We can all learn from Wicked, an allegory of Jewish history

It was just after my five years of service in the Israeli army. I was 22, freshly discharged, and like many young Israelis, I embarked on the fabled post-army trip abroad. With barely a few dollars in my pocket, I somehow landed a ticket to see Wicked on Broadway. Sitting in that darkened theatre, mesmerised by Elphaba’s defiant ballad of misjudgment and resilience, I was beginning a love affair with a story that would follow me for years.

Now, more than 20 viewings and countless listens to the soundtrack later, I understand what captivated me. Wicked is not just a spectacle of song and dance; it is a profound allegory. Beneath its spellbinding melodies lies a narrative as old as humanity itself, the story of scapegoating, dehumanisation, and the moral cost of branding someone as “other”. It is, in essence, a deeply Jewish story.

Broadway has long been a haven for Jewish creativity and Wicked, which arrived on the big screen last week, is no exception. While based on Gregory Maguire’s novel, the stage production owes its magic to Jewish luminaries Winnie Holzman and Stephen Schwartz. But the Jewish threads of Wicked run deeper than its creators’ heritage. Its themes – of propaganda, ostracism, and the courage to resist – resonate profoundly with Jewish history.

At its heart, Wicked reimagines The Wizard of Oz from the perspective of Elphaba, the so-called “Wicked Witch of the West”. Far from wicked, Elphaba is a moral force who stands against injustice. Yet her green skin marks her as an outsider, an object of fear and derision. She becomes the scapegoat for all of Oz’s troubles, a tragic figure which mirrors the Jewish experience across millennia.

The mechanics of this scapegoating are chillingly familiar. Madam Morrible, Oz’s propaganda minister, fabricates lies to paint Elphaba as a malevolent force. The purpose? To consolidate power and distract from systemic failings. Throughout history, this playbook has been wielded against Jews. From medieval blood libels to modern conspiracy theories, Jews have been cast as villains to serve political ends. As the Wizard himself quips: “Where I’m from (Earth), we believe all sorts of things that aren’t true… Is one a crusader or ruthless invader? It’s all in which label he’s able to persist.”

One line from Wicked hits particularly hard: “People just need a really good enemy. They need a scapegoat.” Talia Suskauer, who recently starred as Elphaba on Broadway, described this as a mirror of Jewish history: “The Inquisition, the Crusades, the Holocaust, it’s all there.” When societies falter, they often seek a convenient scapegoat. And more often than not, that scapegoat has been the Jews.

Consider Dr Dillamond, the kind-hearted goat professor whose voice – literally – is taken away under Oz’s anti-Animal policies. His dehumanisation is met with indifference, even from his students. “Once they take your voice away, they can do anything to you,” he laments.

For Jews, this is a haunting truth. The silencing of voices is not just oppression, it is the prelude to persecution.

Maguire, though not Jewish, acknowledged that his novel draws from the histories of oppressive regimes. The Wizard’s authoritarian propaganda echoes the tactics of Nazi Germany, while the marginalisation of sentient animals recalls the dehumanisation of Jews. These parallels are not incidental. They are integral, offering a poignant reminder of the stakes of silence in the face of hate.

But Wicked does not merely chronicle the dangers of othering. It is also a call to action. Elphaba’s refusal to conform – despite ostracism and vilification – reflects a moral clarity that resonates deeply with Jewish values. Her story is a reminder: morality is not a popularity contest.

This lesson is particularly urgent today. Antisemitism is resurgent, fuelled by social media distortions and political opportunism.

Jews find themselves, once again, the targets of age-old lies dressed up in modern clothing. As Madame Morrible’s character warns, propaganda has the power to shape public opinion and public opinion, unchecked, can lead to exclusion, violence, and erasure.

Yet Wicked offers hope. It shows us that resistance, though isolating, is vital. Elphaba’s defiance in the face of hatred reminds us that the fight for justice is never wicked, it is essential. This is the ethos of Jewish survival: to stand firm in our values, even when the world turns against us.

The arrival of Wicked on the big screen, under the stewardship of producer Marc Platt, a proud Jew, feels almost providential. Its message, that justice requires courage and resilience, could not be more timely.

At a moment when Jews are vilified for standing up for themselves, Elphaba’s story is our story.

So, let us take a page from her book. Be bold. Be righteous. Be unyielding in the face of lies. Because if Wicked teaches us anything, it is this: silence is complicity. The fight for truth, though lonely, is the only fight worth having.