Milo Rau, the Swiss theatre director renowned for his politically charged reenactments of historical atrocities, embodies a paradox common among certain progressive European intellectuals: a deep engagement with the memory of Jewish suffering in the past while adopting positions that harshly condemn the contemporary Jewish state. Rau’s oeuvre includes works that confront the horrors of genocide and propaganda, such as Hate Radio, a meticulous reconstruction of the Rwandan radio broadcasts that incited the 1994 genocide against the Tutsi. His productions often draw on real events to expose mechanisms of hatred and violence, earning him acclaim as a "friendly revolutionary" committed to human rights and solidarity with the oppressed. Yet, when it comes to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, Rau’s stance aligns with a vocal segment of the European left that equates Israel’s actions in Gaza with genocide—a term he has invoked—and calls for cultural and artistic resistance against what he describes as Israeli war crimes. This tension raises a profound question: Why do some left-wing artists and thinkers, who rightly memorialize the victims of historical Jewish persecution, appear so quick to judge and isolate the world’s only Jewish-majority nation today? Rau’s case illustrates what critics have termed a form of selective empathy: reverence for "dead Jews" as symbols of ultimate victimhood under fascism, contrasted with a readiness to portray living Jews—through their identification with Israel—as perpetrators in a new moral drama. This phenomenon is not unique to Rau but reflects broader patterns in progressive circles, where Holocaust memory serves as a touchstone for anti-racism, yet criticism of Israel often veers into rhetoric that singles out the Jewish state disproportionately, sometimes blurring into tropes that evoke older antisemitic anxieties about Jewish power or collective guilt. Rau’s political theatre is rooted in left-wing activism. He founded the International Institute of Political Murder in 2007 to stage reenactments of global injustices, from the Romanian dictator Ceaușescu’s execution to the exploitation in Congo. His works emphasize empathy for the marginalized: migrant workers in The New Gospel, refugees in various productions, and victims of colonial legacies. Rau positions himself as a truth-teller against power structures, drawing on Brechtian traditions to provoke audiences into confronting uncomfortable realities. He has spoken of theatre as a tool for "permanent revolution," critiquing capitalism, fascism, and imperialism. In interviews, he describes growing up in a post-ideological era where traditional leftism seemed obsolete, yet his projects revive a militant humanism, often focusing on non-Western victims of violence. Notably absent from Rau’s extensive body of work are direct engagements with the Holocaust itself through major productions. While he references Nazi-era echoes—such as in discussions of documentary theatre’s obsolescence in addressing processed traumas like the Shoah—his reenactments gravitate toward more contemporary or non-European atrocities: Rwanda, Congo, Mosul under ISIS, paedophilia scandals in Belgium. This choice may stem from a belief, as he has articulated, that the Nazi past no longer requires theatrical excavation in the West, where it is institutionally commemorated. Yet this selectivity underscores the critique: the dead Jews of Europe are safely historicized, their suffering a universal lesson against hatred, while modern Jewish concerns—self-determination in a hostile region, security amid existential threats—are sidelined or reframed as obstacles to justice for others. Rau’s public statements on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict reveal a sharp pivot. As artistic director of the Wiener Festwochen, he has faced accusations of fostering antisemitism through programming and associations. He invited figures like Annie Ernaux and Yanis Varoufakis—both outspoken critics of Israel—to advisory roles, prompting backlash from Austrian politicians and Jewish communities. Rau defended these choices as promoting dialogue, insisting that criticizing Israeli policy does not equate to antisemitism. He has described Europe as divided between "colonial guilt" in places like Belgium and "genocide guilt" in Austria, implicitly linking historical complicity in the Holocaust to contemporary obligations toward Palestinians. More explicitly, Rau has called for artists to "take position clearly" on Gaza, framing Israel’s military actions as genocidal and urging resistance against what he terms war crimes. In open letters and interviews, he has compared the situation in Gaza to the failures of post-World War II institutions meant to prevent such atrocities, echoing the Shoah without directly naming it. Critics argue this invokes Holocaust memory instrumentally: to heighten moral outrage against Israel while downplaying or contextualizing Hamas’s actions. Rau condemns violence on both sides but emphasizes Israel’s responsibility as the occupying power, aligning with left-wing narratives that prioritize Palestinian suffering. This stance exemplifies the alleged hypocrisy. Rau’s reverence for historical Jewish victims manifests in his anti-fascist ethos and sensitivity to propaganda’s dangers—lessons drawn from the Nazi era. He stages tribunals and reenactments to bear witness to genocide, insisting on the humanity of the oppressed. Yet when Jews today assert collective agency through Israel—a state born from the ashes of the Holocaust, surrounded by adversaries calling for its destruction—Rau joins calls that isolate it culturally and morally. Accusations of antisemitism against his festivals are dismissed as attempts to stifle debate, emptying the term of meaning. Is this fair? Rau insists no. He highlights Jewish voices in his programming, such as Israeli-German philosopher Omri Boehm, and positions his work as universally humanist. He condemns antisemitism unequivocally in contexts like rising far-right threats in Europe. Yet the pattern persists: empathy flows readily to Palestinians as contemporary underdogs, while Israel’s perspective is often reduced to power imbalance, ignoring the Jewish historical trauma that informs its policies. This mirrors a broader left-wing tendency critiqued by thinkers like Deborah Lipstadt or Bari Weiss: Holocaust memory weaponized against Israel, where "never again" applies universally except, seemingly, to Jews. Rau’s approach risks perpetuating a double standard. His theatre demands nuance for complex atrocities—Rwanda’s radio inciters are humanized through reenactment to understand hatred’s mechanics—yet on Israel-Palestine, positions harden into clear moral binaries: oppressor versus oppressed. This flattens Jewish Israelis into a monolithic aggressor, echoing dehumanizing tropes even if unintentionally. In a Europe grappling with resurgent antisemitism—from left-wing anti-Zionism to right-wing nativism—such selectivity can fuel perceptions that Jews are acceptable targets when framed as "Zionists." Ultimately, Rau’s work challenges us to confront violence without hypocrisy. If theatre is to transform, as he claims, it must apply the same empathy to all victims: historical Jews as emblems of innocence lost, and contemporary ones navigating survival in a world still hostile. Loving "dead Jews" as moral exemplars while judging "modern Jews" collectively through Israel’s actions risks betraying the very lessons Rau’s art seeks to impart. True solidarity demands consistency: remembering the Shoah not as a cudgel, but as a warning that Jewish vulnerability persists, in forms old and new.