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US teen deported, Israeli rabbi wounded as tensions mount for Jewish activists in the West Bank
JERUSALEM — Having spent the night in an immigrant detention center in Ramle, Israel, Leila Stillman-Utterback, still handcuffed, began to daven shacharit, the morning prayers, as dawn broke.
“I think the police officers were very confused, because that was not the image of an activist that they had,” said the 18-year-old Vermont native.
Now, after being deported and banned by Israel for 10 years, she is unsure when she will be able to confuse people in Israel again.
In two separate incidents this past week, the right-wing Israeli government’s conflict with the Jewish left, both at home and abroad, reached new heights as American and Israeli Jews attempted to accompany Palestinians during their olive harvest in the West Bank. Harvesters have faced repeated restrictions by the Israeli military and a string of threats and attacks by local Israeli settlers.
In the first incident, Stillman-Utterback and another Jewish American were accused of violating the terms of their tourist visas and entering a closed military zone. The two were detained, deported and banned for 10 years from Israel.
Days later, armed Israeli settlers confronted a delegation of Jewish American activists. An Israeli dressed in partial military fatigues shot a live bullet into the air and a drone struck and injured a rabbi on the scene. The incident was caught on camera.
“These two incidents, one after another, are just evidence both of the danger of what’s happening, and that the Israeli government has made a decision that, rather than address the horrific violence by settlers, they’re going to … penalize American Jews who are here because they care about this land and the people who live here,” said Rabbi Jill Jacobs, the executive director of the progressive Jewish organization T’ruah, who was present at the second incident.
The clashes and deportations of American Jewish activists, most of whom with deep connections to their Jewish communities as well as Israel, left Jewish groups and those affected dismayed.
The rabbinical associations for the Reform, Conservative and Reconstructionist movements issued a joint statement saying they were “appalled by the attack on a group of rabbis, including members from all three of our organizations, by radical settlers” in the West Bank.
“We demand that the attackers be held accountable for their actions and that the Israeli government use its authority to end such provocations and attacks,” they said. An Israeli Reform rabbi and member of parliament, Gilad Kariv, plans to raise the issue in the Knesset.
This year has seen an uptick in Israeli and international activists providing a protective presence for Palestinians attempting to complete the all-important olive harvest, which is a cultural touchstone as well as an economic lifeline for rural Palestinians facing high unemployment.
Between Oct. 1 and Oct. 27, the UN’s Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs documented 126 olive harvest-related settler attacks against Palestinians resulting in casualties, property damage, or both, a record pace. In addition, Palestinian farmers have been consistently presented with closed military zone orders for up to 24 hours in the areas they wish to harvest.
A drove hovers overhead as Jewish volunteers participate in an olive harvest in the West Bank on Nov. 4, 2025. (Courtesy Jill Jacobs)
In mid-October, Israel detained and deported 32 foreign activists who were accompanying Palestinian harvesters near Burin.
Stillman-Utterback joined 10 other Jews — seven Israelis, and three other foreigners — on Oct. 29 as part of a solidarity harvest in Burin organized by Rabbis for Human Rights.
When she graduated from high school this past spring, Stillman-Utterback knew she wanted to spend a gap year in Israel. Stillman-Utterback’s mother is a rabbi, and she worked as a Hebrew school teacher while spending her summers at Eden Village, a Jewish summer camp in upstate New York. She was also on the Jewish Youth Climate Movement’s executive board in high school, and she was named a Bronfman Fellow, a cohort of high-achieving Jewish teens, two years ago.
“My anchors in my life and a lot of my communities that are really important to me are all Jewish,” Stillman-Utterback told JTA.
Having gone on multiple summer trips to Israel over the years, Stillman-Utterback spent the 2022-2023 school year living in Jerusalem with her family. She attended many of the pro-democracy protests outside the Knesset that year, calling them “inspiring.”
“I learned about Israel through the perspective of Jewish values like tikkun olam and b’tselem elohim,” she explained, using Hebrew terms meaning social action and the concept that all humans are created in God’s image. “That every human being is made in the image of Hashem, and that is how I was learning about and looking at the conflict.”
Along with the other woman deported by Israel, Stillman-Utterback had come to Israel this fall as a part of the Achvat Amim program, which is connected to the socialist Zionist youth group Hashomer Hatzair. The five-month volunteer program in Jerusalem focuses on “self-determination of all people.”
Israeli forces intervene against Palestinian farmers harvesting olives in the village of Sa’ir in Hebron, West Bank on Oct. 23, 2025. (Wisam Hashlamoun/FLASH90)
Stillman-Utterback joined half a dozen harvests before the one that led to her deportation.
Before the latest and last action, the activists were stopped by Israeli soldiers at a “flying checkpoint” at the entrance of the village of Burin. An organizer was handed a closed military zone order, prohibiting the group from entering the area. According to one of the volunteers, they decided to take another route to join the harvest in an area that they believed was not included in the order.
Shortly after arriving at the new area, organizers learned that their bus drivers had been detained by the Israeli military, with their keys confiscated. Upon hearing this, they decided to bring the group to the soldiers, according to one volunteer present. The volunteer asked for anonymity because Israeli authorities later demanded the activists sign a statement promising not to speak publicly about the incident.
After the activists were held for 90 minutes by the soldiers, Israeli police arrived and announced they were detaining the entire bus because the participants were aware they had entered a closed military zone. The volunteers were escorted to the police station in the Israeli settlement of Ariel. Those with Israeli citizenship or with visas other than a student or tourist visa were released shortly thereafter.
According to Michal Pomerantz, the lawyer for the deported women, Stillman-Utterback and another Jewish-American woman on tourist visas were brought to an immigration tribunal in Ramle. With the proceedings carried out in Hebrew, they were unaware that it was a deportation proceeding and that the man they were speaking to was a judge, according to Pomerantz.
Israeli authorities say the participants ignored the initial warning and were aware they were in a closed military zone. One of the other detained participants said the group believed they had moved to an area that was not under the order.
“The policeman asked [Stillman-Utterback], ‘Why didn’t you get off the bus?’” recounted Pomerantz. “I mean, it was an 18-year-old in the middle of the West Bank. She had no idea where she was.”
Palestinian farmers and foreign volunteers harvest olives near the Palestinian village of Silwad, northeast of Ramallah in the Israeli-occupied West Bank, on Oct. 29, 2025. (Zain Jaafar/AFP via Getty Images)
The head of Hashomer Hatzair wrote a letter to Israeli authorities vouching for the two women while asserting they were engaged in a Zionist program oriented around “coexistence.” Pomerantz says this plea didn’t make a difference to immigration officials. Neither did telling Israeli officials that they were Jewish.
Faced with either appealing the decision and spending the weekend in an immigration prison or accepting a flight out of Israel, both women accepted the offer to be flown out, leaving the country on Friday.
“They basically are getting deported over being in a closed military zone for a couple of minutes,” said Becca Strober, the executive director of Achvat Amim.
The deportation of foreign Jews engaged in solidarity activism with Palestinians is a relatively new phenomenon. Strober recalled one such action she and others took in 2016 in which they deliberately entered a declared closed military zone. In that case, while six Israeli activists were detained, the American citizens were left alone.
The closest example to the case in Burin is that of Leo Franks, a British Jew who arrived in Israel last year on a tourist visa with plans to immigrate. After being detained for pro-Palestinian activism work in the West Bank, Franks had his immigration application denied and was ordered to leave the country within seven days.
“For a state that claims to be a Jewish state for all Jews,” said Strober, “if you just show up one day and stand in support of Palestinians by doing something as basic as picking olives together, actually, then your Jewishness is irrelevant.”
Jewish and other groups organizing solidarity harvests this year complain that while there were previously mechanisms for coordinating harvests with the military, this year they are largely unable to do so.
Organizers for Rabbis for Human Rights say they have been presented with closed military zone orders the majority of the time they arrive at Palestinians’ olive groves. Pomerantz and a team of lawyers have been involved in an ongoing case with the Israeli Supreme Court for the last three years, claiming that military zone closures are being misused by the army for political instead of security purposes.
“Our ability to be protected by the army has really broken down,” said one of the other Jewish volunteers who was detained in Burin. “And especially with this Netanyahu-led coalition, we’re treated as traitors. We’re treated as suspects, as anarchists, as people coming with some kind of foreign agenda.
“But we affirm that we’re doing this for the sake of Israeli society, as much as we’re doing it for the liberation of Palestinians.”
In a joint statement made by the IDF and Israeli police after the incident, authorities said they had conducted an operation in Burin together with the Population and Immigration Authority after discovering activities by Israeli and foreign activists in the area that were “endangering public security and causing friction on the ground.” Subsequently, they worked to “locate and stop foreign elements involved in incitement and provocations which create disturbances of the public order.”
The statement went on to say that the two women had violated the terms of their tourist visas. Though at first promising to do so, a spokesperson for the IDF did not comment further to JTA.
Rabbi Jacobs said she organized a trip to the West Bank this year in response to the changing conditions on the ground.
“Settler violence has just gone up extraordinarily in the last couple of years during the war,” Jacobs told JTA. “When we’ve been watching it from afar, as many of our Israeli and Palestinian colleagues have been affected by it, it seemed appropriate that even if we can’t as Americans be here every day, that we would at least find a time for a group of us to be here.”
Working with Rabbis for Human Rights on the ground, Jacobs and eight other rabbis — several of whom had already flown to Israel to attend the World Zionist Congress — first went out picking olives in the Palestinian village of Battir before staying overnight with Palestinian shepherds in the Jordan Valley. Such shepherds report an onslaught of physical attacks by Israeli settlers while being mostly prevented by settlers and soldiers from grazing their flocks in lands now often located in military firing zones or nearby Israeli settlements or outposts.
On Tuesday, the group then went to fields near Deir Istiya to pick olives with local Palestinians, joining other solidarity activists, a few of whom wore markers of Jewish observance such as tzitzit and kippot. The local Palestinians had been unable to reach their olive groves this year due to restrictions from Israeli soldiers and local settlers. The rabbis and Palestinians managed to pick the olives for a short time as a drone buzzed overhead. At times the drone came close to the harvesters.
At one point, the drone swooped down and struck Rabbi Dana Sharon from Rabbis for Human Rights, leaving a deep gash on her shoulder.
Soon after, two armed Israelis arrived, dressed in partial military fatigues and claiming to be a part of the security coordinator team of the nearby settlement of Revava. “The drone is a property of the [settlement security guards]!” shouted the men. Though the drone was returned, shouting ensued, with one of the harvesters shouting back. One of the men then shot a live round in the air before retreating.
Soon after, Israeli soldiers in uniform approached the group of olive harvesters, saying they were told by the two armed Israelis that the group of rabbis and olive harvesters had taken their drone and attacked them. These soldiers relented when shown videos by the harvesters suggesting otherwise.
The shock of the encounter was palpable among the group of visiting American rabbis, who hailed from a combination of Reconstructionist, Reform and Conservative congregations. One stunned rabbi asked an Israeli working for Rabbis for Human Rights about the gunshot, “That was a blank, right?” It was not.
The men have not been identified but appear to reflect a blurring of the lines between settlers and soldiers in the West Bank.
In a statement to JTA, the IDF identified the men the group thought were armed settlers as soldiers.
“IDF soldiers operated a drone that hit harvesters,” the statement said. “The incident is under review.”
According to the IDF, the soldiers arrived “to collect the drone, during which they fired shots in the air.” The incident was “unusual” and ”included unprofessional behavior” by the soldiers, said the IDF, which said without offering specifics that “disciplinary action” would be taken.
According to Jacobs, different IDF soldiers in uniform were present from the beginning when the group began the harvest. By Jacobs’ account, these soldiers did nothing as the drone came closer and when the armed men confronted the group.
“I don’t think this [incident] is unusual, though,” she said. “Settlers in IDF uniforms harass Palestinians every day and sometimes wound and kill them. What was unusual was that this group included American and Israeli rabbis, which is likely the reason the IDF is responding at all [to requests for comment].”
Rabbi Sarah Reines, of Temple Emanu-El in New York, looks back on her three-day trip in the West Bank heartened by the Palestinian communities she visited and committed to continued solidarity.
Reines praised “these people’s resilience and their ability to discern the difference between Israelis who threaten them and cause them harm, those who are neutral, and those who are friends.”
She added, “The rising danger only increases my resolve to represent the highest Jewish values of respect, lovingkindness, peace and preservation of life in the land Jews call home.”
In the case of Stillman-Utterback, her deportation and banning left her with “a sense of betrayal,” one that she is now processing from back in the United States.
“It sent me the message that, despite being Jewish in a state that was created for Jews, I’m not the right kind of Jew, or maybe not even Jewish at all, in the eyes of the state and the army and the police,” said Stillman-Utterback.
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The post US teen deported, Israeli rabbi wounded as tensions mount for Jewish activists in the West Bank appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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In the face of conflict over assimilation, appropriation, colonialism and hegemony, a plea for human dignity through dance
Some movies cut so close to home that they make it impossible to have an objective response. When I was watching Tatyana Tenenbaum’s debut feature documentary Everything You Have Is Yours, the moment of truth hit about halfway through.
The film’s protagonist, dancer and choreographer Hadar Ahuvia, is rehearsing in an empty studio, talking about doing her homework at the Jewish Community Center in Hawaii as a child, while her mother taught Israeli folk dance classes in another room. She’d only stop when she heard a favorite song.
“I’d rush out,” Ahuvia says in voiceover “to join a dance or two with women my mother’s age, tucking into their palms for ‘Mah Navu.”
I leaped up because I suddenly remembered dancing with my own Israeli mother, at a New Jersey JCC in the 80s, my small hand tucked into her palm, as we moved softly in a circle with American Jews, to the opening notes of “Mah Navu.” My middle-aged legs were convinced that they still knew what to do. They didn’t, and I slammed into the coffee table, leaving angry bruises on both shins that still refuse to heal.
It’s a little on-the-nose, but so is life:
Like Ahuvia, I’m the daughter of kibbutzniks who moved to the U.S. and raised me here, and I loved the old dances. Like Ahuvia, I knew very little then about the history of how they’d come into being. I only knew they belonged to us, just as Israel belonged to us. And like Ahuvia, I come from a family full of conflict over the war. We throw words at each other: genocide, terrorists, resistance, safety, peace, justice. We wield facts and figures as weapons, we challenge each other’s sources. We demand empathy while offering none; we yell, we sulk, we storm out of group chats, and then collapse into that most un-Jewish of compromises: silences that sometimes last weeks. And this is just with my parents. Don’t even get me started on the uncles.
Despite all our best and worst efforts, we never change each other’s minds.
But perhaps that’s the trouble. And part of what makes Everything You Have is Yours such a necessary offering. Tatyana Tenenbaum and Hadar Ahuvia, both of them dance artists, are interested in the body, not the mind. Over the course of seven years, Tenenbaum films Ahuvia’s trips from New York to Poland to Palestine and to her mother’s kibbutz in Israel — everywhere that Ahuvia can, in her own words, “exercise my freedom of movement,” in pursuit of her troubled, troubling lineage.
Tenenbaum’s camera dances with Ahuvia as she wrestles with the folk traditions on which she was raised. The film’s title is taken from one of Ahuvia’s own works in which she and her collaborators demonstrate and re-enact the ways in which early Israeli folk dances appropriated, assimilated, and finally claimed ownership of Palestinian and Jewish Arab traditions.
Everything You Have Is Yours is not a screed or polemic but rather a gorgeous, engrossing portrait of committed dancers — Israeli, Ashkenazi, Sephardi, Mizrahi, American and Palestinian — as they, like Ahuvia, claim their own “freedom of movement” within the shackles that bind past and present. And while Ahuvia’s performances draw from her specific identity and heritage — as her collaborators draw from theirs — her questions are universal: How does history live in our bones? What do we lose, and what do we gain, when we challenge the myths of our childhood? How do we carry the violence inflicted on us and the violence we inflict on others? And where do we go from here?
Ahuvia and Tenenbaum talked to me over Zoom about the film’s long journey to the screen, the impact of the past two years on their relationships and work, and why such a critically well-received project has yet to find a distributor.
I told them I’d connected with the film. I didn’t tell them it was the first movie I’ve seen about Israel that I could imagine watching with my own mother, across our differences, my palm tucked once more in hers.
When I first reached out to you for this interview, Tatyana, you expressed a very strong conviction that you and Hadar needed to be in the conversation together.
Tatyana Tenenbaum: Hadar and I are both dance artists, and that’s how we met, so the movie grew out of a horizontal friendship. Before I proposed to Hadar that we document her process, we had already worked together as performers.
Also, the themes we’ve explored are related: I’m not Israeli, but I do have Ashkenazi Jewish lineage, so for me this project was also a reflection of what it means as an American to have assimilated into a national project and into empire.
You shot and edited over seven years. What kinds of conversations did you need to have as you were working out accountability over the long haul, both to each other and to the other dancers on camera?
TT: So many! I’m a process-based artist and I had never made a film before, and at first I thought it would just be a 10-minute short. And then 15, and then 20, and it kept evolving. Hadar and I had a lot of catch-up work to do around consent. This is personal work and her relationships with her family are very tender. Ultimately the process mattered, not only because of the political ideas Hadar is grappling with and her beautiful artistry, but also her vulnerability.
Was it a shared editing process?
Hadar Ahuvia: No, I am really glad this is Tatyana’s film. I don’t think it would be an interesting thing to see a documentary that I made about myself.
The film has been very well received by audiences and critics, but there has been some struggle getting distribution and getting it shown, particularly by Jewish festivals. What do you think is happening there?
TT: Our struggles with distribution aren’t unique. Films that are critical of Zionism are not films that distributors want to take a risk on. There are exceptions: The Jewish Film Institute, for example, presented the movie in San Francisco for Winterfest, and they made a beautiful panel as the centerpiece of the weekend about it, which was lovely.
Because we were on their roster, all the Jewish festivals then solicited the film. But none of them programmed it. I think it’s worth saying, and worth naming that. It’s a missed opportunity.
HA: And we invite them to reconsider.
While the film has a point of view, it also features Israeli and American dancers rehearsing and performing together while navigating political disagreement. That diversity of thought feels both satisfying and precarious. How have the past two years of fracture, both between and amongst Israeli and American Jews, impacted these dancers and your relationships with them?
TT: It’s been hard. But we’re still in relationship with everyone in the film.
HA: We knew right from the start that we didn’t all sit in the same place politically. Even if we disagree about the exact makeup of what political futures should look like, we believe in the humanity and dignity of all people. And I think that continues to be true for everybody who participated, which enables us to continue to be in relationship.
On the other hand, while the Palestinian-Americans in Freedom Dabka Group are featured prominently, they only appear in parallel. There’s never an intersection, or a moment of seeing the two sets of dancers come together.
HA: It would have been superficial to try to invite Palestinians into my work. That wouldn’t change the power dynamics of it still being my work, and my authorship. Also, the politics in the real world are such that this kind of collaboration in my work about Israeli dance didn’t feel possible. It would have been superficial for me to rush to solutions.
I even thought about putting videos of Palestinians in different pieces, and that didn’t feel right either, because it wouldn’t give them the agency of representing themselves. And so what I decided to do instead was to “notice the absence.” The absence of relationship with Palestinians comes from the way that apartheid in the State is actualized in my body.
There’s a particularly arresting scene featuring Hadar’s on-stage breakdown of how early Israeli folk dances altered and absorbed Yemeni Jewish steps, and how this represents a “de-Arabization” of the form. Then there is a similar process through which Palestinian dabka becomes Israeli debka. When asked about it on camera, Amer Abdelrasoul of the Freedom Dabka Group says “I don’t know about Israeli Debka, and I don’t wanna see it. Because I’m gonna get pissed.”
TT: Amer didn’t explicitly know about those Israeli dances. At the same time, he wasn’t surprised about them, because they reminded him of other cultural appropriations. That moment creates a visceral response in audiences, but I thought it was a great answer: direct, clear and honest.
I can imagine a critique from the left that within the context of what Palestinians are currently experiencing in Gaza, the occupied territories and elsewhere, art that focuses on Israeli perspectives — even critically — might be problematic. How would you respond to that?
HA: I think it’s important for us to do this work, so that Palestinians don’t have to. As Jews, it’s our responsibility to speak to our people.
How would you respond to the other side, to those who might feel that the critiques embedded in this film harm Jewish safety, and delegitimize Israeli experience?
HA: We really center Israelis. We humanize Israelis and show our diversity. And that itself could actually be critiqued from the Left. But from the Right, what I’ve heard most is, well, cultural exchange is good, isn’t it? Even some of the dancers you see in the movies disagree with my critique of the cultural appropriation in these dances.
I think that cultural exchange is great too. But, again, this is about power dynamics. For example when I see Christian Zionists appropriating Jewish culture — as we see them do with my mother’s dancing in the film’s archival footage — it makes the dangers really clear to me.
TT: The largest Zionist voting bloc in the U.S. are evangelical Christian Zionists. It’s a fact that is often obscured politically, and I actually learned it from Hadar. We hope that the film also gives audiences a tangible experience with the way that, under Christian hegemony, there are people claiming to support us but who do not actually care about Jews.
When you ask the dancer and choreographer Ze’eva Cohen about her identity, she says that the answer to the question of where you come from lies not in your citizenship but in your heritage. What heritages do you invoke in this film?
TT: I am going to say… Somatic abolitionism.
HA: And especially the work of Resmaa Menakem.
I was expecting the answer to be Poland, or Eastern Europe.
TT: Hadar and I share an education in postmodern dance, and we share the idea of being with the body on the level of sensation and function and integration. This is where Menakem has been so important for our dance field. The need for reintegration only emerges because of colonialism. Without colonialism, we wouldn’t need to reintegrate: Our bodies would just be there.
This brings us back to Ze’eva Cohen saying that in Yemeni Jewish culture “if you didn’t dance, if you didn’t sing…you didn’t believe in God, unless it was embodied.”
HA: Dance continues to be a way that I process grief and anger. I’ve been researching Ashkenazi culture, and especially Ashkenazi vernacular and cantorial music, reclaiming this long chain of transmission.
As I’ve been dancing, I’ve been active with Rabbis for Ceasefire, and I’m also in rabbinical school. So, davening and prayer has been another way that I feel I stay connected to being Jewish — to being deeply rooted, while also holding what’s happening in the world, and ultimately being able to envision what else is possible.
Mor Mandel, an Israeli collaborator and dancer featured in the film, says of leaving Israel: “I left the ship sinking, but I still dream in Hebrew.” Hadar, are you still able to dance in Hebrew?
HA: In my research around Yiddish dance, I’ve discovered that there exists a beautiful sense of pride in each dance. I’ve reconnected to Jewish strength through that posture rather than through Zionism. So no, I no longer dance Israeli folk dance for fun.
Except that it felt meaningful to me at my wedding to do “El Ginat Egoz,” a dance by Sarah Levi Tanai, with my mom. It felt like a gesture that acknowledges our shared language. Context matters, right? So I don’t do these dances on the fields of the kibbutz, but it felt right to me to do them at my wedding, with my mom. It felt good to acknowledge this particular dance that…
TT: …that she loves.
HA: Yes, exactly. That she loves.
Everything You Have Is Yours screens on March 5 and 8 at the Laemmle Theater in Los Angeles. Information on further screenings is available on the film’s website.
The post In the face of conflict over assimilation, appropriation, colonialism and hegemony, a plea for human dignity through dance appeared first on The Forward.
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Britain Sends Destroyer and Helicopters With Counter-Drone Tech to Cyprus
Entrance to the RAF Akrotiri, a British sovereign base in Cyprus, which was hit by an unmanned drone overnight, causing limited damage, after sirens sounded, in Cyprus, March 2, 2026. Photo: REUTERS/Yiannis Kourtoglou
Britain is deploying HMS Dragon, an air defense destroyer, to Cyprus after the runway of its Akrotiri base there was hit by an Iranian-made drone.
Prime Minister Keir Starmer said on Tuesday he was sending the naval vessel along with helicopters with counter–drone capabilities to the region, as the conflict in the Middle East intensifies.
France and Greece said they would also send anti-missile and anti-drone systems after the British base on the island was hit on Monday.
“The UK is fully committed to the security of Cyprus and British military personnel based there,” Starmer said in a post on X, adding that he had spoken with Cypriot President Nikos Christodoulides about the move.
“We’re continuing our defensive operations and I’ve just spoken with the President of Cyprus to let him know that we are sending helicopters with counter drone capabilities and HMS Dragon is to be deployed to the region,” the British prime minister said.
HMS Dragon is a Type 45 air-defense destroyer equipped with the Sea Viper missile system and advanced radar designed to track and neutralize airborne threats, according to the Royal Navy’s website.
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Trump Awards Medal of Honor to ‘Righteous Among the Nations’ World War II Soldier With ‘Unsurpassed Courage’
US President Donald Trump speaks during a visit at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, US, Feb. 13, 2026. Photo: REUTERS/Elizabeth Frantz
President Donald Trump bestowed the Medal of Honor to three former US Army soldiers on Monday at a White House ceremony and they included a World War II veteran who was recognized by Yad Vashem as “Righteous Among the Nations.”
Trump posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor to Master Sgt. Roderick (Roddie) W. Edmonds, who refused to single out the Jewish servicemen he fought alongside when he was held by Germans in a prisoner-of-war (POW) camp during World War II. The president said the three US soldiers receiving the Medal of Honor — only one of whom is still living – demonstrated “unsurpassed courage.”
In 1941, Edmonds enlisted in the US Army and soon became one of the youngest master sergeants in the military, Trump said. The native of South Knoxville, Tennessee, led a unit that fought in Europe during World War II and they were captured by German forces on Dec. 19, 1944. Edmonds was held with other American POWS, including Jews, at Stalag IX-B in Bad Orb, Germany. Germans tried to separate Jewish POWs and many of them were sent to Nazi extermination camps or killed. Edmonds was in charge of the American barracks in Stalag IXA, according to the US Army, but refused to help single out Jewish POWs.
“On July 26, 1945, a Nazi SS officer issued an order over the camp loudspeaker, loud and strong, he said that only American Jews were to show up to roll call. Following this morning, he added ‘all who disobey this order will be shot immediately,’” Trump explained at the Medal of Honor ceremony. “There were more than 200 Jewish American soldiers in the camp, and Roddie knew their separation from the group would mean certain death. So that night he summoned his team and devised a plan. The next morning, all 1,200 American men fell in line together, shoulder to shoulder.”
“Enraged, the Nazi commandant rushed forward, drew his Luger pistol, and pressed the barrel between Sgt. Edmond’s eyes,” the president added. “He barked at Roddie, ‘They cannot all be Jews!’ He screamed loud and again and again. And, staring straight back into the raging face of evil, Sgt. Edmonds replied fearlessly, ‘We are all Jews here.’ The Nazi officer lowered his weapon and the soldiers erupted in cheers.”
The president noted that “with total disregard for his own life, Roddie had saved over 200 of his fellow service members.” Stalag IXA was liberated two months later.
Edmonds died on Aug. 8, 1985, in Knoxville. His son, Chris, accepted his Medal of Honor on Monday at the White House ceremony. Trump also posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor to Staff Sgt. Michael H. Ollis and Command Sergeant Major Terry P. Richardson.
Yad Vashem recognized Edmonds as Righteous Among the Nations in 2015. A year later, a ceremony was held at the Israeli embassy in Washington, DC, and the Righteous medal and certificate of honor was presented to Edmond’s son.