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Letty Cottin Pogrebin wants Jews to own up to the corrosive power of shame
(JTA) — When a lawyer for Donald Trump asked E. Jean Carroll why she didn’t scream while allegedly being raped by Donald Trump, I thought of Letty Cottin Pogrebin. In her latest book, “Shanda: A Memoir of Shame and Secrecy,” she writes about being assaulted by a famous poet — and how the shadow of shame kept women like her silent about attacks on their own bodies.
That incident in 1962, she writes, was “fifty-eight years before the #MeToo movement provided the sisterhood and solidarity that made survivors of abuse and rape feel safe enough to tell their stories.”
Now 83, Pogrebin could have coasted with a memoir celebrating her six decades as a leading feminist: She co-founded Ms. magazine, its Foundation for Women and the National Women’s Political Caucus. She served as president of Americans for Peace Now and in 1982 blew the whistle on antisemitism in the feminist movement.
Instead, “Shanda” is about her immigrant Jewish family and the secrets they carried through their lives. First marriages that were kept hidden. An unacknowledged half-sister. Money problems and domestic abuse. An uncle banished for sharing family dirt in public.
“My mania around secrecy and shame was sparked in 1951 by the discovery that my parents had concealed from me the truth about their personal histories, and every member of my large extended family, on both sides, was in on it,” writes Pogrebin, now 83. “Their need to avoid scandal was so compelling that, once identified, it provided the lens through which I could see my family with fresh eyes, spotlight their fears, and, in so doing, illuminate my own.”
“Shanda” (the Yiddish word describes the kind of behavior that brings shame on an entire family or even a people) is also a portrait of immigrant New York Jews in the 20th century. As her father and mother father move up in the world and leave their Yiddish-speaking, Old World families behind for new lives in the Bronx and Queens, they stand in for a generation of Jews and new Americans “bent on saving face and determined to be, if not exemplary, at least impeccably respectable.”
Pogrebin and I spoke last week ahead of the Eight Over Eighty Gala on May 31, where she will be honored with a group that includes another Jewish feminist icon, the writer Erica Jong, and musician Eve Queler, who founded her own ensemble, the Opera Orchestra of New York, when she wasn’t being given chances to conduct in the male-dominated world of classical music. The gala is a fundraiser for the New Jewish Home, a healthcare nonprofit serving older New Yorkers.
Pogrebin and I spoke about shame and how it plays out in public and private, from rape accusations against a former president to her regrets over how she wrote about her own abortions to how the Bible justifies family trickery.
Our conversation was edited for length and clarity.
I found your book very moving because my parents’ generation, who like your family were middle-class Jews who grew up or lived in the New York metropolitan area, are also all gone now. Your book brought back to me that world of aunts and uncles and cousins, and kids like us who couldn’t imagine what kinds of secrets and traumas our parents and relatives were hiding. But you went back and asked all the questions that many of us are afraid to ask.
I can’t tell you how good writing it has been. I feel as though I have no weight on my back. And people who have read it gained such comfort from the normalization that happens when you read that others have been through what you’ve been through. And my family secrets are so varied — just one right after the other. The chameleon-like behavior of that generation — they became who they wanted to be through pretense or actual accomplishment.
In my mother’s case, pretense led the way. She went and got a studio photo that made it look like she graduated from high school when she didn’t. In the eighth grade, she went up to her uncle’s house in the north Bronx and had her dates pick her up there because of the shanda of where she lived on the Lower East Side with nine people in three rooms. She had to imagine herself the child of her uncle, who didn’t have an accent or had an accent but at least spoke English.
You describe yours as “an immigrant family torn between loyalty to their own kind and longing for American acceptance.”
There was the feeling that, “If only we could measure up, we would be real Americans.” My mother was a sewing machine operator who became a designer and figured out what American women wore when she came from rags and cardboard shoes, in steerage. So I admire them. As much as I was discomforted by the lies, I ended up having compassion for them.
It’s also a story of thwarted women, and all that lost potential of a generation in which few could contemplate a college degree or a career outside the home. Your mother worked for a time as a junior designer for Hattie Carnegie, a sort of Donna Karan of her day, but abandoned that after she met your dad and became, as you write, “Mrs. Jack Cottin.”
The powerlessness of women was complicated in the 1950s by the demands of the masculine Jewish ideal. So having a wife who didn’t work was proof that you were a man who could provide. As a result women sacrificed their own aspirations and passions. She protected her husband’s image by not pursuing her life outside the home. In a way my feminism is a positive, like a photograph, to the negative of my mother’s 1950s womanhood.
“I’m not an optimist. I call myself a ‘cockeyed strategist,” said Pogrebin, who has a home on the Upper West Side. (Mike Lovett)
You write that you “think of shame and secrecy as quintessentially Jewish issues.” What were the Jewish pressures that inspired your parents to tell so many stories that weren’t true?
Think about what we did. We hid behind our names. We changed our names. We sloughed off our accents. My mother learned to make My*T*Fine pudding instead of gefilte fish. Shame and secrecy have always been intrinsically Jewish to me, because of the “sha!” factor: At every supper party, there would be the moment when somebody would say, “Sha! We don’t talk about that!” So even though we talked about what felt like everything, there were things that couldn’t be touched: illness, the C-word [cancer]. If you wanted to make a shidduch [wedding match] with another family in the insular communities in which Jews lived, you couldn’t let it be known that there was cancer in the family, or mental illness.
While I was writing this memoir, I realized that the [Torah portion] I’m listening to one Shabbat morning is all about hiding. It is Jacob finding out that he didn’t marry Rachel, after all, but married somebody he didn’t love. All of the hiding that I took for granted in the Bible stories and I was raised on like mother’s milk was formative. They justified pretense, and they justified trickery. Rebecca lied to her husband and presented her younger son Jacob for the blessing because God told her, because it was for the greater good of the future the Jewish people.
I think Jews felt that same sort of way when it came to surviving. So we can get rid of our names. We wouldn’t have survived, whether we were hiding in a forest or behind a cabinet, a name or a passport, or [pushed into hiding] with [forced] conversions. Hiding was survival.
I was reading your book just as the E. Jean Carroll verdict came down, holding Donald Trump liable for sexually assaulting her during an encounter in the mid-’90s. You write how in 1962, when you were working as a book publicist, the hard-drinking Irish poet Brendan Behan (who died in 1964) tried to rape you in a hotel room and you didn’t report it. Like Carroll, you didn’t think that it was something that could be reported because the cost was too high.
Certainly in that era powerful men could get away with horrible behavior because of shanda reasons.
Carroll said in her court testimony, “It was shameful to go to the police.”
You know that it happened to so many others and nobody paid the price. The man’s reputation was intact and we kept our jobs because we sacrificed our dignity and our truth. I was in a career, and I really was supporting myself. I couldn’t afford to lose my job. I would have been pilloried for having gone to his hotel room, and nobody was there when he picked up an ashtray and threatened to break the window of the Chelsea Hotel unless I went up there with him.The cards were stacked against me.
In “Shanda,” you write about another kind of shame: The shame you now feel decades later about how you described the incident in your first book. You regret “how blithely I transformed an aggravated assault by a powerful man into a ‘sticky sexual encounter.’”
I wrote about the incident in such offhand terms, and wonder why. I wrote, basically, “Okay, girls, you’re gonna have to put up with this, but you’re gonna have to find your own magical sentence like I had with Behan” to get him to stop.
You write that you said, “You can’t do this to me! I’m a nice Jewish girl!” And that got him to back off.
Really painful.
I think that’s a powerful aspect of your book — how you look back at the ways you let down the movement or your family or friends and now regret. In 1991 you wrote a New York Times essay about an illegal abortion you had as a college senior in 1958, but not the second one you had only a few months later. While you were urging women to tell their stories of abortion, you note how a different shame kept you from telling the whole truth.
Jewish girls could be, you know, plain or ordinary, but they had to be smart, and I had been stupid. I could out myself as one of the many millions of women who had an abortion but not as a Jewish girl who made the same mistake [of getting pregnant] twice.
The book was written before the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade. In the book you write powerfully about the shame, danger and loneliness among women when abortion was illegal, and now, after 50 years, it is happening again. Having been very much part of the generation of activists that saw Roe become the law of the land, how have you processed its demise?
Since the 1970s, we thought everything was happening in this proper linear way. We got legislation passed, we had litigation and we won, and we saw the percentage of women’s participation in the workplace all across professions and trades and everything else rise and rise. And then Ronald Reagan was elected and then there was the Moral Majority and then it was the Hyde Amendment [barring the use of federal funds to pay for abortion]. I was sideswiped because I think I was naive enough to imagine that once we articulated what feminism was driving at and why women’s rights were important, and how the economic reality of families and discrimination against women weren’t just women’s issues, people would internalize it and understand it and justice would be done.
In the case of Roe, we could not imagine that rights could ever be taken away. We didn’t do something that we should have done, which is to have outed ourselves in a big way. It’s not enough that abortion was legal. We allowed it to remain stigmatized. We allowed the right wing to create their own valence around it. That negated solidarity. If we had talked about abortion as healthcare, if we had had our stories published and created organizations around remembering what it was like and people telling their stories about when abortion was illegal and dangerous…. Instead we allowed the religious right to prioritize [fetal] cells over a woman’s life. We just were not truthful with each other, so we didn’t create solidarity.
Are you heartened by the backlash against restrictive new laws in red states or optimistic that the next wave of activism can reclaim the right to abortion?
I’m not an optimist. I call myself a “cockeyed strategist.” If you look at my long resume, it is all about organizing: Ms. magazine, feminist organizations, women’s foundations, Black-Jewish dialogues, Torah study groups and Palestinian-Jewish dialogues.
Number one, we have to own the data and reframe the narrative. We have to open channels for discussion for women who have either had one or know someone who has had one, even in religious Catholic families. The state-by-state strategy was really slow, but Ruth Bader Ginsburg wanted that. She almost didn’t get on the court because she didn’t like the nationwide, right-to-privacy strategy of Roe but instead wanted it won state by state, which would have required campaigns of acceptance and consciousness-raising.
So, the irony is she hasn’t lived to see that we’re going to have to do it her way.
You share a lot of family secrets in this book. Is this a book that you waited to write until, I’ll try to put this gently, most of the people had died?
I started this book when I was 78 years old, and there’s always a connection to my major birthdays. And turning 80 – you experience that number and it is so weird. It doesn’t describe me and it probably won’t describe you. I thought, this could well be my last book, so I needed to be completely transparent, put it all out there.
My mother and father and aunts and uncles were gone, but I have 24 cousins altogether. I went to my cousins, and told them I am going to write about the secret of your parents: It’s my uncle, but it’s your father. It’s your family story even though it’s my family, but it’s yours first. And every cousin, uniformly, said, “Are you kidding? You don’t even know the half of it,” and they’d tell me the whole story. I guess people want the truth out in the end.
Is that an aspect of getting older?
I think it’s a promise of liberation, which is what I have found. It’s this experience of being free from anything that I’ve hid. I don’t have to hide. Years ago, on our 35th wedding anniversary, we took our whole family to the Tenement Museum because we wanted them to see how far we’ve come in two generations.
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Mamdani’s first Jewish Heritage event reveals a narrowed circle
The Jewish American Heritage Month reception at Gracie Mansion, the mayor’s official residence on the Upper East Side, on Monday evening felt unlike any before it. It was not simply because the host, Zohran Mamdani, is New York City’s first Muslim mayor or because the Shavuot-themed menu was dairy. It was that the annual gathering came amid one of the most strained relationships between a mayor and much of New York’s Jewish establishment in recent memory.
Even the setting reflected the changed atmosphere. Previous receptions under former mayors had spilled into a large tent in the mansion’s garden overlooking the East River, with buffet tables lined with kosher food, bars stocked with liquor and wine, live music and packed crowds of rabbis, communal leaders, elected officials and supporters mingling late into the evening. The longstanding traditional events became demonstrations of the close alliance with mainstream Jewish organizations and pro-Israel activists, who formed a key part of their political base.
This year’s gathering was different. The event was moved indoors to Gracie Mansion’s smaller blue reception room. The crowd of 150 people was served by waiters quietly circulating through the room with small dairy dishes in honor of Shavuot: miniature cheesecakes, halved cheese blintzes, cheese bourekas served with a touch of charif on the side, potato knishes, chocolate mousse, salad cups and cheese-ball skewers. The drink selection was limited to Herzog wine from California and water.
There was no music at all — not even a cappella — despite the easing of traditional restrictions during the final days of the Omer before Shavuot.
Mamdani’s Jewish commissioners, deputy mayors and aides circulated through the room, greeting attendees. But absent were prominent Jewish figures in city government and politics, including Police Commissioner Jessica Tisch, Comptroller Mark Levine, Manhattan Borough President Brad Hoylman-Sigal and most of the local elected officials. The only Jewish elected officials in attendance were Councilmembers Harvey Epstein and Lincoln Restler, and former comptroller and now congressional candidate Brad Lander.
The crowd itself reflected the Jewish coalition emerging around Mamdani’s mayoralty: anti-Zionist activists aligned with groups such as Jews For Racial & Economic Justice and Jewish Voice for Peace; liberal Jewish leaders affiliated with New York Jewish Agenda, who have sharply criticized Mamdani on Israel and antisemitism issues while continuing to engage with the administration, and those aligned with pro-peace organizations; and Hasidic leaders from the Satmar community in Williamsburg, who religiously oppose Zionism and have long shaped their relationship with municipal government around local priorities such as housing, education and nonprofit funding.
Mamdani was introduced by Phylisa Wisdom, executive director of the Office to Combat Antisemitism, who also serves as the unofficial director for Jewish affairs. Rabbi Irwin Kula, president of the National Jewish Center for Learning and Leadership, delivered the invocation, and Jake Levin, manager of the Mayor’s Office of Mass Engagement, served as emcee.
The mayor offered some greetings, describing the preparations for Shavuot across the city, the teaching of Jewish values and his administration’s effort to combat rising antisemitism. “Jewish New Yorkers have worked to cultivate a city that is safe and open to all,” Mamdani said. “You should be accorded the same security and the same peace of mind.”
He then honored Ruth Messinger, the trailblazing Jewish political leader who in 1997 became the first and only woman to win the Democratic nomination for New York City mayor and went on to lead American Jewish World Service. Messinger backed Mamdani in the mayoral race last year. Guests were then privately ushered in to take photos with Mamdani.
Mamdani’s coalition
The reception came just days after Mamdani reignited tensions with many Jewish communities by posting a Nakba Day video produced by his City Hall media team commemorating the displacement of Palestinians during Israel’s founding in 1948. That was followed by what was perceived as a delayed and balanced response to pro-Palestinian protesters descending on a heavily Jewish Brooklyn neighborhood where a synagogue hosted a real estate sale that included West Bank properties.
The Nakba video angered many Jewish New Yorkers who already viewed Mamdani’s sharp criticism of Israel and embrace of Palestinian activism as dismissive of Jewish fears over rising antisemitism. Despite the backlash, there was little indication that Mamdani intends to moderate the political identity that brought him to power. Mamdani defended the video Monday morning when pressed about the civic purpose of using official city resources to mark Nakba Day, saying that acknowledging Palestinian suffering does not negate Jewish suffering or Israel’s history. He also declared that his “door is always open” to Jewish leaders despite the backlash.
But on Monday, a notable array of prominent Jewish leaders did not walk in — or were not invited.
Among those absent were leaders of the Jewish Community Relations Council, the Conference of Presidents, UJA Federation of New York, Board of Rabbis, Anti-Defamation League, American Jewish Committee, the Reform movement, Met Council, Orthodox Union, Agudath Israel of America and Chabad-Lubavitch. Devorah Halberstam and Yaacov Behrman, leaders affiliated with Lubavitch in Crown Heights who recently appeared with Mamdani, did attend.
Some Jewish communal leaders absent from the Gracie Mansion reception have embraced a strategy of total opposition to Mamdani, viewing engagement with him as legitimizing a mayor they see as hostile to Zionism. Other organizations that are dependent on city grants or ongoing access to the municipal government have continued engaging with City Hall even while publicly criticizing the mayor’s rhetoric on Israel and antisemitism.
But that has become increasingly harder for them. The UJA Federation of New York, which hosted Mamdani for a mayoral candidate forum last year, said its leadership did not attend because it was “being hosted by a mayor who denies a core pillar of our heritage — the State of Israel as the homeland of the Jewish people.”
Rabbi Joseph Potasnik, executive vice president of the New York Board of Rabbis, who was among 19 Jewish leaders on Mamdani’s transition team, told the New York Post he declined an invitation to join.
The reception suggested that Mamdani is continuing to cultivate a smaller alternative Jewish coalition, separate from the traditional pro-Israel communal establishment and rooted more in progressive activism and pragmatic community relationships. Mamdani recently appointed Rabbi Miriam Grossman, a JVP activist, as his faith liaison. To his critics, however, the evening underscored how narrow that coalition remains within the broader Jewish community of New York City.
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The Israeli song that almost won Eurovision was about far more than the breakup of a love affair
Noam Bettan, Israel’s Eurovision candidate who took second place in the competition, sang in three languages, and chose to start his performance in Hebrew. Meanwhile, the winner — from Bulgaria — sang entirely in English.
In all the news coverage of Eurovision, the tradition of Jewish multilingualism — and Bettan’s moving pride in his languages — was left out. But it’s an important part of Bettan’s family history, and it’s also a repeating theme of Jewish history.
Bettan’s parents immigrated to Israel from Grenoble, France, and before that, the Bettans lived in Algeria. Noam Bettan was born in Israel and grew up in Ra’anana, which is home to many English speakers.
As a child, he found it difficult to connect with members of his own family, because he was the only one who was born in Israel. He was also the only one who spoke Hebrew as a mother tongue, he told Israel’s Walla in 2021.
“Michelle,” the song Bettan sang in competition, is a rare trilingual song. It starts in Hebrew, the language in which Bettan feels most at home. Then it moves to French, the language of Bettan’s parents; his French is impeccable, and it was a nod to the importance of non-English languages in a contest that often favors English.
Last year’s winner, Austria’s JJ, performed “Wasted Love” entirely in English. When Israel won Eurovision in 2018 with Neta Barzilai’s “Toy,” the performance was also entirely in English.
When Bettan reached the third language of his song, English, which he likely heard in Ra’anana’s streets growing up, he mentioned walking through the Tel Aviv neighborhood of Florentin. His English was fine, but not as strong as his French.
He then moved back to Hebrew, and visibly moved at the end of his own performance, with tears in his eyes, ended with Am Yisrael Chai — “the people of Israel live.”
To what extent do Bettan’s language skills represent Israel?
More than 80% of Israelis speak more than one language; around 85% have some English proficiency, because English is mandatory in schools. Two percent of Israelis speak French as a mother tongue.
About 1 in 5 Israelis speak fluent Russian. Ten percent of Israeli Jews understand some Arabic but only 2.6% can read and understand Arabic-language media, according to a 2018 study by Sikkuy, an NGO which promotes equality between Israeli Jews and Arabs. Meanwhile, 53% of Israeli Arabs rated their Hebrew “good” or “very good,” according to Israel’s Central Bureau of Statistics. An estimated 250,000 Israelis speak Yiddish, and around 140,000 speak Amharic.
In the controversy over this year’s Eurovision, in which Spain, the Netherlands, Ireland, Slovenia and Iceland, all quit to protest Israel’s inclusion, some online commentators claimed that Bettan was singing about more than a breakup with a woman named “Michelle.” They thought he was singing to Europe, including the countries that walked out because he was on stage.
Mitpalel alayich, sh’tizki le’ehov—“I pray over you, that you will be privileged to love,” he sang. Bein dim’aa l’dimaa, yesh mi sh’yishma. “Between one tear and another tear, there will be someone who hears….”
Some believed that he was singing about the complex Jewish relationship with the European continent, the site of the greatest slaughter in Jewish history, now seeing a resurgence of antisemitism. He was singing, in French, telling Europe — nicknamed “Michelle” — that he was leaving.
But then, at the end, he sang in Hebrew that he hoped something good would happen to us.
That’s the mindset of many Jews right now, who no longer feel welcome in their prior homes — whether that’s a city, a country, or a profession. That pain may have morphed into an award-winning, trilingual song heard by millions, transliterated into English here, which might be about a girl — or, perhaps, about an entire people.
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A Yiddish chorus in Sao Paulo, Brazil finds its voice again
אין סאַאָ־פּאַולאָ, דער גרעסטער שטאָט אין בראַזיל, האָט דער אײנציקער כאָר אין לאַנד װאָס זינגט אױסשליסלעך אױף ייִדיש, אַרױסגעגעבן אַן אַלבאָם װאָס קלינגט סײַ טיף פֿאַרװאָרצלט אין טראַדיציע, סײַ באַנײַעריש. דער אַלבאָם הייסט „שמשׂ“ (אַרויסגערעדט „שאַמעס“).
דעם אַלבאָם האָט דער „טראַדיציע כאָר“ צוגעגרייט אין דער באָם־רעטיראָ געגנט, װאָס איז אױסגעפֿורעמט געװאָרן דורך נאָכאַנאַנדיקע כװאַליעס אימיגראַנטן פֿון פֿאַרשײדענע לענדער און קהילות. דער דיסק הײבט זיך אָן מיט גרױסע שלאַגערס פֿון ייִדישן רעפּערטואַר און ברײטערט זיך אױס אין אומגעװײנטלעכע ריכטונגען, בתוכם אימפּראָװיזירונג, עלעקטראָנישער מוזיק און באַגעגענישן מיט אַנדערע מוזיקאַלישע טראַדיציעס.
די פּרעמיערע פֿונעם אַלבאָם האָט מען אָפּגעהאַלטן דעם 22סטן אַפּריל אין „פֿאָלקסהױז“, אַ װיכטיקן ייִדישן קולטור־צענטער אין שטאָט, װאָס איז געגרינדעט געװאָרן אין 1946 אין אָנדענק פֿון די קרבנות פֿון חורבן. זינט יענער צײַט אָריענטירט זיך דאָס „פֿאָלקסהױז“ לױט די ייִדישיסטישע און אַנטיפֿאַשיסטישע פּרינציפּן פֿון איקו״ף (דעם „ייִדישן קולטור־פֿאַרבאַנד“), און פֿירט אָן, ביז הײַנט, מיט אַ ייִדישער ביבליאָטעק, קולטורעלע און פּעדאַגאָגישע אַקטיװיטעטן, און מיטן ייִדישן כאָר.
לױט די קוראַטאָרן פֿון אַלבאָם — קאַיאָ־מאָטל לעשער, לאַוראַ װיאַנאַ און זשוליאַ מאָרעלי — פֿונקציאָנירט זײַן טיטל װי אַ שליסל־מעטאַפֿער פֿאַר דעם גאַנצן פּראָיעקט. די 99־יאָריקע דיריגענטקע הוגעטאַ סענדאַטש איז די צענטראַלע פֿלאַם, װאָס װײַזט דעם װעג פֿון דער רײַכער ירושה פֿון דער ייִדישער שפּראַך צו די נײַע דורות זינגערס און ליבהאָבערס פֿון ייִדיש אינעם פֿאָלקסהױז. שוין צענדליקער יאָרן וואָס סענדאַטש פֿירט אָן מיטן כאָר.
דער אַלבאָם, װאָס איז שױן צוטריטלעך אױף „סאַונד־קלאַוד“, װעט סוף מײַ אָנקומען אין „ספּאָטיפֿײַ“, און װעט אױך אַרױסגעגעבן װערן װי אַ װיניל־פּלאַטע אין סעפּטעמבער. ער איז סטרוקטורירט װי אַ פּאַלינדראָם, פּונקט װי דאָס װאָרט „שמשׂ“ אַלײן, און קען װערן אָפּגעשפּילט אין צװײ ריכטונגען, װאָרעם די כּמעט־סימעטרישע זײַטן א׳ און ב׳ שאַפֿן אַ דיאַלאָג צװישן געדעכעניש און נײַע דערפֿינדונגען.
אױף דער ערשטער זײַט פֿונעם אַלבום, טרעט אױף דער כאָר ווי אַ טראַדיציאָנעלערער אַנסאַמבל, מיט נײַע אַראַנזשירונגען פֿון זשאָאַאָ באַריסבע און הוגעטאַ סענדאַטש. דער רעפּערטואַר נעמט אַרײַן סײַ קלאַסיקערס װי די פּאַרטיזאַנער־הימנע „זאָג ניט קײן מאָל“, סײַ פֿאָלקס־ניגונים. דער טרומײטער פֿראַנק לאָנדאָן, צוזאַמען מיטן קלאַרנעטיסט אַלעקס פּאַרק און דעם פּיאַניסט דניאל שאַפֿראַן, מישן צונויף דאָס כאָר־געזאַנג מיטן אינסטרומענטאַלן קלאַנג פֿון כּלי־זמר־מוזיק.
אױף דער צווייטער זײַט, װערן די זעלבע לידער דעמאָנטירט און באַשאַפֿן אױף ס׳נײַ דורך אײַנגעלאַדענע קינסטלערס, װי אַרטאָ לינדסײ, װאָס אימפּראָװיזירט אויפֿן סמך פֿון „זאָג ניט קײן מאָל“; קאַרלאַ באָרעגאַס, װאָס פֿאַרװאַנדלט אַ װיגליד אין אַן עטערישער (ethereal, בלע״ז), קלינגעװדיקער לאַנדשאַפֿט; פּאַולעטע לינדאַסעלװאַ, װאָס מאַכט איבער דאָס ליד „שאַ, שטיל” אין אַ פּולסירנדיקער עלעקטראָנישער שאַפֿונג; און אַװאַ ראָשאַ, װאָס גיט דעם חסידישן ניגון „בים־באַם“ אַ נײַע אינטערפּרעטאַציע.
אַנדערע דיאַספּאָרישע טראַדיציעס קומען אױך אַרײַן אין שפּיל. אַ כאָר פֿון קאָרעאַנער מאַמעס, װאָס איז טעטיק אין באָם־רעטיראָ, זינגט אַ טײל פֿונעם קאָרעאַניש פֿאָלקסליד „דאָס ליד פֿון מײַן מאַמען“, בשעת די אַפֿראָ־בראַזיליאַנער גרופּע פֿון פֿרױען־פּײַקלערס, „אילו אָבאַ דע מין“, באַגלייט דעם ייִדישן שלאַגער „שפּיל זשע מיר אַ לידל“. דער דאָזיקער נוסח פֿון ליד איז באַשאַפֿן געװאָרן אין צוזאַמענאַרבעט מיט דער ישׂראלדיקער קינסטלערין יעל ברתּנא פֿאַר דער פּיעסע „מיר זײַנען דאָ!“, װאָס איז פֿאָרגעשטעלט געװאָרן אין טאַיִב־טעאַטער.
דער פּראָיעקט נעמט אױך אַרײַן אַ נאָטנהעפֿט מיט װערטער אױף ייִדיש, סײַ מיט ייִדישע אותיות, סײַ טראַנסליטערירט, און אױך אױף פּאָרטוגעזיש. די איבערזעצונגען זײַנען געמאַכט געװאָרן דורך דעם סאַאָ־פּאַולער ייִדישיסטישן קאָלעקטיװ „ייִדישע טרופּע“ און דורך דער דיריגענטקע הוגעטאַ סענדאַטש אַלײן. דער מאַטעריאַל װערט באַגלײט אױך פֿון טעקסטן װעגן דעם רעפּערטואַר און דער טראַדיציע פֿון כאָר־געזאַנג אױף דער ייִדישער שפּראַך.
„שמשׂ“ װירקט װי אַ שטילער מאַניפֿעסט. דער טראַדיציע־כאָר, װאָס שטײט אין דער מסורה פֿון ייִדישע כאָרן אין סאַאָ־פּאַולאָ, מיט אַ העכער הונדערט־יאָריקער געשיכטע, װײַזט אױף אַן אַנדער פֿאָרעם פֿון המשכדיקײט, װאָס באַנײַט זיך אין אױסטױש מיט נײַע קאָנטעקסטן, ריטמען און פּאַרטנערס.
אין „פֿאָלקסהױז“ בלײַבט די ייִדישע קולטור אַזױ לעבעדיק, גראָד װײַל זי בײַט זיך כּסדר און שטײט אין ענגער פֿאַרבינדונג מיט אַנדערע שפּראַכן און מינהגים. אַזױ אַרום דינט דער טיטל פֿון אַלבאָם מער װי נאָר אַ מעטאַפֿער. ער באַשרײַבט דעם פּראָיעקט אַלײן׃ אַ פֿלאַם, װאָס טײלט זיך מיט איר פֿײַער מיט אַנדערע, אָן צו פֿאַרלירן דערבײַ איר אײגן ליכט.
[דער אַרטיקל איז רעדאַקטירט געוואָרן מיט דער הילף פֿון גוסטאַװאָ־גרשום עמאָס]
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