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Sicily’s Jews have their first rabbi in 500 years. Italy’s Jewish establishment won’t accept them.
CATANIA, Italy (JTA) — Rabbi Gilberto Ventura believes his synagogue has the most beautiful view in the world. Located in the tower of a century-old castle on the slopes of Mt. Etna in the eastern Sicilian city of Catania, the synagogue is wedged between a snow-capped volcano and the sun-kissed Mediterranean sea.
The 49-year-old Brazil-born rabbi also thinks his congregation is one of the most unique in the world. It’s made up mainly of Bnei Anusim — descendants of Jews forced to hide their religious practice and convert to Catholicism after the Spanish Inquisition of 1492. Before that infamous decree, Sicily was home to tens of thousands of Jews.
The synagogue, which was first inaugurated last fall, is the result of decades of grassroots efforts by those descendants in Catania to find each other and forge a sense of community that had been lacking for centuries.
Hiring a full-time rabbi was the last piece of the puzzle, and Ventura, who has a long history of working with communities of Bnei Anusim in Brazil, was a natural candidate. He arrived in Catania in January.
“I really believe that the future Judaism in the world, especially in some places like Italy and, of course, Brazil, is connected to the Bnei Anusim, and the need to embrace the Bnei Anusim,” Ventura said.
But in an ongoing point of frustration, the formal organization representing Italian Jewry, the Union of Italian Jewish Communities (UCEI), does not recognize them as Jews.
“In the case of Catania, this strange Jewish community hasn’t passed all the steps the law requires,” said Giulio Di Segni, the vice president of UCEI.
He was referring to the fact that the community did not seek UCEI’s permission before establishing themselves under the name “Jewish community of Catania.” Per Italian law, UCEI has a monopoly on acknowledging and establishing Jewish communal life in Italy — including authority over who can use the term “Jewish community of” in formal ways.
“UCEI can’t accept this because it is too easy,” he added. “We are not against their synagogue or their way of prayer, but they cannot use the name ‘Jewish community of Catania.’”
The rooftop of the Castello Leucatia, where the community meets, has a large menorah and a view of the Mediterranean. (David I. Klein)
Catania’s Jewish community members told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency a variety of stories about their Jewish backgrounds. Some came from families that always outwardly identified as Jewish. Others identified the source of family traditions practiced by parents and grandparents who — as descendants of Jews who faced persecution for practicing Judaism — still felt the need to hide aspects of their Jewishness from the public eye.
In the midst of questions about their ancestry, the majority of the Jewish community members have undergone Orthodox conversions. But that hasn’t led to their acceptance.
Benito Triolo, president of the Catania Jewish community, told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency that he first came to Judaism at the age of 40, thanks to the insight of a Jewish friend in Palermo, Sicily’s capital and most populous city. Working together, they established a Charter of Sicilian Jewry, which aimed to identify and highlight the Jewish heritage of neighborhoods across the island.
While working on that project, Triolo came closer to his own Jewish heritage, and after years of study, he completed an Orthodox conversion through a rabbi in Miami 25 years ago.
Another community member, who was born Alessandro Scuderi but today goes by the name of Yoram Nathan, first felt drawn to Judaism as a child watching news of the Six-Day War in 1967. At first, he was laughed at by other members of his family — except his grandmother, who happened to have a tradition of lighting eight candles in early winter and baking flat unleavened bread around Easter time.
Decades of study later, Scuderi also completed a formal conversion to Judaism before an Orthodox rabbinic court, or beit din.
Others had more straightforward backgrounds.
“I was born in a Jewish family,” said David Scibilia, the community’s secretary. “Frankly speaking, we were not hiding or deep in the shadows in this part of the country.”
Scibilia said that his father explained to him that he was a Jew as early as the age of four. Within their own home, they observed holidays and kept Shabbat — no easy task since Italian schools at the time of his childhood in the 1970s had class on Saturdays. He did not eat meat until he was an adult and was able to acquire kosher meat.
He said that his family had maintained their Jewish identity since the days of the Inquisition and married amongst a small group of other similar families.
“I was a Jew, but not part of any community,” Scibilia said. “Just my family was my community.”
An aerial view of the city of Catania shows the Mt. Etna volcano in the background, Jan. 28, 28, 2022. (Fabrizio Villa/Getty Images)
Scibilia explained that once he had a child of his own, he realized he did not want her to have the same lonely Jewish experience. But when he reached out to UCEI, he said he found the proverbial door to organized Jewish life shut. Earning membership in Jewish community organizations across Western Europe involves a strict vetting process, and many groups require applicants to prove their mothers’ Jewishness according to varying standards.
Scibilia’s experience was echoed by Jews outside of the community in Catania and across Italy’s south who talked to JTA — a feeling of neglect or rejection by UCEI for those who fall outside of the norms of Italian Judaism.
UCEI currently recognizes 19 Jewish communities across northern Italy and just one in the south, in Naples, which has jurisdiction over the rest of the southern half of the peninsula and the island of Sicily. The organization recognizes around 28,000 Jews in total across the country.
Scibilia noted that despite his Jewish upbringing, he has multiple certificates of conversion from Orthodox rabbis. The first came from a beit din of American rabbis from who traveled to Syracuse, Sicily, to assess Scibilia and others like him in Sicily. His second comes from the conversion court of the Israeli Chief Rabbinate, which is known for its exacting Orthodox standards.
Both were rejected by Italy’s own Orthodox rabbinate, and he was forced to stand before another rabbinic court in Italy.
“I have at this moment — don’t start to laugh — three documents that prove that I am a Jew, two Ketubah [marriage contracts] for my wedding, and so on, again and again and again,” Scibilia said.
Others’ experiences in the region have been even more fraught, he said.
“The problem in Italy, that if you try to study with any rabbi here, you can study for 20 years, maybe you can die even before you reach the end of the tunnel,” he said. “From my point of view, they are playing with the spirituality of these people.”
In a statement last year, UCEI called the the Catanians “a phantom ‘Jewish community’” and accused them of “misleading the local institutions and deluding believers and sympathizers into adhering to traditional religious rites, never actually recognized or authorized by the Italian rabbinical authority.”
“Between UCEI and the Italian republic is an agreement signed in ‘87,” Di Segni said. “This law means everything about Jewish communities in Italy is through the Union Jewish community in Italy (UCEI).”
Noemi Di Segni, shown in Rome in 2017, is president of the Union of Jewish Communities in Italy. (Stefano Montesi/Corbis via Getty Images)
Triolo said he isn’t too concerned about UCEI’s recognition.
“Ours is a process of refounding old communities that existed as early as 200 and up to 1492,” Triolo said. “Our recognition is already in our history. At that time the UCEI did not exist. We were there and we simply returned!”
No one knows when Jews first arrived in Sicily, but the Talmud tells a story that claims Rabbi Akiva, a well-known early rabbinic sage, visited the island in the early second century and told of a small Jewish community in Syracuse. Some historians believe the Roman writer Caecilius Calactinus — who was born in a town near Messina in the first century B.C.E — to have been of Jewish origin.
All agree that over the course of history, Sicily’s Jews watched as the island was traded between Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Arabs, Normans and half a dozen other empires. The narrative has also long been that Jewish life there ended five centuries ago, under Spanish rule.
The Spanish empire’s Jews suffered the same fate as Jews from the Iberian peninsula, who would become known to the world as Sephardim when they were expelled in 1492.
The descendents of Spain — and Sicily — spread throughout the world, establishing communities in North Africa, throughout the Ottoman empire, in the Netherlands and ultimately the British Isles and North America, as it was believed that Judaism faded away in their homelands.
Catania’s Jews disagree, arguing that many Jews practiced their religion over the centuries, in secret.
Triolo and others in the community formally inaugurated their synagogue in October. It was furnished with Torah scrolls donated by the Ohev Sholom synagogue in Washington, D.C.
The synagogue is situated in the tower of the Castello Luecatia, an early 20th-century structure built by a merchant believed to be of Jewish origin. The building was granted to the community by the city’s municipality.
“So they had the people, they had a synagogue, but they needed somebody to teach,” Ventura said.
The community meets in the Castello Luecatia, an early 20th-century structure built by a merchant believed to be of Jewish origin. (David I. Klein)
Ventura, who is Orthodox, may be the island’s first permanent working rabbi in over 500 years, but it’s not his first time working with Bnei Anusim.
Back in his native Brazil, Ventura was the leader of the Synagogue Without Borders, an organization through which he served 15 communities in Brazil’s north that were made up of descendants of Jews who came with the first Portuguese colonists to South America and who ultimately had to hide their identity as the Inquisition spread to the New World.
His work there put him in conflict with Brazil’s Jewish establishment, too. But Ventura is unfazed.
In Brazil, he founded synagogues and summer camps and built mikvahs and yeshivas across the country’s north. Since 2015, he has facilitated the conversion of hundreds of Bnei Anusim, bringing them back into the fold of mainstream Orthodox Judaism.
“I am a teacher since I was 21 years old,” he said. “Now I am 49, along with my wife. It’s one of the things we love to do, and know how to do. To teach Jewish philosophy, to teach Torah, to teach Tanakh, to teach the story of the Jews in Brazil, and now we are starting to teach the story of the Jews in Italy, the story of the Inquisition etcetera.”
In Castello Leucatia, he leads Shabbat services with the energy of a gospel preacher, pausing between prayers to explain a verse, teach a new tune, welcome latecomers, or simply to allow the congregation to talk.
Catania community members are shown at a recent gathering. (David I. Klein)
“This is what’s most important,” he remarked during one such lull on a recent Friday night. “That they get to talk and be a community.”
Ventura had organized a Shabbat event for other Jews across Italy — from Naples to Turin — who shared his belief that the future of Judaism was in communities like the one in Catania.
“Our point of view of Judaism is that we have to be a part of society, we don’t have to insulate ourselves, we believe that Judaism has a lot to contribute to society,” Ventura said. “In Brazil, we have a lot of connections with people from the periphery, in the favela and other communities, immigrants, Indians, etcetera. So that is something we want to establish here, to teach the people a Judaism that brings good things to the wider society.”
Ventura isn’t the only one working with such communities in southern Italy. Across the Strait of Messina, Jewish life has also been on the rise in Calabria — the toe of Italy’s boot — thanks to an American-born rabbi named Barbara Aiello.
Aiello, though raised in Pittsburgh, is of Calabrian descent. She returned to the land of her ancestors in the early 2000s and began working with the Bnei Anusim there, ultimately establishing a synagogue called Ner Tamid del Sud, meaning “eternal light of the south.”
“Until now, nobody took care of Judaism in the south of Italy,” Scibilia said while looking out at the Mediterranean from the terrace of Castello Leucatia.
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When Hate Hides Behind Nuance, Babka and Protest Cannot Rise Half‑Baked
A Breads Bakery location in New York City. Photo: ZUMA Press Wire via Reuters Connect
This weekend, a crowd wrapped around the corner of 63rd and Broadway in New York City, lining up for babka and bread at Breads Bakery. But this wasn’t the usual pre-Shabbat rush. It was a quiet show of solidarity with the Israeli-owned bakery, after union activists urged it to sever ties with Israel.
A line for pastries became a reminder that antisemitism doesn’t always announce itself with slurs or slogans. Sometimes it appears in smaller, more familiar spaces — through pressures and demands that seem benign on the surface.
When New York City’s new mayor, Zohran Mamdani, revoked a series of executive orders aimed at combating antisemitism, the justification was familiar: overly broad, insufficiently nuanced, potentially chilling to free speech. For many Jews in this city — especially those who are visibly Jewish or openly supportive of Israel — this reversal did not feel like balance restored. It felt like protection withdrawn.
New York is home to the largest Jewish population outside of Israel, and Mamdani’s decision came at a moment when antisemitic threats are rising nationally and globally, when synagogues and schools require armed guards, and when fear is not theoretical but lived.
One word — nuance — has stayed with me.
Not long before the mayor’s announcement, a friend objected to the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance’s working definition of antisemitism: Too broad, too political, not nuanced enough. I had heard the argument before — but hearing it again, now, felt revealing.
Can we fight hate in the language of nuance?
For decades, we have treated language as a tool of moral repair. We revised terminology to be more inclusive, more precise, and more humane. We expanded our understanding of gender and identity. Language evolved to widen the circle of belonging.
Names matter. If language shapes how people are seen — and how they see themselves — then these changes matter.
But somewhere along the way, the project of inclusion began to drift.
Refining language stopped functioning as a starting point for justice and became a substitute for it. Linguistic correction began to stand in for moral and institutional accountability. We treated vocabulary changes as progress, even when the underlying structures remained unchanged.
We changed the words without changing the world.
As we focused on more delicate modifiers and culturally sensitive phrasing, we also became cautious in how we described injustice — so cautious that we often avoided confronting it at all. Language became a tool to minimize, camouflage, or justify inaction.
Nowhere is this clearer than in how we talk about antisemitism.
At a time when antisemitic incidents are rising, the insistence on narrower definitions and softer language feels less like rigor and more like retreat. Definitions tighten just as hostility becomes more explicit, more public, and more emboldened.
And the question lingers: Are we blurring the reality of antisemitism out of fear that naming it clearly will constrain legitimate criticism of Israel? Are we reinforcing old tropes equating Zionism with racism, legitimizing a wave of boycotts and, increasingly, outright acts of violence against Jews?
Would we ask other marginalized communities to soften the words used to describe the hatred aimed at them?
If we would not ask it of others, why do we ask it of Jews?
Outside of Breads Bakery, the protest didn’t sound like a protest. No bullhorns, no chants — just a line of New Yorkers waiting for pastries to push back against a union’s demand that the bakery cut ties with Israel. It turns out that you can fight antisemitism with babka.
But the gesture can be quiet only if the definition is not. We cannot fight what we don’t hear, and we cannot hear what we refuse to name. When antisemitism hides behind nuance, policy, or the polite language of activism, clarity stops being optional. Even a line for babka can become a battleground against hate — but only if the hate is named plainly. Buying bread may seem like a Beijing form of activism, but when the message it sends is clear, hate can no longer hide in the shadow of nuance.
Gillian Granoff is a New York–based writer focused on Jewish identity, the Israel–diaspora relationship, and the challenges of navigating antisemitism after October 7. Her work draws on personal experience and time spent in Israel, bringing cultural insight and emotional clarity to her essays. She holds a degree in Comparative Literature from Brown University and spent more than a decade as a senior reporter for Education Update, an award-winning New York education newspaper.
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Somali Regions Reject Mogadishu’s Move to Cut Ties With UAE
People hold the flag of Somaliland during the parade in Hargeisa, Somaliland, May 18, 2024. Photo: REUTERS/Tiksa Negeri
Three self-governing regions in Somalia that have close relations with the United Arab Emirates have dismissed a decision this week by the central government to sever ties with the UAE, a long-term sponsor.
On Monday Somalia annulled all agreements with the UAE, including in the field of security, accusing the Gulf country, which has trained and funded Somalia’s army and invested in its ports, of undermining Somalia’s national sovereignty.
Somalia did not provide further explanation of its reasons for the move. Mogadishu is investigating allegations that the UAE whisked a separatist leader out of Yemen via Somalia. Separately, the UAE has been linked to Israel’s recognition last month of Somaliland, a breakaway region of northern Somalia, as an independent state.
The UAE‘s Ministry of Foreign Affairs did not immediately respond to a request for comment on Somalia’s decision. The UAE has longstanding interests in the Horn of Africa and Red Sea regions, where it has frequently vied with other wealthy Gulf states for influence.
Somaliland and two semi-autonomous states, Puntland in the north and Jubbaland in the south, said they would not recognize the decision by Mogadishu to cut ties with the UAE.
“Somalia’s daydreaming changes nothing … The UAE is here to stay, no matter what a weak administration in Mogadishu says,” Khadar Hussein Abdi, Minister of the Presidency of the Republic of Somaliland, said late on Monday.
The Jubbaland regional government said Mogadishu’s decision was “null and void” and existing “security and development agreements will continue to exist.”
Puntland said the decision would have no impact on relations between it and the UAE, including over the coastal city of Bosaso where a subsidiary of the UAE‘s DP World has a 30-year concession to run the port.
EXPANDING INFLUENCE
The UAE has long leveraged its wealth to expand its influence across the Horn of Africa, using a mix of economic, military and diplomatic clout to exert regional power.
For decades Somalia’s federal government has possessed only limited authority across the country, and has failed to defeat Islamist militants, despite years of international support, including African peacekeepers and US air strikes.
The UAE trained hundreds of Somali troops from 2014-2018, and still covers salaries and provides logistics for around 3,400 Somali military police and special forces troops in and around the capital, according to senior Somali sources.
It has also forged bonds directly with regional governments, committing hundreds of millions of dollars to ports and military infrastructure on the coast along global shipping routes.
Two Somali officials, speaking on condition of anonymity to discuss sensitive diplomacy, told Reuters that in place of UAE military funding the country could turn to the UAE‘s wealthy Gulf rivals Qatar or Saudi Arabia for help.
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Syria’s Kurds Protest Aleppo Violence as Fears of Wider Conflict Grow
Syrian Kurds attend a protest in solidarity with the people in the neighborhood of Sheikh Maksoud and Ashrafiya, as the last Kurdish-led Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF) fighters left the Syrian city of Aleppo on Sunday, state-run Ekhbariya TV said, following a ceasefire deal that allowed evacuations after days of deadly clashes, in Qamishli, Syria, Jan. 13, 2026. Photo: REUTERS/Orhan Qereman
Several thousand people marched under the rain in northeast Syria on Tuesday to protest the expulsion of Kurdish fighters from the city of Aleppo the previous week after days of deadly clashes.
The violence in Aleppo has deepened one of the main faultlines in Syria, where President Ahmed al-Sharaa’s promise to unify the country under one leadership after 14 years of war has faced resistance from Kurdish forces wary of his Islamist-led government.
Five days of fighting left at least 23 people dead, according to Syria’s health ministry, and saw more than 150,000 flee the two Kurdish-run pockets of the city. The last Kurdish fighters left Aleppo in the early hours of Jan. 11.
On Tuesday, several thousand Syrian Kurds protested in the northeastern city of Qamishli. They carried banners bearing the logos of Kurdish forces and faces of Kurdish fighters who died in the battles – some of whom had detonated explosive-laden belts as government forces closed in.
FEARS OF WIDER CONFLICT
Other posters featured the faces of Sharaa and Turkish Foreign Minister Hakan Fidan, crossed out with red “X”s and carrying the caption “Killers of the Kurdish people.”
Turkey accuses the Syrian Democratic Forces – the main Kurdish fighting force which runs a semi-autonomous zone in northeast Syria – of links to the Kurdistan Workers’ Party, which Ankara considers a terrorist organization.
Many Kurds say last week’s bloodshed has deepened their skepticism about Sharaa’s promises to govern for all Syrians.
“If they truly love the Kurds, and if they sincerely say that the Kurds are an official and fundamental component of Syria, then the rights of the Kurdish people must be recognized in the constitution,” said Hassan Muhammad, head of the Council of Religions and Beliefs in Northeast Syria, who attended Tuesday’s protest.
Others worry that the bloodshed will worsen. Syria’s defense ministry on Tuesday declared eastern parts of Aleppo still under SDF control to be a “closed military zone,” and ordered all armed forces in the area to withdraw further east.
Idris al-Khalil, a Qamishli resident who protested on Tuesday, said the Aleppo violence reminded him of the sectarian killings last year of the Alawite minority on Syria’s coast and the Druze minority in the country’s south.
“Regarding the fears of a full-scale war – if they want a full-scale war, the people will suffer even more, and it will lead to division among the peoples of the region, preventing them from living together in peace,” Khalil said.