“I don’t blame AG Nessel for not wanting to go and basically put herself in situations that feel untenable in this moment of time and don’t add any value politically, personally,” Jessica “Decky” Alexander, the Michigan Jewish Democratic caucus chair, told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency on Friday.

Alexander’s comment came a day after Nessel announced during a televised antisemitism roundtable that she would be skipping the convention next month, where party leaders will finalize the state’s Democratic candidate for Senate following a divisive primary that has focused in part on Israel and antisemitism.

“I don’t feel safe going. I feel like my presence isn’t going to be welcome. I don’t want to get chased around. I don’t want to get harassed. I don’t want to get yelled and screamed at. I don’t want to get booed off the stage, irrespective of what I’m saying,” Nessel said during the roundtable. “And I believe that if I go, that is what will happen because it’s been happening to me.”

She said she had filed a formal complaint within the party about a party official who had called her a neo-Nazi because of her beliefs. “Why is this person more accepted in our party than me?” she asked without naming the official. Her office responded to a request for comment by referring to the recorded livestream of the antisemitism roundtable.

Nessel’s declaration comes in the final days of the primary between Rep. Haley Stevens, a pro-Israel stalwart, and Abdul El-Sayed, a democratic socialist who is deeply critical of Israel. El-Sayed is surging in polls despite a reported $30 million spent against him by AIPAC, the pro-Israel lobby, and its supporters, whom he has made a target of criticism from the campaign trail.

Nessel’s comments also follow turmoil at the Michigan Democratic Party’s endorsement convention in April, where Stevens was booed by attendees. A third primary candidate who later dropped out of the race, state Sen. Mallory McMorrow, said a convention attendee had targeted her Jewish husband with an antisemitic slur.

The incident has fueled alarm among Jewish Democrats, according to Halie Soifer, CEO of the Jewish Democratic Council of America.

“She’s not alone,” Soifer told JTA about Nessel on Friday. “We’ve heard from other Jewish Democrats who attended the Democratic Party convention earlier this year in Michigan, and there was a sense of discomfort amid what felt like a pro-Palestinian protest [that] may have even blurred the line for some into antisemitic sentiment — and it’s really concerning.”

Nessel has raised the alarm about antisemitism within the party for years, alleging in 2024 that Michigan Rep. Rashida Tlaib, a prominent pro-Palestinian voice, had been antisemitic when criticizing charges Nessel filed against pro-Palestinian protesters at the University of Michigan.

For her part, Alexander said she would be participating in the nominating convention and said she believed the chair of the state Democratic Party, Curtis Hertel, had been “very accessible and very open to making sure that we, including our Jewish elected officials, feel safe in that space.” But she said she understood why Nessel was staying away.

“It would never even occur to me, but I’m not an elected official,” Alexander said. “It’s a different stake for me than it is for Dana. I understand her completely.”

This article originally appeared on JTA.org.

The post Jewish Democrats back Michigan AG Dana Nessel’s decision to skip state party convention appeared first on The Forward.

But the rabbis also indicated that they, too, were unsatisfied with conditions in the Middle East and called on Israeli and Palestinian leaders to work toward a peaceful future.

“We call upon Maine’s leaders, and particularly its political leaders, to reject the irresponsible usage of the term in describing the Israel-Hamas War,” said the statement released on Friday. “We also call upon Israeli and Palestinian leaders to end the cycle of violence and to create a better world for both Palestinian and Israeli children.”

The statement, titled “A Call for Peace and Responsible Rhetoric,” argues that using the term as a “political slogan does not advance peace in the Middle East.” The term “erases essential moral and legal distinctions, diminishes the meaning of genocide, and inflames hatred for the local Jewish community,” the rabbis say.

“Compassion for Palestinians does not require the adoption of hateful and misleading language,” they continue. “Advocating for peace does not require participation in a ‘Holocaust inversion’ against the Jewish community. And political leadership does not require demonizing one community in the service of another.”

The statement comes days after Troy Jackson, a former logger and state Senate president, secured the Maine Democratic U.S. Senate nomination Saturday at the party’s nominating convention to replace Graham Platner, a staunch Israel critic who dropped out of the race earlier this month. Platner faced a sexual assault allegation, which he denies. Jackson now faces Republican incumbent Sen. Susan Collins in November’s general election.

Platner’s romp to the primary victory featured routine use of “genocide” to describe Israel’s actions. And ahead of the convention to replace him, Jackson and several other Democratic hopefuls who later exited the race began using the term “genocide” to describe Israel’s war in Gaza for the first time, a shift that drew scrutiny from some Jewish leaders and voters in the state.

The use of the term has become a “currency for acquiring power and position in Maine’s Democratic party,” Rabbi Rachel Isaacs, the leader of Beth Israel Congregation in Waterville, who also signed the statement, told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency.

“Too many Maine Democrats are cynically willing to trade in that currency at the expense of our safety and dignity,” she said in an emailed statement. “We decided we needed to say something collectively, both about the specious and dangerous nature of the claim, and about how much damage has been done to our families and congregants.”

The statement Friday was spearheaded by the Jewish Community Alliance of Southern Maine and signed by every congregational rabbi in the state, including Rabbi Bill Siemers of the Conservative Congregation Beth Israel in Bangor and Rabbi Erica Asch of the Reform Temple Beth El in Augusta. (Rabbis affiliated with the Chabad movement in Maine did not appear on the signatory list.)

Zach Schwartz, the director of the Jewish Community Relations Council at the Jewish Community Alliance of Southern Maine, said the federation hoped the “unity displayed here in Maine can inspire Jewish communities across the US to also unite against the extremist rhetoric harming our community and our children.”

Rabbi Josh Stanton, the associate vice president of interfaith and intergroup initiatives for Jewish Federations of North America, also hailed the joint statement.

“Maine’s Jewish clergy are setting an important example with their call to put aside inflammatory rhetoric and look to the common good,” Stanton said in an emailed statement. “At a time of rising polarization and declining civil discourse, the Jewish Community Alliance of Southern Maine’s efforts to unify the community around this important message are a mark of true leadership.”

Isaacs told JTA that she hoped Jackson would “support, understand, and advocate for all of Maine’s citizens, including the totality of Maine’s diverse Jewish community.”

“Work with us to figure out how to express outrage and legitimate critique of Israel’s government without succumbing to language that you might not know is an ancient antisemitic trope, or dismissing the security needs of Israel’s citizens,” Isaacs said of her message to Jackson. “Please have the courage to forge your own path, and not follow in the footsteps of Graham Platner, a man who should have never been normalized, endorsed, or empowered.”

This article originally appeared on JTA.org.

The post Maine rabbis call for peace, urge politicians to stop calling Gaza war a ‘genocide’ appeared first on The Forward.

The 80’s pop star was scheduled to appear at London’s Palladium starting Monday as part of the production’s rotating cast playing King Herod, the Judean king who is best known by Jews for his expansion of the Second Temple and to Christians for his efforts to stave off the arrival of a challenger — the story of which is reflected in the rock opera by Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice.

Boy George will be replaced by actor Richard Armitage in the London production.

In announcing the cast change, Paul Kelmsley, the singer’s manager, did not directly mention the blowback the former Culture Club frontman was receiving for releasing a pro-Israel song but alluded to it.

“George has never been afraid to stand by his personal convictions, and I have always respected him for that,” he said. ”In this instance, I felt it was right to step aside, allowing the production to remain the focus, while ensuring everyone involved can move forward with mutual respect and goodwill.”

Boy George is defending his decision to release the song, saying he believes artists should be free to express their views even when they are unpopular. In “We Will Dance Again,” the singer rejects claims of genocide against Israel and proclaims, “If you’re ever confused, I stand with the Jews.”

Earlier Friday, Boy George lashed back at the vitriol he was getting online. “What is most shocking is the amount of gay folk attacking me, ” he posted on X. “If you support terrorism you can in the words of Divine ‘Take your toolkit and go f—_ a garage,’” he said, referring to a quote attributed to the taboo-breaking transgender artist.

“When I say ‘they want to kill every last one of us’ I am also talking about us queers, not just the Jewish community,” Boy George said. “When will you wake up?”

This article originally appeared on JTA.org.

The post Boy George cedes role of King Herod in ‘Jesus Christ Superstar’ production after releasing pro-Israel song appeared first on The Forward.

“There will be no Israeli withdrawal,” an unnamed “diplomatic official” said in a statement issued in Hebrew to Israeli reporters.

The rejection has spurred blistering expressions of anger by unnamed U.S. officials in comments to reporters and has thrown into public view an area of dispute between the two longtime allies.

The statement came in the hours after Trump posted what might have sounded like a dramatic breakthrough to his Truth Social account on Thursday evening. The U.S.-convened Board of Peace had announced a “HISTORIC” agreement that would lead to the “COMPLETE DISARMAMENT” of Hamas, Trump wrote in a statement that the White House shared.

“CONGRATULATIONS TO ALL ON THIS AMAZING DEVELOPMENT, THAT EVERYBODY SAID COULD NEVER BE ACHIEVED!” Trump said.

Referring to the Hamas attack on Israel that initiated the current war, he added, “The threat that emerged from Gaza on October 7 will NOT be allowed to rebuild!”

The Board of Peace had announced a deal several hours ahead of Trump, saying, “For the first time, Hamas officially has committed to an actionable plan for relinquishing all its weapons, which will be followed by Israeli withdrawal from Gaza.”

Hamas officials have said they had accepted the plan in principle but were waiting for Israel to sign on. Ghazi Hamad, a senior official, told Reuters on Friday that Israel must accept the plan before Hamas would disarm, while a different leader associated with the group tweeted that the “ball is now in the enemy’s court” while also acknowledging that Hamas had accepted the proposal despite misgivings.

“Certainly, it is not what our people aspire to after their epic battle on the path to liberation,” tweeted Basem Naim, a former health minister who now lives in Turkey.

The Israeli rejection said the plan did not “adequately address” Israel’s demands that Hama must be divested of its weapons, and that the weapons must be removed from Gaza and that the Gaza Strip must be demilitarized. It did not mention Trump or the Board of Peace, the entity Trump established last year in part to supplant the United Nations, a body he does not trust.

“There will be no Israeli withdrawal from the Yellow Line in the Gaza Strip until Hamas is disarmed and the strip is demilitarized,” the statement said. The Yellow Line demarcates the areas Hamas and Israel control in Gaza; Israel still controls just over half of the strip.

The statement said these messages were conveyed to “envoy Tony Blair,” an executive member of the Board of Peace, without naming him as such. Other executive members include Trump intimates, among them, Secretary of State Marco Rubio;; Middle East peace envoy Steve Witkoff; Trump’s chief of staff Susie Wiles; and Trump’s son-in-law, Jared Kushner.

The Israeli statement also did not mention Nikolai Mladenov, the Board’s High Representative for Gaza, who first posted the news about the ostensible agreement, which Hamas has yet to confirm.

“Implementation and verification have to be real,” Mladenov said. “Withdrawal must move in lockstep with decommissioning.”

U.S. officials bristled at the Israeli statement. “We’re not asking Israel to do anything that isn’t in the 20-point plan that they agreed to initially, and so we’re very confident they will adhere to it,” an official told the Times of Israel, referring to the agreement that brought about the release of Israeli hostages a year ago. “If they don’t, President Trump would be very, very disappointed.”

The ceasefire that ended the hostage crisis did not last, and Hamas and Israel have been fighting in Gaza since, although with fewer casualties than characterized the first two years of the war.

Axios quoted an official who was blunter: “He’s f–king got to stand by his commitments,” the official said of Netanyahu. 

Netanyahu, facing elections in October, is under pressure from the Israeli right not to relinquish Gaza. His coalition last year absented itself from the Knesset when the opposition brought up Trump’s 20-point plan for a vote of approval. Netanyahu last year accepted the plan in an appearance with Trump, but he has not sought its ratification.

Axios also reported that Trump and Netanyahu spoke about Gaza in their meeting this week, when Netanyahu met with Trump to discuss next steps in the war Israel and the United States launched against Iran in February.

The Israeli statement pointedly said — in its first paragraph — that did not happen.

“The topic of Gaza did not come up at all between Prime Minister Netanyahu and President Trump,” it said.

In his statement, Trump also singled out Turkey and Qatar for helping to broker the deal. Israel reviles both countries as enabling Hamas, and their presence on the Board of Peace initially delayed Israel’s own entrance.

This article originally appeared on JTA.org.

The post Israel rejects Gaza plan that Trump unveils with fanfare, as Hamas says it has accepted the plan appeared first on The Forward.

“It brings a lot of joy, seeing yourself in the characters, reading about the holidays and all of these things that you’ve grown up with,” said Evans, a mother of two from New York who also runs a book-focused Instagram account.

Following the Hamas-led Oct. 7 attacks on Israel, Jewish authors have described an increasingly hostile environment in traditional publishing. In fact, the number of books marketed as Jewish have declined over the past three years — pointing to either fewer Jewish books, or fewer publishers willing to market them as Jewish.

Even so, the demand for Jewish romance novels from Jewish readers has flourished, aided by The Matzah Ball’s author Jean Meltzer and a book club she started called Jewish Joy.

“I think a reason why the community grew is because of what the romance genre itself offers the reader, which is basically happiness,” says Heidi Shertock, the author of two Orthodox Jewish romances and a leader of Jewish Joy. “We’re going to give you that happily ever after, no matter the struggles and the obstacles and the difficulties that the character is facing. And I think we need that so much right now, especially as Jews.”

Bodice rippers and book clubs

Few, if any, Jewish characters were present in mass market romance novels until 1995 when Alina Adams wrote The Fictitious Marquis, the first bodice-ripper with a Jewish protagonist. Other writers such as Jennifer Wilck and Felica Grossman continued writing Jewish romances through the 2010s.

The romance novel, whose sales had been declining, saw a resurgence after 2020, spurred by the pandemic, a TikTok reading community called BookTok and the streaming hit Bridgerton. From 2021 to 2025, romance book sales doubled to 51 million units sold.

As publishers pushed to make romance novels more diverse, Jewish romance enthusiasts had to educate the community that romances by and about Jews represent diverse perspectives too, Wilck said.

“There was slowly starting to become recognition of that and enthusiasm for that,” Wilck said. “It has gotten a lot more complicated after October 7.”

Dahlia Adler, a USA Today bestselling author of Y.A. novels, recently wrote her first adult romance titled Soon by You about a modern Orthodox perma-bridesmaid – always a bridesmaid, never a bride. She has been surprised by its lack of appeal.

“More people who usually enjoy getting to see inside a new culture do not seem to be going anywhere near this book,” said Adler, noting the book’s Jewish themes. “It could be related. It could be not.”

Where Soon by You has received positive attention is a Facebook page called “Jewish women talk about romance.” The page, launched by Meltzer in July 2023, saw an influx of members after the Oct. 7 attacks growing from 1,000 to 3,500 members.

Shertock said the online community has become a safe haven. “Jewish readers weren’t feeling safe anymore in their book clubs,” she said.

Some authors describe a similar feeling. Chayla Wolfberg, an author and Jewish Joy book club leader, said the online Jewish romance community gave her comfort and validation.

“I was seeing so many authors — a lot of people who I used to really admire and look up to — posting things blatantly in support of what happened on Oct. 7,” she said. “I was just so horrified.”

Meltzer said authors like her who had spoken up in defense of Israel or expressed grief about Hamas’s Oct. 7 attacks found themselves doxxed, boycotted and lambasted in reviews.

In January 2024, Meltzer responded by launching the Jewish Joy book club, followed shortly by The Jewish Joy Box, which sends its members monthly boxes of mostly — though not exclusively — Jewish romance novels.

“It had one rule: we read books where nobody dies at the end, which was sort of a tongue-in-cheek nod to all the Holocaust books that we weren’t going to be reading,” she said. “We were going to be reading happy stories with happy endings and Jews who lived life.”

Litmus tests

Rachel Runya Katz’s novels focus on LGBTQ+ Jews of color. According to her Instagram bio, her books are “only ‘niche’ if you’re boring.” She is also vocal on social media about being an anti-Zionist Jew.

She has picked up on a “litmus test” for Jewish authors, which she said some readers won’t read if they have not spoken up about the Palestinian cause.

“There are people whose takeaway has been: I need to do a thorough background check on every Jew who I think about reading, and I’m not gonna do that to other people,” she said. “I do think that that is a form of bias.”

Katz has noticed other forms of antisemitism in the industry, both before and after October 7.

But she has also faced harsh criticism from other Jewish authors too. She said there were some “Zionist Jewish bookstagrammers who accused me of not being really Jewish and of identifying more as Black than as Jewish because I’m anti-Zionist.”

She thinks that Jewish Joy could very well be doing good work to fight antisemitism. But, she added, “I do not think that this is a good messenger for that because it’s somebody who has so prominently and publicly tried to link anti-Zionism and anti-Semitism … I think that’s a really dangerous translation to make.”

Jewish Joy leadership says that, in addition to creating a safe space for Jewish-romance fans, they want to make it welcoming for Zionists.

“We’re a pro-Zionist community,” said Meltzer. “We support Israelis, and you know the community has made the decision as a whole that they don’t want to support books right now from anti-Zionist authors.”

The Jewish Joy book club has also featured many books from authors who have not publicly commented on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

“We don’t really talk about that too much,” Shertock said.

As much as the group was created to satisfy Jewish readers, Meltzer also created it to support Jewish authors.“We needed to move the needle on sales,” she said. In its less than two years, the network has purchased more than 2,500 Jewish books for its boxes.

Meltzer feels like the community has needed to advocate for itself to be taken seriously both in the Jewish world, which she says tends to embrace literary fiction, and in the romance world, which she believes has been more hostile toward Jewish books.

“People take for granted that Jewish romance is going to continue,” said Meltzer. “I do not believe that. I actually think if we don’t fight every day for these books, they will stop being published.”

The post These Jewish readers wanted happy endings — so they turned to romance appeared first on The Forward.

A few years ago, I followed the author and journalist Sarah Tuttle-Singer deep into Jerusalem’s Old City searching for the best za’atar.

To be clear, I was searching. She knew exactly where to go.

Sarah plunged through the crowded, narrow market streets of the Shuq Attarin, or Perfumers Market, whose vaulted ceilings and open stalls served Crusaders and Mamluks. She turned at signless intersections and slipped through nameless passageways, before stopping at a mad scrum of customers outside a small, open shop.

“Here it is,” Sarah said. “The best.”

An elderly man filled orders from barrels of spices and shelves of herbs, potions and remedies. When we managed to grab his attention, Sarah used her surprisingly decent Arabic to order me a kilo.

It tasted nothing like the spice mix I was stuck buying in L.A. The wild oregano that forms the floral, green base of the mixture carried notes of cumin, caraway and dandelion. The sumac, salt and ground sesame made it bright and earthy at once — a blend of disparate flavors that don’t obviously belong together but somehow do.

“How did you find this place?” I asked Sarah.

“I mean, I live here.”

Sarah was raised in Venice Beach and moved to Israel in 2011 with her two children and then-husband, an Israeli. She began writing for The Times of Israel and eventually moved into the Old City itself. We long ago bonded over our common love of Jerusalem, journalism — and Venice Beach.

Her latest book, Fairy Lights in God’s Backyard , is her second nonfiction book about life inside those ancient walls. I loved her first, Jerusalem, Drawn and Quartered, but I wondered, how much more is there to say?

The answer is: plenty. The Oct. 7 massacre. The destruction of Gaza. The Iran missile barrages. A new child. A near-death explosion. All of it filtered through a sharp, sensitive observer living among Jews, Muslims and Christians in the most contested third of a square mile on Earth. I opened the book at 11 a.m. and finished it by 4 p.m., leaving behind circled passages, dog-eared pages and margin notes.

‘The least political way to tell the truth’

Her passage on the local grocery is a good place to start. “There is a shelf in a corner market that doesn’t make sense,” begins one of the book’s many short chapters. Sarah describes a single shelf stocked haphazardly with Bulgarian jam, Italian pasta, Polish pickles, Armenian spice mix, and “tahina labeled in Arabic, Hebrew and Turkish.” She asked the shopkeeper why he kept such a jumble of far-flung ingredients in one place. “People keep asking for home,” he said.

Shoppers stop in front of that shelf, she writes — sometimes with a nostalgic look, a lump in the throat; sometimes to argue over a recipe, pulling items out, putting them back, defying any order. The shopkeeper gave up trying to organize it.

“Jerusalem, after all, does not behave politely or geographically,” Sarah writes. “It stacks centuries on top of each other and calls it a street. It builds apartments on Crusader arches and prays in languages that never learned to forgive each other. Why should a shelf obey borders that people themselves could not?”

Sometimes, she writes, a conversation starts in front of that shelf. My mother used to make this. We ate this only on holidays. You can’t get the good kind anymore. The shopkeeper, she writes, “understands something important: that in Jerusalem, food is often the least political way to tell the truth. You can argue borders for hours, but you cannot argue the taste of something that raised you.”

An apartment on the seam

It’s the same lesson, I realized later, sitting behind that scrum in the Perfumers Market: My kilo of za’atar was itself a shelf of sorts, oregano,  sumac and sesame, none of it asking permission to belong together.

The Old City is divided into four quarters — Arab, Jewish, Armenian and Christian. Sarah moved into her last apartment there in October 2025, on the seam between the Jewish and Armenian Quarters, where Armenian conversation mixed with church bells and the Hebrew songs of schoolchildren next door.

The apartment itself crossed borders. It was built over a Byzantine well that connects to a system of Roman tunnels; the walls themselves were “much newer” — 17th century. She moved in with her toddler son and made it a home, decorating in bright colors and pastels, a style she calls “Mad Hatter in Ottoman Jerusalem,” and planted rosemary, lavender, mint, sage and, yes, za’atar on the roof. Even her garden was a small act of layering something new onto something ancient.

The war in a stone well

From that sweet base, she recorded a particularly fraught stretch in an always-fraught city. Her downstairs neighbor, Claire, whom she greeted several times a day, kept asking Sarah to explain how it is that she, an old woman, outlived her young son.

It’s a question Sarah has heard so many Israeli and Palestinian mothers ask since Oct. 7. “Every time I heard Claire ask why she was still here instead of her son, I heard echoes of mothers everywhere who have asked the same impossible question,” she writes.

Then the Iran war began and the sirens wailed, and each time, Sarah and her neighbors rushed down into the 1,500-year-old Byzantine well to wait out the incoming missiles: the ancient Armenian priest, the chain-smoking French tourists, the Arab TV broadcaster and his extended family, children scared of ghosts, the pedantic American with his “thirty-two-minute breakdown of geopolitical implications,” Muslims, Christians, Jews, and a pit bull named Baku — all brought together hoping to survive the mullahs’ wrath, “a regional war compressed into a stone cylinder beneath the Old City.”

The shelf upstairs holds whatever people ask for. The well below holds whoever happens to be home when the sirens go off. Between the two, Sarah keeps finding the same unlikely arrangement: people who don’t agree on much, sharing space anyway because the ground gives them no other choice.

There are other moments, too, when Sarah watches the divisions that outsiders think define Israel and Jerusalem melt away. When a fire breaks out and residents pour from their homes to help extinguish it. When she suffers an unexplained cardiac event one evening, and friends and neighbors show up to rush her to the ER.

“The paramedics arrived and so did, apparently, half the neighborhood,” she writes. “I haven’t seen this many Jews and Arabs crammed into one small room since the Oslo Accords.”

‘A deep, abiding care’

That’s what makes the book such a beautiful and important read. The hope it offers is earned. Sarah isn’t naive about the violence, fear and resentment tearing her society apart, but she also lives out something most of us, and most of the media, miss: a deep undercurrent of shared humanity running through that land as well.

That became vividly clear when her own sweet apartment blew up — a faulty propane tank burst, collapsing her home around her. The experience sent her through her own cycle of grief, exile and return. Friends, neighbors and strangers — Arab, Jewish, Armenian — rushed to her aid, literally dug her out of the wreckage, then helped her rebuild.

“In the smoke — acrid and choking — there was also something else rising,” she writes. “A deep, abiding care for one another. The kind that lives here but doesn’t make headlines.”

It took me more than a year, but I eventually worked my way through the little pillowcase of za’atar I’d carried home from the Old City that day — folded into turnovers, dusted over roasted vegetables, and, most often, the way it appears on nearly every Palestinian table: pooled in olive oil atop labne.

On my last trip to Israel, I met Sarah and her boyfriend for a drink at Hataklit, a neighborhood bar near Zion Square. She and her son have found a new place. She’s still at The Times of Israel, now writing a feature called Peoples of Israel, profiling an endlessly interesting cast of characters. And to share her love of Jerusalem’s people, cultures and food, she’s even leading occasional tours through the Old City.

If you go, I recommend the za’atar. It won’t taste like anywhere else — which, if Sarah’s book is right, is exactly the point.

A version of this essay first appeared in Rob Eshman’s Substack, Foodaism.

The post From Jerusalem’s Old City, a book that defies Israel’s media image  appeared first on The Forward.

For Jewish student Maxanne Wallace-Segall and Muslim student Nabila Rahman, the months after the Hamas-led Oct. 7 attacks on Israel were filled with a tense quiet.

Then freshmen at Stuyvesant High School, a public school on Manhattan’s southern tip, the two girls had only been friends for a few weeks. As their social media feeds became inundated with polarizing content from across the spectrum, neither of them knew how to bring up what had happened.

“I felt like I couldn’t talk about the war with one of my closest friends in the world, just because I was terrified about what I would say and what she would say,” Wallace-Segall said.

That tension ended when Wallace-Segall interviewed Rahman for an article in their high school paper about the pain many students were experiencing in the first months of the Israel Hamas War.  Broaching the subject for the first time, they realized that — despite coming from different perspectives — both were primarily concerned that their friends were OK.

“It wasn’t a question of ‘do you support Israel or Palestine?’. It was a question of [if you were] OK; if your family was OK. That was what mattered at the moment; her opinion didn’t matter, even if it differed from mine,” Rahman told Wallace-Segall for the article.

Now rising high school seniors, the duo runs The Together Project, a citywide organization dedicated to dialogue between Muslim and Jewish teens — Zionists and anti-Zionists alike. This summer, that dialogue has deepened and the reach has widened with the launch of a twice-weekly program called the Ohel/Ahl Fellowship, named after Hebrew and Arabic words for friendship. Since June, Jewish and Muslim teens from public, private, religious, and secular schools in the New York area have come together around sacred texts, swapped stories, consulted experts and explored each other’s neighborhoods and perspectives.

Emboldened by their first conversation, Wallace-Segall and Rahman began speaking about the conflict with Muslim and Israeli friends. But, when starting the organization, those friends opted not to participate. The Muslim friend’s family refused to let them talk to people who supported Israel, while the Israeli friend wasn’t allowed to talk to anti-Zionists. The organization continues to face this challenge, with some criticizing its inclusive nature. On one Instagram reel posted by the project, a user commended the concept, but pointed out the number of Palestinian deaths and disagreed with participants working alongside Zionists.

“i was like yessss this is what we need!!” they wrote at first. “only for u to include zionists 💀absolutely not. none of you are truly anti-zionists if you agree to work closely with zionists, especially at this time.”

But that misses the point, Wallace-Segall said. “To exclude the Zionist narrative would be to exclude the issue itself.”  That widespread opposition toward dialogue highlights “the necessity and urgency of starting it even more,” she added.

To expand citywide, the girls drew upon their previous connections — someone with whom Wallace-Segall often debated about the subject, another who had written poetry about her religious identity. Currently, the organization has branches at four public high schools in three of the city’s five boroughs.

The Together Project also established a partnership with the New York Society for Ethical Culture, a social activism organization that offers meeting space for several grassroots organizations and hosts all branches of the Together Project, and other interested students, for a citywide conference three times a year in winter, spring and summer.

At those seasonal meetings, students go over historical timelines, read books, articles, sacred texts, and poetry and push themselves to grapple with hard topics. The conversation subjects range from comparisons of the Torah and Quran to what Muslim and Jewish teachings say about queerness, and how being a member of the LGBTQ community informs support for Israel, given its comparatively tolerant culture, and support for Palestinians in Gaza, given the nature of their collective struggle.

Wallace-Segall’s favorite conversations are those that question “why do you believe what you believe?”

“It really gets everyone to think about the specific moments with their families and their friends and reading the news in which different aspects of their opinions have been shaped,” she said.

Last November, members of the group attended a United Nations conference on establishing a Middle East zone free of weapons of mass destruction. As she listened, Wallace-Segall was inspired by those “dedicating their lives to committing to peace.” At the end, four of The Together Project members were given the opportunity to speak about their organization and share their thoughts on the solutions that had been presented.

“So often in the UN, when we see discussions of rebuilding communities … it’s decades or years after the conflict happened,” Wallace-Segall said in her speech. “I think the time to start rebuilding communities is now.”

At Ramaz Upper School, a Jewish day school in Manhattan, now rising senior Gabriel Flatto-Katz found himself in a Jewish bubble. Amidst the tensions of the New York City mayoral election, he realized that he “didn’t have any Muslim person that I could call a friend,” and sought to start an interfaith student organization.

Despite reaching out to many Muslim organizations, however, he wasn’t able to find any interested partners. Then he discovered the Together Project and helped Wallace-Segall and Rahman develop this summer’s Ohel/Ahl Fellowship.

The fellowship has enabled students who were already involved, along with many new ones like Flatto-Katz, to engage more deeply with meetings twice a week. So far, the fellows have hosted speakers from the Rose Castle Foundation, which helps equip leaders to navigate conflict; explored the Islamic wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and analyzed poetry by Israeli and Palestinian writers.

Rather than jump right into sensitive political discussions, students explored each other’s religious identities and established trust in initial meetings, so they have felt more comfortable sharing sensitive opinions in the latter half of the fellowship.

According to Gershon Rozenberg, a rising senior at SAR High School, a co-ed modern Orthodox yeshiva in Manhattan, that turning point arrived during a recent discussion the students had about war. Participants shared conflicts that felt most personal to them and their families and how this might impact their thoughts on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Some mentioned the Vietnam War, the Bangladesh Civil War and the Holocaust.

Rozenberg called it “the most vulnerable conversation we’ve had among fellows.”

For Rahman, this conversation helped her realize just how personal the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is for Jews. “For people like Gabi who literally have family in Israel, there was so much more at stake,” said Rahman, who doesn’t know anyone who is Palestinian.

Along with speakers, the fellowship has a board of mentors from Jewish and Muslim organizations, including Rose Castle, the Tannenbaum Foundation, Jewish Theological Seminary, and a Palestinian representative from Debate for Peace.

“We’re still kids running a kids’ program,” Flatto-Katz said. Mentors provide necessary guidance on how to run an interfaith organization, advise on ground rules during sessions and recommend texts to study. To build a consistent base of students at each meeting, mentors also have helped recruit teenagers they had worked with previously.

Flatto-Katz recruited Rozenberg after reading Rozenberg’s piece in SAR’s campus newspaper arguing that the school “should do a better job of understanding the Palestinian perspective.”

To complement the students from private Jewish day schools, leaders have been reaching out to private Muslim schools. But they’ve encountered difficulty.

“A lot of the kids have never met a Jewish person before, so it’s hard for them to make that first step,” Rahman said.

Many of the students from private Jewish schools say they have been moved by the contributions of Muslim participants, including rituals like chanting from the Qur’an or talking about their religion. “People have enjoyed the ability to hear something so different than what they’re used to,” Flatto-Katz said.

Within Jewish youth spaces, Flatto-Katz said students strongly support Zionism, but also crave  hearing new perspectives. It’s not always easy for Flatto-Katz to “have really hard conversations,” as he has family in the region, but he senses and shares a “hunger for understanding.” Agreement or consensus is not required, he said.

“This is my friend Nabila who doesn’t agree with me on 99% of things, and I think it’s really cool that we get frozen yogurt together,” Flatto-Katz said.

To Rahman, the diversity of high school environments and the formative teenage years are what makes the work they are doing now so significant.

“Making sure younger people are involved in this kind of things is so important,” she said, “because they are the ones who are going to be shaping the future.”

The post ‘I felt I couldn’t talk about the war’: Jewish and Muslim teens make space for tough conversations appeared first on The Forward.

Not that long ago, many homes had pianos. Few do now, and a sad sight is a piano left out on the street. Two years ago we moved a Steinway into our home, and until recently, we had two grands in our living room, the Steinway and the Chickering, which I grew up with. There is also a mini Schoenhut, along with a full-size Casio keyboard upstairs.

The Chickering first resided at my grandparents’ apartment on Central Park West. Under it sat a Schroederesque Schoenhut grand. I would sit on the bench in front of the Schoenhut and tinkle the keys while my grandmother Anna played above. The Chickering, a five-foot, seven-inch quarter grand, came to my childhood home in Forest Hills after she died in 1966. There my brother David and I took lessons from our teacher Fred Kahn. Mr. Kahn was easily in his 70s, and a former student of the concert virtuoso Arthur Friedheim who had studied with Franz Liszt. He performed at Carnegie Hall when he was just eight, and later Steinway Hall had him play at their showroom across 57th St. as a way to attract customers. I fondly recall my lessons with him, especially his improvisations, how he effortlessly switched tempo and rhythm so a piece by Bach morphed into a country & western or klezmer tune.

I first heard my wife Lillie play on the Chickering. It was Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 10. Lillie studied at Queens College’s Aaron Copland School of Music when we lived in Kew Gardens, and we had her Sargent grand in our apartment. She also had a Baldwin spinet at her mom’s in Manhattan. We moved the Sargent to Lillie’s sister Yuri’s apartment when I had a fellowship at Northwestern in 1994. Then when my mom and dad sold the house the following year, Lillie and I had the Chickering hauled up a steep stoop in Park Slope. I remember it being so heavy that it cracked one of the brownstone risers, though the piano was thankfully not damaged. Even better, our landlord had been planning to restore the stoop, so we didn’t have to chip in for the chip.

Soon after, Lillie took a teacher-training program at the School for Strings in Manhattan to learn the Suzuki Method. In 2001, we moved to Glen Ridge, New Jersey, and in 2006 spent a summer in Chicago. One of the first things we did was buy the Casio. Early one morning we were awakened by the sound of Chopin coming from the front room. Lillie and I rushed out to find our four-year-old Emma at the keyboard. Alas, we quickly realized that she was not the reincarnation of Clara Schumann after whom her older sister was named. Instead she had somehow pressed the right series of keys, and it played the programed piece.

Back home, Emma had cello lessons in nearby Montclair, and while Lillie taught in our living room, Clara, Emma and I would drive to Manhattan where Clara would spend up to two hours with her piano teacher, Barbara Herman. During Clara’s lesson, Emma and I would roam the halls of the nearby Natural History Museum. We all would then go to Ottomanelli and have chicken pot pies and then ice cream next door at Emack & Bolio’s.

The Chickering filled our home with much music. Clara practiced on it, and Lillie would go over music with her. I enjoyed it when they played together, especially a duet from Schubert’s “Trout Quintet.”Lillie would also help Emma prepare for her cello recitals, and later went over pieces with her when she took up the clarinet and joined the high school marching band.

Since the early ‘90s, Lillie has been studying on the Upper West Side with her teacher Denise Kahn. She and Denise’s other students regularly gather at their various Manhattan apartments to perform their pieces for each other, and as Lillie practices at home she is always amazed that I can soundly nap on the couch just a few feet away during her most fortissimo playing.

The Steinway made it to our home from the country house of one of those pianist friends. In 2024, Lillie and I spent a cool spring afternoon at her place in Stockbridge, Mass. so Lillie could test out the piano; while there she Zoomed her piano technician back in New Jersey to ask questions. The Steinway is a rebuilt six-foot, model O from 1910. Until it arrived, it was on the Chickering that Lillie’s students had their lessons for the past two decades.

Four days a week, our home is filled with the sounds of a wide variety of pieces, from “Frog on Logs” to sonatinas by Friedrich Kuhlau, rags by Scott Joplin, even the “Linus and Lucy” Peanuts tune by Vince Guaraldi. Some of the younger ones can’t sit still, but it is always satisfying to see those who stick with it and then one day start to see their lesson as more than a chore imposed on them by their parents, and come to love playing music. Each June, they all perform in a recital at the Congregational Church up the street.

Hundreds of piano makers once thrived in New York and Boston. Chickering started in Boston in 1823, became one of the nation’s finest manufacturers, and had a hall on 57th St. that rivaled Steinway’s just a block to the west. The firm moved to East Rochester, NY in 1927 and stopped producing instruments in 1983. Sadly, most American piano makers are now gone. On bulk days in our town, we have seen a few pianos sitting on the curb, and Lillie has alerted others of their presence in the hope that someone would rescue them.

Two years ago, I was out for a walk. Along the curb sat a diminutive Schoenhut upright. I have no idea what happened to my grandmother’s Schoenhut grand, and happily hoisted and adopted this homeless one. Not surprisingly, Lillie’s students have embraced the mini-me piano, and during their lessons, some of the younger ones like to hop over and play on it, with the instrument offering up its chime-like, glockenspiel sounding versions of their pieces while Lillie accompanies them on the piano.

We only need one main piano, though, and the last thing we were going to do was toss out the Chickering. I do realize that the piano is but an object, one fashioned from mahogany, rosewood, ebony, ivory, metal wires, and felt. But the Chickering had a real presence and voice in our home, one that brought joy. Quite simply, it was part of our family. I am therefore not surprised that I got teary eyed as we said goodbye to it on June 15. I am glad to say that movers ferried it to a new home up the road. And while the spot where it stood, one filled with much meaning, seems quite empty now, we do hope that the Chickering will create fond memories for another family.

Before it left our home, Lillie played on it that Beethoven sonata that she first performed for me.

The post In the history of a family’s pianos, a glimpse of a disappearing New York history appeared first on The Forward.

Hoffman was a talented storyteller, as seen in the 2017 Forverts video about her, one of ten episodes in its documentary series, Yiddish Writers Monologues. In the 55-minute clip, she describes in dramatic detail her family’s journey from Siberia to a forced labor camp to a displaced persons camp and finally, to New York. The video is in Yiddish with English subtitles.

In a book, also published in 2017, A Breed Apart: A Miraculous Escape from Russia, she tells her life story again, this time in English.

For many years, Hoffman penned a lively column for the Forverts, where she commented, often with biting humor, on certain character types in Jewish society she disapproved of — like American-born Jews snubbing their noses at fellow Jews who had recently arrived from Europe, something she experienced first-hand.

She also wrote about the blatant sexism she encountered in the 1960s and ’70s among the leadership of Yiddish organizations like the Workmen’s Circle and the Congress for Jewish Culture.

But other essays had a serious, softer voice, like the one she told about her decision as a young teen to suddenly cut off her curly locks in order to look more “American” — and how her mother reacted to her daughter’s “rebellion.”

She also hosted a popular Yiddish radio program on the Forward station WEVD.

Hoffman loved the Yiddish theater and began writing plays herself. She and fellow playwright Rena Borow wrote the book for the musical, Songs of Paradise, based on the biblical poetry of Yiddish troubadour Itzik Manger. The show ran at NYC’s Public Theater and the Shakespeare Festival in 1989, drawing a rave review from The New York Times. Her plays were also staged in Montreal and in several European countries.

For 23 years, Hoffman was a popular Yiddish lecturer at Columbia University. In 2011, she published a Yiddish textbook, Key to Yiddish, that included not only lessons in grammar, but also passages on Eastern European Jewish history, customs, songs and holiday content.

I was personally most impressed with her dogged determination to preserve Yiddish as a spoken language with younger generations. In the 1960s, while teaching at the Sholem Aleichem Shul 21, an afternoon Yiddish school in the Bronx, she and three fellow Yiddish cultural activists — educator Gella Schweid Fishman, pianist-composer Malka Gottlieb and artist Tsirl Waletzky — published a series of Yiddish children’s books through a publishing house they created themselves, called Oyfgang (Sunrise).

As Hoffman and Schweid Fishman told me years later, the mood in the Yiddish world then was so pessimistic, and the attitude towards women so dismissive, that none of the Yiddish cultural organizations — including the Workers Circle and the Congress for Jewish Culture — showed any interest in publishing the books.

But Hoffman and her colleagues didn’t give up. An example of this concerned a musical Purim play they wrote and published in 1968, “Purim iz a shpil aza” (“Purim is a time to play”). On the book cover it gives the male name Gavriel Tolyes as the author. But this was a pseudonym; the real author was Hoffman.

“We understood that no one would take our book seriously if they found out that four women published it,” Hoffman told me. “So we took my mother’s name Tolye, and came up with the name Gavriel Tolyes.”

Years later, Hoffman translated the Purim play into English where it was performed and made into a video. This time, the author’s name was her own.

Hoffman was born Miriam Shmulevitsh in Tobolsk, Siberia in 1936. In 1950, her family immigrated to the United States where she studied Yiddish pedagogy at the Jewish Teachers Seminary until 1957. Years later, she finished her bachelor’s at the University of Miami and received a master’s from Columbia University in 1983.

During the 1970s she and her husband Mendl and two young sons, Avrom (Avi) and Binyomin, lived in Israel for several years where she hosted the first Yiddish television program in the Jewish state, together with the popular comedian Shimon Dzigan.

Hoffman often said that one of her main goals in life was to help instill Jewish pride among Jews of all ages in order to stem the tide of assimilation. In 2015 she, along with her son — the renowned Yiddish actor, director and producer, Avi Hoffman —  launched the Yiddishkayt Initiative, an organization dedicated to bringing Jews back to their roots through lectures and performances that portray Jewish values and cultural traditions. For Hoffman, this was exactly what she had been waiting for.

Miriam Hoffman is survived by her two sons, Avi and Benjamin, four grandchildren and one great-grandchild.

The post Lively Yiddish Forward columnist Miriam Hoffman has died appeared first on The Forward.

“I can complain no more of what brutal tongue-abuse I suffered today. I have exhausted all manners of expression for my grievances.”

I wish I could tell you I don’t recognize those words. I wish I could say they were written by a beleaguered 19th-century governess, or a soldier in the Continental Army afflicted with gangrene. Unfortunately, they were written by me. The day was May 20, 2016. I was 12 years old and full of spite.

I am not sure what, exactly, provoked me that day (since I had exhausted all manners of expression for my grievances), but judging from other angry rants found in this deceptively cute, panda-covered journal, it probably had something to do with: A) My obsession with school, B) My enemies, let’s call them Kyle and Reese, C) My parents’ attempts to discipline me, and D) My conviction that the whole world was conspiring against me. These were heavy burdens for a sixth-grader to bear. Fortunately, the school year was almost over. Reform Jewish summer camp was just around the bend, and I was praying for change. Literally.

“God, if you can hear me, please let me have an amazing camp-experience,” I wrote a few weeks before the session started. “It’s my only escape.” Also, while I had His ear, could He make sure I got a really good part (preferably Belle) in the summer musical, Beauty and the Beast?  The previous year, in Aladdin, I’d been relegated to some sadsack ensemble role that clearly did not make use of my incalculable dramatic potential. Please, Hashem!!

But God had His work cut out for Him.

During my first summer, I had established a reputation for myself as a puritanical hardass thanks to my clashes with the popular girls of Bunk 15. Let’s call them Samantha, Madison and Lindsey. Lindsey slept in the bunk bed next to mine, and every night she would amuse the other girls by pretending that she was singing Taylor Swift hits in her sleep. This enraged me. I hung up towels around my bed so I could silent-scream in private. Soon, the trio began to whisper that I was “gossiping” about them. I don’t think the counselors bought that story, though, since successful gossiping requires you to spread lies to many people, and I knew around three. I spent seven weeks in non-stop kvetch mode, writing pathos-ridden letters home, crying a lot, and making petty demands on God in a prior journal that I am scared to open. It got so bad that the camp director had to call up my parents on vacation.

Yet when the long-awaited last day came and my parents loaded up the car with all my musty-smelling camp stuff to take me home, something inexplicable happened: On my first night back in my own bed, I cried that I missed camp. Maybe I had been wrong all along! Send me back!

I don’t know how I got sucked back into another year. Maybe I’d been hoodwinked by ritual — the s’mores, the songs, the tie-dyed shirts, the crying around the lake as we promised to come back  — or the fantasy that next year, I would finally be accepted. In any case, nostalgia had caused me to keep secrets from myself. “When does the memory keep secrets?” the Italian writer Alda Merini asks cryptically in her 1989 book Delirio amoroso, or Amorous Delirium, a collection of poems inspired by her experiences with love-induced madness. “When it forgets.”

I had forgotten, and now I was going to pay the price.

On my first day back, I arrived to find that all my complaining to the camp director had backfired: I’d earned an exile worthy of Napoleon, except instead of Elba, I was going to Bunk 20, where I knew nobody. I had no foes, and also no friends.

According to 12-year-old me, I spent the next seven weeks fighting back an unstoppable tide of hostilities. In reality, I probably spent just as much time swimming, kayaking, trying to play volleyball, hanging out with my new friends Lana, Hannah and Sabrina, painting clay pots, and pretending I wasn’t spending Shabbat services writing installments of a bleak tale called “Gertrude’s Life,” about a long-suffering Victorian girl with a mangled left leg. But 12-year-old me was fluent exclusively in “kvetch.” A couple of times a week, a cadre of rabbis with guitars tried to counteract my natural crankiness by teaching us key principles of Reform Jewish wisdom: Shalom (keeping calm), Tikkun Olam (repairing the world), and Hineini (present awareness). Unfortunately for the rabbis, I was too far gone. I had braces on my teeth and eczema on my skin, an intimidating combination of blood and steel.

You probably won’t be shocked to learn that I didn’t get Belle. Instead I got cast as something more fitting, the wicked crone who turns the Prince into the Beast to begin with. It seemed unfair to me that such an important catalyst didn’t have any lines, just menacing gestures. Later in the summer, our bunk went on a camping trip where I broke a glow-stick on myself and my sleeping mat, and I became convinced that I was going to die. I briefly developed “enamorous feelings” for a young fellow before concluding that “he was really into cursing and being a general idiot.” On the bus back from some field trip, a kid named J.T. said he wanted to kiss me, which was repugnant and secretly flattering.

And of course, I somehow still managed to scrap with my tormenters from the year before. On a visit to Bunk 18, the lair of my enemies and also a few friends, Madison told the counselors that she felt “uncomfortable” changing out of her swimsuit in front of me. For my part, I felt uncomfortable that she was framing me as a pervert.

Looking back on this journal, I may have had myself to blame for the isolation I spent so much time complaining about. How would anyone make friends with a 12-year-old nudnik who wrote things like “I had to go to the compost bin thrice during breakfast” and “I started off the morning by crying the equivalent of Taghaza, the city made of salt”? Even Job would not have had the patience.

One way or another, by summer’s end, I was ready to leave camp forever. Or so I claimed. “At the moment, our bunk is creating a plaque to commemorate the summer. Everyone’s laughing, sharing inside jokes I’ll never be a part of,” I wrote. “To be honest, I’m rather sick of this camp thing and going home in two days is perfectly fine with me. Camp days are too frivolous. I need something with which to occupy the mind.”

But if I wanted “something with which to occupy the mind,” I was about to get it. Two days later, I was back home. Camp was no longer tormenting me with its frivolity, and I missed it. Memory had worked its hazy rearview magic on my mind once again. I thought about my friends, about singing the evening prayer and swaying back and forth, about the wooden float we’d burned in the middle of the pond like a Viking ship to commemorate the summer. I thought about ice cream sandwiches. “It’s been so fun, and now it seems like it had all been a dream,” I wrote.

A day or so later, missing camp had become a dream, too. I never went back.

It’s been ten years since I was twelve. That time of life is increasingly dream-like. When I reread the cursed document that is my camp journal, I feel the misery. I feel it churn in my stomach sure as suspicious falafel. Yet in photos taken at camp, I see myself smiling, entwined with other girls, my braces glinting in the sun. I cannot tell which person is real. Both girls — the one in the journal and the one in the pictures — seem unknowable.

I don’t know if I’ll ever figure out what I really thought. Memory is made of such blobby, malleable stuff that you can’t touch it without changing it, reshaping it in some way. And since memories make up our “sense of self,” whatever that is, this must mean that we are constantly morphing, too.

The last thing I wrote about camp at the summer’s end was that it seemed like another life, “as if it had all happened to someone else.”

Maybe it did.

The post Are you there Hashem? It’s me, Clara appeared first on The Forward.