With news of the pope’s death dominating the headlines, and his legacy to the Jews being hailed by Elie Wiesel and others, it’s easy to forget that Church-inspired anti-Semitism still exists and may well be exacerbated by the recent re-release of Mel Gibson’s “The Passion of the Christ” as “The Passion Recut.”
According to Gibson, the “flogging” segment was “cut in half” and other gory moments toned down in the new version. This extreme makeover, according to its creator, was done to make it more acceptable to those too squeamish to sit through the original. And what’s wrong with that? Surely a less violent version has got to be an improvement.
But is it? Making the movie more “acceptable” also makes it more accessible, and many parents who would have hesitated to expose their kids or teenagers to so much violence when “The Passion” first came out will feel more comfortable taking them this time around. So while it will continue to reignite long-dormant prejudices in many adults, it will now also instill new ones in the young, many of whom have little knowledge of either the Holocaust or the history of Jewish persecution.
That’s why the news of Gibson’s editing did not make it more acceptable to me, a non-religious Jew who grew up in a small suburb of New York during the thirties and forties. Anti-Semitism was rarely spoken of in my family, but it definitely was a dark shadow in the lives of the Jews there. Pogroms were something my grandparents had personally experienced, the State of Israel hadn’t yet been established, and quotas at colleges and country clubs went unchallenged.
In time, as most Jews who grew up in that era probably would agree, the atmosphere changed. Laws against discrimination were passed and tolerance was taught in churches and schools. My own children heard about anti-Semitism mostly as a remnant of an earlier time.
Why, then, am I so concerned – even more for my grandchildren than for myself or my grown children – about the potential effects of “The Passion Recut” on a younger audience?
It was as an eight-year-old girl roller-skating alone on the long, smooth sidewalk outside the local bank that I first encountered naked prejudice. Suddenly, three teenage girls, much better skaters than I, appeared and began skating idly up and down. Then I noticed them conferring and looking at me. A feeling in my stomach told me I was in trouble, but I tried to pretend everything was all right – until they cornered me in the recessed entrance to a store and started talking about how they’d love to “fight any Jew who wanted to fight.” Paralyzed, I remained in the entrance, trembling with fear.
Only when a customer wanted to enter the store was I finally able to dart out. I started for home, but tripped on the curb. Ignoring my bleeding knee, I picked myself up and tried to get ahead of them. But my ordeal was only beginning. The three, whom I’d identified from their exchanges as Mary, Terri, and Chris, skated around me, trying to make me fall again. Their taunts continued. “I hate Jews, don’t you, Mary?” said Terri, looking right at me as she circled by. “I hate them because they killed Christ,” she added, by way of elucidation. The cross she wore swung out, glinting in the light.
When we came to my house – unfortunately for me, the largest on the block – they had new ammunition. “All Jews are rich,” Chris sneered. “They steal from poor people.” Then Terri again, her voice spitting venom: “The Jews killed Christ. I’ll fight any Jew who wants to.”
