תגית: Sweden Jewish Community

Sweden's 20,000-strong Jewish community was looking forward to marking a landmark event next year – but October 7 changed everything. Now, with antisemitic incidents skyrocketing, there are fears that a community that was only founded in 1775 could be at risk.

Published in "Haaretz": https://www.haaretz.com/jewish/2024-02-03/ty-article-magazine/.premium/as-it-prepares-for-250th-anniversary-swedens-jewish-community-faces-uncertain-future/0000018d-69d4-dd6e-a98d-fdf6c1170000

STOCKHOLM – Sweden's Jewish community is preparing to celebrate its 250th anniversary next year, but what was being heralded as an unprecedentedly good moment for the community changed in the blink of an eye on Oct. 7.

This is a story about both ancient and modern history, and how a country went from having no Jews to having a vibrant Jewish community – yet could still end up having very few local Jewish communities if the recent tensions continue.

Prior to 1774, there was no Jewish community in Sweden. Although some Jews had settled there earlier, there was no Jewish community as Jews who immigrated there had to be baptized into the Lutheran religion.

That all changed 250 years ago, though, when a Jewish seal engraver named Aaron Isaac arrived in Stockholm from German Mecklenburg. "Isaac became the first person who was allowed to live as a Jew in Sweden," says Daniel Leviathan, a Swedish-Jewish historian who's also active in some of the country's Jewish organizations. "He was able to secure the right to form a minyan [prayer group] and to found a Jewish cemetery and mikveh."

Within the space of a year, Stockholm had a proper Jewish community, which included new arrivals from Germany, Denmark and Holland. Around the same period, under King Gustav III, a second Jewish community was established in Sweden's second largest city, Gothenburg. "In 1782, a Jewish ordinance was issued as a demand of the Swedish aristocracy," Leviathan recounts. Apart from regulating the right for Jews to live in Sweden, the ordinance set some restrictions. Jews were only allowed to move to the country if they had a minimum capital worth today's equivalent of about $100,000; they had to live in one of three towns; and local guilds stopped them from working in certain fields. "At the beginning of the 19th century," he says, "there were only about 1,000 Jews living in Sweden. Many of them were young and industrious people who thought they could make a better life for themselves in Sweden. At this point, they couldn't yet assimilate into Swedish society, and since it was a small community they all knew each other. They competed with each other but were also dependent on each other."

"At the beginning of the 19th century," he says, "there were only about 1,000 Jews living in Sweden. Many of them were young and industrious people who thought they could make a better life for themselves in Sweden. At this point, they couldn't yet assimilate into Swedish society, and since it was a small community they all knew each other. They competed with each other but were also dependent on each other."

According to Leviathan, the second part of the 19th century brought great change: Sweden opened its borders more widely, with pogroms and hardships in the Russian Empire bringing poor Orthodox Jews to the country. At the same time, the Jews who had been in Sweden for several generations enjoyed full emancipation in 1870.

They were considered Swedish citizens of the Jewish faith, no longer a "foreign" element. Many were assimilated and belonged to the elite of Swedish society. They could live anywhere, had a brand-new synagogue in the capital, and many considered themselves Reform Jews. By the time immigration came to a halt because of World War I, Sweden had about 7,000 Jews.

Sweden's World War II story is well-known: It managed to maintain so-called neutrality and wasn't officially part of the war. As for immigration, it was extremely restrictive both before and at the start of the war, but this changed dramatically in 1942 when it allowed about half of Norway's Jews, all of Denmark's Jews and many more refugees from across the continent find refuge within its borders. "After the war, Sweden accepted around 15,000 Jews," says Leviathan. "Many of the Holocaust survivors immigrated later to the United States or Israel, but 5,000 or 6,000 stayed. They were joined by other waves of immigration in later decades: Poles in 1969, Russians in the 1990s, and also Israelis. Today, the community is in many ways similar to Swedish society – modern, liberal and relatively secular. Because of its unique wartime history, it's different to most European communities because it became much bigger after the war than it was before it."

Today, it's estimated that about 20,000 Jews live in Sweden – though there are thousands more who can claim Jewish heritage. The largest community is in Stockholm, which has three synagogues and a relatively new cultural center called Bajit that is home to a Jewish elementary school and kindergarten, Jewish activities, a kosher shop and a café. The city also houses plenty of Jewish cultural and educational institutions, and organizations. Other Jewish communities and associations exist in Malmö, Gothenburg and a few smaller towns.

Sweden's Jewish groups are united under an umbrella organization called the Official Council of Swedish Jewish Communities, and its chairman, Aron Verständig, says the local community is a vibrant and diverse one. "It's more diverse now than it was 150 or even 50 years ago," he says. "There are families like my own that have been here for three or four generations and are established in Sweden. And there are also many Jews who live here but weren't born here." Verständig adds that this diversity is of a religious nature too. "These days, Stockholm has – for the first time – a progressive community with a progressive rabbi, but there's also renewed interest in the Great Synagogue [which is Conservative] and Orthodox Judaism. Chabad, which has been here for over 20 years, has also become a respected part of the community."

But there are many challenges too. One is the fact that the smaller Jewish communities aren't as vibrant as the one in the capital. "The optimism that you can see in Stockholm, where the community is growing, isn't what you see in the smaller communities – and this has been the case for many decades," says Verständig. "Initially, many members of the smaller communities moved to Stockholm, Gothenburg and Malmö. Now Gothenburg and Malmö's communities are getting smaller too, and many are moving to Stockholm. It's increasingly hard to live a Jewish life outside of Stockholm, and organized Jewish life in the smaller towns is quite slim."

Other challenges, according to Verständig, include staying relevant who those who are not observant and finding ways to attract new members in a country where assimilation rates are very high. He adds, though, that things have changed in that regard in his lifetime. "When I was growing up, they said that if you married a non-Jew, your kids wouldn't be Jewish – but nowadays it's not like that," he says. "We see that children of interfaith marriages are sent to Jewish schools and summer camps. There's a great need for Jewish education when you have a non-Jewish spouse, and it's a challenge to be inclusive enough for different groups from very different backgrounds."

However, while issues such as the legal status of circumcision, importing kosher meat and the legal framework of Jewish schools are undoubtedly issues for the community, all pale in comparison to the main problem these days: antisemitism. The issue of antisemitism has been discussed extensively over several decades in Sweden. In fact, all Swedish governments since the turn of the century have made concerted attempts to address it. The current (center-right) government appointed a special interministerial task force in order to combat antisemitism and strengthen Jewish life. This was a follow-up to 2021's Malmö International Forum on Holocaust Remembrance and Combating Antisemitism, which had been arranged by the previous (center-left) government.

These measures acknowledged that antisemitism comes in many different forms, including right-wing nationalism, left-wing radicalism and Islamism, which arrived through large waves of immigration from the Middle East starting in the last few decades. It was also clear that antisemitism can be found in many different arenas: online, in the workplace, public spaces and, perhaps worst of all, in schools. "A report that was written as a result of our request, and as one of the pledges of the Malmö conference, was released a few weeks ago," says Verständig. "In general, there are many suggestions that I think improve the possibility of living a Jewish life in Sweden – including safeguarding the right for Brit Milah [circumcision], financing security [at Jewish institutions], funding maintenance of synagogues and setting up a Jewish information center."

Yet the situation has deteriorated dramatically since the start of the Israel-Hamas war on Oct. 7. "Antisemitism has skyrocketed," says Verständig. "Many are feeling afraid, insecure and anxious," he says – and this was said on Tuesday, a day before a grenade was found outside the Israeli Embassy in central Stockholm. "A survey we did in November shows that many Jews have considered leaving Sweden. The government has reacted in an excellent way – but in civil society, reactions are sometimes very different."

Leviathan also expresses concerns over recent developments. "What's new in the current situation is that antisemitism is much harder to avoid," he says. "We always had antisemitism, but you could avoid it by moving to a different neighborhood or changing your job. Now it's everywhere – in the streets and squares, even in the 'nice' neighborhoods. It's in schools and universities. Youngsters are being bullied and exposed to antisemitism on TikTok, and adults are losing friends and colleagues who post anti-Israeli propaganda online. You're not even safe in your private space: you never know if the postman will react to the Jewish name on your mailbox. This is what I hear from young people in Sweden, and it's what I've experienced myself: there's no safe space anymore."

Leviathan's views are echoed by others in the community. Sweden has a vibrant Jewish cultural scene, but the difference between the period prior to Oct. 7 and afterward are dramatic.

The week before Oct. 7, the most important cultural event in the region, the Gothenburg Book Fair, hosted an institution called Jewish Culture in Sweden – founded and managed by Swedish-Israeli Lizzie Oved Scheja – as a guest of honor. This was a historic moment for Swedish-Jewish culture: Jewish literature, philosophy, music and humor were celebrated by a very wide audience, in what many described as an almost euphoric atmosphere.

What followed changed everything.

"My life has changed drastically since Oct. 7, both personally and professionally," says Natalie Lantz, a PhD scholar in Hebrew Bible studies who's also a columnist and translator of Hebrew literature (her translations include works by David Grossman, Amos Oz and Sara Shilo). "In 2013, I started writing and lecturing about Jewish and Hebrew culture and literature. My field of expertise has always spurred curiosity and positive reactions. Before Oct. 7, I had only been treated with suspicion by colleagues a few times. I remember a social gathering at a cultural institution when I was presented as the translator of Amos Oz's 'Dear Zealots,' and a person immediately took two steps back and said with disgust: 'I just want to be very clear that I don't support the Israeli occupation.' The conversation was abruptly shot down. Painfully, I realized that some people in the cultural world consider the Hebrew language and Israeli cultural expressions as being evil to the core. But such incidents were rare before Oct. 7. Now, there seems to be no end to the aggressive calls for a boycott of Israeli academia and culture."

She recounts how a petition signed by cultural workers, including some from public institutions, was peppered with terms like "apartheid system" and "Zionist-motivated genocide." "There are BDS rallies at the universities and I hear of faculties that are asked by students and staff to report if they have academic cooperation with Israeli universities," Lantz says.

For her, it's not only about her feelings but also her livelihood. "I'm dependent on being in dialogue with the intellectual arenas of Israel in order to conduct my work in an insightful manner," she says. "Now I fear that the calls for boycott may result in a difficulty to get funding for academic and cultural exchanges between Sweden and Israel. I myself have become very anxious in interactions with colleagues and institutions.

"Will my upcoming university lecture on the history of Jewish Bible translations provoke someone?" she asks. "Is [Austrian-Israeli philosopher] Martin Buber going to be canceled? Can I film the planned family program about Purim for Swedish television without being aggressively attacked? And, most scarily, can I continue to be an openly Jewish public figure in Sweden? I feel vulnerable and exposed. My world is shrinking."

Lantz is accustomed to the sight of a heavy security presence outside synagogues and Stockholm's Jewish school, "even though it feels absurd that community members have to be protected just for being Jewish. I've never really felt frightened of taking part in Jewish activities, but this has changed. I was out walking in the city center last Saturday when I accidentally got caught in a pro-Palestinian demonstration. This was on International Holocaust Remembrance Day. That evening, some people from the demonstration stood outside the synagogue where we hosted a memorial ceremony with Holocaust survivors present. They filmed people entering the synagogue and screamed 'child murderers,' 'death to Israel' and 'intifada.' That horrified me."

She believes the Swedish government has an "enormous responsibility" to combat this wave of antisemitism. "It seems to me that the politicians are taking the matter seriously, as they're not only allocating funds for security to Jewish institutions but also have a strategy to strengthen Jewish life – which focuses on the transmission of Jewish culture and Yiddish to future generations."

Yiddish is one of five official minority languages in Sweden, which is why Lantz believes focusing on it makes sense. That said, she still has concerns. "I fear that the strong focus on Yiddish in Sweden comes at the expense of possibilities to strengthen the knowledge of Hebrew, which is important as a common language for Jews globally," she says. "I was puzzled to note that 'Yiddish' appears 327 times in the strategy document while 'Hebrew' appears only 15 times. To me, strengthening Jewish life in Sweden is also about providing tools to partake in the international Hebrew cultural scene. After all, we'll need Hebrew translators also in future generations. At least, I hope so."