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Judaism doesn’t want you to wander and live just anywhere — or does it?
(JTA) — I was a remote worker long before the pandemic made it a thing, but it was only last month that I really took advantage of it. Early on the morning of New Year’s Day, I boarded a plane from Connecticut bound for Mexico, where I spent a full month sleeping in thatch-roofed palapas, eating more tacos than was probably wise and bathing every day in the Pacific. I’ll spare you the glorious details, but suffice it to say, it wasn’t a bad way to spend a January.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, I found myself again and again coming into contact with expats who had traded in their urban lives in northern climes for a more laid-back life in the tropics. There was the recently divorced motorcycle enthusiast slowly wending his way southward by bike as he continued to work a design job for a major American bank. There was the yoga instructor born not far from where I live in Massachusetts who owned an open-air rooftop studio just steps from the waves. There were the countless couples who had chosen to spend their days running beachfront bars or small hotels on the sand. And then there were the seemingly endless number and variety of middle-aged northerners rebooting their lives in perpetual sunshine.
Such people have long mystified me. It’s not hard to understand the lure of beachside living, and part of me envies the freedom to design your own life from the ground up. But there’s also something scary about it. Arriving in middle age in a country where you know nobody, whose language is not your own, whose laws and cultural mores, seasons and flora, are all unfamiliar — it feels like the essence of shallow-rootedness, like a life devoid of all the things that give one (or at least me) a sense of comfort and security and place. The thought of exercising the right to live literally anywhere and any way I choose opens up a space so vast and limitless it provokes an almost vertiginous fear of disconnection and a life adrift.
Clearly, this feeling isn’t universally shared. And the fact that I have it probably owes a lot to my upbringing. I grew up in an Orthodox family, which by necessity meant life was lived in a fairly small bubble. Our house was within walking distance of our synagogue, as it had to be since walking was the only way to get there on Shabbat and holidays. I attended a small Jewish day school, where virtually all of my friends came from families with similar religious commitments. Keeping kosher and the other constraints of a religious life had a similarly narrowing effect on the horizons of my world and thus my sense of life’s possibilities. Or at least that’s how it often felt.
What must it be like — pardon the non-kosher expression — to feel as if the world is your oyster? That you could live anywhere, love anyone, eat anything and make your life whatever you want it to be? Thrilling, yes — but also frightening. The sense of boundless possibility I could feel emanating from those sun-baked Mexicans-by-choice was seductive, but tempered by aversion to a life so unmoored.
The tension between freedom and obligation is baked into Jewish life. The twin poles of our national narrative are the Exodus from Egypt and the revelation at Sinai, each commemorated by festivals separated by exactly seven weeks in the calendar, starting with Passover. The conventional understanding is that this juxtaposition isn’t accidental. God didn’t liberate the Israelites from slavery so they could live free of encumbrances on the Mayan Riviera. Freedom had a purpose, expressed in the giving of the Torah at Sinai, with all its attendant rules and restrictions and obligations. Freedom is a central value of Jewish life — Jews are commanded to remember the Exodus every day. But Jewish freedom doesn’t mean the right to live however you want.
Except it might mean the right to live any place you want. In the 25th chapter of Leviticus, God gives the Israelites the commandment of the Jubilee year, known as yovel in Hebrew. Observed every 50 years in biblical times, the Jubilee has many similarities to the shmita (sabbatical) year, but with some additional rituals. The text instructs: “And you shall hallow the 50th year. You shall proclaim liberty throughout the land for all its inhabitants. It shall be a jubilee for you: each of you shall return to your holding and each of you shall return to your family.”
Among the requirements of the Jubilee was that ancestral lands be returned to their original owners. Yet the word for liberty is a curious one: “d’ror.” The Talmud explains its etymology this way: “It is like a man who dwells [medayer] in any dwelling and moves merchandise around the entire country” (Rosh Hashanah 9b).
The liberty of the Jubilee year could thus be said to have two contrary meanings — individuals had the right to return to their ancestral lands, but they were also free not to. They could live in any dwelling they chose. The sense of liberty connoted by the biblical text is a specifically residential one: the freedom to live where one chooses. Which pretty well describes the world we live in today. Jewish ancestral lands are freely available to any Jew who wants to live there. And roughly half the Jews of the world choose not to.
Clearly, I’m among them. And while I technically could live anywhere, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to. I like where I live — not because of any particular qualities of this place, though I do love its seasons and its smells and its proximity to the people I care about and the few weeks every fall when the trees become a riotous kaleidoscope. But mostly because it’s mine.
A version of this essay appeared in My Jewish Learning’s Recharge Shabbat newsletter. Subscribe here.
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At Chabad Hanukkah party in California, hours after Bondi Beach massacre, joy defied grief’s shadow
PACIFIC PALISADES, CALIFORNIA – A familiar sight at public gatherings, especially Jewish ones — young men in Hasidic garb wrapping black leather tefillin straps around the arms of strangers — felt different here Sunday evening as Rabbi Shimon Goldberg helped Rick Entin fulfill the commandment at a Hanukkah block party in the Palisades. The mitzvahs of tefillin and lighting candles had become acts of defiance and joy as the gathering grieved the 15 people killed at a Chabad Hanukkah event in Sydney.
The attack cut deeply in the close-knit Chabad community, whose brand — and vulnerability — lies in the proud public practicing of Jewish rituals. Some of them were personally connected to Rabbi Eli Schlanger, the Chabad emissary who had organized the Sydney event, and died in the attack.
Yet they were celebrating Hanukkah on Sunday with a group that knew something about resilience: 11 months earlier, the Palisades fire tore through this area, destroying thousands of homes, including Entin’s just up the street. For many, the Hanukkah event was the first time they had been in Jewish community in the Palisades since the inferno. This was the occasion the Palisades Chabad — whose campus was damaged in the fire — had planned to commemorate, and from which its leaders would not be deterred.

“Whoever was strategizing this terrorist attack, they want the Jews not just in Sydney, but even in Los Angeles to fear showing up for a Hanukkah event,” said Goldberg, head of a local Chabad-affiliated nonprofit, as he placed a tefillin box atop Entin’s forehead. “This we won’t allow them to do.”
The 38th annual Palisades candlelighting was always going to be bittersweet; many there remained displaced by the fire, and some remain unsure whether they will rebuild. Jewish leaders who planned the event said they did not need to change the program due to the terrorist attack — it was already about celebration in the face of loss.
So, too, is Hanukkah, a holiday that tells of a miraculous jug of oil found amid great ruin. And both Chabad and Kehillat Israel, a Reconstructionist synagogue in the Pacific Palisades that co-sponsored the event, had, miraculously, found the spark on an otherwise gloomy day.
Overlooking the street that had been blocked off for the event were vacant lots where homes had stood a year earlier. But melancholy was hard to come by as one walked through the teeming masses at the event. Kids sat for glitter tattoos and balloon animals; lines snaked for latkes and jelly donuts and hot chocolate, all free. Old friends exchanging long-overdue hugs could be heard saying I’m so sorry about your house. On stage before the candlelighting, a gaggle of youngsters delivered a spirited rendition of “I’m a little latke.”
“It’s almost like the Maccabees,” said Chayim Frenkel, Kehillat Israel’s longtime cantor. “They went into the Temple, cleaned it up, found the menorah, found the oil. And surrounded by the rubble of what the Greeks did, we brought light and hope.”
The Palisades Chabad members in attendance were putting on a doubly brave face: The fire had damaged part of the school on the campus of Chabad of Pacific Palisades, according to Rabbi Zushe Cunin, its director. Classes have still not returned to the building.
“It’s been hard,” Cunin said. “So much trauma, a lot of people have not resolved things, their house, their insurance, their struggles. But Hanukkah is a time to rise above that. Tonight is about strengthening our resolve.”
Cunin’s son, Mordechai, was among the group channeling that resolve through tefillin. The mitzvah — which is required only of Jewish men — was one the late Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the last Lubavitcher Rebbe, had implored his followers to promote in order to hasten the arrival of the Messiah. Mordechai and his yeshiva buddies reported having wrapped at least 10 men that day, including three first-time wearers.
It was not lost on the tefillin crew that Schlanger — whose nephew is Mordechai’s classmate — died doing what they were doing now — helping Jewish people from all walks of life connect to Judaism. But to Goldberg, that was only reason to lean in.
“When someone leaves this physical world, their soul is still there, but they can’t do mitzvos,” Goldberg said. “When we think of Rabbi Eli, we are his hands and feet. He can’t put on tefillin today — but we can put on tefillin for him.”
The post At Chabad Hanukkah party in California, hours after Bondi Beach massacre, joy defied grief’s shadow appeared first on The Forward.
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In the fight against K-12 antisemitism, we are grateful for allies – but are not afraid to call out antisemitism when we see it
Recent articles in the Forward spotlighted important conversations around combating K-12 antisemitism that took place at the Jewish Federations of North America’s General Assembly, but missed critical distinctions about our commitment to working with partners throughout the K-12 space and our stance on teachers’ unions. In particular, they ignored the distinction between the two largest teachers’ unions in the US – the National Education Association (NEA) and the American Federation of Teachers (AFT).
Federations throughout North America work closely with educators and educational leadership. We are grateful to the many educators committed to doing right by their students and by the Jewish community, and to our many allies in the education space – including the AFT, led by Randi Weingarten, and its New York affiliate, the UFT, which recently partnered with the Jewish Community Relations Council of New York on a curriculum and training about Jewish Americans.
We are committed to ensuring teachers have access to the content and knowledge they need to accurately educate about Jewish communities, Israel and antisemitism and to provide safe learning environments for Jewish students. Increasingly, however, we also see instances of organizations and individuals encouraging teachers to use materials and trainings that seek to disconnect educators from those positive resources, or worse, to provide resources that harm Jewish students and foster classroom antisemitism.
Some union spaces have become toxic even for Jewish teachers. The recent debate at the NEA’s Representative Assembly about boycotting the ADL, as well as a union resource guide linking to a third-party source erasing Israel off the map and sympathizing with the Holocaust, were shocking. We are grateful that NEA leadership vetoed the boycott resolution and apologized for the link, but we are reminded of the need for vigilance and organizing so that this type of resource is not recommended – even inadvertently – to educators. We stand ready to work with the NEA to help ensure that biased and ultimately harmful teaching materials are legitimized.
Both nationally and at the local level, Federations are proud of the educational partnerships that make our schools better and stronger. We are grateful every day to the educators who teach our children and seek out accurate information and ways to teach critical thinking that enable the foundation of our future democracy – and our safety within it. We are eager for additional partners and partnerships. But at the same time, we will not stand by when antisemitism is enabled in the classroom.
Our commitment is to promote policies and actions that enable Jewish children and teachers to be safe in school and take pride in their identity, and to ensure that Jewish identity, culture and resilience are celebrated and accurately taught.
The post In the fight against K-12 antisemitism, we are grateful for allies – but are not afraid to call out antisemitism when we see it appeared first on The Forward.
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Her daughter left the Bondi Beach Hanukkah celebration just before the shooting, then asked, ‘Mommy, why do they hate us so much?’
The daughter of an American expatriate living about two miles from the mass killing at a Hanukkah celebration in suburban Sydney, Australia, escaped the carnage by coming home to change clothes, her mother said.
“She’d been there earlier that afternoon, on the bridge where they were shooting. She came home, changed her clothes, and was getting ready to go again,” said Michelle Stein-Evers, a former Los Angeles resident and a co-founder of the Alliance of Black Jews in 1995.
“She and her friends were on their way back to Bondi to go to the party and have something to eat, and they were stopped by the police,” Stein-Evers said. “She found out why, and she started calling everyone to let us know. Her best friend’s cousin was killed. Another best friend’s cousin was shot in the leg.”
Her daughter, who is 22, had previously locked down her Facebook account out of privacy concerns and requested that her name not be used. As the massacre unfolded Sunday, she turned to social media to search for information.
“‘Oh my God, there’s bodies everywhere,’” Stein-Evers said her daughter told her.
She also asked where her father was, amid rumors — later proven untrue — that the neighborhood where he had gone to play tennis was also affected.
Stein-Evers said the events were unfolding within minutes of their home, where she was alone after her daughter headed back toward the beach.
“It was scary. It was nothing but sirens — sirens and sirens — and helicopters,” she said.
Stein-Evers said she knew the first victim publicly identified among the dead, Rabbi Eli Schlanger, who helped organize the celebration.
“He was, by consensus, one of the nicest guys in the Jewish community in Sydney,” she said.
Antisemitic incidents have been rising in Sydney and across Australia since the Hamas attack on Israel on Oct. 7, 2023, Stein-Evers said, adding that her daughter stopped attending the prestigious University of Sydney because of campus protests.
“She was constantly being heckled, asked, ‘Where are you from? Are you Jewish? Are you an Arab? Why aren’t you with us?’” Stein-Evers said. Her daughter would not respond to the questions and eventually enrolled in distance learning through a college in Melbourne.
Stein-Evers, who has lived in the Middle East — including in Muslim-majority countries — as well as Europe and the United States, said she now has concerns about her own safety.
“I was never scared to be a Jew in America. I was never scared in Germany,” she said — a fear she said is now shared by her daughter.
“When she came home last night, she was in tears,” Stein-Evers said. “‘Mommy, why do they hate us so much?’”
The post Her daughter left the Bondi Beach Hanukkah celebration just before the shooting, then asked, ‘Mommy, why do they hate us so much?’ appeared first on The Forward.
