What The Hell America!

Historian Omer Bartov spoke to Jacobin about why scholars of the Holocaust are struggling to talk frankly about Israel’s genocide in Gaza.

Omer Bartov is one of the leading scholars of genocide and the Holocaust. A professor of history at Brown University, he has long been known for his incisive work on violence, memory, and identity.

In his recent book Genocide, the Holocaust and Israel-Palestine: First-Person History in Times of Crisis, Bartov reflects on the moral responsibilities of intellectuals. He zeroes in on the uses and abuses of Holocaust memory and explains his own transformation from an Israeli soldier to a vocal critic of Israeli state policies.

In an interview with Elias Feroz for Jacobin, Bartov discusses the political climate on US campuses, the backlash against scholars critical of Israel, and the personal dimensions of his scholarship.

Elias Feroz

In your book, you emphasize the importance of historical empathy in understanding human tragedies such as the Holocaust and other genocides. How can this approach help to better understand the act of genocide, and why do you think this connection remains so controversial when it comes to the Holocaust?

Omer Bartov

At least in modern historiography, the idea of empathy is fundamental to how we understand the writing of history. This idea goes back to Leopold von Ranke, who emphasized the need for “Einfühlung” — the ability to put yourself, as much as possible, in the shoes of the people you are writing about. Even though they often lived in a different time and had different experiences, it is essential to see history not only from the perspective of the present but also as it was experienced by those who lived it.

Broadly speaking, you could say that historical writing follows two main perspectives. One is Ranke’s perspective of empathy, and the other is what the Italian historian Benedetto Croce described when he said, “All history is contemporary history.” That is, history is always written from the viewpoint of the present. This is why you can write about the same period in 1980, in 2000, or in 2020, and each time, you will produce something different — because you are interpreting the past through the lens of the present.

I became particularly struck by this issue when I started studying the Holocaust, and German history more broadly. I noticed a tendency to write about the Final Solution in a very detached manner, to approach it without empathy. Not that the historians writing about it didn’t have empathy for those who were killed, but in their writing, they felt the need to maintain a certain distance — perhaps because they feared being overwhelmed by the horror of what they were describing.

The problem with that approach was that it became very mechanical. In fact, it started to resemble the event itself — because that’s exactly what the perpetrators were trying to do. They were trying to distance themselves from the victims. This also meant that there was very little use of victim or survivor testimony, because accounts were often emotional or could evoke emotions in the reader. There was a tendency to bureaucratize historiography in a way that mirrored the bureaucratization of the genocide itself.

I found that increasingly problematic, which is why I eventually wrote Anatomy of a Genocide, a book on the Polish-Jewish-Ukrainian town Buczacz. It was an attempt to see the Holocaust from below — to understand what it was like not only for the victims but for everyone who was there: the Germans, the Ukrainians, the Poles, and the Jews who lived in that one town. When you write about individuals, you necessarily have to empathize with them because you are thinking of them as human beings, not as cogs in a machine.

Now, think about what is happening right now in Gaza and how the historical profession — particularly those who have written about the Holocaust, who have spoken about the need to learn from it, and who have upheld the idea of “never again” — has struggled to respond. It has been especially difficult for scholars within the subdiscipline of Holocaust studies to write about or even engage with what is happening in Gaza. Because if you accept that part of identifying genocide involves empathizing with the victims, what do you do when the state carrying it out is one that sees and presents itself as the answer to the Holocaust — a state that has positioned itself as the guardian of Holocaust memory, as having drawn the right lessons from it, and yet has engaged in a genocidal undertaking?

It has been impossible for most Holocaust scholars — not all, I can think of some exceptions, including myself — to square that circle. They have either tried to avoid it altogether or, even worse, have joined the chorus heard in Germany, the United States, and Israel, asserting that what Hamas did was not just a massacre and a crime — which, of course, it was — but that it was comparable to the Holocaust, and therefore, the only possible response is total destruction. In other words, the supposed answer to a perceived genocide is genocide — which is exactly the wrong lesson to take from the Holocaust.

For me, this moment reveals that the very historians who initiated the move toward writing with empathy about genocide, and specifically about the Holocaust, now find it impossible to empathize with the victims of another genocide — one being carried out by a state that presents itself as the outcome of the Holocaust, as its answer.

Elias Feroz

You mentioned already that, in the German-speaking world, far more attention has been given to the German perpetrators than to the Eastern European Jews and their non-Jewish neighbors. What impact does this have on our historical understanding of those events?

Omer Bartov

The book, Genocide, the Holocaust, and Israel-Palestine, which came out in English in August 2023, just before the October 7 attack, reflects changes I observed in Germany over the past two decades. A significant part of German historiography, and the public response to it, focused largely on the German perpetrators. This focus is understandable, as it took Germany two to three decades to seriously engage with the Holocaust, only really beginning in the 1980s. Naturally, Germans wanted to understand how their parents, grandparents, and uncles could have participated in genocide. The focus on perpetrators makes sense given the nature of much of the Holocaust, particularly the bureaucracy of the genocide, which dominated early scholarship.

How does a state carry out a continent-wide genocide with the goal of killing eleven million people? How does a nation known for its poets, writers, and philosophers become genocidal? One result of this line of inquiry was that, as we discussed earlier, there was far less focus on the victims than on the perpetrators, largely because the victims were unknown. If there was any focus on victims, it was on German Jewish victims, as they were seen as more relatable.

For example, when the diaries of Victor Klemperer were published in 1995, they were deeply moving for German readers. Klemperer, a Protestant professor who was perceived as Jewish by the Germans and expelled from his position, wrote a detailed account of his life under Nazi rule. His survival, largely due to his marriage to an “Aryan” woman, made his diaries particularly poignant, because it was a view by an insider of the academic elite, a professor at the Technical University of Dresden.

Of course, historians and the German public knew that Jews were taken to be killed “in the East” (im Osten), and that most European Jews lived there, but there wasn’t much interest in those regions. This has changed over time, though it still isn’t a major issue in Germany today. I first noticed this blind spot during the Wehrmachtsausstellung debate, which was an exhibition on the crimes of the Wehrmacht that toured Germany between 1995 and 1999. I was involved in various ways, including on a commission trying to address mislabeled photos. What was particularly striking was that many of the photos came from Eastern Europe, specifically from the area I subsequently researched in East Galicia. The German public, including historians on the commission with me, knew nothing about this area. It was seen as the “Wild East” — remote and distant.

I also didn’t know much about it at first, but then I spent twenty years studying it. When you see what happened there and begin to understand the different ways in which German perpetrators and local populations engaged in genocide, you gain a completely different understanding of the Holocaust at the local level. One key aspect is the involvement of other populations — Poles, Ukrainians, Lithuanians, Latvians, and others.

But equally important is that the Germans who were there, the ones carrying out the killings, were not detached. They knew the people they were killing. Everything was deeply intimate. This is disturbing, especially when you consider the German memory of the Holocaust, which often depicts a great detachment — the Jews were removed, taken somewhere far away, and then killed. This detachment, which has been central to historical accounts of the Holocaust, was part of an approach aimed at understanding the mechanics of the genocide. The reality, however, is that the perpetrators were often in close contact with the victims.

After October 7, something extraordinary happened in Germany. There had already been debate about this before, particularly in the so-called “catechism debate” initiated by Dirk Moses. His core argument was that Germany had become so focused on the Holocaust that it showed little interest in other historical atrocities. Since Germany claimed to have fully reckoned with its past, it saw no need to engage with other genocides, such as the German colonial genocide in South West Africa in 1904 or contemporary genocides. Additionally, this approach influenced immigration policies, particularly after the arrival of a million Syrian refugees. The expectation was that newcomers must integrate by adopting Germany’s historical reckoning as their own, taking on the same historical guilt that Germany had embraced.

Elias Feroz

At one point in your book, you describe the exchange of letters between the German historian Martin Broszat and the Israeli historian Saul Friedländer, in which Broszat referred to the Jewish historiography of Holocaust victims as “mythical.” Can this rather denunciatory characterization of the victims’ perspective still be found in German discourse today, particularly when it comes to Jewish and Palestinian voices who do not align with the German Staatsräson?

Omer Bartov

Broszat, who has long passed away, and Friedländer, now in his nineties, came from entirely different backgrounds. As a child, Friedländer was hidden in a French monastery during the war, while his parents were handed over by the Swiss to the Germans and murdered in Auschwitz. Broszat, despite denying it, was later revealed to have been a member of the Nazi Party. Both carried direct, personal memories of that time.

Today we are dealing with entirely different generations — people without firsthand experience or direct complicity in those events. In contemporary German historiography, it would be unthinkable for anyone to describe Jewish testimony about the Holocaust as “mythical memory” like Broszat once did. Yet, as far as I can tell, the main contribution of German Holocaust historiography remains centered not on the Jewish victims, but on the German perpetrators.

It’s worth considering the implications of this for the present moment. In Germany, as well as in the United States, Israel, and France, there has been a strong focus on Israeli victims of October 7, with many personal stories being told and a great deal of repetition of the horrific events of that day. At the same time, there is a strong reluctance to tell the stories of what has been happening in Gaza on a much larger scale. Even when it is reported, it is rarely framed as personal history — as the lives of people with families and individual experiences. Instead, statistics are cited — and often met with deep suspicion. In a way, this skepticism is similar to the doubts Broszat expressed toward Jewish testimonies from the Warsaw Ghetto.

Nowadays, no one questions personal accounts from Israel about what happened on October 7. Yet when it comes to information from Gaza, it’s always framed with caveats, emphasizing phrases such as “this is what the Ministry of Health in Gaza says, but we don’t know if we can trust it.” In that sense, to return to the question of empathy, there is very little effort to create empathy for the so-called “other side.” Of course, it’s not really the other side — it’s the side that is being eradicated, and there is so little reporting on that. I had this conversation with a journalist from Der Spiegel, and he said, “No, we have written about it.” But I have seen very little in the German and American press, and, of course, nothing in the Israeli press.

Elias Feroz

Your dissertation focused on German soldiers in World War II. Why was it important for you to examine the perpetrators’ perspective, and how does this approach influence your understanding of the Holocaust and war crimes?

Omer Bartov

I didn’t see them as perpetrators but as soldiers who, in their view, were fighting a war — different from those whose primary role is to kill civilians. When I began this work, I had been a soldier in Israel myself and had studied German military history extensively — much of twentieth-century military history is German history. I started questioning the Wehrmacht’s role in World War II crimes. In the 1970s, the dominant argument, not just in Germany but in broader World War II historiography, was that the Wehrmacht had no involvement, that these crimes happened behind its back. The prevailing narrative held that the Wehrmacht was engaged in a just war against the “Bolshevik-Asiatic hordes” while atrocities occurred beyond its control.

I grew skeptical of that view and wanted to examine whether it was true. At the same time, I was interested in what motivated these soldiers to fight in such a brutal war — the worst ever — fought on the Eastern Front. Although I didn’t initially frame it that way, I did study the perpetrators “from below,” focusing on individuals as much as possible. That’s why I examined only three divisions. I went through personnel files of around 530 junior officers, reconstructing their social profiles — who they were, where they came from, and what kind of education they had received.

What I found was that the army was deeply involved in war crimes against enemy soldiers, prisoners of war, and civilians. They were also indirectly involved in the Holocaust, usually by handing Jews over to other police forces. However, they also killed Jews whenever they encountered them. Their main job was fighting the Red Army and killing large numbers of Soviet civilians, most of whom were not Jews. My research, alongside that of several German historians, helped shift the understanding of the German Army’s role on the Eastern front. This research, which started in the late 1960s and ’70s, led to a significant shift in historiography by the mid-1980s and early ’90s, but public opinion remained resistant. It was hard for people to accept that the entire Wehrmacht, consisting of twenty million men, could have been involved in a criminal war.

The Wehrmacht exhibition in the mid-to-late 1990s sparked a significant public debate and was eventually shut down, showing how long it takes for public opinion to catch up with scholarly findings. I remember members of the Bundestag crying, saying they couldn’t believe their fathers had been involved in a criminal war — but they were. While they may not have personally carried out these crimes, they were part of a criminal enterprise on the Eastern Front, which was starkly different from the Western Front. This also highlights how armies can behave differently depending on the context and enemies.

For me, this was significant on many levels. At the time, there was a prevailing view that soldiers were mostly motivated by loyalty to their peers. Having served in the Yom Kippur War in 1973, I understood that loyalty to your unit was crucial for self-preservation, but most soldiers I knew believed they were fighting for something much bigger. They were fighting for the state and feared that Israel might be destroyed, much like the German soldiers in their own war. Israeli soldiers in 1973 had vivid images of the Holocaust in their minds.

What I argued was that part of the reason soldiers committed these acts wasn’t just because they were ordered to kill civilians. They had internalized a specific view of the enemy, particularly the idea of Judeo-Bolshevism, and believed they were doing the right thing. This is crucial when understanding war crimes and genocide — those carrying out such actions usually believe they are justified. Later, we may see them as criminals, but they don’t see themselves that way.

When I wrote for the Guardian last August, I made a similar argument. To understand what’s happening, including what is currently happening in Gaza, you have to recognize that those involved often think they’re doing the right thing. While in Israel there may be growing suspicions that the government is fighting merely to preserve itself, for most of the past months, those carrying out these actions believed they were justified in doing so.

Elias Feroz

You mentioned that you served as a soldier in the Israeli army [IDF]. What did you think during your time as a soldier, and when did your perspective on the Israeli military begin to change?

Omer Bartov

I served in the IDF from 1972 to 1976, which was quite a while ago. The occupation began in 1967, when I was just thirteen. Before joining the army, during my high school years, I took part in demonstrations where we carried signs that read, “occupation corrupts.” Then I went to the army. I was very young, impressionable, and, like many at the time, a Zionist — though I didn’t necessarily recognize it as such, I had internalized all those beliefs.

I vividly remember a moment when I was leading my platoon through the town of el-Arish on a patrol in the occupied Sinai Peninsula. It was late morning, and the streets were empty. People were just watching us from behind shuttered windows. You could feel the fear they had of us, walking in the middle of the street, fully armed. I also felt fear, because I was in a strange city. That was the moment I truly felt like an occupier.

I went often to Gaza, where our battalion command was based, and I always felt very strange in that place. Gaza had around 350,000 or 400,000 people at the time, already very overcrowded and neglected. I also served in the West Bank, and I never felt comfortable there. But at that time, this was only the beginning of the settlement project. They were still talking about [giving up] territories for peace. It was very early.

The moment I really felt it and could articulate it to myself better was the beginning of the first intifada in 1987. I had already returned from my PhD and was teaching at Tel Aviv University when the first intifada broke out. Those images that I didn’t want to be part of — Palestinian boys throwing stones at heavily armed Israeli troops, being beaten by them, and the minister of defense, Yitzhak Rabin, exhorting them to “break their bones” — were a turning point. It was then that I wrote to Rabin, telling him that I had just studied the barbarization of the German army, and under his leadership, the IDF was heading down the same slippery slope.

I was fortunate to be offered a fellowship at Harvard shortly thereafter, which meant I didn’t have to enforce the occupation or risk going to jail, and I never came back. But between then, during the first intifada, and today, things have only gotten worse. The harms of the occupation are so much more evident now. Yet, the most extraordinary thing is that most of the Israeli public refuses to admit that the corruption of the Israeli political and judicial systems is rooted in that very occupation. One could see it from the very beginning. Unfortunately, most of Israeli society, and many critics or politicians in European countries and the United States, remain in total denial of this reality.

Elias Feroz

You also argue that the notion of the singularity of the Holocaust has contributed to justifying the Zionist colonization of Palestine, and highlight the connection between Holocaust remembrance and Israeli state doctrine. How do you assess the political instrumentalization of the maxim “never again” in Israeli discourse — particularly concerning the legitimization of state violence?

Omer Bartov

This was a long process — it didn’t start immediately. Between 1945 and 1947, the international community, though much smaller at the time, saw good reason to support the establishment of a Jewish state, largely because of the Holocaust. The Holocaust had demonstrated the need for a Jewish state and refuge. It played a role in Israel’s founding from the very beginning, as reflected in the Israeli Declaration of Independence.

However, in Israel’s early years, the Holocaust was seen as somewhat uncomfortable, even embarrassing. A common narrative — one that appears frequently in recordings and transcripts of the Eichmann trial in the early 1960s — was that Jews had gone to their deaths “like sheep to the slaughter.” Jews were seen as passive or even as having cooperated in their own genocide — an idea that was anathema to Zionism’s self-image, which emphasized fighting for existence. The only Holocaust victims glorified were those who resisted, especially the Warsaw Ghetto fighters of April 1943.

This began to change around the Eichmann trial but took off after the 1973 war. The real shift came in the 1980s, when the government of Menachem Begin, elected in 1977 partly in response to the war, introduced changes in Israel’s education system. The Holocaust became central to Israeli collective memory — a unifying force for Jews from Europe, the Middle East, and North Africa, whether secular or religious, old or young, rural or urban. What bound them together was the idea that they were all not only victims of the Holocaust but also potential victims of a genocide in the future.

The Holocaust became something that unites society — not just as a memory, but as a fear that it could happen again. Yet this fear, while increasingly unlikely as Israel grows militarily stronger — becoming the most powerful state in the region — persists. The shock of the Arab–Israeli war in 1973, which I personally experienced, reinforced this fear, turning the Holocaust itself into an ongoing threat. As a result, “never again” no longer means never again genocide, inhumanity, or the targeting of any group for its identity — it means never again a Holocaust of Jews in Israel. This leads to seeing any threat as potentially genocidal.

That threat, as it is now being used in Israel, can even be seen as a threat against the Israeli occupation of Palestinians. Instead of recognizing that the occupation of Palestinians is at the core of Israel’s problems — that it has corrupted the entire system, that occupying people for so long not only dehumanizes them but also dehumanizes the occupiers — you think about it the other way around. Any change to that system is seen as an existential threat that you must repress, kill, or evict, because if they raise their heads, they may destroy you.

This use of “never again” as a license for violence against others is crucial, but you must also add another element: part of the discourse about the Holocaust in Israel — which many people don’t understand, but in Israel, it’s completely obvious — is that the memory of the Holocaust is not just about what the Nazis did to us, but also about how all the nations of the world stood by. Nobody did anything. Therefore, when we fight for our survival, no one has the right to tell us what to do. To hell with international law, to hell with the UN, to hell with all those leftists, antisemites, and critics who say we’re committing crimes. They have no right to tell us anything after they were silent during the Holocaust.

Of course, that’s how it’s seen in Israel. One has to acknowledge that a world war was fought against Germany, and millions of soldiers died fighting Nazi Germany. But that’s usually not how it’s presented in Israel. It gives you a moral carte blanche, but it also shields society from paying attention to the international legal framework created after the Holocaust to prevent such crimes from happening again.

In Israel, you can acknowledge that this framework exists, but claim it doesn’t apply to you. When we are threatened, and because of what happened in the Holocaust, we can do whatever it takes. Israel, especially under Benjamin Netanyahu, has been very successful in convincing public opinion and politicians in Europe — especially in Germany — but also in the United States, of this argument.

Elias Feroz

How would you describe the current climate in Israeli academia, particularly regarding freedom of speech and the treatment of professors or students who criticize Israel’s military actions in Gaza?

Omer Bartov

The situation is not good and is deteriorating. It’s also getting worse in the United States. Since October 7, 2023, the immediate target in Israel has been Palestinian citizens of Israel. Palestinians were targeted for any postings or comments they made. People were suspended, and investigations were launched by the police. In Israel, no message you send is encrypted — WhatsApp, Facebook posts, whatever it is, the police and the secret service are monitoring it.

This also expanded to professors. A particularly disturbing case is that of Nadera Shalhoub-Kevorkian, who was attacked by the Hebrew University of Jerusalem for something she allegedly said in an interview. If you actually listen to the interview, which is quite lengthy, she was completely misrepresented, but that didn’t matter to the university authorities. The president and provost openly attacked her, and she was arrested and mistreated by the police. The university reluctantly expressed discomfort with her arrest but continued to pressure her, eventually pushing her out. It wasn’t just the police and university authorities targeting her: with a few honorable exceptions, the vast majority of the faculty — especially in her own department — said nothing.

I wrote the university an open letter that they had brought shame to their own institution. In my view, no one should cooperate with that university as an institution at least until these people [i.e., the president of the Hebrew University Asher Cohen and its rector Tamir Sheafer] are removed. The same applies to Ben-Gurion University. I was supposed to give a lecture there, but right-wing activists interrupted it and the university did nothing. On the contrary, the rector of the University, Chaim Hames, claimed that by stopping my lecture, they were protecting freedom of speech. They’ve continued this policy against other faculty members.

What one needs to understand is that, unlike in Germany, Austria, or the US, students at Israeli universities tend to be more right-wing than the faculty. There are of course some who are very moderate, but overall, students are more nationalistic and intolerant than their professors. Many students also serve in the IDF reserves.

The universities in Israel are mostly public, and therefore dependent on the right-wing government that funds them. The positions of the Minister of Education are particularly extreme. The faculty, on the other hand, have largely tried to stay out of the political conflict, keeping their heads down. This has led to a kind of voluntary “Gleichschaltung” in Israeli universities.

Some professors are trying to resist this pressure. I’ve known many of them for a long time, and they are doing their best to oppose their university administrations. However, as they explained to me, they are also worried about their own students. If you are lecturing on sensitive topics like the Holocaust, the Nakba, or similar issues, you can expect some students to record your lecture. That recording could end up on a right-wing news channel and could lead to you being suspended or removed from the university.

Elias Feroz

Recently, academics in the United States like Mahmoud Khalil were arrested for publicly speaking out against Israel’s actions in Gaza. As someone who teaches at an American university, how do you assess the political climate at US universities for academics since [Donald] Trump has become president? How does the atmosphere differ compared to [Joe] Biden’s term?

Omer Bartov

I’ve been teaching or associated with American universities since 1989, and I’ve never seen it this bad. The Trump administration made it much worse, but as you mentioned, it began earlier. It started during the protests on American campuses, mostly in the spring of 2024. The response from university administrations, as well as from the administration in Washington, was swift. Very quickly, a discourse emerged that demonstrating for Palestine, supporting Palestinians, or protesting against Israeli actions in Gaza was considered antisemitic. This became the dominant discourse at a time when Biden, who could have stopped the war by snapping his fingers, refused to do so and instead supported it.

The pressure on university administrations in the US came from both the top, from the political leadership, and from their donors and boards. The business model of American universities is quite different from what you find in Germany. Many of these universities are elite institutions, and they rely heavily on their donors and, to a lesser extent, on tuition fees. These donors, who historically supported the idea of a liberal, open, and diverse university, were already beginning to shift toward more right-wing conservative thinking.

But when the issue of antisemitism surfaced, donors started using their immense power to put pressure on university administrations. They pushed for police enforcement to end the protests, and universities then issued directives to ensure such protests would not happen again, disciplining students and faculty members. This happened even before Trump came to power. By the fall of 2024, there were far fewer demonstrations, and campuses were relatively quiet.

Then the Trump administration came in and took it a step further, combining intimidation with the withholding of funds. This included withholding money for research, lab construction, and more. While this wasn’t directly about Gaza, it was about using government tools — something the Biden administration didn’t do, like deporting people. It’s not just those on visas, but also green card holders, who normally have almost the same status as citizens, except for voting. Green cards are being revoked for protesting Israeli actions or supporting the Palestinian cause. Under Trump, supporting Israel’s actions in Gaza was legal, while criticizing them made you a target. For instance, a Tufts University student was arrested by six undercover officers in Somerville, Massachusetts, a mile from my home, simply for cowriting an op-ed criticizing Israel’s aggression against Gaza.

I’ve never seen anything like this on campuses before. The academic establishment is trying to keep its head down, not unlike what’s happening in Israel.

Elias Feroz

Felix Klein, the federal commissioner for antisemitism [in Germany], praised Donald Trump’s relocation plans for the Gaza Strip. Your positions are almost the opposite of the German Staatsräson: You describe Israel’s actions in Gaza as genocide, while Chancellor Olaf Scholz dismisses this accusation as absurd. Felix Klein considers calling Israel an apartheid state antisemitic, while you claim that Israel is indeed conducting apartheid.

Omer Bartov

I don’t know what these German politicians and bureaucrats are basing their assumptions on, because they’re not providing any facts — they’re just making statements. Felix Klein in particular is quite bizarre. He claims that all sorts of Jews and Israelis are antisemitic, while at the same time, he presents himself as the protector of Jews in Germany.

If Klein is backing forcible displacement, he loses all moral authority. I wasn’t aware that he had supported it, but if he has, it’s indefensible. Supporting this action is a serious violation of international law. While he may claim not to support forced relocation, the reality is that the Israeli government is encouraging people to leave. And how do they encourage people to leave? By bombing their homes and cutting off their food supply. Klein’s support for this is completely unacceptable, and he should have been fired long ago.

Elias Feroz

Given the end of the cease-fire and the renewed escalation of the war in Gaza, what do you see as possible ways to end this war? What role should the international community play in this process?

Omer Bartov

First, let me say there is no war. It’s a misnomer to call it a war. Hamas still has some control over the population, also enforcing it through executions, but it has no real remaining military presence. It probably has a few thousand men, mostly recently recruited, carrying light arms. The IDF is a modern army with modern aircraft, tanks, and gunboats supplied by the US and Germany. This is an occupation by the IDF designed to take over Gaza. There will, of course, be resistance, but it will be guerrilla resistance. The objective is to completely control Gaza and, through that control, force the population to leave. The problem is that there’s nowhere for them to go. Egypt, which is the only neighboring country with a border, does not want to accept them.

Meanwhile, the IDF is applying Gaza-like tactics to the West Bank and has already completely destroyed, according to the most recent reports, the refugee camp in Jenin. It’s now a ghost town. Between 30,000 and 40,000 Palestinians have already been displaced. The IDF is preparing to do the same in other camps, starting in the northern part of the West Bank and eventually moving to other areas. Settlers, supported by the military, are conducting weekly pogroms, particularly in the Hebron Hills.

There’s no reason for the settlers to stop unless there is massive international pressure. There is no internal dynamic in Israel right now that would halt it. The only faint hope within Israel for change comes from reports that many reservists are refusing to rejoin their units. Some are doing this for political reasons, but I would say that is a minority, as they feel this is a political war to preserve Netanyahu in power.

Many people, I think, are doing this for personal reasons, because they’re losing their families, their jobs, their income. But the IDF doesn’t need to call up that many people. It has jets, all fully supplied by the US. You don’t need a huge number of people for that. Although some reserve pilots have recently called on their fellow pilots to stop bombing Gaza, I don’t see that happening. The majority will keep doing it.

If this continues, Israel will evolve into a full-blown apartheid state. As you probably know, Netanyahu is actively dismantling all democratic guardrails. He’s already fired the head of the domestic security agency, Shin Bet, which is not exactly a liberal organization, but it was investigating Netanyahu. He’s also trying to get rid of the attorney general and has already replaced the chief of staff. It’s clear he’s focused on securing his own preservation.

My suspicion is that when elections come in the fall of 2026, they will be arranged in such a way that Netanyahu’s victory is guaranteed. This could include depriving Palestinian citizens of Israel of the right to vote or limiting their vote, which would have a significant impact, as they make up 20 percent of the population.

The only thing that could change this is outside intervention, and the only intervention that would make a difference is from the US. However, Netanyahu and Trump are following a similar playbook, which became evident after Netanyahu returned from a visit to Washington and began reshaping the controls on his government. Trump, of course, has already weakened the US justice system’s control over the administration. So, unless Trump changes his stance, I don’t see much coming from the US. If the US changes its policies, it would also influence Europe, with Germany playing a crucial role. However, based on what I’ve heard from people like [Friedrich] Merz, I don’t see Germany changing its policy significantly to pressure Israel.

I’m not optimistic. There is a combined effort of ethnic cleansing and consolidating the apartheid regime, with a growing erosion of whatever democracy remains in Israel, even for Israeli Jews. In the long run, I don’t think that this will work, but it could take another two decades for it to implode.

Elias Feroz

Your book was recently translated into German. What do you hope your book will achieve specifically in the German-speaking debate? Are there particular narratives or taboos you aim to challenge?

Omer Bartov

The most important thing for the German public to understand is that criticism of Israel’s current policies is not anti-Israeli, not anti-Zionist, and certainly not antisemitic. I believe the current leadership of Israel, supported for a long time by Western governments like Germany, is harmful to Israeli society and its future. It’s actually damaging Israel.

Many Germans, especially older generations, still feel a moral responsibility toward Israel. If you care about Israel, you must pressure your government to change its policies to prevent further harm to both the Israeli people and the Palestinians it occupies.

Israel must be forced to seek another solution, one that allows the seven million Jews and seven million Palestinians living between the Jordan River and the sea to share the land. This isn’t about the so-called Israeli-Palestinian “conflict” — that term is misleading. This is about the Israeli occupation of Palestinians, and it must be resolved in a just way, ensuring dignity for all people involved.

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