When the far left and far right meet over the Jews

History does not repeat itself, but it often rhymes, and sometimes the rhyme is difficult to ignore.

At moments of political instability, ideological enemies can begin to sound strangely alike. They adopt a shared language, converge on a shared target, and gradually construct a shared narrative. In the 1920s, that target was the Jews. A century later, the echoes are becoming difficult to dismiss.

To understand the present, it is worth revisiting a largely forgotten episode from the turmoil of the Weimar Republic. In 1923, Germany was in crisis. Hyperinflation had wiped out savings, foreign troops occupied the Ruhr, and faith in democratic institutions was collapsing. The political center appeared weak and ineffective. Public anger was widespread, and radical movements on both the left and the right were searching for ways to channel it into mass mobilization. In that environment, ideological consistency began to matter less than rhetorical effectiveness.

This was the backdrop for what became known as the “Schlageter Line.” Albert Leo Schlageter, a nationalist militant executed by French forces after sabotaging railway lines, was quickly elevated into a martyr by the German far right. What followed was unexpected: figures within the Communist International and the German Communist Party attempted to appeal to the same nationalist sentiment.

Karl Radek, one of the leading Communist theorists of the time, delivered a speech portraying Schlageter as a tragic patriot. He argued that the true enemy of the German people was not communism, but international capital and corrupt elites. The goal was not ideological reconciliation, but tactical advantage – to win over disillusioned nationalists by adopting elements of their language. In the process, parts of the radical left began to blur ideological boundaries. Their rhetoric increasingly echoed familiar antisemitic themes about finance, cosmopolitan elites, and hidden power. One of the more striking moments came when Communist leader Ruth Fischer invoked references to “Jewish capital” while addressing nationalist audiences.

This episode reveals a recurring pattern. In times of uncertainty, extreme movements tend to simplify reality. Complex economic and social forces are reduced to a single explanation, and that explanation often takes the form of a conspiracy. In the early twentieth century, Jews were portrayed simultaneously as capitalist exploiters and revolutionary subversives. The contradiction did not matter. What mattered was that the narrative provided a target.

The same dynamic can be observed today, even if the language has changed. On the far right, traditional antisemitic tropes have reemerged in the language of “globalists,” financial elites, and demographic replacement. On parts of the radical left, Israel and Zionism are sometimes framed as the central expression of global injustice, while Jews are portrayed as beneficiaries of systemic oppression. The ideological frameworks differ, but the emotional structure is strikingly similar.

Recent debates in the United States reveal a particularly stark convergence. In some progressive circles, American foreign policy is increasingly described as captive to pro-Israel interests. At the same time, populist voices on the right use the language of sovereignty and “global elites” to arrive at a similar conclusion.

This overlap became especially visible when Cenk Uygur defended Tucker Carlson’s claims about Washington’s pro-Israel influence, arguing that Carlson was “speaking the truth.” This is not a shared ideology. It is a shared target. Political theorists sometimes refer to this phenomenon as “Horseshoe Theory” – the idea that the far left and far right, despite defining themselves as opposites, can bend toward each other at the extremes. What unites them is not a coherent worldview, but a common narrative structure: the belief that a hidden and powerful force is responsible for society’s failures.

In Weimar Germany, the temporary convergence between communists and nationalists did not produce a new political synthesis. It produced instability, polarization, and ultimately catastrophe. The far right proved more effective at harnessing the resentment that both sides had amplified. Those who experimented with nationalist rhetoric soon discovered that they could not control the forces they had helped unleash.

The warning for our time is not only about antisemitism itself, but about what its resurgence signals. When political rivals begin to agree that Jews, Israel, or the “Jewish lobby” are the hidden force behind global disorder, the conversation has already moved beyond policy. It is no longer a debate about specific decisions or disagreements. It becomes a broader challenge to the legitimacy of the liberal democratic system itself.

That is how the crisis looked in 1923. Today, the rhyme is no longer faint, it is becoming unmistakable.