Features
The Fraught Future of Jewish Studies
By Henry Srebrnik Between 1969, when the Association for Jewish Studies (AJS) was founded by forty-seven scholars in Boston, and now, the field of Jewish studies has enjoyed a meteoric expansion. The association, as David Biale, Professor Emeritus of Jewish History at the University of California, Davis, has noted in the winter 2024 issue of the Jewish Review of Books (JRB), it has some 1,800 members, and programs or individual positions exist at virtually every major North American university.
Benefiting from the postwar diminishment of antisemitism and the assimilation of Jews to American society, the scholarly study of the Jews found homes in university departments such as history, religious studies, and comparative literature.
Could that golden age have come to an end on October 7, 2023? “The sudden explosion of anti-Israelism, with its close cousin, antisemitism, has rendered the position of Jewish studies precarious.” It is too soon to know for sure, he states, “but it is hard to avoid the suspicion that something fundamental shifted on that Black Sabbath and its aftermath, not only in Israel but here in America.”
Jewish Studies programs at American (and Canadian) universities, with seed money provided by Jewish philanthropists, sprang up after the 1967 Six-Day War. And at first its faculty were “pro-Israel.” But Jewish communities never had control of these programs. And as the initial cohort of academics retired, their replacements were different – because the hiring process was, of course, largely in the hands of non-Jewish faculty in the humanities. So the successful candidates were more in line with the new zeitgeist of “interrogating” the “Zionist narrative” and giving prominence to non- or anti-Zionist perspectives among American Jews.
This was inevitable. Even the AJS has moved in this direction. (I am a member and have given papers at AJS conferences.) These programs and departments are, in the final analysis, at best “neutral” and agnostic on the Middle East and Israel.
Daniel B. Schwartz is a professor of history and Judaic studies at George Washington University in Washington, DC. In that same issue of the JRB, he recounted that on Oct. 9, a statement from the Executive Committee of the AJS arrived in his inbox. The heading of the email read simply, “Statement from the AJS Executive Committee.”
The statement was about the events of the previous weekend, but the email’s content-free subject line turned out to be symptomatic of what followed. “The members of the AJS Executive Committee,” it said, “express deep sorrow for the loss of life and destruction caused by the horrific violence in Israel over the weekend. We send comfort to our members there and our members with families and friends in the region who are suffering.” In a statement by the AJS, why word “Jews” was nowhere to be found.
“That we have come to the point where the AJS has to resort to such anodyne language,” he asserted, “is truly mind-boggling to me, and frankly shameful.” Why did the half-dozen distinguished scholars who form the Executive Committee of the AJS “feel obligated to obfuscate about the terrible events to which they were ostensibly responding?”
No wonder then, as Mikhal Dekel, Professor of English and the director of the Rifkind Center for the Humanities and Arts at the City College of New York, remarked, “For some of my Jewish colleagues, Israel and Israelis have crossed a threshold to become objects of hatred and disgust that mountains of intellectualized and reasoned essays cannot conceal. These emotions were on display on the very day of October 7, even before a single Israeli soldier entered Gaza.” Decades of BDS (Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions) and other anti-Israel activism “around me hadn’t prepared me for that.”
Certainly the place of Jewish and Israeli-related courses in the wider world of the humanities will decline dramatically, as “anti-Zionism” takes hold across higher education. For example, Cary Nelson, Jubilee Professor of Liberal Arts and Sciences at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, told us in the February issue of Fathom, a British publication, that “after nearly two decades of trying, the Modern Language Association’s annual meeting finally succeeded in putting this academic group on record opposing Israel.”
The MLA represents about twenty thousand North American literature and foreign language faculty and graduate students. “This time they were riding a wave of anti-Zionist hostility that has swept the academy since Hamas wantonly slaughtered over 1,200 Israelis and foreign visitors in the largest antisemitic murder spree since the Holocaust.”
Nelson reported that at one MLA meeting, “when a member from Haifa referenced Hamas’s sexual violence there was reportedly audible hissing among the anti-Zionist members attending. Was it unacceptable to impugn the character of Hamas terrorists? Were some MLA members on board with Hamas denials?”
A recent trend has seen Jewish academics in Jewish Studies programs at universities like Berkely, Brown, Dartmouth, Emory, Harvard and elsewhere publish widely noticed books that are, at best, “non-Zionist” and in fact sympathetic to the naqba narrative of Arab-Jewish relations during and after the formation of Israel. But why should we be surprised? They are embedded in institutions where the “woke” Diversity-Equity-Inclusion ideology now prevails.
The new book by historian Geoffrey Levin, assistant professor of Middle Eastern and Jewish studies at Emory University in Atlanta, “Our Palestine Question: Israel and American Jewish Dissent, 1948-1978,” is one such work. He writes sympathetically about an early, formative era before American Jewish institutions had unequivocally embraced Zionism.
“The No-State Solution: A Jewish Manifesto” by Daniel Boyarin, the Taubman Professor of Talmudic Culture and rhetoric at the University of California, Berkeley, aims to drive a wedge between the “nation” and the “state,” and “recover a robust sense of nationalism that does not involve sovereignty.”
“The Necessity of Exile: Essays from a Distance” by Shaul Magid, the Distinguished Fellow in Jewish Studies at Dartmouth, calls for “recentering” Judaism over nationalism and “challenges us to consider the price of diminishing or even erasing the exilic character of Jewish life.”
Derek Penslar, an historian at Harvard, last year published “Zionism: An Emotional State,” which described the situation in the West Bank as apartheid, even though over 90 per cent of Palestinians there are governed not by Israel but by the Palestinian Authority. The point of calling Israel an apartheid regime is to suggest that it must go the way of white-led South Africa.
They are among a spate of books dealing with the history of Jewish dissent over Israel and Zionism, including “The Threshold of Dissent: A History of American Jewish Critics of Zionism” by Marjorie N. Feld, and “Unsettled: American Jews and the Movement for Justice in Palestine” by Oren Kroll-Zeldin.
A cold khamsim is blowing across Jewish Studies in academia.
Henry Srebrnik is a professor of political science at the University of Prince Edward Island in Charlottetown, PEI.
Features
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Features
Why People in Israel Can Get Emotionally Attached to AI—and How to Keep It Healthy
Let’s start with the uncomfortable truth that’s also kind of relieving: getting emotionally attached to a Joi.com AI isn’t “weird.” It’s human. Our brains are attachment machines. Give us a voice that feels warm, consistent, and attentive—especially one that shows up on demand—and our nervous system goes, “Oh. Safety. Connection.” Even if the rational part of you knows it’s software, the emotional part responds to the experience.
Now, if we’re talking about Jewish people in Israel specifically, it’s worth saying this carefully: there isn’t one “Jewish Israeli psychology.” People differ wildly by age, religiosity, community, language, politics, relationship status, and life history. But there are some real-life conditions common in Israel—high tech adoption, a fast-paced social environment, chronic background stress for many, and strong cultural emphasis on connection—that can make AI companionship feel especially appealing for some individuals. Not because of religion or ethnicity as a trait, but because of context and pressure.
So if you’ve noticed yourself—or someone you know—getting attached to an AI companion, the goal isn’t to panic or label it as unhealthy by default. The goal is to understand why it feels good and make sure it stays supportive rather than consuming.
Why attachment happens so fast (the psychology in plain language)
Attachment isn’t just about romance. It’s about regulation. When you feel seen, your body calms down. When you feel ignored, your body gets edgy. AI companions can offer something that’s rare in real life: consistent responsiveness. No scheduling. No misunderstandings (most of the time). No “I’m too tired to talk.” Just a steady stream of attention.
From an attachment perspective, that steadiness can act like a soft emotional “hug.” For someone with anxious attachment, it can feel like relief: finally, a connection that doesn’t disappear. For someone with avoidant tendencies, it can feel safe because it’s intimacy without the risk of being overwhelmed by a real person’s needs. For someone simply lonely or stressed, it can feel like a quiet exhale.
And unlike human relationships, AI won’t judge your worst timing. You can message at 2:00 a.m., when your thoughts are loud and the apartment is silent, and you’ll still get an answer that sounds caring. That alone is powerful.
Why it can feel especially relevant in Israel (for some people)
Israel is a small country with a big emotional load for many people—again, not universally, but often enough that it shapes daily life. A lot of people live with a background hum of stress, whether it’s personal, economic, or tied to the broader environment. When life feels intense, the appeal of a stable, gentle interaction grows. Not because you’re fragile—because you’re tired.
Add a few more very normal realities:
High tech comfort is cultural. Israel has a strong tech culture. People are used to tools that solve problems quickly. If you’re already comfortable with digital solutions, trying an AI companion doesn’t feel like a strange leap.
Time is tight. Between work, family responsibilities, reserve duty for some, long commutes, or simply the pace of urban life, many people don’t have the energy for long, messy social processes. AI can feel like connection without the logistics.
Social circles can be both close and complicated. Israeli society can be community-oriented, which is beautiful—until it’s also intense. In tight-knit circles, dating and relationships sometimes come with social pressure, opinions, and “everyone knows everyone.” A private AI chat can feel like a relief: no gossip, no explanations, no performance.
Language and identity complexity. Many Jewish Israelis move between languages and cultures (Hebrew, Russian, English, French, Amharic, Arabic for some). AI chat can become a low-stakes space to express yourself in the language you feel most “you” in—without feeling judged for accent, vocabulary, or code-switching.
None of this means “Israelis are more likely” in any absolute sense. It means there are situational reasons why AI companionship can feel particularly soothing or convenient for some people living there.
The good side: when AI attachment is healthy
Emotional attachment isn’t automatically a problem. Sometimes it’s simply a sign that something is working: you feel supported. You feel calmer. You’re expressing yourself more. You’re practicing communication instead of shutting down. You’re less likely to make impulsive choices from loneliness.
Healthy use often looks like:
You feel better after chatting, not worse.
You can still enjoy your real life—friends, work, hobbies, family.
You don’t hide it in shame; you just treat it like a tool or pastime.
You use the AI to practice skills you bring into real relationships: clarity, boundaries, confidence, emotional regulation.
In that version, AI companionship is closer to journaling with feedback, or a comforting ritual—like a cup of tea at the end of the day, not a replacement for dinner.
Where it can slip into unhealthy territory (quietly)
The danger isn’t “having feelings.” The danger is outsourcing your emotional world to something that will never truly share responsibility.
Warning signs usually look like:
You cancel plans with humans because the AI feels easier.
You feel anxious when you’re not chatting, like you’re missing something.
You start needing the AI to reassure you constantly.
Your standards for human relationships collapse (“Humans are too complicated, AI is enough”).
You feel a “crash” after chatting—more lonely, more restless, more disconnected.
The biggest red flag is when the AI becomes your only reliable source of comfort. That’s not because AI is evil. It’s because any single source of emotional regulation—human or non-human—can become a dependency.
How to keep it healthy (without killing the fun)
Here’s the approach that works best: don’t ban it, contain it.
Give it a role.
Decide what the AI is for in your life: playful flirting, stress relief, practicing communication, roleplay, bedtime decompression. A defined role prevents the relationship from becoming vague and all-consuming.
Set a “time container.”
Not as punishment—just as hygiene. For example: 20 minutes at night, or during commute time, or only on certain days. Ending while you still feel good is the secret. Don’t chat until you feel hollow.
Keep one human anchor active.
A friend you text, a weekly family dinner, a class, a gym routine, a community event—something that keeps your real social muscles moving. In Israel, community can be a huge protective factor when it’s supportive. Use it.
Use consent and boundary language even with AI.
It sounds odd, but it trains your brain in healthy dynamics:
“Slow down. Keep it playful, not intense.”
“No jealousy talk. I don’t like that vibe.”
“Tonight I want comfort, not advice.”
If you can do that with an AI, you’ll be better at doing it with humans.
Watch the “replacement” impulse.
If you catch yourself thinking, “I don’t need anyone else,” pause and ask: is that empowerment—or is it avoidance? Sometimes it’s a protective story your brain tells when it’s tired of disappointment.
Check in with your body after.
Not your thoughts—your body. Calm? Lighter? More grounded? Good sign. Agitated? Empty? Restless? Time to adjust.
And if you’re noticing that AI use is feeding anxiety, sleep problems, isolation, or obsessive thinking, it may help to talk to a mental health professional—especially someone who understands attachment patterns. That’s not a dramatic step. It’s basic self-care.
People in Israel—Jewish Israelis included—can get attached to AI for the same reason people everywhere do: it offers consistent attention in an inconsistent world. Add the local realities of stress, pace, and social complexity, and it can feel even more comforting for some individuals. The healthiest path isn’t to judge yourself for it. It’s to use it intentionally, keep your human life active, and treat the AI as a supportive tool—not the center of your emotional universe.
Features
Three generations of Wernicks all chose to become rabbis
By GERRY POSNER Recently I was at a Shabbat service at Beth Tzedec Synagogue in Toronto and the day unfolded in some unexpected ways for me.
It began when I was asked to be a Gabbai for the service, that is to stand up at the table where the Torah is placed and to check the Torah reading to make sure there are no errors. I have done this before and it has always gone smoothly. I attribute that fact in large part to the Torah reading ability of the reader at Beth Synagogue. He is fast, fluent and flawless. Well, on this particular day after he had completed the first two portions, he began the shlishi or third aliyah. I could not find his reading anywhere. It was as if he had started somewhere fresh, but not where he was supposed to be. I looked at the other Gabbai and he did not seem to recognize what had happened either. So, I let it go. I had no idea where the Torah reader was. He then did another and still I was lost. He came to what was the 6th aliyah when a clergy member walked over to him and indicated to him that he had read the fourth and fifth aliyah, but that he had missed the third one. The Torah reader then said to me “this is what you are here for.” Now, it might have been one thing if I had missed it entirely. Alas, I saw the error, but let it go as I deferred to the Torah reader since he never makes a mistake. He ended up going back to do the third aliyah before continuing on. This was a very unusual event in the synagogue. I felt responsible in large part for this gaffe. A lesson learned.
The feeling of embarrassment was compounded by the fact that on this particular day the service was highlighted, at least for me, because of the rabbi delivering the sermon. This rabbi, Eugene Wernick, was none other than the father of my present rabbi, Steven Wernick of Beth Tzedec Synagogue. He was also the same rabbi who was the rabbi at Shaarey Zedek between 1979-1986 and who had officiated at my father’s funeral in 1981, also a few years later at my oldest son’s Bar Mitzvah in Winnipeg in 1984. As I listened to him speak, I was taken back to the 1980s, when Rabbi Gene was in the pulpit at Shaarey Zedek. Of course, he is older now than in his Shaarey Zedek days, but the power of his voice was unchanged. If anything, it’s even stronger. As in the past, his message was relevant to all of us and resonated well. Listening to him was a treat for me. Still, my regret in not calling out the mistake from the Torah reading was compounded by the fact that I messed up in front of my former rabbi, Eugene Wernick – never mind my present rabbi, Steven Werinck.
On this Shabbat morning, aside from all the other people present, there were not only the two Rabbis Wernick, but one Michelle Wernick was also there. Michelle, daughter of Rabbi Steven Wernick, is a first year student at the Jewish Theological Seminary. She is following in the family business – much like with the Rose rabbinical family in Winnipeg.
As it turned out, there was a Bat Mitzvah that day. And the Bat Mitzvah family had a very real Winnipeg connection as in the former Leah Potash, mother of the Bat Mitzvah girl, Emmie Bank and the daughter of Reuben and Gail Potash (Thau). It occurred to me that there might be a few Winnipeg people in the crowd. As I scanned the first few rows, I was not disappointed. Sitting there was none other than Chana Thau and her husband Michael Eleff. I managed to have a chat with Chana (even during the Musaf service). In the row right behind Chana and Michael was a face I had not seen in close to sixty years. I refer to Allan Berkal, the eldest son of the former rabbi and chazan at Shaarey Zedek, Louis Berkal. I still remember the first time I met Allan at Hebrew School in 1954 when his family moved to Winnipeg from Grand Forks, North Dakota. That was many maftirs ago. So this was another highlight moment for me.
Of course, there are other Winnipeggers who attend Beth Tzedec most Shabbats. I speak of Morley Goldberg and his wife, the former Marcia Billinkoff Schnoor. As well, Bernie Rubenstein and his wife, the former Sheila Levene were also present for this particular Shabbat. In all, this Shabbat had a particularly Winnipeg flavour to it. Truth be told, you do not have to go far in Toronto at any synagogue and the Winnipeg connections emerge.