Was Superman Jewish?

Let's Face it, Superman and Moses Share Eerily Similar Origin Stories

Was Superman inspired by Moses? Is it a modern retelling of an ancient story masquerading as a comic book? Created by Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, two Jewish sons of immigrants, it’s no coincidence that a baby was sent away from danger by desperate parents, raised by others, and destined to save lives. Or become a doctor. Not a stretch to connect those dots. Superman is a myth reimagined for a new generation, born out of Jewish trauma with hope for a better, safer future.

Spider-Man was a bit of a Yid, too, come to think of it. Created by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko, both Jewish New Yorkers, born to immigrant parents at a time when Jews still felt like outsiders in their new country. Peter Parker was a nerdy, bullied teen who hid his power and his pain—just like so many Jewish kids growing up trying to fit in while carrying a feeling of being “other.” Case in point: have you met me?

And oy vey, Batman—the brooding vigilante who rose from the trauma of losing his parents—was dreamed up by Bob Kane and Bill Finger, also a couple of Jews. The idea of transforming grief into purpose? That’s not just Gotham—it’s what I’d like to call inspired by the partisan fighters of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. It’s a Jewish resilience thing in disguise. From the Batcave with love.

These weren’t just comics, they were cautionary tales, deeply rooted in subliminal messaging, teaching moments, and coping mechanisms. Talk about transformative.

[SIDEBAR] They were modern-day Midrash, Jewish stories, retold through capes and courage. FYI: Midrash is an ancient Jewish tradition of reinterpreting scripture to find new meaning for a new generation.

For years, I thought that’s what all heroes looked like—larger-than-life symbols. Forces to be reckoned with. Then I discovered something extraordinary. I uncovered who my father really was: the quiet hero. He didn’t wear a cape. He wore silence. Decades after his death, I found a rare book with images that proved his incredible superpower: humanity.

My father was born on the outskirts of Warsaw, Poland. He was arrested—try to comprehend this—for being a Jew. He was sent to the brutal Siberian gulags—forced labor camps where survival was a daily struggle.

After the war, rather than going to warm weather, which any sensible soul would do, my dad joined the Bricha—Hebrew for Flight—an underground network of Zionist partisans who helped smuggle over 250,000 Holocaust survivors out of the dangerous DP camps.

[SIDEBAR] The Displaced Persons camps were random, impromptu facilities where the Holocaust survivors were taken after being liberated for rehabilitation. According to my mother, many of the DPs were only slightly better than the horrendous camps they had suffered through during the war.

Imagine: my dad and his Bricha comrades ACTUALLY walked countless survivors through the Austrian Alps—braving the freezing cold winters—down into the Italian Alps, which led them to boats that brought them to their new lives in Israel. Hope was their guide. Purpose was their passport. And men like my father were their saviors.

These were the unsung superheroes of history, risking their lives to save others. And my dad? He never said a word about it. No mask. No cape. No accolades. Just a moral compass. Conviction. Courage.

After his untimely death during my senior year of high school, I spent years wondering how I could ever live up to a man who had accomplished the inconceivable. Earth to Abe: that ain’t gonna happen. I mean, what the fuck was I achieving in my vapid little existence besides having a grand old time? Cocooned in a subculture of entertainment, fashion, and the assorted drug-fueled nonsense—I mean, come on, girl. Get a life!

And BOOM—just like that—everything changed. The Nazis marched in Charlottesville in 2017, and I was given a whole new chance at a fresh understanding of what value my life could have. A seismic shift happened in my spirit and soul, and so, my new journey began. I realized I wasn’t supposed to try and live up to who my father was as it could never happen anyway. I was being tasked to live forward—to use what I have, what I know, all I have to say—which is PLENTY—and stand up for my people in the best way I can.

That’s when I stepped back into activism—fighting the good fight to preserve democracy, tell the stories of my family, and support Israel—no matter what. And the fact that somewhere along the line I met and married an Israeli is an abstract life hack.

It is no coincidence that I’ve been honored to join The Brigade, a network of entertainment industry executives to fight back daily against the misinformation, disinformation, and antisemitic rhetoric poisoning the media, Hollywood, the streets. It’s the “meant to be” turn my life have taken. To correct the false stories our enemies are trying to tell about us. Especially now, when antisemitism has surged to levels that make me grateful to say my parents aren’t alive to see it, which is both infuriating and fueling my determination to live up to my responsibility—not to carry their trauma—to honor their strength.

[SIDEBAR] That’s also why I just ran for a seat at the World Zionist Congress. Wish me luck—results in June. Not because I’m the hero in this story, rather, because I was raised by one.

And now, it’s my turn to show up and be brave in a different way. To make sure our people are not silenced, erased, or shamed for simply surviving. Won’t Be Silent, hello.

Maybe we don’t need to fly, or swing from buildings, or wield gadgets. The truth is, each of us, in our own way, already has the power to be a Superman or Wonder Woman.
(A) Because we’re Jews.
(B) We come from Moses.
(C) We’ve got spines of steel.

It’s about knowing and owning your unique superpower: being clear enough to recognize it, brave enough to embrace it, and bold enough to pay it forward.

Buy This Super Jew’s book/audiobook.