Kichinev, 1903: from pogrom to myth

In Pogrom: Kishinev and the Tilt of History, Steven J. Zipperstein revisits the 1903 massacre in Kichinev, a local event that became a global trauma in the modern Jewish consciousness. More than just an account of violence, his investigation reveals how this pogrom—widely reported, interpreted, and mythologized—shaped contemporary Jewish history: it fueled the rise of Zionism, sparked global mobilization, inspired literature and the press, and forged a lasting paradigm of Jewish vulnerability. Using an approach that combines microhistory and cultural analysis, the American historian dismantles simplistic narratives, questions distortions of memory, and reveals how a provincial tragedy crystallized the major political, social, and symbolic tensions of 20th-century Jewry.

 

 

K. : What motivated your research on the writing of this book more than 100 years after the pogrom happened?

Steven Zipperstein : I did not begin by intending to write this particular book. I had signed a contract with a trade publisher to produce a comprehensive history of Eastern European and Russian Jewish life from the eighteenth century to the present. To avoid suffering from insomnia—a recurring challenge during large projects—I subdivided the work. I’ve followed this approach with other books as well, allowing myself permission to read extensively on a particular subject for three or four weeks. One such segment was on the Kishinev pogrom. What ultimately convinced me that there was a deeper story here was, interestingly, the transcripts from the Second Party Congress of the Russian Social Democratic Labor Party. I realized that Lenin had structured it in such a way that it became the meeting at which the Bolsheviks emerged. He won a vote concerning the organization and centralization of the party. He understood, in August and September 1903, that the Bund could not accept centralization because they felt a deep obligation to defend Jews—especially in the wake of the Kishinev pogrom.^[1] However, the Bund could not openly state that it was defending Jews, as it was a class-based organization officially committed only to protecting Jewish workers. In reality, their concern extended to all Jews. Lenin, being astute, knew that the Bund was effectively fighting with both hands tied behind its back. I came to the conclusion that the unspoken presence in the room at one of the most significant Marxist meetings before 1917 was the Kishinev pogrom. It started there. Once I began researching further, I found the material to be extraordinary.

I have always been interested in the intersection between myth and history and have explored that relationship in various ways. However, I never previously had the opportunity to examine it with the clarity this case allowed. For anyone who has examined the pogrom, it is arguably the best-documented event in late Russian Jewish history, particularly in Russian and other languages. There were official commissions; every house that had been attacked was investigated, with detailed records of damage—even down to specific furniture. What emerged was a remarkable interplay between abundant factual information and the simultaneous construction of mythology.

I came to understand that memory tends to endure when solidified by institutions. Without such support, events tend to fade from collective awareness. In the case of the Kishinev pogrom, every major institution connected to it—Jewish, non-Jewish, and even antisemitic—had a vested interest in preserving its memory. Within Jewish circles, the Zionist movement in 1903 was at its height. Herzl died in 1904. After the 1905–1906 revolution, the Bund reached 30,000 members, though it would soon become a much smaller movement. At that moment, Zionism was fundamentally a secular movement, although most of its adherents were religious Jews. They were searching for a way to create a culture that was as rich and meaningful as religious Judaism.

K. : The Bialik poem plays an important role at this moment…

Absolutely. A fundamental role. Bialik’s poem Be’ir Ha-Haregah (In the City of Slaughter) provided a text that could finally compete with Kohelet (Ecclesiastes). It offered a vision of what Zionism could produce in terms of a holistic cultural framework. Additionally, the poem was embraced by many groups: the territorialists, Zionists, Jewish socialists, and even antisemites. Each saw it as evidence supporting their own narrative. The pogrom came to symbolize something profound for many people, and as a result, it became institutionalized. Unlike other pogroms, which were forgotten or faded into the background, the Kishinev pogrom became a shared and contested symbol claimed by many. For Jews, for example, it was this pogrom that seemed to validate claims that the Russian government was directly responsible for the violence against them.Coupled with the so-called Plehve letter—which appeared to demonstrate that the Russian government was responsible for orchestrating killings and rapes of Jews on the streets—many believed they had definitive proof that the state bore full responsibility. This interpretation helped drive a relatively open wave of Jewish immigration to the United States. And yet, none of this was accurate. The Plehve letters were forgeries…^[2]

K. : You say that even antisemites had every interest in preserving the memory of the Kishinev pogrom, but why? Why was this event so important to them too?

Primarily because of its immediate international visibility. Newspapers around the world, especially the Hearst Press in the United States, were filled with coverage of the Kishinev pogrom. To antisemites, this appeared to confirm that Jews controlled the media. At the time, William Randolph Hearst was preparing to run—possibly as a Democratic candidate for governor of New York—and had aspirations for the presidency. He was, in many ways, a precursor to Trump. He used the pogrom as a vehicle to galvanize support among New York’s Jewish community.For antisemites, this seemed to be confirmation that Jews dominated global influence. 

K. : In your opinion, why did the Kishinev pogrom have such an immediate impact? Why does it have such symbolic significance, which still lingers in people’s memories today? Why this pogrom, with—dare I say—relatively few deaths, and not another?

There are several reasons. Part of what gave Kishinev its lasting impact—what in Hebrew is called roshem, or imprint—was the relatively low number of deaths. Photography existed earlier, but had rarely been used in news due to cost. This was the first Jewish event extensively covered through photographs. One image could capture the 49 Jews who were killed. It’s analogous to Anne Frank—individual stories help people comprehend overwhelming tragedies. You cannot photograph 600 murdered Jews, as in Odessa in 1905, but you can photograph 49. Of course, this is just one reason among many others…

I believe that the idea that, regardless of where Jews live or their circumstances, there is some historical inevitability that will cause non-Jews to turn against them is a myth.

Chronology plays a part. It was the first pogrom of the twentieth century, a century many hoped would usher in peace. There’s also geography: Kishinev, located near the highly corruptible Romanian border, became the site of the Zionist Movement’s Correspondence Bureau. Many telegrams sent to London originated from Odessa, routed through Kishinev. As I argue in the book, if the same events had taken place just 200 miles east—in Odessa—it likely would not have become the Kishinev pogrom.

What fascinates me in the interplay between myth and history is that history is filled with accidents, interruptions, and randomness. In the book, I mention that on the second and most violent day of the pogrom, it rained until 5:00 a.m. Pogroms and revolutions do not typically occur in bad weather. Had the rain continued, the violence might not have escalated. Myth is smooth and consistent; history is rough and erratic. When I published the book, Trump was campaigning. In talks, I said that history sounds like Jeb Bush—it stammers and hesitates—while myth sounds like Trump—declarative, simplified, cohesive. Everything fits. Everyone is against you. It’s easy to understand. Myth has no contradictions. That analogy, drawn from Jewish interpretive traditions—Halachah versus Midrash—helped me frame the Kishinev pogrom as both a historical and symbolic event. I wanted to use it to make broader claims about the fragility of historical understanding, how myth often eclipses it.

K. : In your book, you show that the Kishinev pogrom, beyond its immediate horror, constituted a kind of inaugural moment in the modern Jewish imagination. It crystallized, you say, a vision of the Jewish destiny in Europe as tragic and inevitable—to the point that some saw it as a foreshadowing of the Shoah. Could you elaborate on the formative role of the pogrom in Jewish consciousness, particularly in terms of its impact on Zionist and American trajectories? How did Kishinev come to embody the image of a doomed, cursed Europe and influence representations of the Jewish future to this day?

I believe that interpretation is based on the presumption that, irrespective of where Jews reside or their circumstances, non-Jews will inevitably turn against them. That is not a conclusion I reached from studying this pogrom. It was, undoubtedly, a horrific and brutal event. But, like so many aspects of life, the reality is complex. What I did observe, and what resembles the argument Jan Gross makes in his excellent book Neighbors, about Jedwabne, is that events like this reveal a link between familiarity and ferocity. In other words, there appears to be a disturbing connection between personally knowing someone and the brutal way in which one might attack or kill them. Yet, at the same time, we know—although the precise numbers are unclear—that many Jews fled into the homes of non-Jews who hid them at considerable personal risk. What does this teach us about the concept of eternal antisemitism? The Governor General Uvarov of the region was not a rabid antisemite; he was far more preoccupied with prostitutes than with hatred toward Jews. His successor, General Várov, was a philosemite. The main journalist who covered the pogrom in a Western language, Michael Davitt, had some sympathies with antisemitic views but was ultimately very sympathetic to the plight of Jews. In short, history is far more complicated than many would like to believe.

This history sounds like Jeb Bush—it stammers and hesitates—while myth sounds like Trump—declarative, simplified, cohesive. Everything fits. Everyone is against you.

 It is true that the Russian state harbored no benevolence toward its Jewish population. But what frightened it even more than Jews was mass anarchy and civil unrest. Most of the disturbances occurred in rural areas. Ultimately, the Russian government was right to fear such uprisings; in February 1917, a mass revolt led to its collapse. The notion that political conservatism, and the Russian government in particular, was inherently antisemitic became ingrained in the mythos of the Kishinev pogrom. I note this because, as a liberal-leaning historian, much of what I study challenges my own beliefs. But intellectual honesty requires one to follow the evidence wherever it leads. This myth, reinforced by the Plehve letter, cemented the belief that the Russian state—the largest land empire in Europe, home to the majority of the world’s Jews—was at war with its Jewish population. There was no conclusive evidence of this before Kishinev, but afterward, people believed there was. That belief became deeply embedded in American Jewish consciousness. It persisted through the era of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, through John F. Kennedy, and continues, in many ways, to the present day. Regardless of how much Donald Trump tried to court Jewish voters, 70% of American Jews cast their ballots for Kamala Harris.

K. : In many ways, the Kishinev pogrom solidified the association between liberalism, anti-conservatism, and Jewish identity.

Indeed. There is also a perception that, above all, the Jewish left was galvanized and reshaped by this event.

K. : Was the Jewish left actively involved in the events in Kishinev?

Not really. The Jewish left had little direct involvement in Kishinev itself. The Bund was strongest in industrial regions with factories. Kishinev, with its small workshops, lacked a significant leftist Jewish presence. Even acts of resistance during the pogrom were not driven by leftist organizations. That would come later, notably in Gomel in September 1903. But despite the lack of direct involvement, the pogrom became a powerful metaphor for the Jewish left. It served as a lesson: if you do not resist, you will be destroyed. That is the message drawn from Kishinev.

The contrast between the effeminate, passive Jew of the diaspora (Galut) and the strong, masculine Jew of Zion dates back to Kishinev.

K. : One of the most significant consequences of the Kishinev pogrom was the emergence of the Jewish self-defense movement.

Correct—eventually, this led to the formation of the Haganah. However, it is important to be precise: One of the curious aspects of Kishinev—emphasized by Bialik’s famous poem—is the perception that Jews did not fight back. We know that this is not accurate. Bialik himself documented several incidents of resistance. The pogrom came as a complete surprise. There was no Bund or other socialist Jewish organization present in Kishinev to organize a formal defense. And yet, we know that significant acts of self-defense did occur. In fact, one of the primary arguments made by the antisemites who were put on trial—proceedings that continued through December in Odessa—was that Jews were too aggressive. A defining feature of pogroms is that Jews are always blamed. In 1881, the narrative focused on Jews as exploiters—particularly economic ones. In other cases, they were accused of being revolutionaries. The point is that Jews were always cast as responsible. From the perspective of the pogromists and their defenders, Jews were portrayed as excessively aggressive. In contrast, the most influential cultural document to emerge from the pogrom—Bialik’s poem—depicted Jews as cowards.

The two most significant figures who documented the pogrom were Bialik and Michael Davitt. Davitt, an Irish revolutionary and accomplished journalist, was known to be a meticulous note-taker. I was able to trace his notes to Trinity College, Dublin, where his papers are archived. To my surprise, Davitt’s private notes echoed Bialik’s depiction: he, too, described Jewish men as cowardly. However, he never published these observations—neither in newspapers nor in the book based on his reporting, which became a major work. In my book, I suggest that when it comes to especially vulnerable communities, some truths are kept behind closed doors. One does not publicize uncomfortable realities about such groups—especially in the immediate aftermath of a traumatic event like the Kishinev pogrom. Bialik felt free to include these observations in a poem—but not in reportage or non-fiction. This discrepancy—this inaccuracy—was pivotal in shaping the post-pogrom Jewish commitment to self-defense. It is justifiably seen as the origin point of what would become the Israeli military. Embedded in this new ideology was a contrast: the effeminate, passive Jew of the Diaspora (Galut) versus the strong, masculine Jew of Zion. That framework dates back to Kishinev.

To fault Jews for believing in the state is to fault them for being rational. To attribute pacifism as something inherently Jewish is misguided.

K. : If this image of the passive Jew is a late construct, what was the reality? How did Jews react to violence before Kishinev, in previous centuries?

Jews in the Middle Ages defended themselves whenever they were attacked—whenever they could. The idea that Jews inherently refrained from resisting the state is a modern construct. It stems from the belief that Jews would eventually be emancipated. To blame Jews in modernity for not fighting back against the state is essentially to fault them for placing their faith in modern values. That is a deeply flawed notion. They believed that the state would, in time, grant them full rights. Many Russian Jews held the same hope. That pact of expectation was disrupted by the Plehve letter, but it remained meaningful—particularly in places like France and Germany, where emancipation eventually did come. Even in Russia, there was hope, and in 1917, it did arrive, though tragically late. To fault Jews for believing in the state is to fault them for being rational. To attribute pacifism as something inherently Jewish is misguided. When Jews were attacked during the Middle Ages—before modern ideas of nationhood and equal citizenship—they fought back. There is nothing inherent or essential in Jewish identity that suggests Jewish men outside the land of Israel were not physically courageous. That stereotype is a construct.

K. : Why did the Kishinev pogrom have such an impact on American Jews? Reading your work, it is clear that it did not merely result in a momentary outburst of emotion or mobilization, but also helped shape a lasting political sensibility, notably a marked shift to the left. How do you explain this shift?

Kishinev had a lasting impact on American Jews precisely because it wasn’t a left-wing issue… This was the first matter that united the Jewish left and the broader Jewish community around a cause that was not ideologically polarizing. It was a universal issue: Jews being beaten in the streets. It allowed people to cut through ideological and organizational divisions. This was the first issue on which Jewish organizations collaborated and found unity. It was a godsend for American Jewish political life. It occurred at a time when Jewish radicals were positioned to lead. That was rare—this was a moment when Jewish radicals could be at the forefront of a movement that united the entire Jewish community. They had the infrastructure. The traditional rabbinic authorities who had significant power in Eastern Europe were relatively weak in America. Their influence was limited. The left was concentrated in places like New York—and, to a lesser extent, Chicago—and it had the capacity to lead. That’s why this moment was so consequential.

K. : You mentioned this unprecedented common cause between the Jewish left and the Jewish community as a whole, but we should also mention the links between the anti-pogrom movement and the non-Jewish American left. One of the surprising revelations in your book is the link between the Kishinev pogrom and the anti-lynching movement in the United States…

Exactly. The American Socialist Party avoided addressing lynching because it feared alienating white workers. The Democratic Party also resisted confronting it, fearing it would cost them political support in the South. So, what happened was that everyone focused on the Kishinev pogrom, and some of the more enterprising, independent socialists saw an opportunity. They recognized that pogroms were universally condemned in the United States. By drawing a connection between the horrors of pogroms and lynching—something Americans had largely ignored—they created a moral and political bridge. This comparison laid the groundwork for the creation of the NAACP, which, at its inception, was effectively a Jewish support organization for Black Americans.

K. : At this point, we must mention a woman, Anna Strunsky, whose crucial influence has been forgotten…

Yes, it’s a classic example of how women’s contributions are often erased from history. Anna Strunsky was a vibrant socialist and a romantic partner of Jack London. She eventually fell in love with, and married, the man who became the first chairman of the NAACP, William English Walling. The NAACP, though now viewed as a central Black institution, began as something different. Officially, it was a support organization for Black Americans—not a Black-led organization. If you read early histories of the NAACP, you’ll notice that this fact is treated with some discomfort. The Jewish involvement—so central at its inception—is often written out of the story. Strunsky’s husband, Walling, wrote the first widely-read English-language book on Russian radicalism, even before John Reed. At the same time, Strunsky herself covered the Gomel pogrom. Although she didn’t write as fluidly as Walling, and she suffered from three miscarriages that kept her from attending many meetings, it was she who initially articulated the link between pogroms and lynching. While promoting her husband’s book—Russia’s Message—on stage at Cooper Union in New York, she made the connection publicly. That evening, a group of attendees began seriously planning what would become the NAACP. Although Strunsky didn’t participate directly in its founding meetings, her idea was the spark. And yet, she was soon forgotten. Her absence from the record is emblematic of a broader pattern in history—particularly when it comes to women’s roles in activism. Independent Black newspapers at the time picked up her idea because they had long struggled to bring attention to lynching. Pogroms, however, were well-covered and widely condemned. By framing lynching through the lens of pogroms, they finally found traction. The linkage between antisemitic violence abroad and racial violence in America became a bridge for political mobilization—and Strunsky was at the heart of that connection.

K. : Can you tell us about the link between the Jewish cause and the Black cause that you discuss in the chapter on Strunsky, Walling, and the anti-lynching movement?

The relationship has always been, and remains, deeply complicated. To the extent that Black Americans interacted with white people at the time, those white individuals were often Jews—Jews who lived in the same neighborhoods, owned shops, or served as landlords. As a result, there was a greater expectation that Jews would embody the benevolence of the biblical tradition. Intermarriage between Black and white Americans, when it occurred, most often involved Jews. That dynamic continued well into the 1960s, when many Black radicals were married to Jewish partners. When certain expectations were not met, frustration naturally set in. I don’t explore that topic in depth in the book. However, it is a subject I’ve thought about a great deal. I was recently interviewed for a forthcoming PBS series on the relationship between Black and Jewish communities. It’s a topic I find immensely compelling, precisely because the proximity between the two communities has often produced both closeness and antagonism. That story continues into the present day. Much of the anti-Zionist sentiment in American intellectual life today stems from Black criticism of Jews. Frequently, campus activists who are most vocally anti-Zionist are African Americans—if not from the Middle East themselves. The split between Blacks and Jews is one of the more intricate and painful legacies of the 1960s. Many of the most significant American left-wing and anti-war organizations fractured because of this tension. Jews and Black activists, who had once worked together, could no longer reconcile their differences—particularly over Israel and Zionism. That division, rooted in ideological, racial, and geopolitical complexities, remains one of the enduring challenges in understanding coalition-building in progressive American politics.

K. : Can we go back to the meaning of the word “pogrom,” its use, particularly because it has resurfaced in the news with October 7?

The term likely originates from the Russian word grom, which means “thunder.” It was not always clearly defined, and over time, its meaning evolved. Today, it is commonly used to describe organized, often state-tolerated attacks against Jewish communities. But its original usage was far less specific. I collected obituaries from The New York Times in which Jews claimed they had emigrated because of pogroms—even when no such violence had occurred in their towns. One reviewer of my book wrote that she had always assumed her family came from a town called Pogrom, because the word was so pervasive in their family lore. “Pogrom” became a shorthand for unlivable conditions.

K. : What do you think about the use of the term “pogrom” in connection with the October 7 attacks? This has been a particularly charged issue among historians…

Recently, an article was published by Boaz Akhimeir, the son of a man once accused of assassinating Lozovsky^[3]. Akhimeir, a prominent figure on the far right, wrote a lengthy piece praising my book, claiming, “There isn’t yet a good book about October 7, but if you want to understand it, read this one.” That statement alone underscores how explosive this issue has become. I won’t ignore it—on the contrary, I think it deserves close and honest examination.

On the one hand, it’s entirely understandable—especially psychologically—that people, particularly in Israel, perceived the attack as a betrayal of the foundational pact of Zionism: that horrors like these belonged to the Diaspora, to the Galut, and not to life in the Jewish state. That rupture was deeply traumatic.So yes, it’s emotionally comprehensible why people reached for the term “pogrom.” But beyond that initial emotional reaction, the conflation is historically misguided. Jews in the Russian Empire had no army. At most, they had a few underground figures attempting to gather limited arms illegally and under great risk. Israel, by contrast, is the most powerful military force in the Middle East—and possesses a nuclear arsenal.

To equate the two contexts is not only incorrect; it undermines everything Israel has achieved. Worse still, it absolves Israel of any responsibility—not only for how it failed to prevent the attack, but also for how it chooses to respond. The risk is that, in seeking to shed the image of the passive Jew—the Jew who goes like a sheep to the slaughter—the response becomes one of total annihilation: flattening Gaza, destroying Gaza entirely. The attack becomes mythologized. Israel is now seen as battling not Hamas, but Haman, Hitler, Khmelnytsky^[4]—every historical enemy rolled into one. This obliterates the actual causes, contexts, and dynamics of the present-day conflict. It’s not only historically inaccurate—it’s dangerously misleading.

We must also acknowledge that the attack happened not to a defenseless people, but to a sovereign, powerful state. With power comes responsibility.

K. : So you believe the word itself carries with it a problematic political impact?

It’s more than just problematic politics. The word taps into some of the most volatile toxins within Jewish historical consciousness—the idea that no matter where we are or what we do, others will always want to destroy us. But then how do you explain peace with Jordan? With Egypt? With Saudi Arabia? How do you explain the fact that some of the most outwardly antisemitic world leaders are now among Israel’s staunchest allies? And in the United States, groups that historically harbored antisemitism now enthusiastically support Israel. That inversion should give us pause. The narrative that “they all want to kill us” flattens a complex world into a simplistic myth. It may feel emotionally satisfying, but it’s objectively false.

Yet, paradoxically, this emotional power is part of why the book has been republished. We must remain realistic. My father was a businessman, and one of the things I learned from him is that there are many paths to wisdom—some of them pragmatic. Being realistic doesn’t mean being cynical; it means understanding that even in success, there are contradictions and responsibilities. Which brings us back to October 7. To define it as a pogrom is not only historically inaccurate—it’s dangerous. It misrepresents a state with considerable military power as if it were a powerless community. And in doing so, it distorts not only the event itself, but the justification and scope of the political and military response. I am not saying that Israel is responsible for what happened—Hamas bears that responsibility, and I do not condone or minimize the brutality of their actions. Slaughtering civilians at a music festival is an atrocity. The denial of rapes by some prominent feminists is abhorrent. I reject those positions entirely. But we must also acknowledge that the attack happened not to a defenseless people, but to a sovereign, powerful state. With power comes responsibility. Every state is vulnerable. But the idea that Israel is somehow exempt from moral accountability because it was attacked is both historically and ethically dangerous. So it turns your political military response into a lie.

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Interview conducted by Stéphane Bou and Elena Guritanu