In the past several years, defenders of Vladimir Putin’s regime—both inside and outside of Russia—have made a habit of accusing critics of Russophobia. Gary Saul Morson has much to say of interest about the origins and evolution of the term, but particularly interesting to me (and perhaps to you as well) is how closely it dovetails with accusations against Jews. The pattern begins with the 1989 book Russophobia by Igor Shafarevich, which popularized the word:

As many have noticed, when all else fails, one can usually unite Russians against Jewish influence, which is what Shafarevich tried to do in Russophobia. Shafarevich quotes several Russian writers, mostly Jews, expressing what he deems irrational hatred for everything Russian.

Russophobes, Shafarevich adds, dream of turning Russia into “a robot” following “a program that has been developed on the other side of the earth. . . . And democracy plays the role of such a ‘program’ . . . that has no organic connection whatsoever with the country.” He develops Augustin Cochin’s theory of how elite groups—a “small people” within a “greater people”—can destroy all traditional values, as happened during the French Revolution. In the Russian case, Shafarevich explains, the “little people” really are a people: the Jews.

Although liberal dissidents of course include many non-Jews, Shafarevich allows, Jewish predominance explains why liberals place such emphasis on “the cult of emigration.” “If we . . . ask, just whose national feelings are manifesting themselves here . . . there can be no doubt as to the answer. . . . The ‘Jewish question’ has assumed incomprehensible power over minds. . . . And apparently the existence of a ‘Russian question’ is not recognized at all.”

Perhaps not unrelatedly, there was an attempted pogrom yesterday in the Russian province of Dagestan—attempted only because there were no Jews to be found.

If Iran succeeds in obtaining nuclear weapons, the war in Gaza, let alone the protests on college campuses, will seem like a minor complication. Jonathan Schachter fears that this danger could be much more imminent than decisionmakers in Jerusalem and Washington believe. In his view, Israel seems to be repeating the mistake that allowed it to be taken by surprise on Simchat Torah of 2023 and Yom Kippur of 1973: putting too much faith in an intelligence concept that could be wrong.

Israel and the United States apparently believe that despite Iran’s well-documented progress in developing capabilities necessary for producing and delivering nuclear weapons, as well as its extensive and ongoing record of violating its international nuclear obligations, there is no acute crisis because building a bomb would take time, would be observable, and could be stopped by force. Taken together, these assumptions and their moderating impact on Israeli and American policy form a new Iran concept reminiscent of its 1973 namesake and of the systemic failures that preceded the October 7 massacre.

Meanwhile, most of the restrictions put in place by the 2015 nuclear deal will expire by the end of next year, rendering the question of Iran’s adherence moot. And the forces that could be taking action aren’t:

The European Union regularly issues boilerplate press releases asserting its members’ “grave concern.” American decisionmakers and spokespeople have created the unmistakable impression that their reservations about the use of force are stronger than their commitment to use force to prevent an Iranian atomic bomb. At the same time, the U.S. refuses to enforce its own sanctions comprehensively: Iranian oil exports (especially to China) and foreign-currency reserves have ballooned since January 2021, when the Biden administration took office.

Israel’s response has also been sluggish and ambiguous. Despite its oft-stated policy of never allowing a nuclear Iran, Israel’s words and deeds have sent mixed messages to allies and adversaries—perhaps inadvertently reinforcing the prevailing sense in Washington and elsewhere that Iran’s nuclear efforts do not present an exigent crisis.