In December 1778, as the American Revolution still raged, a Jewish writer in Charlestown opened a newspaper and saw Jews made into wartime scapegoats. An article in the local press claimed that Jews in Georgia had taken “every advantage in trade,” then fled with “ill-got wealth” as soon as the state was “attacked by an enemy,” “turning their backs upon the country when in danger.”
The writer did not let this accusation go unanswered. He responded in print. And he signed his reply with a line that declared both his patriotism and his devotion to Judaism: “A real AMERICAN, and True-hearted ISRAELITE.”
That combination, civic belonging and Jewish identity claimed in the same breath, feels newly resonant as the United States enters its 250th anniversary year. The American story has never been free of antisemitism. But this early source reveals something else that is often overlooked: From the country’s earliest years, Jews in the United States could answer public insinuations in newspapers, using the civic vocabulary of their time, as participants in the public square.
The 1778 letter is striking not only for its tone but for its immediacy. The author refutes the rumor with a blunt factual claim: “There is not, at this present hour, a single Georgia Israelite in Charlestown.” The people the earlier writer thought he had identified “upon inspection of their faces,” he suggests, were women “with their dear babes,” fleeing danger as countless families did in wartime.
Then he turns the accusation on its head. Far from abandoning Georgia, he writes, Jewish merchants from the state had been in Charlestown on “Sunday the 22d” [sic] of the previous month and when they learned of an enemy landing, “they instantly left this… and proceeded post haste to Georgia, leaving all their concerns unsettled.” They are now, he insists, “with their brother citizens in the field, doing that which every honest American should do.”
The accusation did not end with the Revolution. In the next century, amid another national crisis, it returned in a different form - and again drew a public reply.
A second text, published 85 years later during the Civil War, records antisemitism appearing again. On May 22, 1863, the Natchez Daily Courier published an extract from a sermon preached at the German Hebrew Synagogue in Richmond on a fast day “recommended by the President.” The rabbi, M. J. Michelbacher, addressed what he called the “cry” heard in public life: “that the Israelite does not fight in the battles of his country.”
The sermon does what the Charlestown letter did. It names the accusation plainly, then insists that it is false. “All history attests the untruthfulness of this ungracious charge,” the rabbi declares. He speaks of Jewish soldiers who have been “crippled for life, or slain upon the field of battle,” and of “several thousand” still in the war’s campaigns.
Then he turns to another longstanding claim, one that recalled the 1778 rumor about “ill-got wealth.” “There is another cry heard,” he says, “and it was even repeated in the Hall of Congress, that the Israelite is oppressing the people, that he is engaged in the great sin of speculating and extorting in the bread and meat of the land.”
The rabbi reports having made “due inquiry” from the Potomac to the Rio Grande and concludes: “the Israelites are not speculators nor extortioners.” He argues that Jewish merchants do not hoard a staple “to enhance its value,” and he appeals to the plain logic of commerce: “It is obvious to the most obtuse mind that the high prices of the Israelite would drive all his customers into the stores of his Christian neighbors.”
Antisemitism and the ability to answer it in print
Taken together, the 1778 letter and the 1863 sermon extract show two strands present early in the American record: antisemitism and the ability to answer it in print. That right did not erase prejudice or guarantee safety. But it did give American Jews an early civic tool of belonging- something many European Jews could not take for granted.
The same paper record that preserves these rebuttals also holds another inheritance: early scenes of Jewish belonging, especially at synagogue dedications and cornerstone layings, when non-Jewish neighbors and civic leaders chose to show up.
In Charleston, one of the nation’s earliest centers of Jewish life, Temple Beth Elohim rebuilt after a devastating fire in 1838. When the new synagogue was dedicated in March 1841, notices extended an invitation beyond the Jewish community. “Clergy of all denominations,” “His Excellency the Governor,” judges, other elected officials, the Mayor and Aldermen of Charleston, and “the public generally” were all “respectfully invited to attend.”
The notice shows the dedication as a civic occasion, not a private rite.
A similar pattern appears in Mobile. In 1858, after a fire left the Jewish community without its synagogue, a report in The Israelite spoke with gratitude of “Christian brethren” who “had generously and liberally contributed towards erecting a most beautiful and substantial edifice.” The same theme surfaces again and again in early reports of synagogue building across the United States.
That is why these sources matter in a 250th anniversary year: The paper record preserves both early prejudice and early practices of public belonging, and provides a template for what Jews can anticipate in the face of attacks, like last week’s arson at a synagogue in Jackson, Mississippi.
That double inheritance still shapes American Jewish life: welcome and violence, belonging and suspicion. The balance is never guaranteed. Pluralism has to be chosen again and again.
In the 1778 letter, the writer does not ask for pity. He asks for fair judgment. “Let judgment take place,” the earlier author had written, after describing Jews fleeing Georgia. The rebuttal responds with evidence and with a claim about the obligations of citizenship: Georgia’s Jewish merchants, he insists, are “with their brother citizens in the field.”
In 1863, M.J. Michelbacher did not pretend that the accusations were harmless. He calls them “ungracious” and rooted in prejudice.
As the United States marks 250 years, there will be no shortage of speeches about what it means to be an American. Newspaper archives offer one reminder: pluralism has always depended on choices made in public life — by editors who amplify slander or correct it, by neighbors who show up to moments of celebration across lines of faith, and by those who helped build places of worship not their own.
Belonging has never been guaranteed; it has been defended. The Charlestown “true-hearted Israelite” offers an enduring lesson for the 250th: when prejudice is spoken, and you have the power to answer, you answer.
The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of JTA or its parent company, 70 Faces Media.