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CAN WE TALK?
By Tom Tugend
Jerusalem Post
March 6 2008
When Abraham David Cooper was arrested by Washington police during
a 1970 sit-in across from the Soviet embassy and put behind bars in
a jammed holding cell, the then 20-year-old Yeshiva College student
drew two conclusions.
First, he didn't enjoy being in jail.
Second, the established Jewish organizations had been less than active
in what Cooper considered the defining Jewish struggle of the time.
In the intervening 37 years, though present in many of the world's
hot spots, he has managed to stay out of prison.
During roughly the same time span, he has also played a key role in
creating one of the most activist Jewish institutions in the world,
outside the boundaries of the traditional organized community
structure.
Ordained as an Orthodox rabbi, Cooper's formal title today is
associate dean of the Simon Wiesenthal Center. The curious academic
rank is a holdover from his initial work with the SWC-affiliated
Yeshiva University of Los Angeles, but it hardly defines his role and
influence in an institution whose mission is to promote understanding
among people.
He is, in most respects, the alter ego of Rabbi Marvin Hier, the
founder and dean of the Wiesenthal Center, and the 33-year relationship
between the two has been described as "a marriage without sex." As in
many successful, long-time marriages, their interaction and division
of labor are defined by a kind of shorthand telepathy, requiring no
organizational chart or chain of command.
But if today the SWC is a worldwide presence, with seven offices at
home and abroad, a landmark Museum of Tolerance, a reported 400,000
member families, high-profile donors and entree to presidents and
kings, a considerable share of the credit goes to Cooper.
While Hier is the ultimate decision maker and both men respond
interchangeably, and instantly, to the endless real or perceived
crises facing Israel and the Jewish people, Cooper has certain areas
of responsibility and expertise.
One is for interfaith relations, another for the burgeoning area of
cyberspace. Cooper testified before Congress as long as six years
ago that the increasing sophistication of Internet propaganda by
hate groups, white supremacists and Islamic extremists was exerting
growing influence among younger people.
>From his Pacific-oriented vantage point in Los Angeles, Cooper is
the point man for relations with Japan, China and other Far Eastern
nations, introducing Holocaust exhibits, exposing anti-Semitic
literature and establishing ties with political and religious leaders.
"Abe is the Wiesenthal Center's ambassador to most of the world,"
says Hier.
THIS "AMBASSADOR" also shows up in some unexpected places and
situations. Last year, for instance, Cooper was drafted as the
guarantor of a peace treaty signed by the so-called O.G.s (original
gangsters), the founding elders of the Bloods and the Crips, two of
the most fearful rival gangs in south central Los Angeles.
He was recruited for the assignment by Katy Haber, a London-born film
producer, who has been working for many years with at-risk youth and
the homeless in the African-American community. Haber had met Cooper
while working as a docent at the Museum of Tolerance and had no doubt
that he was the right man to win the confidence of the gang members.
"Who would be more appropriate than a man who works on conflict
resolution with world leaders?" Haber asked. "Besides, he is a man
of deep intellect, extraordinary sensitivity, and one of the major
humanitarians in our community."
Cooper said he has no particular formula or technique for bringing
opposing sides to the table or bridging differences. "Part of it
is my background as a New Yorker, an American and a Jew, which has
given me a certain quiet self-assurance," he said. "Another part is
the example set early on by my father."
By way of contrast, Cooper was on the other side of the world
last summer, on the Indonesian island of Bali. He was there as the
organizer of the "Tolerance between Religions" conference, which
brought together such unlikely participants as leading Muslim, Hindu
and Jewish religious leaders, victims of the three faiths targeted
by suicide bombers and a Holocaust survivor.
In one speech, carried by Arab networks and worldwide, former president
Abdurrahman Wahid of Indonesia, the most populous Muslim nation,
upbraided Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad for his denial of
the Holocaust.
Cooper's organizing partner was C. Holland Taylor, CEO of the
Libforall Foundation, which works with Muslim religious, educational,
business and entertainment leaders to stem the spread of Islamic
extremism. After the Bali conference, the two led a high-profile
peace delegation from Indonesia, which has no diplomatic relations
with Israel, on a week-long mission to the Jewish state.
The experience impressed Taylor, who in a phone call from Indonesia
described Cooper as "a brilliant strategist, who grasps immediately
what can be done and who can juggle a dozen issues simultaneously."
IN THE relationship between the Wiesenthal Center's two top men,
Cooper's loyalty and admiration for Hier is unquestioned, but there is
one easily noticed distinction between the two. As the center's clout
has increased over the years, so has criticism of the institution
within the general, and Orthodox, communities.
Complaints, mostly sotto voce, are aimed at the center's alleged
intrusions on the turfs of older community organizations, its political
influence, the high salaries paid its top executives, violations of
standards for non-profit organizations, alarmist tactics, fights with
neighboring homeowners and, in Israel, plans to build a $200 million
Center for Human Dignity/Museum of Tolerance in the heart of Jerusalem.
In practically all these criticisms, the target is Hier, who is
sometimes described, in awe, fear or derision, as a "New York street
fighter." By contrast, Cooper gets off unscathed.
Part of the unequal distribution of criticism lies in Hier's assumption
of responsibility for some of the center's most controversial and
daring decisions, such as the Jerusalem project.
Neither is Cooper involved with the sometimes contentious affairs of
the center-affiliated Yeshiva of Los Angeles, nor with such community
frictions as complaints by some in the Armenian community that the
Museum of Tolerance has neglected to properly commemorate the genocide
of their people.
But beyond these factors lie differences in personality. Cooper can
be blunt and tough, but there is a saving aura of good fellowship
and humor about him that seems to take the edge off any confrontation.
Physically, too, the two men differ, with the lean, sharp-featured
Hier a contrast to his round-faced, stocky colleague.
Cooper himself will not brook any criticism of Hier. "Moish [Marvin]
is an unbelievably visionary and courageous man," said Cooper, who
repeatedly recalled some of Hier's pointed comments and unorthodox
style during a two-hour interview.
For instance, there was the time in 1991 when Duke Snider and Don
Newcombe came to Hier's office. The two baseball greats said they
had tried to persuade the Tournament of Roses committee to accept a
float honoring Jackie Robinson, a Pasadena hometown hero and the man
who broke the major league color barrier, but had been turned down.
As Cooper tells it, Hier picked up the phone, called the committee,
but was told that no more entries were being accepted. Five minutes
later, John Van de Kamp, the outgoing state attorney-general and
a member of the committee, phoned Hier. Well aware that Hier could
unleash a blizzard of protest letters and unfavorable media stories,
he begged him to hold off any action for the night.
Next morning, a committee functionary called to inform Hier that the
Jackie Robinson float had been approved, but because it was entered
past the deadline, it would be the last float in the parade. Hier,
realizing that the last floats were frequently shut out of national
television coverage, asked, "So you want us to go to the back of the
bus?" On New Year's Day, the float took its place in the middle of
the parade.
For all their mutual admiration, the working relationship between
Hier and Cooper is not always placid. "We have disagreements every
day of the week," said Cooper. "We are talmudic that way, but we're
open with each other."
Apparently the only irreconcilable differences between the two men is
that Lower East Sider Hier is an ardent Yankee fan, while Flatbusher
Cooper has transferred his loyalty, and frustrations, from the Dodgers
to the Mets.
Even in the frequently contentious Jewish community of Los Angeles,
it takes hard digging to find somebody who will speak ill of Cooper
or who dislikes the man.
One prospect was Salam Al-Marayati, director of the Muslim Public
Affairs Council of Los Angeles, who has had some sharp exchanges
with Jewish leaders over the years. Marayati hasn't met with Cooper
for some time, but worked with him when Muslim, Jewish and other
religious leaders drew up a code of ethics aiming at respectful
interaction. His discussions with Cooper, he said, "were cordial and
there were no confrontations."
The one hint that Cooper may have some human failings came from
Mohammed Khan, a Pakistani-American and Muslim activist for interfaith
relations, who was Cooper's traveling companion on a trip to Sudan and
Israel. After describing "the rabbi" as "dedicated, a tireless worker
and a great teacher," Khan allowed that Cooper, like most everyone
else, "tends to picture other communities in broad brush strokes. The
rabbi is very visionary and sophisticated, but he, like all of us,
could sometimes go deeper in analyzing another community."
The Jerusalem Post then asked Cooper and Avra Shapiro, the Wiesenthal
Center's communications director, to put their heads together and come
up with somebody who could give us the lowdown on the real Cooper. The
best they could do, reported Shapiro, was to refer the reporter to
Cooper's mother.
Finally, we asked Cooper himself to justify his mellow reputation.
For one, he answered, he is in step with Hier's guiding rule never
to attack another Jew or Jewish organization in public.
"I realized early on that when your work is in the public domain,
not everyone is going to pat you on the back," he said. "It's not
that I don't care if someone criticizes my views, but I don't take
it in a personal way."
Cooper recalls that when he was traveling in the Soviet Union, some
in his group got quite upset with the KGB agents who were their
constant shadows. "Relax," he counseled at the time, "they're just
doing their jobs."
Cooper was asked about the differences in negotiating with high
dignitaries abroad on one hand, and local gang members on the other.
"I feel much more intense when I'm dealing with people in my own
community, because the consequences of what you do are much more
immediate," he answered.
THE GRANDSON of Polish immigrants on both sides, when he calls
up his childhood memories, he paints a picture of a different
universe. His paternal grandfather, whose last name was changed by
a helpful Ellis Island functionary from Krupinsky to Cooper, worked
in a slaughterhouse.
The maternal grandparents ran a kosher restaurant in the early 1900s,
and when his grandfather died, Cooper requested two mementos. One
was a set of kiddush cups, which Abe and Roz Cooper use every Shabbat.
The other was a curious set of instruments, consisting of a beaker
and two thermometers.
"I discovered that my grandfather regularly made some bathtub wine and
schnapps, just enough to make a little extra money to tide the family
over," said Cooper. "I keep the set as a reminder of just how poor our
immigrant ancestors were and that they went through very tough times,
which are not that far away."
Young Abe attended Yeshiva Flatbush in the 1950s, where his father also
taught, and the combination of the two helped shape Cooper's lifelong
outlook. "My father was the greatest educator I have ever known. He
treated his youngest students with respect, was an ardent Zionist -
as was the yeshiva - and was completely non-judgmental about other
Jews," said Cooper, "He loved them all."
In 1968, Cooper spent 18 months at a more rigidly Orthodox yeshiva
in Jerusalem, then earned a bachelor's degree in history at Yeshiva
College, the undergraduate division of New York's Yeshiva University,
in 1972.
His older brother had become a doctor, so it followed, according to
American Jewish family rules, that the next in line would become a
lawyer. He applied and was accepted by the New York University law
school. But before he started, Cooper wanted to visit the Soviet Union.
"I couldn't stand any more Soviet Jewry demonstrations," he recalled.
"I had to go over and see for myself." The one-month trip to six
Soviet cities, his encounters with refuseniks and the KGB, changed
Cooper's life and priorities. "I learned what it really meant to be
an activist, it was more than signing petitions or attending protest
rallies," said Cooper. "Here were people who put their lives on the
line to live as Jews. This was serious business."
In 1974, the recently married Coopers (they now have three daughters
and four grandchildren) experienced a different aspect of the Jewish
struggle. They volunteered to work in Kiryat Shmona, the site of a
recent terrorist attack.
A couple of years earlier, Cooper had accepted an offer to run a
summer youth camp in Vancouver, Canada, and there met Hier, then the
young spiritual leader of an Orthodox congregation. "The first time
I saw Rabbi Hier I thought, 'That man is really something else,'"
said Cooper. "He was also the first pulpit rabbi I knew who seemed
to be enjoying himself." Hier subsequently asked Cooper to serve as
principal of the synagogue day school and then take over his pulpit
during a six-month sabbatical.
The Cooper family had just settled down, when Hier announced in 1976
that he was moving to Los Angeles to establish a yeshiva and asked
Cooper to come along as teacher and director of admissions. Shortly
afterward, Nazi-hunter Simon Wiesenthal acceded to Hier's request that
he lend his name to a new activist center in Los Angeles. In 1977,
the Simon Wiesenthal Center for Holocaust Studies was in business
with no furniture and one phone, with a very long extension cord.
NOW, THREE decades later, Cooper's reminiscences and anecdotes of
battles, mostly won, meetings with world leaders, campaigns organized
and new causes advocated could fill a hefty book. He likes to quote
Rabbi Norman Lamm that "90 percent of leadership is showing up" and
Cooper, following the dictum, accumulates well over 160,000 kilometers
a year, on American Airlines alone, during business trips.
He could probably have saved some flying time if the Wiesenthal
Center had joined all other major national Jewish organizations
in establishing headquarters on the East Coast, but Cooper has no
regrets. On the contrary, he said, in New York or Washington you have
the "Jewish one foul tip law - one mistake and you're out." On the
West Coast, by contrast, "it's not a sin to fail now and then. We're
more open minded out here and we could never have achieved what we
did if we were on the East Coast."
Cooper is sometimes asked what the Wiesenthal Center will do after the
last Nazi war criminal has died. "While we will never waver in our
responsibility to the memory of the six million, we have never been
just about the past," he responds. "We Jews have had a lousy record
in anticipating future attacks and threats, but they will come. The
earlier we recognize and oppose them, the better."
One crisis Cooper sees on the horizon is the UN World Conference
Against Racism, which debuted in 2001 in Durban, South Africa, and
turned into a hate fest against Israel and the United States. Cooper
was part of the Jewish defense team in Durban and fears a repetition
in 2009, when the conference reconvenes at a yet undetermined location.
He and Dr. Shimon Samuels, the center's European director, traveled
to Jerusalem last month and met with leaders of Jewish organizations
from other countries to map out a joint approach. "Some of the nations
most hostile to Israel and the United States will play leading roles
at the 2009 conference," Cooper warned. "It may turn out to be even
more invidious than the Durban meeting, so we had better prepare for
it now."
By Tom Tugend
Jerusalem Post
March 6 2008
When Abraham David Cooper was arrested by Washington police during
a 1970 sit-in across from the Soviet embassy and put behind bars in
a jammed holding cell, the then 20-year-old Yeshiva College student
drew two conclusions.
First, he didn't enjoy being in jail.
Second, the established Jewish organizations had been less than active
in what Cooper considered the defining Jewish struggle of the time.
In the intervening 37 years, though present in many of the world's
hot spots, he has managed to stay out of prison.
During roughly the same time span, he has also played a key role in
creating one of the most activist Jewish institutions in the world,
outside the boundaries of the traditional organized community
structure.
Ordained as an Orthodox rabbi, Cooper's formal title today is
associate dean of the Simon Wiesenthal Center. The curious academic
rank is a holdover from his initial work with the SWC-affiliated
Yeshiva University of Los Angeles, but it hardly defines his role and
influence in an institution whose mission is to promote understanding
among people.
He is, in most respects, the alter ego of Rabbi Marvin Hier, the
founder and dean of the Wiesenthal Center, and the 33-year relationship
between the two has been described as "a marriage without sex." As in
many successful, long-time marriages, their interaction and division
of labor are defined by a kind of shorthand telepathy, requiring no
organizational chart or chain of command.
But if today the SWC is a worldwide presence, with seven offices at
home and abroad, a landmark Museum of Tolerance, a reported 400,000
member families, high-profile donors and entree to presidents and
kings, a considerable share of the credit goes to Cooper.
While Hier is the ultimate decision maker and both men respond
interchangeably, and instantly, to the endless real or perceived
crises facing Israel and the Jewish people, Cooper has certain areas
of responsibility and expertise.
One is for interfaith relations, another for the burgeoning area of
cyberspace. Cooper testified before Congress as long as six years
ago that the increasing sophistication of Internet propaganda by
hate groups, white supremacists and Islamic extremists was exerting
growing influence among younger people.
>From his Pacific-oriented vantage point in Los Angeles, Cooper is
the point man for relations with Japan, China and other Far Eastern
nations, introducing Holocaust exhibits, exposing anti-Semitic
literature and establishing ties with political and religious leaders.
"Abe is the Wiesenthal Center's ambassador to most of the world,"
says Hier.
THIS "AMBASSADOR" also shows up in some unexpected places and
situations. Last year, for instance, Cooper was drafted as the
guarantor of a peace treaty signed by the so-called O.G.s (original
gangsters), the founding elders of the Bloods and the Crips, two of
the most fearful rival gangs in south central Los Angeles.
He was recruited for the assignment by Katy Haber, a London-born film
producer, who has been working for many years with at-risk youth and
the homeless in the African-American community. Haber had met Cooper
while working as a docent at the Museum of Tolerance and had no doubt
that he was the right man to win the confidence of the gang members.
"Who would be more appropriate than a man who works on conflict
resolution with world leaders?" Haber asked. "Besides, he is a man
of deep intellect, extraordinary sensitivity, and one of the major
humanitarians in our community."
Cooper said he has no particular formula or technique for bringing
opposing sides to the table or bridging differences. "Part of it
is my background as a New Yorker, an American and a Jew, which has
given me a certain quiet self-assurance," he said. "Another part is
the example set early on by my father."
By way of contrast, Cooper was on the other side of the world
last summer, on the Indonesian island of Bali. He was there as the
organizer of the "Tolerance between Religions" conference, which
brought together such unlikely participants as leading Muslim, Hindu
and Jewish religious leaders, victims of the three faiths targeted
by suicide bombers and a Holocaust survivor.
In one speech, carried by Arab networks and worldwide, former president
Abdurrahman Wahid of Indonesia, the most populous Muslim nation,
upbraided Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad for his denial of
the Holocaust.
Cooper's organizing partner was C. Holland Taylor, CEO of the
Libforall Foundation, which works with Muslim religious, educational,
business and entertainment leaders to stem the spread of Islamic
extremism. After the Bali conference, the two led a high-profile
peace delegation from Indonesia, which has no diplomatic relations
with Israel, on a week-long mission to the Jewish state.
The experience impressed Taylor, who in a phone call from Indonesia
described Cooper as "a brilliant strategist, who grasps immediately
what can be done and who can juggle a dozen issues simultaneously."
IN THE relationship between the Wiesenthal Center's two top men,
Cooper's loyalty and admiration for Hier is unquestioned, but there is
one easily noticed distinction between the two. As the center's clout
has increased over the years, so has criticism of the institution
within the general, and Orthodox, communities.
Complaints, mostly sotto voce, are aimed at the center's alleged
intrusions on the turfs of older community organizations, its political
influence, the high salaries paid its top executives, violations of
standards for non-profit organizations, alarmist tactics, fights with
neighboring homeowners and, in Israel, plans to build a $200 million
Center for Human Dignity/Museum of Tolerance in the heart of Jerusalem.
In practically all these criticisms, the target is Hier, who is
sometimes described, in awe, fear or derision, as a "New York street
fighter." By contrast, Cooper gets off unscathed.
Part of the unequal distribution of criticism lies in Hier's assumption
of responsibility for some of the center's most controversial and
daring decisions, such as the Jerusalem project.
Neither is Cooper involved with the sometimes contentious affairs of
the center-affiliated Yeshiva of Los Angeles, nor with such community
frictions as complaints by some in the Armenian community that the
Museum of Tolerance has neglected to properly commemorate the genocide
of their people.
But beyond these factors lie differences in personality. Cooper can
be blunt and tough, but there is a saving aura of good fellowship
and humor about him that seems to take the edge off any confrontation.
Physically, too, the two men differ, with the lean, sharp-featured
Hier a contrast to his round-faced, stocky colleague.
Cooper himself will not brook any criticism of Hier. "Moish [Marvin]
is an unbelievably visionary and courageous man," said Cooper, who
repeatedly recalled some of Hier's pointed comments and unorthodox
style during a two-hour interview.
For instance, there was the time in 1991 when Duke Snider and Don
Newcombe came to Hier's office. The two baseball greats said they
had tried to persuade the Tournament of Roses committee to accept a
float honoring Jackie Robinson, a Pasadena hometown hero and the man
who broke the major league color barrier, but had been turned down.
As Cooper tells it, Hier picked up the phone, called the committee,
but was told that no more entries were being accepted. Five minutes
later, John Van de Kamp, the outgoing state attorney-general and
a member of the committee, phoned Hier. Well aware that Hier could
unleash a blizzard of protest letters and unfavorable media stories,
he begged him to hold off any action for the night.
Next morning, a committee functionary called to inform Hier that the
Jackie Robinson float had been approved, but because it was entered
past the deadline, it would be the last float in the parade. Hier,
realizing that the last floats were frequently shut out of national
television coverage, asked, "So you want us to go to the back of the
bus?" On New Year's Day, the float took its place in the middle of
the parade.
For all their mutual admiration, the working relationship between
Hier and Cooper is not always placid. "We have disagreements every
day of the week," said Cooper. "We are talmudic that way, but we're
open with each other."
Apparently the only irreconcilable differences between the two men is
that Lower East Sider Hier is an ardent Yankee fan, while Flatbusher
Cooper has transferred his loyalty, and frustrations, from the Dodgers
to the Mets.
Even in the frequently contentious Jewish community of Los Angeles,
it takes hard digging to find somebody who will speak ill of Cooper
or who dislikes the man.
One prospect was Salam Al-Marayati, director of the Muslim Public
Affairs Council of Los Angeles, who has had some sharp exchanges
with Jewish leaders over the years. Marayati hasn't met with Cooper
for some time, but worked with him when Muslim, Jewish and other
religious leaders drew up a code of ethics aiming at respectful
interaction. His discussions with Cooper, he said, "were cordial and
there were no confrontations."
The one hint that Cooper may have some human failings came from
Mohammed Khan, a Pakistani-American and Muslim activist for interfaith
relations, who was Cooper's traveling companion on a trip to Sudan and
Israel. After describing "the rabbi" as "dedicated, a tireless worker
and a great teacher," Khan allowed that Cooper, like most everyone
else, "tends to picture other communities in broad brush strokes. The
rabbi is very visionary and sophisticated, but he, like all of us,
could sometimes go deeper in analyzing another community."
The Jerusalem Post then asked Cooper and Avra Shapiro, the Wiesenthal
Center's communications director, to put their heads together and come
up with somebody who could give us the lowdown on the real Cooper. The
best they could do, reported Shapiro, was to refer the reporter to
Cooper's mother.
Finally, we asked Cooper himself to justify his mellow reputation.
For one, he answered, he is in step with Hier's guiding rule never
to attack another Jew or Jewish organization in public.
"I realized early on that when your work is in the public domain,
not everyone is going to pat you on the back," he said. "It's not
that I don't care if someone criticizes my views, but I don't take
it in a personal way."
Cooper recalls that when he was traveling in the Soviet Union, some
in his group got quite upset with the KGB agents who were their
constant shadows. "Relax," he counseled at the time, "they're just
doing their jobs."
Cooper was asked about the differences in negotiating with high
dignitaries abroad on one hand, and local gang members on the other.
"I feel much more intense when I'm dealing with people in my own
community, because the consequences of what you do are much more
immediate," he answered.
THE GRANDSON of Polish immigrants on both sides, when he calls
up his childhood memories, he paints a picture of a different
universe. His paternal grandfather, whose last name was changed by
a helpful Ellis Island functionary from Krupinsky to Cooper, worked
in a slaughterhouse.
The maternal grandparents ran a kosher restaurant in the early 1900s,
and when his grandfather died, Cooper requested two mementos. One
was a set of kiddush cups, which Abe and Roz Cooper use every Shabbat.
The other was a curious set of instruments, consisting of a beaker
and two thermometers.
"I discovered that my grandfather regularly made some bathtub wine and
schnapps, just enough to make a little extra money to tide the family
over," said Cooper. "I keep the set as a reminder of just how poor our
immigrant ancestors were and that they went through very tough times,
which are not that far away."
Young Abe attended Yeshiva Flatbush in the 1950s, where his father also
taught, and the combination of the two helped shape Cooper's lifelong
outlook. "My father was the greatest educator I have ever known. He
treated his youngest students with respect, was an ardent Zionist -
as was the yeshiva - and was completely non-judgmental about other
Jews," said Cooper, "He loved them all."
In 1968, Cooper spent 18 months at a more rigidly Orthodox yeshiva
in Jerusalem, then earned a bachelor's degree in history at Yeshiva
College, the undergraduate division of New York's Yeshiva University,
in 1972.
His older brother had become a doctor, so it followed, according to
American Jewish family rules, that the next in line would become a
lawyer. He applied and was accepted by the New York University law
school. But before he started, Cooper wanted to visit the Soviet Union.
"I couldn't stand any more Soviet Jewry demonstrations," he recalled.
"I had to go over and see for myself." The one-month trip to six
Soviet cities, his encounters with refuseniks and the KGB, changed
Cooper's life and priorities. "I learned what it really meant to be
an activist, it was more than signing petitions or attending protest
rallies," said Cooper. "Here were people who put their lives on the
line to live as Jews. This was serious business."
In 1974, the recently married Coopers (they now have three daughters
and four grandchildren) experienced a different aspect of the Jewish
struggle. They volunteered to work in Kiryat Shmona, the site of a
recent terrorist attack.
A couple of years earlier, Cooper had accepted an offer to run a
summer youth camp in Vancouver, Canada, and there met Hier, then the
young spiritual leader of an Orthodox congregation. "The first time
I saw Rabbi Hier I thought, 'That man is really something else,'"
said Cooper. "He was also the first pulpit rabbi I knew who seemed
to be enjoying himself." Hier subsequently asked Cooper to serve as
principal of the synagogue day school and then take over his pulpit
during a six-month sabbatical.
The Cooper family had just settled down, when Hier announced in 1976
that he was moving to Los Angeles to establish a yeshiva and asked
Cooper to come along as teacher and director of admissions. Shortly
afterward, Nazi-hunter Simon Wiesenthal acceded to Hier's request that
he lend his name to a new activist center in Los Angeles. In 1977,
the Simon Wiesenthal Center for Holocaust Studies was in business
with no furniture and one phone, with a very long extension cord.
NOW, THREE decades later, Cooper's reminiscences and anecdotes of
battles, mostly won, meetings with world leaders, campaigns organized
and new causes advocated could fill a hefty book. He likes to quote
Rabbi Norman Lamm that "90 percent of leadership is showing up" and
Cooper, following the dictum, accumulates well over 160,000 kilometers
a year, on American Airlines alone, during business trips.
He could probably have saved some flying time if the Wiesenthal
Center had joined all other major national Jewish organizations
in establishing headquarters on the East Coast, but Cooper has no
regrets. On the contrary, he said, in New York or Washington you have
the "Jewish one foul tip law - one mistake and you're out." On the
West Coast, by contrast, "it's not a sin to fail now and then. We're
more open minded out here and we could never have achieved what we
did if we were on the East Coast."
Cooper is sometimes asked what the Wiesenthal Center will do after the
last Nazi war criminal has died. "While we will never waver in our
responsibility to the memory of the six million, we have never been
just about the past," he responds. "We Jews have had a lousy record
in anticipating future attacks and threats, but they will come. The
earlier we recognize and oppose them, the better."
One crisis Cooper sees on the horizon is the UN World Conference
Against Racism, which debuted in 2001 in Durban, South Africa, and
turned into a hate fest against Israel and the United States. Cooper
was part of the Jewish defense team in Durban and fears a repetition
in 2009, when the conference reconvenes at a yet undetermined location.
He and Dr. Shimon Samuels, the center's European director, traveled
to Jerusalem last month and met with leaders of Jewish organizations
from other countries to map out a joint approach. "Some of the nations
most hostile to Israel and the United States will play leading roles
at the 2009 conference," Cooper warned. "It may turn out to be even
more invidious than the Durban meeting, so we had better prepare for
it now."