The righteous rise with burning eyes
Of hatred and ill will.
Madmen fed on fear and lies
To beat and burn and kill.

We’re onto our third song in the “Fear” trilogy. We’re going in consecutive order of their appearance in the trilogy, not when they were written or released. Part 3, “Witch Hunt,” was the first to be written and released.

Today is International Holocaust Remembrance Day, a global day of mourning and memorial for the victims of Nazi Germany’s genocide. It’s distinct from Yom HaShoah, or Israel’s Holocaust memorial day, which at least in my little bubble is a much bigger deal. (I’ve decided to place “Red Sector A” on that day instead, if you’re wondering.)

“Witch Hunt” is a fitting song for today, as it’s a visceral depiction of mob vigilantism and the consequences of weaponized fear. It’s hard to listen to the song and not think of all my dead ancestors over the centuries, the ones I know about and the ones I don’t, and how my family tree was pruned by cycle after cycle of genocide. As far as I know, my family escaped the worst of the Holocaust, but only because they’d survived and fled an earlier attack that took place decades before.

My family history begins with the story of my great-great grandfather, whose village was burned down by an angry mob. He fled the flames and bullets into the surrounding forest with his younger sister and brother. The next morning, only he and his brother emerged; his younger sister had gotten separated from them in the night and was never found. From there, my great-great grandfather made his way to America. What happened before that? What happened to his sister, or the other people in the village? What was the name of the village? I don’t know. Nobody does anymore.

And this is our origin story, at least as much of it as remains. My story isn’t unique. Many Jews in America have a similar origin story, a timeline where the family record begins and everything before it is simply… gone.

“Witch Hunt” isn’t about the Holocaust, of course. It’s a universal song, less rooted in any one particular person or people’s experience. Anybody who is “Other” can be a victim of a witch hunt.

But the very concept of “witch hunts” has antisemitism baked into it. One of the things sanitized out of the history of medieval witch hunts is that from the Inquisition onward, witch hunts—as in, religious persecution of perceived ‘demonic’ collaborators—were usually levied against Jews and/or those who displayed Jewish traits, as a way to root out Jews polluting the community or, in the case of conversos, the faith. Even our concept of what a witch looks like—hooked noses, curly hair, a pointed hat shaped like the judenhut Jews were forced to wear at the time—is one big antisemitic stereotype.

You see, in the Inquisition, or in the Holocaust, or in any other witch hunt throughout history, it didn’t matter if you converted; it didn’t matter if you practiced Judaism or you had turned your back on it. Deep down, they never saw you as anything other than a Jew. Antisemites never do. It’s one of the most difficult lessons I’ve had to communicate to my children—that it doesn’t matter who you are, or what you believe, there are some people in this world who will never see you as anything other than the cause of all their problems, and they won’t rest until they’ve made you pay for it.

I can’t see the mobs marching on Jewish delis in New York, organizing boycotts of companies founded by Jewish people, splashing graffiti on buildings with anybody with a vaguely Jewish-sounding last name as anything new. My ancestors have seen it all before. I just wish my kids didn’t have to see it too.