There was a snowstorm in Washington, D.C., a few days before the arrival of spring, and while it deposited a handful of inches on the ground and closed area schools for the day, the evidence was gone nearly as soon as it had arrived—and largely forgotten. Not, however, by a 33-year-old first-term Democratic member of the District of Columbia’s city council. He posted a video of the falling snow on his Facebook page and admonished friends in these memorable words:
This was not the first time that Councilman Trayon White Sr. had interpreted events in this singular way. One month earlier, at a public gathering attended by fellow council members and the District’s mayor, Muriel Bowser, he explained that the Rothschilds control the World Bank—which, of course, is headquartered in Washington—and “pretty much…the federal government” as well.
Mayor Bowser and other members of the council later claimed that they had either paid no attention to the comments or failed to comprehend them. In any case, they said nothing publicly in response and certainly offered no criticism. Social media, however, are less forgiving, and when the snowfall post appeared on Facebook, it elicited a global—and distinctly unfavorable—reaction.
The councilman initially dug in, and then backtracked. Two Jewish colleagues on the council, and a host of local rabbis and Jewish community leaders, organized a bagels-and-lox breakfast where the councilman, in due course, offered up an apology: “Growing up as a young man [in Washington],” he said, “I had no idea what anti-Semitism was.” And as he later explained in a written statement, “I did not intend to be anti-Semitic, and I see I should not have said that after learning from my colleagues… I want to apologize to the Jewish Community and anyone I have offended.”
His council colleagues declared themselves satisfied.
Of course, this is not the first time that a public figure has been found to harbor anti-Semitic opinions, and when that happens—in the nation’s capital, at any rate—a certain protocol tends to be followed. The miscreant is encouraged to dine and converse with local Jewish leaders—Mr. White was showered with seder invitations—and often invited for an educational visit to the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum on the Mall.
Sometimes, unfortunately, things don’t work out so well. Some years ago, for example, a leader of the New Black Panther party named Khalid Abdul Muhammad emerged from his 90-minute tour of the Holocaust museum to declare on the sidewalk that the sufferings of “so-called Jews” were trivial in comparison to the “holocaust” inflicted on black people in American history.
Still, it is entirely possible that Councilman White, as he says, “had no idea what anti-Semitism was,” and I am prepared to believe that his repentance is sincere. What intrigued me about this episode, however, was his reference to the Rothschilds.
What little I have learned about the councilman’s background suggests he is unlikely to have known much of anything about the famous Anglo-German-Jewish banking family, which first came to prominence in the late 18th century, unless prompted by an obvious source of misinformation: Louis Farrakhan, longtime leader of the Nation of Islam.
Farrakhan is an unapologetic Jew-hater and, like most of his brethren, obsessed with conspiracy theories involving the Rothschilds (among others). Farrakhan has a substantial following in Washington’s black community and is the likeliest source for Councilman White’s theorizing—about the World Bank, the federal government, and that late-March snowstorm.
One of the discouraging trends across the Atlantic has been the recent reemergence, two generations after the downfall of Nazi Germany, of anti-Semitism in European public life, including such unlikely venues as Britain’s newly radicalized Labour party. To be sure, the ancient contagion never really went away and, as in America, remains largely confined to society’s fringes. And while social media has breathed new life into innumerable forms of bigotry, the casual anti-Semitism of a Councilman White will be quickly identified and called to account.
Yet Farrakhan, for whatever reason, enjoys limited immunity. This was first dramatized some three decades ago when Walter Mondale ran for president against Ronald Reagan. It’s largely forgotten now, but anti-Semitism was a tangential issue in the 1984 campaign. Jesse Jackson, one of Mondale’s rivals for the Democratic nomination, had been quoted in the Washington Post referring to Jews as “hymies” and characterizing New York City as “hymietown,” and Farrakhan—who was largely unknown at the time to the general public—castigated Mondale for criticizing Jackson.
Indeed, Mondale was critical of Jackson—and not only for “hymietown” but for Jackson’s reluctance to disavow Farrakhan as well. Yet I have never forgotten Mondale’s obvious discomfort when discussing the topic, as well as his punctilious references to “Minister Farrakhan.” It was a political calculation, of course: Mondale could hardly ignore the sudden eruption of Jew-hatred, but he couldn’t afford to alienate Farrakhan’s admirers, either.
No wonder Mayor Bowser and her colleagues in the District government kept their counsel on the subject of the Rothschilds.
When a few hundred white supremacists and anti-Semites descended on Charlottesville last year, horror and vilification were swift and universal—and blame for their audacity was largely assigned to President Trump. Who, then, to blame for the awkward silences around Minister Farrakhan?
