In August of 1941, Dorothy Thompson published a compelling and unsettling piece in Harper’s Magazine entitled, “Who Goes Nazi?” At a casual dinner party, Thompson silently appraises the gathered guests, wondering which among them might support fascism if conditions were right. Her unsettling conclusion is that the propensity toward authoritarianism and fascism is not rooted in class, nationality, or ethnicity but rather in character—in the moral and psychological makeup of individuals. Her essay, though penned decades ago, remains chillingly relevant as it invites each generation to reflect on what conditions, personalities, and values allow fascist impulses to flourish.
From a Jewish ethical perspective, Thompson’s thesis compels deep reflection. Jewish tradition has long grappled with the tensions between good and evil, freedom and authority, individuality and community. Our ancient texts are replete with narratives of heroes and villains, cautionary tales of how easily one may fall prey to the seductive allure of power, hate, and ideological purity. The Book of Exodus itself, with Pharaoh’s heart repeatedly hardened, exemplifies how authoritarian impulses can consume not just individuals, but entire societies.
At its heart, Thompson’s essay is about moral susceptibility. She describes certain types as predisposed toward authoritarianism: the bitter, the resentful, those nursing perceived grievances, and those desperate for validation and status. These profiles resonate strongly with Jewish understandings of ethical vulnerability. The Mussar movement—Jewish ethical tradition—warns explicitly about the corrosive power of bitterness, envy, and unchecked ambition. When left unaddressed, these traits poison not only the individual soul but threaten societal wellbeing.
Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, writing just two decades after Thompson, echoed a similar caution in his own reflections on moral courage. He observed that societies descend into moral darkness not because the majority become villains, but because they become indifferent or silent, complicit in their own subtle, gradual moral degradation. Heschel’s warning speaks precisely to the dynamic Thompson illuminates: the passive enabling of authoritarianism through comfort, convenience, or fear of confrontation.
The uncomfortable truth that Thompson reveals—and that Judaism persistently underscores—is that fascism does not always arrive dramatically. Rather, it seeps quietly into the cracks of daily interactions, into dinner parties, polite conversations, and everyday compromises. It is not always a sudden moral collapse, but frequently a slow erosion of principles, a gradual numbing to injustice, a willingness to tolerate ever-greater indignities against others. In Jewish terms, this moral complacency is akin to the concept of “lifnei iver,” placing a stumbling block before the blind. When we tolerate subtle forms of prejudice or injustice, we unwittingly prepare the path for greater atrocities.
Consider our current social climate: polarization, resentment, and grievances dominate much of our public discourse. The conditions Thompson identifies—the fertile ground for authoritarian impulses—are not just historically distant; they persist today. We observe bitterness and resentment fueling antisemitism, racism, and xenophobia. These traits manifest across all spectrums of society, just as Thompson predicted. The rabbinic tradition urges us not simply to recognize these conditions, but to actively resist them. This resistance is foundational to Judaism’s moral and ethical heritage.
The Talmud famously instructs, “Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh,”—All Israel are responsible for one another. While this statement initially applies to communal accountability, it extends to humanity at large. Jews, familiar with being the targets of authoritarian regimes, carry a special ethical mandate to identify and oppose the conditions leading to such regimes. The Torah’s repeated imperative—“Remember that you were strangers in Egypt”—is not merely historical recollection; it is a continual ethical summons to recognize and challenge oppression wherever it emerges. Moreover, as Jews, we cannot afford to forget our own history and the uncomfortable truth that safety is often fleeting. Vigilance against hatred, prejudice, and authoritarianism must remain a constant part of our collective consciousness.
Yet, as Thompson highlights, resistance is not innate. It demands cultivation of moral clarity, courage, and resilience. Such traits are precisely what Jewish education, ethics, and communal life seek to foster. Our tradition does not merely warn us about evil; it actively equips us to confront and overcome it. Jewish education aims not only at imparting knowledge but also at building character: compassion, empathy, integrity, and moral strength. These traits form our strongest defense against authoritarianism’s subtle encroachment.
It is critical to acknowledge, however, that Judaism does not merely promote passive resistance. It demands active engagement, prophetic courage, and moral leadership. Heschel reminds us, “Few are guilty, but all are responsible.” Judaism, then, does not merely compel us to avoid being fascists; it challenges us to actively oppose and dismantle the ideologies, conditions, and complacencies that permit fascism to flourish.
As Thompson herself concluded, susceptibility to fascism is a matter of personal choice and moral orientation. Each of us, whether aware of it or not, constantly makes choices that either resist or enable authoritarian impulses. The moral clarity Judaism provides is a powerful antidote to the spiritual poison of fascism. Our texts, traditions, and communal norms encourage us to choose generosity over grievance, compassion over contempt, and moral courage over moral convenience.
“Who goes Nazi?” Thompson asked rhetorically. Judaism’s response is unequivocal: Those who forget our collective responsibility to guard against bitterness, indifference, and injustice. Those who remain silent in the face of hate, who choose comfort over conscience, and convenience over courage.
In this critical moment in history—when hatred, division, and authoritarianism once again threaten democratic norms and human dignity—Thompson’s question is urgent and indispensable. Each of us must ask ourselves, not just theoretically but personally: Which path are we choosing? Are we nurturing compassion, solidarity, and moral clarity? Or are we quietly complicit, enabling the conditions of fascism?
The Jewish response is clear. We choose life, dignity, justice, and moral vigilance. We choose to speak, to resist, and to build a society grounded in ethical integrity and shared humanity. That is Judaism’s enduring answer to the timeless question: Who goes Nazi?
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