If you don't let them change, then you become the bigot.
Abraham Foxman, who survived the Holocaust as a hidden child and spent fifty years building the Anti-Defamation League into a global force against hatred, died Sunday at 86. His life traced one of the twentieth century's most consequential arcs — from concealment and survival to a career defined by the belief that prejudice could be named, confronted, and ultimately transformed. In counseling presidents, popes, and prime ministers, he embodied the idea that bearing witness to history's worst is not only a burden but a calling. His warning, issued at retirement, that the internet would unleash anonymous bigotry at unprecedented scale now reads less like prophecy than unfinished business.
- A man who survived the Holocaust by hiding his Jewish identity spent his entire adult life ensuring others never had to hide theirs.
- For 28 years as ADL national director, Foxman wielded enough moral authority that public figures who made antisemitic remarks would apologize — and mean it.
- His decision to expand the ADL's mission beyond antisemitism to include white supremacy, LGBTQ+ rights, and immigrant advocacy fractured allies and drew fierce debate about what a Jewish civil rights organization owes the broader world.
- Before retiring in 2015, he sounded an alarm about the internet enabling anonymous hatred at scale — a warning that has only grown more urgent as hate speech metastasizes across digital platforms.
- With his death, the ADL and the broader movement against hate lose the rare figure who could hold moral authority and pragmatic forgiveness in the same hand.
Abraham Foxman, one of the world's most recognized voices against antisemitism and longtime leader of the Anti-Defamation League, died Sunday at 86. The ADL announced his passing without disclosing the circumstances.
Born in 1940 to Polish Jewish parents in what is now Belarus, Foxman's earliest years were shaped by survival and concealment. A nanny baptized him as a Catholic and hid his Jewish identity to protect him from Nazi persecution. After the war, he was reunited with his parents and the family settled in New York. That experience — identity hidden to survive, rescue made possible by another's courage — would quietly animate everything he did afterward.
Foxman joined the ADL as a staff attorney after law school and never left, spending 50 years there and leading the organization as national director from 1987 to 2015. Under his watch, the ADL grew from a focused antisemitism watchdog into a wide-ranging civil rights institution — tracking extremists, advocating for immigrants and LGBTQ+ equality, training police on bias, and developing educational curricula on hate in its many forms.
That expansion was not without friction. Some Jewish leaders felt the organization was straying from its core mission. Others questioned whether Foxman was too quick to condemn perceived slights or too willing to accept apologies. He answered both critiques with the same philosophy: if you refuse to allow people to change, you become the very thing you are fighting. "If you don't let them change, then you become the bigot," he said.
By his retirement, Foxman was already troubled by what he saw coming. He warned publicly that the internet was giving bigots anonymity and reach that no previous generation of hate-mongers had enjoyed. That warning has aged into something closer to prophecy.
His successor, Jonathan Greenblatt, remembered him as a figure of rare moral authority on the global stage. Foxman had spent his life in service of a single conviction — that hatred could be confronted, that people were capable of change, and that the work was never finished. He lived that conviction from the moment a nanny hid him from history's worst, to the last years of a life spent in the open.
Abraham Foxman, who spent half a century at the Anti-Defamation League and became one of the most recognizable voices against antisemitism in the world, died Sunday at 86. The ADL announced his death without disclosing where or when it occurred.
Foxman led the organization for 28 years before stepping down in 2015, a tenure during which he became a trusted counselor to presidents, popes, and prime ministers. He was the kind of figure who could call out a public figure for antisemitic remarks and have that person listen—and apologize. When they did, Foxman would accept on behalf of the entire Jewish community, a role that gave him outsized influence in shaping how America's institutions reckoned with prejudice.
Born in 1940 to Polish Jewish parents in what is now Belarus, Foxman's life was shaped by the Holocaust before he was old enough to understand it. A nanny baptized him as a Catholic and hid his Jewish identity to protect him from Nazi persecution. After the war ended, he was reunited with his parents, and the family eventually settled in New York. That early experience—survival through concealment, the fragility of identity, the possibility of rescue—would inform everything he did for the next eight decades.
After law school, Foxman joined the ADL as a staff attorney and never left. Over his 50 years there, he transformed the organization's reach and scope. When he took over as national director in 1987, the ADL was primarily focused on antisemitism. Under his leadership, it became something broader: a research powerhouse tracking white supremacists and extremists, an advocate for immigrant rights and LGBTQ+ equality, a trainer of police departments on bias and diversity, a developer of educational programs on everything from the Holocaust to the Civil Rights Act to the psychology of bullying.
This expansion drew criticism from multiple directions. Some Jewish leaders felt the ADL was diluting its core mission by taking on causes beyond antisemitism. Others argued that Foxman was too quick to condemn perceived slights against Jews, or conversely, too willing to forgive those who apologized. He navigated these tensions with a philosophy rooted in his own history: change was possible, and refusing to allow it meant becoming the thing you opposed. "If you don't let them change, then you become the bigot," he said.
By the time Foxman retired, the landscape of hate was shifting in ways that troubled him. In an interview with the Associated Press, he expressed concern about the internet—how it allowed bigots to spread their ideology anonymously and at unprecedented speed. That warning, issued more than a decade ago, has only grown more prescient as antisemitism and hate speech have metastasized across digital platforms.
Jonathan Greenblatt, who succeeded Foxman as the ADL's director, remembered him as a figure of moral authority whose voice carried weight on the global stage. Foxman had spent his entire career in service of a single conviction: that hate could be confronted, that people could change, and that the work of building a world without prejudice was never finished. He lived that conviction from childhood through old age, a man who survived by hiding his identity and spent his life making sure others never had to.
Citações Notáveis
Abe's voice was heard—and listened to—by popes, presidents, and prime ministers, a voice he used wherever Jews were at risk.— Jonathan Greenblatt, current ADL director
If you don't let them change, then you become the bigot.— Abraham Foxman, on accepting apologies from those who repented antisemitic remarks
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
What made Foxman different from other civil rights leaders of his era?
He had a particular kind of authority—not just moral, but practical. He could pick up the phone and reach a president. When he said someone had crossed a line, people listened because he'd spent decades building credibility, and because he was willing to accept apologies and move forward.
That willingness to forgive—wasn't that controversial?
Absolutely. Some thought he was too soft, that he let people off too easily. But he believed that if you never allowed anyone to change, you closed the door to allies. It was a pragmatic view rooted in his own survival—he was hidden by someone who risked everything for him.
How did his background shape his work?
Everything. He was baptized as a child to hide his Jewishness. That experience of identity being concealed, of survival depending on someone else's courage—it never left him. It made him understand both the fragility of safety and the possibility of human decency.
The ADL expanded far beyond antisemitism under his watch. Was that a mistake?
That's the question people still debate. He believed hate was interconnected—that fighting white supremacy or defending immigrants or training police on bias was all part of the same work. Not everyone agreed, but he built something that lasted.
What was he most worried about when he left?
The internet. He saw it coming—how anonymity and speed would let hatred spread in ways previous generations couldn't imagine. He was right to worry.