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Bosnian Jews mourn Moris Albahari, one of Sarajevo’s last Ladino speakers
(JTA) — Moris Albahari, a Holocaust survivor, former partisan fighter and one of the last Ladino speakers in Bosnia and Herzegovina’s dwindling Jewish community, passed away at the age of 93 last month.
It is believed that he was one of four native Ladino speakers remaining in a country where the Judeo-Spanish language once flourished and was spoken by luminaries like Flory Jagoda, the grande dame of Ladino song, and Laura Bohoretta, the founder of a uniquely Sephardic feminist movement in Bosnia.
Bosnia’s small Jewish community — with barely 900 members throughout the country, 500 of whom live in Sarajevo — are mourning the loss of a living link to communal memory as well as a dear friend.
“From you, uncle Moco, I learned a lot about Judaism, about life, about nature and especially about people. About both the good and the evil,” Igor Kožemjakin, the cantor of the Sarajevo Jewish community, wrote in a memorial post on Facebook, referring to Moris as “Čika,” or uncle, a term of endearment in Bosnian.
“It is a terrible loss, especially for Sarajevo. Our community is very small, especially after the Holocaust,” Eliezer Papo, a Sarajevo-born Jew and scholar of Ladino language and literature at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency. “We’re not speaking just in terms of prominent members of the community, we’re speaking in terms of family members. Everyone is like a family member.”
When Albahari was growing up in the 1930s, the Jewish community of his native Sarajevo numbered over 12,000. Jews made up more than a fifth of the city and it was one of the most important centers of Jewish life in the western Balkans.
In his youth, the city was part of what was then the Kingdom of Yugoslavia. Formed out of the borderlands between the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian empires, it was a multiethnic state composed of Croats, Serbs, Bosniaks, Slovenians, Macedonians, Hungarians, Albanians and more. Among them were many Jewish communities both Ashkenazi and Sephardic.
The unique mix of of Muslim, Jewish, Catholic and Orthodox Christian communities, with their mosques, synagogues and churches defining Sarajevo’s skyline, earned the city the nickname “Little Jerusalem.”
Speaking in a 2015 documentary made by American researchers, “Saved by Language,” Albahari explained that his family traced their roots back to Cordoba before the Spanish Inquisition, and through Venice, before settling in what would become Bosnia when it was part of the Ottoman Empire.
“We didn’t want to ‘just’ write an article about Moris or Sarajevo; we wanted [the audience] to see what we saw and hear what we heard,” Brian Kirschen, professor of Ladino at Binghamton University, who worked on the documentary with author Susanna Zaraysky, told JTA. “This resulted in a grassroots initiative to create the documentary.”
In the film, Albahari takes the researchers and their viewers on a tour through what was Jewish Sarajevo, giving glimpses of the thriving Ladino speaking community in which he was raised and explaining how ithe language would save him many times, when the Nazis and their Croat allies, the Ustaša, came to shatter it.
“In sharing your story of survival during the Holocaust, you opened doors that remained closed for decades,” Kirschen said in a memorial post on Facebook. “Some of your stories were even new to members of your family, but each survivor has their own timeline. While you experienced great pain during your life, from your story, we also learn about moments of kindness and heroism. Through your story, you also taught us about the power of language.”
Albahari wasn’t yet a teenager when, in 1941, Nazi Germany and Mussolini’s Italy invaded Yugoslavia. The Nazis occupied the eastern portion of the country, including what is now Serbia, while they raised up a Croat fascist party, known as the Ustaša, to administer the newly formed “Independent State of Croatia” — often known by its Serbo-Croatian initials, NDH — in the western regions that included the modern-day Bosnia and Herzegovina.
The Ustaša collaborated in the Nazis’ genocidal plans for Europe’s Jewish and Roma comunities, and they had genocidal designs of their own for the Orthodox Serb communities living in the NDH.
To that end they established the Jasenovac concentration camp, which would become known as the Auschwitz of the Balkans. By the war’s end it had become the third largest concentration camp in Europe, and behind its walls the overwhelming majority of Sarajevo’s Jews — at least 10,000 — were massacred. Including Serbs, Jews, Roma and political dissidents of Croat or Muslim Bosniak background, as many as 100,000 people were killed in Jasenovac.
Albahari was 11 years old when the Ustaša came to deport him and his large family to Jasenovac. A former teacher working as an Ustaša guard in the town of Drvar, where the train stopped, warned Albahari’s father, David, about their destination, and he was able to help his son escape from the train.
The teacher helped guide the young Moris to an Italian soldier named Lino Marchione who was secretly helping Jews.
This was the first case when Albahari’s Ladino came in handy. Ladino is largely based on medieval Spanish, with a mixture of Hebrew, Aramaic, Turkish and other languages mixed in. For speakers of Serbo-Croatian, a Slavic language, it’s entirely incomprehensible. But for a speaker of another Romance language such as Italian, it’s not such a stretch to understand, and Moris was able to converse with his Italian savior.
With his family gone, he was taken in by a Serb family, and changed his name to Milan Adamovic to hide his Jewish identity. Still, by 1942, it became clear that neither as Adamovic nor Albahari would he be safe in the town. So he fled to the mountains.
“If there was [a battle] I took clothes from a dead soldier to wear, I lived like a wolf in the mountains, you know. Visiting villages [asking for something] to give me for eating, it was a terrible time,” Albahari recalled in “Saved By Language.”
He would only feel safe in villages under the control of partisan forces. Yugoslavia was the only country in Europe to be liberated from Nazi rule by its own grassroots resistance.
During his time in the mountains, Albahari joined up with a partisan unit aligned with the movement of Josip Broz Tito, who would lead Communist Yugoslavia after the war. By the war’s end, Tito’s partisans numbered over 80,000 and included more than 6,000 Jews, many in prominent positions, such as Moša Pijade, who would go on to serve as vice president of the Yugoslav parliament after the war.
Moris was out on patrol as a partisan when he came upon a group of American and British paratroopers. They raised their weapons at him, thinking he was an enemy. Moris tried to communicate, but he spoke no English.
When he asked the soldiers if they spoke German or Italian, they shook their heads. When he asked about Spanish, one perked up: a Hispanic-American soldier by the name of David Garijo.
In Ladino, Alabahari was able to explain that he was not an enemy but could lead them to a nearby partisan camp where they would be safe.
“Ladino saved my life in the war,” Albahari recalled in the documentary.
At the partisan camp, Morris received even bigger news: The family that he had assumed had all perished after he left the train were in fact alive. The former school teacher and Ustaša guard who had warned his father had met them at the next train junction to help them escape. Furthermore, around half of the Jews in the train car were able to escape using the same hole Moris used during his initial escape.
Ultimately the family all survived the war, unlike so many other Jews of Sarajevo.
“Where is Samuel, where is Dudo, where is Gedala? They never came back,” Albahari lamented, listing missing neighbors while walking through Sarajevo’s old Jewish neighborhood in the documentary. “Maybe we are happy because we are alive after the Second World War, but also unlikely because every day we must cry for these dead people.”
When Moris returned to Sarajevo, it was an entirely different place from the bustling Jewish community he had once known.
Gone was the sound of Ladino in the streets and alleyways of Bascarsija, the market district where so many of Sarajevo’s Jews had once lived. Gone were the synagogues — only one of the many synagogues that had existed before WWII still functions. Gone was the robust Jewish life that was once a central part of Sarajevo.
Moris was still only 14 by the war’s end, so he returned to school and ultimately graduated at the top of his class. He became a pilot and later director of the Sarajevo Airport.
In this new world, Ladino was spoken, if at all, only in the home.
“Always, when I hear Spanish, I hear my father and mother, and all the synagogues, prayers in Ladino and rabbis who spoke Ladino. But that is in the past,” Albahari says in “Saved by Language.”
Eliezer Papo, who is a generation younger than Albahari, recalled that in his youth Ladino had long been reduced to a language of secrets.
“Mostly, Ladino was used when the elders didn’t want youngsters to understand,” Papo said.
Only later, in the 1980s, did community members realize what was being lost and begin to gather to maintain their language, recount what Jewish Sarajevo had been like and share their wartime stories of survival.
“He never took his story to the places of revenge, but he took it and his life experience to a place of ‘Never again,’ not just ‘Never again for Jews’, but never again for anybody,” said Papo.
Like many Sarajevans, World War II would not be the last major conflict Albahari would see. Less than 40 years later, war would once again come to Sarajevo with the break-up of Yugoslavia.
From 1992-1995 the city remained under constant siege by Bosnian Serb forces looking to break away from what would become Bosnia and Herzegovina. Moris joined with other Jews of Sarajevo in working to provide aid to their fellow Sarajevans during the harsh period.
Sarajevo’s synagogue was turned into a shelter and a soup kitchen. The community ran a network of underground pharmacies and a message service allowing Sarajevans to get word to family and friends outside of the city during what became the longest siege of a capital city in the history of modern warfare.
“Moris was an inspirational persona to many members of Jewish community and La Benevolencija,” Vlado Anderle, the current president of that local Jewish humanitarian organization told JTA. “He was a man with such inviting spirit and energy.”
When the dust settled on the breakup of Yugoslavia, and the new Bosnian state rose from its ashes, Moris found himself once again in a new role.
During the communist era in Yugoslavia, religious activity was discouraged. Sarajevo’s Jews emphasized the ethnic character of Jewish culture rather than the religious one. In the new Bosnia and Herzegovina, that was no longer true. So the community worked to reconnect with their religious identity as well.
“Everybody looked up to the people who had Jewish upbringing before the Second World War,” Papo recalled. “This doesn’t mean that they were rabbis. Just that they knew it better than anyone else.”
Moris, whose formal Jewish education ended in his preteen years, was appointed president of the community’s religious committee.
As such it often fell on him to represent Judaism to the Bosnian society at large, often in a very creative way, according to Papo, who in addition to being a scholar of Ladino is ordained as a rabbi and serves the Sarajevo community as a rabbi-at-large from Israel.
In one case, while being interviewed on a major Bosnian television station, Moris was asked why Jews cover their head with a kippah or other hat during prayer. Moris’ response, or rather creative interpretation, as Papo called it, was made up on the spot.
Moris’ interpretation began with the ancient temple in Jerusalem where Jews once had to fully immerse in a ritual bath before entering.
“Since the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed it was reduced to washing the uncovered parts of the body only, before entering a synagogue, similarly to Muslims: the feet, the head, the hands…” Papo recalled him saying. But in Europe, as Moris’ answer went, they began to cover more and more of their body. “In Europe they started wearing shoes, so the feet were not uncovered anymore, and then they started wearing a hat, not to have to wash their head… you know it’s Europe, one could catch a cold if going out with wet hair…”
“A few months later, I came to Sarajevo, and found that everyone has heard this explanation and is talking about it, not just people in the community, but in the street,” Papo said. “And you know, I let it pass, I couldn’t correct them, it was just so beautiful. That was his genius.”
“Identity is all about telling stories. And Moris was one of the great storytellers of the community,” Papo added. And through his stories he expressed an identity which was “made of the same contradictions that Sephardic Judaism is made of, that Sarajevo is made of, that Bosnia and Herzegovina is made and that Yugoslavia was and is made of and that the Balkans are made of.”
Albahari is survived by his wife and a son.
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Stories of ghosts, grief and Shabbat gladness win top prizes in Jewish children’s literature
(JTA) — Anna is a misunderstood sixth-grade girl who communicates with the ghosts of her Jewish ancestors. Teased by her classmates and worried-over by her family, she finds comfort and understanding with her Bubbe and her beloved Jewish traditions.
“Neshama,” Marcella Pixley’s lyrically written novel-in-verse, won the gold medal for Jewish children’s literature for middle-grade readers from the Association of Jewish Libraries. Its Sydney Taylor Book Awards were announced today in a virtual livecast from Chicago.
The award committee called Pixley’s “a lyrical, deeply Jewish story about identity, grief, and resilience.”
The annual award, named in memory of Sydney Taylor, the author of the “All-of-a-Kind Family” series, “recognizes books for children and teens that exemplify high literary standards while authentically portraying the Jewish experience,” according to the award committee’s announcement.
Other winners include “D.J. Rosenblum Becomes the G.O.A.T,” a coming-of-age mystery by Abby White, which won in the young adult category, and “Shabbat Shalom: Let’s Rest and Reset,” a lively board book written and illustrated by Suzy Ultman, which won the picture book award.
The Sydney Taylor committee named Uri Shulevitz, whose 2008 book “How I Learned Geography” drew on his boyhood experiences fleeing Poland after the Nazi invasion in 1939, as the winner of its Body-of-Work award. Shulevitz, a multi-award winning storyteller and illustrator, died last year.
In addition to the top winners, the Sydney Taylor committee named five silver medalists and nine notable titles of Jewish content.
“This year’s winners and honorees exemplify excellence in Jewish children’s literature through vibrant storytelling and rich perspectives that foster empathy, understanding, and a deep appreciation for culture and community,” said Melanie Koss, chair of the award committee.
Winners will receive their awards in June in Evanston, Illinois at the AJL’s annual conference.
In “D. J. Rosenblum Becomes the “G.O.A.T,” an about-to-be bat mitzah-age girl is determined to prove that her beloved cousin did not die by suicide. Abby White lightens the emotional subject with a teen’s authentic, humorous voice.
“She wrestles with her Torah portion and faith, finding strength to face loss and begin moving forward,” the committee noted.
“Shabbat Shalom” may be the first board book to garner the award, Heidi Rabinowitz, a long-time podcaster about Jewish children’s books, told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
“The sophisticated board book combines succinct text with playful art,” the committee wrote in its release.
In awarding its Body-of-Work award to Shulevitz (1935-2025), who lived with his family in Israel before settling in New York, the committee recognized him as a “foundational voice in Jewish children’s literature.” His books “illuminate Jewish culture and reflect universal experience,” the committee wrote.
Many of Shulevitz’s titles reflect his Jewish roots, including “The Golem,” by Isaac Bashevis Singer and “The Travels of Benjamin of Tudela,” an illustrated travelogue for children based on the real-life voyages of the 12th-century Jewish traveler who visited Rome, Constantinople, Baghdad and Jerusalem. Shulevitz garnered the Caldecott medal, children’s literature’s top honor for illustrated books, for “The Fool of the World and the Flying Ship.”
Earlier, the AJL announced that Jessica Russak-Hoffman, a journalist for Jewish media outlets, won the organization’s new manuscript award for “How to Catch a Mermaid (When You’re Scared of the Sea),” a novel set in Israel for ages 8-13.
Last week, the AJL named Jason Diamond as the 2026 winner of its Jewish Fiction award for his novel, “Kaplan’s Plot.”
At Tuesday’s event, the Youth Media Awards hosted by the American Library Association, the winners were also announced for the Caldecott, Coretta Scott King, Newberry and Printz awards, among others. The Asian American Picture Book award went to “Many Things All At Once,” by Veera Hiranandani and illustrated by Nadia Alam, the story of a girl with a Jewish mother and a South Asian father.
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NJ church deletes video of pageant featuring antisemitic character but says critics took it ‘out of context’
(JTA) — A New Jersey church says it is “committed to engaging in dialogue, and teaching others about our heritage” after putting on a Christmas pageant that drew criticism for reflecting antisemitic stereotypes.
St. Mary Protectress Ukrainian Orthodox Church’s pageant, known as a vertep, featured an antagonist named Moshko who danced with the devil while wearing faux Hasidic garb like side locks and a black hat. The character was referred to as “zhyd,” a Ukrainian slur for “Jew.”
“We do not have any intention to promote harm or hatred with this pageant,” the church said in a statement issued on Facebook on Friday night. “However, we recognize some outside of our culture may assign elements of the performance to stereotypes when taken out of context which is inclusive of peoples historically present in eastern Europe.”
The church did not respond to a Jewish Telegraphic Agency request for comment prior to an initial report on the vertep earlier this month. It did not respond to an additional request for comment on Monday, following the statement. The church removed photos and video of the pageant from its Facebook page following the JTA report.
The vertep is a centuries-old Slavic Christmas tradition that emerged from puppet theater. In recent years, many Ukrainian Orthodox churches have removed material criticized as offensive. Since the current war between Russia and Ukraine began in 2022, one popular replacement for the Jewish antagonist has been a Russian character.
In its statement, St. Mary Protectress Ukrainian Orthodox Church emphasized that “the event does not target any specific group” but indicated that it could make changes in future pageants.
“The church is reflecting on this matter seriously and is committed to engaging in dialogue, and teaching others about our heritage while ensuring that future events continue to uphold the dignity, respect, and safety of all people,” it said.
The Anti-Defamation League of New Jersey, which said earlier this month that it was reaching out to St. Mary Protectress, told JTA on Monday that it had not been able to communicate with anyone from the church.
The church’s apology rang hollow for Lev Golinkin, a Jewish writer born in Ukraine who has advocated against the antisemitic elements of the traditional vertep.
“It’s not an apology, it’s more of an insult,” Golinkin said. “The problem is not the context. The problem is exactly that. It is in context perfectly.”
He added, “They’re making it seem that the people who are criticizing them … are the ones who have a problem because they don’t understand the culture.”
St. Mary Protectress is not the only Ukrainian church in the United States to import the antisemitic elements of the vertep from the old country. A church in Connecticut erected a backdrop poster for its pageant this year that included a Moshko character standing next to the devil.
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A new exhibit honors writer Lore Segal, a child survivor and lifelong skeptic of easy truths
(JTA) — I’ve never read a Holocaust chronicle quite like Lore Segal’s autobiographical 1964 novel, “Other People’s Houses.” Mordant, unsentimental and sometimes painfully honest, it’s the story of an Austrian girl sent to England on the Kindertransport, as well as a portrait of the artist as a young refugee.
More than one of her legions of admirers have noted that Segal, who died in 2024 at the age of 96, was only one year younger than Anne Frank, and grew up to become the kind of writer Anne too might have become had she not died in Bergen-Belsen.
Segal’s work, which includes decades of stories in The New Yorker as well as a delightful children’s book, “Tell Me a Mitzi,” is also remarkable in its humility. Segal was adamant that memory — especially of traumatic events like the Holocaust — cannot be a perfect repository of truth. It’s not that authors couldn’t be trusted, but that neither the writer nor the reader should take anything for granted.
That challenge is captured in the title of a new exhibit mounted by the Leo Baeck Institute in New York: “And That’s True Too: The Life and Work of Lore Segal.” The title is a quote from “King Lear,” a favorite of Segal’s and a reminder to hold opposing truths in the same sentence, of resisting the false comfort of a single, final version.
“We tried to give you an insight into Laura’s ability to look at the world from many angles,” Karin Hanta, the exhibit’s curator, said at the exhibit’s opening on Thursday, just days before International Holocaust Remembrance Day.
At the event, actress Toni Kalem, who played Angie Bonpensiero on “The Sopranos,” read an excerpt from “Other People’s Houses.” Kalem, who met Segal years ago and discovered that their mothers shared the experience of the Kindertransport, spoke of Segal’s “unbridled curiosity” — a quality that runs through the display of photographs, manuscripts and family keepsakes.
Lore (pronounced “Laura”) Groszmann was born in Vienna in 1928; one month after the Nazi pogrom on Kristallnacht, she was sent to England and raised in a series of foster homes (her refugee parents would eventually arrive and find work as domestics). Later she would join her family in the Dominican Republic, and they eventually found refuge in Washington Heights, the Manhattan redoubt for German-speaking Jews. After she established herself as a writer, she became part of a circle of mostly Jewish writers in New York, including Cynthia Ozick, Vivan Gornick, Grace Paley, Norma Rosen and Gloria Goldreich. Her husband, book editor David Segal, was 40 when he died in 1970.
Hanta had hoped to write a biography of Segal, but when that project stalled, she pivoted. “With all the materials I had gathered,” she recalled at the opening, “why not stage an exhibition?”
The first iteration, mounted in Vienna’s Bezirksmuseum Josefstadt — located in the district where Segal grew up, and, as Hanta later discovered, near the hospital where she was born — drew thousands of visitors. The New York version, expanded and sharpened, shifts the focus westward, tracing Segal’s journey from prewar Vienna to Manhattan, where she lived for decades, taught generations of writers, and, according to the New York Times, came “closer than anyone to writing the Great American Novel.”
That novel, “Her First American,” appeared in 1985 and explored the uneasy intersection of race and Holocaust history through the relationship of a Jewish refugee and a Black intellectual. (LBI has scheduled an online event about Horace Cayton, Segal’s real-life lover and the inspiration for the novel.) “Other People’s Houses,” her first book, earned Segal a Guggenheim Fellowship, and her short-story collection “Shakespeare’s Kitchen” (2007) became a Pulitzer Prize finalist. All three books will be reissued in the spring of 2026 by the New Press, while Melville House is publishing a posthumous collection, “Still Talking.” Introduced by Gornick, it features the linked “Ladies’ Lunch” stories she wrote late in her career, about elderly Manhattan friends dealing frankly and often hilariously with the daily indignities of growing old.
The exhibit at the Center for Jewish History, where LBI catalogues the history and culture of German-speaking Jews, includes notebooks from Bedford College in London, where Segal studied after the war, filled with short stories entered into competitions. There are manuscripts marked and re-marked in a hand that never stopped revising. There are address books kept by her parents — one from England, one from the Dominican Republic — opened to pages that quietly testify to vanished worlds: cousins who hid behind kitchen curtains in France, friends who assumed false identities, children who never made it onto the trains.
One small object carries particular weight: a childhood friendship book, the sort in which relatives and friends inscribe poems and well-intentioned advice. Segal’s includes an entry from her first English foster mother, urging her to cherish friendship — advice that reads differently if you know, as Segal later wrote, that their relationship was fraught. Her father’s contribution, a drawing of a boy hiking in the mountains, echoes a story Segal drafted as a young woman about a prewar hike in the Alps with him. She revised that story at 90 and retitled it “Dandelion.” The New Yorker published it in 2019, 70 years after its first draft.
The exhibition is accompanied by a season of in-person and virtual programs, and Hanta has her own wish list of commemorative projects: She hopes that a park in Vienna where Segal played as a child might be renamed in her honor; that the exhibition might travel; that “Other People’s Houses” might be distributed free in Austria in 2028, the centenary of Segal’s birth and the 90th anniversary of the Kindertransport.
On opening night, before reading from “Other People’s Houses,” Kalem paused to apologize for the necessary cuts she made. “As you know, all her life, Lore was a master of meticulously crafting and scrupulously revising her work,” said Kalem. “So it feels like literary malfeasance on my part to attempt to edit a word of Lore’s story. It feels akin to cutting Shakespeare by shortening Hamlet’s soliloquy…. So Lore, I hope you understand and I hope you will forgive me.”
The exhibition also includes a video produced by Hanta and Segal’s grandson, Benny, which captures Segal late in life, still circling her subjects, still attentive to the elusiveness of truth. At the opening, Segal’s son Jacob spoke of his mother’s ambition and her modesty, her seriousness about art and her refusal to be undone by success or disappointment.
“She always made the world larger,” he said. “It’s smaller now.”
“And That’s True Too: The Life and Work of Lore Segal” runs through April 15 at the Center for Jewish History, 15 W. 16th St., New York, New York.
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