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Embracing their place on ‘the fringes,’ queer artists reimagine Jewish ritual garments for all bodies
(JTA) — Binya Kóatz remembers the first time she saw a woman wearing tzitzit. While attending Friday night services at a Jewish Renewal synagogue in Berkeley, she noticed the long ritual fringes worn by some observant Jews — historically men — dangling below a friend’s short shorts.
“That was the first time I really realized how feminine just having tassels dangling off you can look and be,” recalled Kóatz, an artist and activist based in the Bay Area. “That is both deeply reverent and irreverent all at once, and there’s a deep holiness of what’s happening here.”
Since that moment about seven years ago, Kóatz has been inspired to wear tzitzit every day. But she has been less inspired by the offerings available in online and brick-and-mortar Judaica shops, where the fringes are typically attached to shapeless white tunics meant to be worn under men’s clothing.
So in 2022, when she was asked to test new prototypes for the Tzitzit Project, an art initiative to create tzitzit and their associated garment for a variety of bodies, genders and religious denominations, Kóatz jumped at the chance. The project’s first products went on sale last month.
“This is a beautiful example of queers making stuff for ourselves,” Kóatz said. “I think it’s amazing that queers are making halachically sound garments that are also ones that we want to wear and that align with our culture and style and vibrancy.”
Jewish law, or halacha, requires that people who wear four-cornered garments — say, a tunic worn by an ancient shepherd — must attach fringes to each corner. The commandment is biblical: “Speak to the Israelite people and instruct them to make for themselves fringes on the corners of their garments throughout the ages” (Numbers 15:37-41) When garments that lack corners came into fashion, many Jews responded by using tzitzit only when wearing a tallit, or prayer shawl, which has four corners.
But more observant Jews adopted the practice of wearing an additional four-cornered garment for the sole purpose of fulfilling the commandment to tie fringes to one’s clothes. Called a tallit katan, or small prayer shawl, the garment is designed to be worn under one’s clothes and can be purchased at Judaica stores or online for less than $15. The fringes represent the 613 commandments of the Torah, and it is customary to hold them and kiss them at certain points while reciting the Shema prayer.
“They just remind me of my obligations, my mitzvot, and my inherent holiness,” Kóatz said. “That’s the point, you see your tzitzit and you remember everything that it means — all the obligations and beauty of being a Jew in this world.”
The California-based artists behind the Tzitzit Project had a hunch that the ritual garment could appeal to a more diverse set of observant Jews than the Orthodox men to whom the mass-produced options are marketed. Julie Weitz and Jill Spector had previously collaborated on the costumes for Weitz’s 2019 “My Golem” performance art project that uses the mythical Jewish creature to explore contemporary issues. In one installment of the project focused on nature, “Prayer for Burnt Forests,” Weitz’s character ties a tallit katan around a fallen tree and wraps the tzitzit around its branches.
“I was so moved by how that garment transformed my performance,” Weitz said, adding that she wanted to find more ways to incorporate the garment into her life.
The Tzitzit Project joins other initiatives meant to explore and expand the use of tzitzit. A 2020 podcast called Fringes featured interviews with a dozen trans and gender non-conforming Jews about their experiences with Jewish ritual garments. (Kóatz was a guest.) Meanwhile, an online store, Netzitzot, has since 2014 sold tzitzit designed for women’s bodies, made from modified H&M undershirts.
The Tzitzit Project goes further and sells complete garments that take into account the feedback of testers including Kóatz — in three colors and two lengths, full and cropped, as well as other customization options related to a wearer’s style and religious practices. (The garments cost $100, but a sliding scale for people with financial constraints can bring the price as far down as $36.)
Spector and Weitz found that the trial users were especially excited by the idea that the tzitzit could be available in bright colors, and loved how soft the fabric felt on their bodies, compared to how itchy and ill-fitting they found traditional ones to be. They also liked that each garment could be worn under other clothing or as a more daring top on its own.
To Weitz, those attributes are essential to her goal of “queering” tzitzit.
“Queering something also has to do with an embrace of how you wear things and how you move your body in space and being proud of that and not carrying any shame around that,” she said. “And I think that that stylization is really distinct. All those gender-conventional tzitzit for men — they’re not about style, they’re not about reimagining how you can move your body.”
Artist Julie Weitz ties the knots of the tzitzit, fringes attached to the corners of a prayer shawl or the everyday garment known as a “tallit katan.” (Courtesy of Tzitzit Project)
For Chelsea Mandell, a rabbinical student at the Academy of Jewish Religion in Los Angeles who is nonbinary, the Tzitzit Project is creating Jewish ritual objects of great power.
“It deepens the meaning and it just feels more radically spiritual to me, when it’s handmade by somebody I’ve met, aimed for somebody like me,” said Mandell, who was a product tester.
Whether the garments meet the requirements of Jewish law is a separate issue. Traditional interpretations of the law hold that the string must have been made specifically for tzitzit, for example — but it’s not clear on the project’s website whether the string it uses was sourced that way. (The project’s Instagram page indicates that the wool is spun by a Jewish fiber artist who is also the brother of the alt-rocker Beck.)
“It is not obvious from their website which options are halachically valid and which options are not,” said Avigayil Halpern, a rabbinical student who began wearing tzitzit and tefillin at her Modern Orthodox high school in 2013 when she was 16 and now is seen as a leader in the movement to widen their use.
“And I think it’s important that queer people in particular have as much access to knowledge about Torah and mitzvot as they’re embracing mitzvot.”
Weitz explained that there are multiple options for the strings — Tencel, cotton or hand-spun wool — depending on what customers prefer, for their comfort and for their observance preferences.
“It comes down to interpretation,” she said. “For some, tzitzit tied with string not made for the purpose of tying, but with the prayer said, is kosher enough. For others, the wool spun for the purpose of tying is important.”
Despite her concerns about its handling of Jewish law, Halpern said she saw the appeal of the Tzitzit Project, with which she has not been involved.
“For me and for a lot of other queer people, wearing something that is typically associated with Jewish masculinity — it has a gender element,” explained Halpern, a fourth-year student at Hadar, the egalitarian yeshiva in New York.
“If you take it out of the Jewish framework, there is something very femme and glamorous and kind of fun in the ways that dressing up and wearing things that are twirly is just really joyful for a lot of people,” she said.
Rachel Schwartz first became drawn to tzitzit while studying at the Conservative Yeshiva in Jerusalem in 2018. There, young men who were engaging more intensively with Jewish law and tradition than they had in the past began to adopt the garments, and Schwartz found herself wondering why she had embraced egalitarian religious practices in all ways but this one.
“One night, I took one of my tank tops and I cut it up halfway to make the square that it needed. I found some cool bandanas at a store and I sewed on corners,” Schwartz recalled. “And I bought the tzitzit at one of those shops on Ben Yehuda and I just did it and it was awesome.”
Rachel Schwartz stands in front of a piece of graffiti that plays on the commandment to wear tzitzit, written in the Hebrew feminine. (Courtesy of Rachel Schwartz)
Schwartz’s experience encapsulates both the promise and the potential peril of donning tzitzit for people from groups that historically have not worn the fringes. Other women at the Conservative Yeshiva were so interested in her tzitzit that she ran a workshop where she taught them how to make the undergarment. But she drew so many critical comments from men on the streets of Jerusalem that she ultimately gave up wearing tzitzit publicly.
“I couldn’t just keep on walking around like that anymore. I was tired of the comments,” Schwartz said. “I couldn’t handle it anymore.”
Rachel Davidson, a Reconstructionist rabbi working as a chaplain in health care in Ohio, started consistently wearing a tallit katan in her mid-20s. Like Kóatz, she ordered her first one from Netzitzot.
“I would love to see a world where tallitot katanot that are shaped for non cis-male bodies are freely available and are affordable,” Davidson said. “I just think it’s such a beautiful mitzvah. I would love it if more people engaged with it.”
Kóatz believes that’s not only possible but natural. As a trans woman, she said she is drawn to tzitzit in part because of the way they bring Jewish tradition into contact with contemporary ideas about gender.
“Queers are always called ‘fringe,’” she said. “And here you have a garment which is literally like ‘kiss the fringes.’ The fringes are holy.”
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The post Embracing their place on ‘the fringes,’ queer artists reimagine Jewish ritual garments for all bodies appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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A Palestinian and an Israeli bereaved in violence make the case for peace
Aziz Abu Sarah and Maoz Inon have a message that can sound utterly preposterous as violence hardens as the main mode of communication between Israelis and Palestinians: The Future Is Peace, the title of their new book.
They are dead serious — and bring their own grief and healing to the cause.
On October 7, 2023, Inon’s parents, Bilha and Yakovi, were killed by Hamas terrorists in their home in Netiv Haasara near the border with Gaza. Decades earlier, Abu Sarah’s brother, Tayseer, was killed by Israeli forces following a year-long detention for alleged stone throwing.
You might recognize Abu Sarah and Inon from the winter Olympics, where the world watched as they carried the torch together—the first Israeli and Palestinian duo to ever do so — or from photos of them embracing the Pope, a picture of brotherhood.
Their book takes readers on an eight-day journey through the region, from the streets of East Jerusalem, where Abu Sarah grew up, to the farmland in the kibbutz that Inon’s father tilled. Along the way, they meet other bereaved families and friends who have been touched by the conflict. They found that the resistance to engaging with the other side’s narrative came from a fear of erasing one’s own.
Agreement, they concurred during an interview in Manhattan, is not a prerequisite. “I think what we bring in the future is peace is that we show first you don’t have to agree on everything. It doesn’t matter if you are pro-Israel, pro-Palestine, there will be things you will disagree with, there will be language you will not be happy with, there will be things that you think we got wrong,” said Abu Sarah.
For them, non-consensus is the beauty of the book — and their relationship with one another. “Relationships which have no disagreement, by the way, are boring,” he added. “We often quote Pope Francis, who said, ‘The only place that has no disagreement is a cemetery.”
Inon suggests the skeptical reaction to peacemaking is a coping mechanism. “You’re protecting yourself from wanting to believe. You think no one knows how to take you there.” He added, “We talk along the journey about the importance of dreaming. What we realized is that when you don’t dream, the others, the extremists, are dreaming for us, and then their dream is our nightmare.”
Parallel paths to peace
Abu Sarah’s experience living under the occupation and growing up in the West Bank led him to pursue anti-Israel activism.
At age 10, he watched his “protector,” the sibling he shared a bed with each night, succumb to his wounds from injuries sustained during his time in an Israeli prison. “All I knew was that someone had killed my brother, and I wanted to hit back,” he says in the book.
Following his death, and during the years spent living under occupation, Abu Sarah sought revenge. Eventually, when he realized it would be difficult to get a job without speaking Hebrew, he enrolled in a Hebrew language class — the first time he had ever met an Israeli who was not a soldier at a checkpoint.
As he began connecting with his teacher and classmates, he slowly let down his guard. Getting to know Israelis beyond the context of occupation gave him a new perspective and sparked his interest in peacebuilding. Eventually, he founded Mejdi Tours, leading dual-narrative trips across Israel with a Jewish counterpart, explaining landmarks through the lens of their respective communities.
Inon made his own journey to connecting across the divide, starting long before Oct. 7. As so many young Israelis do, he and his wife, Shlomit, had traveled the world after their army service. He realized that he had developed friendships with people in far-flung countries but hadn’t managed to make a single Palestinian friend back home.
Passionate about tourism as a means of connection, Inon decided to open a guesthouse in Nazareth, the largest Arab city in Israel. When he first came to Nazareth, many were skeptical of him. “There were many rumors that I was a Mossad agent, or Shin Bet, even worse,” said Inon. Over time, he began to build relationships and trust in the Palestinian community.
The murder of his parents could have been the end of his mission. Instead, Inon recommitted himself to it. Just days after Oct. 7, Inon and his siblings publicly stated that they did not seek revenge against the Palestinian people for the atrocities committed that day. He even hosted a memorial service in Nazareth so that his Palestinian friends living in the city could attend.
While they had lived somewhat parallel lives, with both men working in the travel industry as a means for peace, Inon and Abu Sarah met only once, several years before Oct.r 7.
After Abu Sarah learned of the death of Inon’s parents, he decided to reach out. Inon’s immediate empathy was striking to Abu Sarah, for whom forgiveness of the other side took years. A friendship and partnership began. “I lost my parents on Oct. 7, but I gained Aziz as a brother,” said Inon.
I asked them what moments of tension have been like in their relationship. Inon said the two have managed to find common ground over shared values. But for a long time, he struggled to get on board with the value of justice, which is a priority for Abu Sarah.
“I kept telling Aziz, I don’t know how to bring justice to Tayseer or my parents. I remember President Biden saying that when Israel assassinated Nasrallah, justice was being done. But with the same bomb, 300 civilians were killed. So will it now be legitimate for them to avenge the death of … their innocent loved ones?”
Eventually, after discussions with religious leaders, Inon came around to embracing the idea of justice. He discovered that of the 613 mitzvot in Judaism, the only two that are mandated are justice and peace. “After learning that, I said Aziz, from now on, I can have justice within the values that I believe.”
Another disagreement they’ve faced: Abu Sarah’s love for country music — Inon can’t stand it.
A different kind of solution
Inon and Abu Sarah can seem almost radical in their commitment to dialogue. To some, their approach may feel detached from reality. They know that most Israelis and Palestinians do not think the way they do. But to them, the belief that violence is inevitable is far more difficult to accept.
“Loss, instead of making us want to walk away, makes us more convinced that this is the only path, “ said Abu Sarah. “Really, if we give up, then what we should do is go get a gun and shoot at each other. Because what’s the alternative? You either believe we can solve this by sitting and working it out, or you believe we have to kill each other, and we refuse to believe that alternative.”
Notably, only one page of the book is devoted to discussing a solution to the conflict in the literal sense. “Here are shelves of practical solutions, chapter after chapter about borders, about water resources, about Jerusalem, about refugees, about security arrangements,” said Inon, laughing about the Israel-Palestine section that has become a fixture of many bookstores following the Gaza war. For them, the book is less about prescribing a specific political outcome and more about laying the emotional groundwork needed to get there.
Abu Sarah and Inon did not want to close themselves off by endorsing a single political solution. “We don’t want to be in a box,” Inon said, explaining that neither of them feels strongly tied to one specific outcome.
“Our values are human dignity, security and safety for everyone, recognition of everyone … People want to argue with us, two states, one state, three states, monarchy. That’s less the issue. If that agreement is based on those values,” said Abu Sarah. “Then we’ll be fine, regardless of the political ‘blah, blah, blah,’ if it’s not, you can have the nicest drawn map, and it will fail.”
Mocking the peacemaker
While both men had been engaged in peace work long before Oct. 7, that day and the war in Gaza that followed changed the landscape. Colleagues and friends told them they could no longer find it in themselves to care about the suffering of the other side.
“Palestinian friends would say … this happened because of what they’ve been doing to us … Then I would talk to Jewish friends who would tell me, ‘I used to sympathize with you Palestinians, but from now on, I just don’t care,’” Abu Sarah said. “The moment you do that, part of your humanity dies. I prefer to have the pain of feeling than to kill that part of me that maybe makes it easier.”
Abu Sarah said that when he tells people he is a peacemaker, they are incredulous. “They go, Oh, well, how is that going? Like in a mocking way.” He compared it to those working to find a cure for cancer. “If you’ve met a cancer researcher who’s trying to develop vaccines… you would respond to someone who is trying to make vaccines, saying, ‘God bless you.’”
“Peace has been done many times. A cancer vaccine has not,” he remarked, laughing.
Inon recalled a memory of his father shared during his parents’ shiva. Every night, his siblings sat around the table listening to him — the manager of the kibbutz’s farm — talk about his day.
“He would share the catastrophe in the fields,” Inon said. “The floods, the drought, the wildfire, the insects. Every day there was something new.”
But he always had faith in next year’s crop.
“He would say that next year, he will sow again. It doesn’t matter how devastating this season is,” he continued. “He will learn from his mistakes. He will consult with other farmers … and next season, he will sow again — not with prayers, not just believing, but knowing that next year will be better.”
The post A Palestinian and an Israeli bereaved in violence make the case for peace appeared first on The Forward.
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French Appeals Court Rejects Antisemitism Charge in Case of Nanny Who Poisoned Jewish Family
Tens of thousands of French people march in Paris to protest against antisemitism. Photo: Screenshot
A French appeals court has acquitted a nanny of antisemitism charges after she was sentenced for poisoning the food of the Jewish family she worked for, in what appears to be yet another instance of France’s legal system brushing aside antisemitism as a potential motive for crime.
On Wednesday, the Versailles Court of Appeal, located just southwest of Paris, upheld the nanny’s previous conviction but again rejected the aggravating circumstance of antisemitism, after prosecutors appealed a criminal court ruling that had acquitted the family’s nanny of antisemitism-aggravated charges after she poisoned their food and drinks.
Last year, the 42-year-old Algerian woman was sentenced to two and a half years in prison for “administering a harmful substance that caused incapacitation for more than eight days.”
Residing illegally in France, the nanny had worked as a live-in caregiver for the family and their three children — aged two, five, and seven — since November 2023.
During the first trial, a French court declined to uphold any antisemitism charges against the defendant, given that her incriminating statements were made several weeks after the incident and were recorded by a police officer without a lawyer present.
Now, the Versailles Court of Appeal ruled in its latest decision that the nanny’s remarks do not even constitute antisemitic statements.
The family’s lawyer announced plans to appeal the decision again, arguing that the repeated rejection of the antisemitism-aggravating circumstance overlooks the seriousness of the case and its legal characterization.
“This decision makes the judicial prosecution of antisemitism impossible and reduces protective laws to nothing more than empty words,” they said during a press conference. “Faced with rulings like this, those seeking justice risk losing all faith in the judicial system and any sense of protection it is meant to provide.”
The nanny, who has been living in France in violation of a deportation order issued in February 2024, was also convicted of using a forged document — a Belgian national identity card — and barred from entering France for five years.
The shocking incident occurred in January 2024, just two months after the caregiver was hired, when the mother discovered cleaning products in the wine she drank and suffered severe eye pain from using makeup remover contaminated with a toxic substance, prompting her to call the police.
After a series of forensic tests, investigators detected polyethylene glycol — a chemical commonly used in industrial and pharmaceutical products — along with other toxic substances in the food consumed by the family and their three children.
According to court documents, these chemicals were described as “harmful, even corrosive, and capable of causing serious injuries to the digestive tract.”
Even though the nanny initially denied the charges against her, she later confessed to police that she had poured a soapy lotion into the family’s food as a warning because “they were disrespecting her.”
“They have money and power, so I should never have worked for a Jewish woman — it only brought me trouble,” the nanny told the police. “I knew I could hurt them, but not enough to kill them.”
According to her lawyer, the nanny later withdrew her confession, arguing that jealousy and a perceived financial grievance were the main factors behind the attack.
At trial, the defendant described her statements as “hateful” but denied that her actions were driven by racism or antisemitism.
Yonathan Arfi, president of the Representative Council of Jewish Institutions of France (CRIF) — the main representative body of French Jews — strongly condemned the court’s latest ruling, saying it sends a troubling message and deepens concerns over how antisemitism cases are being assessed by the justice system.
“How is it possible not to see antisemitism when it is expressed so clearly, through explicit antisemitic prejudice? This incomprehensible decision calls into question the willful blindness in French society toward antisemitism when it appears as a backdrop to cases without being the sole element,” Arfi wrote in a post on X.
“Are there contexts that make antisemitic remarks acceptable to the point that the justice system refuses to see them? This legitimization of antisemitism is another step in its tragic normalization since October 7,” he continued, referring to the historic surge in antisemitic incidents following Hamas’s invasion of Israel in 2023.
“Parce qu’ils ont l’argent et le pouvoir, j’aurais jamais dû travailler pour une juive, elle n’a fait que m’apporter des problèmes”
Comment est-ce possible de ne pas voir l’antisémitisme quand il est exprimé aussi clairement, au travers de préjugés antisémites explicites ?… https://t.co/K2enyTW8Qz pic.twitter.com/kx3gCFjxTv
— Yonathan Arfi (@Yonathan_Arfi) April 15, 2026
This latest case is by no means the first in France to raise alarm bells among the Jewish community, as courts have repeatedly overturned or reduced sentences for individuals accused of antisemitic crimes, fueling public outrage over what many see as excessive leniency.
On Wednesday, the lawyers for the family of Sarah Halimi announced they have filed a request with the Paris Court of Appeal to reopen the investigation into her death nearly a decade ago, after she was brutally beaten and thrown from a third-floor window.
According to the defense, new evidence regarding the accused Kobili Traore calls into question the original ruling that found him not criminally responsible.
Among the evidence cited are alleged crack cocaine use prior to the incident, indications of premeditation, and an audio recording taken at the moment of the victim’s fall, which they claim reflects Traore’s “political and antisemitic awareness.”
Taken all together, the defense argues that these elements are incompatible with any finding of diminished responsibility.
In 2017, Traore killed Halimi, his 65-year-old neighbor, in her apartment in the 11th arrondissement of eastern Paris, brutally beating her while shouting “Allahu Akbar” before throwing her from a balcony.
Given that he was a heavy cannabis user, Traore was found not criminally responsible and has been hospitalized in a psychiatric ward since his arrest 9 years ago.
“We will do everything to ensure this murderer is brought to justice,” Halimi’s brother, William Attal, said during a press conference.
“No one can imagine the suffering my sister endured,” he continued. “If, in France today, we are unable to try and convict someone for a premeditated murder of this magnitude, then France is no longer the country it claims to be.”
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Israeli Government Report Ranks World’s 10 Most Influential Antisemites
Swedish activist Greta Thunberg, who was part of the Global Sumud Flotilla seeking to deliver aid to Gaza and was detained by Israel, gestures as she is greeted by supporters upon her arrival to the Athens Eleftherios Venizelos International Airport, in Athens, Greece, Oct. 6, 2025. Photo: REUTERS/Louisa Gouliamaki
Israel’s Ministry of Diaspora Affairs and Combating Antisemitism published this week its official ranking of the 10 most influential antisemitic figures in the world in 2025, and the No. 1 spot was given to social media influencer Dan Bilzerian, who is running for US Congress in Florida.
The Armenian-American entrepreneur and US military veteran is a prominent critic of Israel and Judaism who has promoted antisemitic conspiracy theories and Holocaust denial. He has said he wants to “kill Israelis” and thinks Judaism is “terrible.” He recently claimed antisemitism is a “made-up term” and there is a “big Jewish supremacy problem” in the United States. He formally filed paperwork earlier this month to run as a Republican and unseat incumbent Jewish Rep. Randy Fine in Florida’s 6th Congressional District.
Swedish climate activist Greta Thunberg is the world’s second most influential antisemite, according to Israel’s Ministry of Diaspora Affairs, which highlighted her use of terms such as “genocide,” “siege,” and “mass starvation” in reference to Israel’s military actions in the Gaza Strip.
Third place was given to Egyptian comedian and former television host Bassem Youssef, followed by far-right American political commentator Candace Owens in fourth place and Palestinian-British journalist and editor Abdel Bari Atwan in fifth.
The list includes American imam Omar Suleiman, Denmark-based doctor Anastasia Maria Loupis – who has shared online conspiracy theories about Jews and Israel – far-right commentator and white nationalist Nick Fuentes, and conspiracist Ian Carroll.
Rounding out the top 10 is far-right podcaster and former Fox News host Tucker Carlson, who regularly promotes antisemitic conspiracy theories about Jewish influence.
Israel said the 10 most “prominent influencers in the global antisemitic and anti-Zionist arena in 2025” were selected based on “both the severity of their actions/statements and the scope of their influence” related to their activities last year. “Each of them has expressed antisemitic views or promoted false information related to Jews, Israel, or both,” the ministry explained. The list does not include individuals with formal political or government positions.
Each individual was ranked based on their influence on social media, but also other factors such as their repeated appearances on news channels, “perceived influence on public opinion, and prominence in certain communities.” The ministry also took into consideration each person’s “level of impact and risk,” which includes how often they upload antisemitic and anti-Israeli posts on social media. The report was released ahead of Israel’s Holocaust Remembrance Day, known in Hebrew as Yom HaShoah.
In a separate section of the report dedicated to antisemitic and anti-Israel influencers in the US, Israel’s Ministry of Diaspora Affairs singled out YouTuber and children’s educator Ms. Rachel, who has “increasingly used her social media accounts to amplify pro-Palestinian messages and criticize Israel.”
“Her posts have been interpreted by pro-Israel organizations as one-sided and hostile to Israel, and organizations such as StopAntisemitism have accused her of spreading anti-Israel or pro-Hamas propaganda and called for an examination of her activities,” the ministry stated.