Amsterdam mon amour

This morning began with the unsettling news out of Amsterdam. Israeli headlines call it a pogrom. A friend in Amsterdam speaks of missing people, speculating wildly about where hostages might be—Belgium, perhaps, given its reputation as an ISIS stronghold in Europe? Or maybe hidden apartments somewhere in the Netherlands? After all, not much time has passed.

Meanwhile, a friend in Berlin sends me frantic messages, trying to piece together what little information we have. We debate whether it was an act of antisemitism or simply hooliganism. I think back to my time in Rotterdam, where clashes between Feyenoord and Ajax fans could transform the city into a battleground after every game. Could it be something like that again? Then another friend, someone I’ve known since we were 12, messages me mid-morning, recounting a stand-up show he attended last night in Berlin. One of the comedians opened with, “I want to talk about a certain group of people. You know who they are,” whispering theatrically into the mic, “THE JEWS!”

The memory triggers others. Like his sister being uninvited from performing at an electronic music festival in the Netherlands, just weeks ago—solely because her bio mentioned she “grew up in Jerusalem.” Nothing more. Or the project I attended the Venice Biennale ’24, rejected this year without explanation by a venue that had hosted it for a decade. The silence around the exclusion speaking volumes.

I was born in Dachau, raised in Munich and Jerusalem, and spent five years each in Rotterdam and Buenos Aires. I’ve known many shades of antisemitism and hatred toward Jews. I remember the bus bombings in Jerusalem in the ’90s. I remember walking through Munich as a child, feeling the ghosts of history in its streets. In Argentina, I heard blatant comments like, “Too bad Hitler didn’t finish the job.” In Rotterdam, I had colleagues who casually discussed how Jews secretly control the world.

But this time, it feels different. Maybe I’m older, more tired, or just sleep-deprived [thanks to a one-year-old who delights in waking up at 5:30 AM]. Or maybe something really has shifted.

What stands out most is the shrinking space to think freely. Since October 7, it feels like this space is under siege. Every dead hostage, every bomb on Gaza, every attack on Jews in Europe, every Trump victory, every liberal reaction to it, every mention of Netanyahu, of Ben Gvir, of Geert Wilders, of Sinwar, of Haniyeh, of Khamenei, of Putin, or of the AfD seems to push the walls of that space closer together.

I find myself unable to resist the despair and the hatred, the sadness and the brokenness, the feeling of being uprooted and exposed and helpless, feelings I hear and see and sense and read all around me.

And I remember when it felt different. When I could let these emotions echo inside me without being consumed by them. When I could hold just enough distance to stop them from devouring what was left of me after grappling all day with the horrors we inflicted on them and they on us. I remember the proud fuck you attitude of my unreasonable optimism that carried me through even the darkest times—weeks spent in solitary confinement in Israeli prisons 4 and 6. The same optimism later had me hopping from country to country, pursuing creative projects, starting businesses, making me blindly assume that whatever will come will be absolutely fantastic, Grande, superb, the best.

But in the last 13 months, something has fractured that optimism. It’s left me drained, weary, and uncertain of how to move forward.

Let’s hop ethe coming 13 months will be different.