign of lies and accepted slander as truth.

Thank you for this distinction, but – like Alice Teodorescu, a Swedish Member of the European Parliament – I feel somewhat embarrassed, as what I do, I do for myself, to guard against an inhuman campaign of lies or against a very human tendency toward prejudice and the persistent search for anything that justifies and reinforces it. Alice tells her Jewish interlocutors, when they thank her, that her behavior is natural and ought to be universal, and that such gratitude makes her uncomfortable. I don’t know her family story (she came to Sweden from Romania as a small child), but I understand her completely. She likely inherited the habit of resisting falsehood from her home – a habit that becomes a reflex, an obvious response that deserves no special honors or awards. Paweł Włodkowic was one of those figures whose presence in my childhood education was meant to form that very reflex.

My wife Małgorzata and I run a website. Technically, that's in the past tense. My wife died on Tuesday, June 17, at 4:02 p.m. She was sitting at her computer, reviewing a freshly translated text. Two minutes earlier she showed me a funny cartoon, forty minutes earlier we were sitting on the veranda steps, sharing a cigarette. Yes, a cigarette – ever since her heart attack in 1995, we always shared one cigarette between us. We joked that it was our peace pipe – between a Polish-Lithuanian goy and a very Polish Jew. At two minutes past four I looked up from my screen to say something to her. I saw her take her last breath. She died without pain, without suffering. She didn’t get a chance to tell me she was dying – and she always told me everything. She is no longer here, but I still run the website together with my wife Małgorzata. She still sends me dozens of emails each day. All our subscriptions go to her inbox – and just like before that Tuesday, I still receive messages from her. I read them on her computer and forward the important ones to myself for further work.

So on this website that Małgorzata and I run together, we try to expose the industry of lies, the manipulations of mainstream media, the allure of anti-Zionist propaganda at universities, the covert influence of Islamic antisemitism that is eroding the humanity of the youngest generation. We are aware that, ultimately, we are preaching to the choir, because others do not seek out such spaces. The effectiveness of our work is, to put it mildly, limited – perhaps this work is more necessary for ourselves than for anyone else.

We find ourselves in a unique historical moment – the scent of blood spilled on October 7, 2023, has roused the beast of antisemitism, which now rages not only in Tehran, Doha, Istanbul, Sana’a, Gaza, or Ramallah, but also in Western parliaments, at the UN, on university campuses, in the editorial offices of reputable media, and on the streets of Western metropolises.

Israel does not have an Iron Dome to protect it from the lies of the world. Superstitions and pyres are returning – the same ones Paweł Włodkowic once fought against with no chance of victory.

That street named after Włodkowic in Wrocław runs along the old city walls – it used to be called Wallstraße. There are no longer any walls to shield us from the tsunami of lies – only specific individuals can attempt to stop falsehood, and must do so even when they know their efforts may have little impact on reality.

I regret that I cannot be with you today in this place. Once again, thank you – and I send warm greetings from my empty home in Dobrzyń nad Wisłą, where my wife Małgorzata keeps sending me notes that say: “urgent, see if we’ll take it, I’m for it.” That last part – that was a frequent note. I don’t write it anymore, but I know it’s there.