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After I stopped an attack on the subway, the victim and I bonded over Katz’s pastrami sandwiches
(New York Jewish Week) — You definitely don’t want to have what she was having at that moment.
It was December, on a Friday. I was in the tunnel that leads to the subway that runs beneath the American Museum of Natural History on West 81st St. Walking just ahead of me were two women, chatting with each other. I didn’t know them, but I watched as a man, disheveled and bearded, wearing a black knit cap with a sparkly “NYC” on it, came from the other direction. He veered a little too close to the taller of the two. Suddenly, he shifted and grabbed her from behind.
I often wondered what I would do in this situation. Standing only steps away, I no longer had to wonder. After a moment’s hesitation, I sprang into action, grabbing the man and pulling him off her. Then the woman, her friend and I hightailed it through the turnstiles. All in a New York minute.
The woman said she was OK, just worried her attacker would hurt other women. I called 911 but the operator could only speak in subway platforms, not quite grasping it occurred under the museum. How could a visitor be expected to explain the location? And why was there no attendant or police patrol in one of New York’s most visited neighborhoods? I happen to be getting a PhD in tourism studies at Purdue University, but it’s a no-brainer how bad that is for visitors and locals alike.
The 20th Precinct and Transit District 1 responding officers were polite but seemed focused on whether the attack was sexual. Later, the woman would tell me she sensed they thought nothing actually happened, despite a clear crime. “I don’t know,” she said, “one moment I’m walking in the subway and the next someone grabs me from behind. But I wind up OK, so there’s no problem?”
They nabbed the guy, holding him against the tiled wall in the very place the attack occurred. One officer said something like, “He has no ID, no nothing. He’s babbling to himself and doesn’t seem to know where he is.” A sense of pity rose in all of us. The woman did not want to press charges. Even the police were sympathetic, expressing how helping the mentally ill is beyond their capacity. The consensus seemed to be that they would take him somewhere for mental help.
As we waited for the train — mine to Washington Heights, the women’s to Queens — we realized we all had just come from the New-York Historical Society’s “I’ll Have What She’s Having” exhibit on Jewish delis, named for the iconic Katz’s Delicatessen scene in the 1989 film “When Harry Met Sally.” We laughed about what struck us as an ironic way to spend a Friday Shabbat evening days before Hanukkah.
Still perhaps cautious of our surroundings, we shared thoughts about the exhibit. For instance, the surprising amount of Los Angeles material and the signage explaining terms someone Jewish or from New York might take for granted — like mohel or mikvah — and Yiddish words that have long entered the local vernacular, no matter your religion.
The woman who was attacked didn’t want to be identified here, saying “I don’t want people to Google me and this is the first thing they see” — something I understand, having myself been a crime victim in 2014. Later, she texted to say she arrived home safely, adding that, despite the attack, she was “grateful to live in New York, because you restore my faith that people are there for each other.” I don’t think of myself as a mensch or hero. I just did what had to be done. And, like I said, I had a moment’s hesitation.
The situation called for dinner plans. A Jewish deli, of course, considering the circumstances. And it had to be Katz’s.
I arrived at the deli, laden down with a few free Chabad menorahs I picked up along the way after coming from the Union Square Holiday Market. I almost rushed past her standing outside the restaurant, worried about being late. We encountered a chaotic, noisy scene inside, and I realized I had not been there since before the pandemic. A man behind us in the haphazard line, there for the first time, nervously wanted advice. Have what we’re having, I suggested: pastrami on rye with mustard. No cheese, a kosher nod in this place long without such restrictions.
If fate’s bad luck brought us together, serendipity now ruled. Our sandwich maker looked familiar, and I realized he appeared in a video at the deli exhibit. As Esteban pushed our sandwiches over the glass divider, the famous table from the fake orgasm scene in “When Harry Met Sally” suddenly emptied, a family bundling up to leave. I ran to grab it, even mid-sentence talking with Esteban about the exhibit.
Yes, it was touristy! But considering what we had encountered only days before, it was a relief to feel like a tourist in a crowd of tourists. There were locals too, of course, like a diminutive old couple, smiling and saying hello to select tables. We asked a gorgeous Greek tourist we at first thought was an influencer — her dress a one-of-a-kind, hair in flowing, pop queen curls — to snap our picture.
We talked for hours about jobs, travel, family, the men in our lives and how there is no city like New York, with its museums and culture and its ethnic and religious diversity. The ultimate way to say “to life,” l’chaim.
Crime impacts everyone differently, especially when it happens to you. Yet I also know the city is vastly safer than when I was young. At 54, I remember the 1970s, ’80s and ’90s, when murders peaked at something like six a day.
If I learned anything from the subway experience, it is that our time on earth is a gift more precious than anything we might unwrap on Hanukkah or Christmas. And if anyone saw us sitting at that famous Katz’s table wondering why we laughed so much, they should ask to have what we were having: a profound appreciation that, like the sandwiches in front of us, life is delicious and should be enjoyed in big portions, despite what fate throws at us.
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US Formally Reopens Caracas Embassy as Ties With Venezuela Warm
Venezuela’s interim president Delcy Rodriguez speaks during a press conference, more than a week after the US launched a strike on the country and captured President Nicolas Maduro and his wife Cilia Flores, at Miraflores Palace in Caracas, Venezuela, Jan. 14, 2026. Photo: REUTERS/Leonardo Fernandez Viloria
The United States on Monday formally reopened its embassy in Caracas, the State Department said, citing “a new chapter” in diplomatic relations with Venezuela less than three months after US forces seized the country’s then-President Nicolas Maduro in a raid on the capital.
President Donald Trump’s administration has engaged with an interim government led by former Maduro ally Delcy Rodriguez, including on an agreement for the US to sell Venezuelan oil, and has issued sanctions waivers to encourage US investment.
The two countries agreed in early March to re-establish diplomatic relations that were severed in 2019 after the first Trump administration refused to recognize Maduro as the country’s legitimate leader, following a disputed election, and instead recognized an opposition lawmaker as the country’s president.
“Today, we are formally resuming operations at the S. Embassy in Caracas, marking a new chapter in our diplomatic presence in Venezuela,” the State Department said on Monday.
US forces captured Maduro on Jan. 3 after months of heightened tensions between the two countries, setting off a chain of changes in Venezuela. Maduro and his wife, Cilia Flores, are on trial in New York on drug trafficking charges.
The raid came after the Trump administration said it would reassert US dominance in the Western Hemisphere, but Trump has also cited the success of deposing Maduro as a model for the war with Iran that began last month. The move against Venezuela cut off a major source of oil to Cuba, where the president has also hinted at US military action.
Secretary of State Marco Rubio said days after the Caracas raid that Washington would first seek to stabilize Venezuela, then begin a recovery phase where US companies would have access to the country’s energy resources, before finally beginning a political transition.
The Trump administration appointed Ambassador Laura Dogu, a career diplomat with experience in Latin America, to lead engagement with the interim government.
The State Department on March 19 removed a “do not travel” advisory for Venezuela and said Americans were no longer at risk of wrongful detention by authorities there, although it still warns US citizens to reconsider travel due to the risk of crime, kidnapping, terrorism and poor health infrastructure in the country.
The State Department said on Monday that Dogu’s team was restoring the Caracas embassy‘s chancery building “to prepare for the full return of personnel as soon as possible and the eventual resumption of consular services.”
“The resumption of operations at US Embassy Caracas is a key milestone in implementing the President’s three‑phase plan for Venezuela and will strengthen our ability to engage directly with Venezuela’s interim government, civil society, and the private sector,” the State Department said.
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Lessons From the Classroom: By the Time We Try to Teach Democracy, It’s Already Too Late
Harvard University campus on May 24, 2025, in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Photo: Zhu Ziyu/VCG via Reuters Connect
Ronald Reagan warned that freedom is fragile — that it must be taught, protected, and deliberately passed from one generation to the next. For years, that warning could be heard as rhetoric. As the United States approaches its 250th anniversary, it reads as diagnosis.
Ruth Wisse makes a similar point in her recent Jefferson Lecture, and she does so with characteristic clarity. Democracy, she reminds us, does not reproduce itself. “Democracy is not transmitted biologically.” It must be taught, reinforced, and defended.
That line should be engraved above the entrance to every school in America.
But even Wisse stops one step short of the deeper problem.
By the time we try to teach democracy in college, it is often already too late.
Her lecture is about endurance — how a people survives, how a civilization persists, how freedom is carried forward across generations. Drawing on Jewish history, she shows that continuity is never accidental. It is built through teaching, repetition, and expectation. The Shema is not just a prayer; it is a civilizational blueprint: teach your children, speak these truths constantly, bind them into daily life.
This is how a people endures.
But in the United States today, we have largely abandoned this model — and nowhere is that abandonment more visible than in education.
For years, colleges and universities have imagined themselves as the primary sites of civic formation. When students arrive with weak civic knowledge or thin historical grounding, institutions respond with programming — substituting initiatives for formation and statements for substance — designed to shape values in real time.
But anyone who teaches knows the truth: students do not arrive as blank slates.
They arrive formed.
And what is formed early tends to endure.
They have already learned whether disagreement is something to engage or something to silence. They have already absorbed whether institutions deserve trust or suspicion. They have already internalized whether their country is something to inherit or something to dismantle.
These habits are not formed in college. They are formed much earlier — especially in high school. Political scientists Richard Niemi and Jane Junn showed decades ago that high school is the decisive window for civic formation — that the knowledge, attitudes, and habits students carry into adulthood are largely shaped before they reach college.
I see this every day in the classroom. Present students with a controversial text and ask them to engage it — really engage it — and a familiar pattern emerges. Some move immediately to moral judgment before they can articulate the argument. Others retreat, wary of saying anything contestable. Very few instinctively attempt persuasion – laying out a case, anticipating objections, and revising their views in response.
This is not a failure of intelligence. It is a failure of formation.
And higher education, rather than correcting this, often deepens it.
Wisse watched this transformation up close during her two decades at Harvard, where she saw what Lionel Trilling called the adversarial culture — the ascent of grievance over gratitude — displace the serious transmission of civic inheritance. She wanted to remind her colleagues that democracy requires active reinforcement, not passive assumption. What she witnessed instead was the substitution of critique for formation, of grievance for gratitude.
In place of formation, we have substituted expression. Students are encouraged to “share their truth” but are rarely required to defend it. In place of shared civic frameworks, we offer individualized narratives. In place of intellectual discipline, we reward performance — moral, emotional, and increasingly ideological.
The result is a generation that is often articulate but not persuasive, engaged but not grounded, confident but not resilient.
These are not small distinctions. They are the difference between citizens and spectators — between a democracy that endures and one that frays.
Wisse is right to warn that civilizations must be defended — not only militarily, but culturally. Here, the Jewish experience offers a lesson that has become newly urgent after October 7.
For many, especially in the Diaspora, there was a quiet assumption that security could be taken for granted — that integration was sufficient, that strength could remain in the background.
October 7 shattered that illusion.
It was a brutal reminder that survival requires not only memory and meaning, but power and preparedness. The same is true, in a different register, for democratic societies. Freedom depends not only on ideals, but on the willingness to defend them — culturally, intellectually, and, when necessary, physically.
But defense begins with formation.
And here is where Wisse’s warning should land most forcefully: we are no longer reliably forming the citizens we need to sustain the system we have.
In K-12 education, the shift has been profound. History is too often taught as indictment rather than inheritance. Authority is treated with suspicion rather than seriousness. Students are encouraged to critique before they are asked to understand. The result is not critical thinking — it is premature certainty.
By the time these students arrive on campus, the patterns are already established.
Colleges are not building civic habits. They are attempting — often unsuccessfully — to remediate their absence.
This helps explain why so many institutional responses feel hollow. Statements are issued. Committees are formed. New programs are announced. But none of this addresses the deeper issue: the habits required for democratic life were never built in the first place.
And habits, once unformed, are extraordinarily difficult to create under pressure.
If we are serious about sustaining a free society, we must shift our attention earlier — restoring serious civic and historical formation in K-12 education, where these habits are actually built. That means requiring students to read founding documents and debate their meaning — not merely critique their authors. It means teaching argument before self-expression, and inheritance before indictment.
Wisse closes with a call for renewed patriotism — a reminder that Americans benefit from an extraordinary inheritance but “do not sing of it enough.” That is true. But patriotism is not a slogan. It is a disposition, formed over time through exposure, expectation, and practice.
It cannot be summoned at the moment of crisis. It must be cultivated long before.
Reagan understood that. Wisse reminds us of it.
But here is the harder truth:
Democracy is formed early — or it is not formed at all. And when we wait until college to build it, we are no longer forming citizens — we are trying, too late, to repair the habits we failed to build.
Samuel J. Abrams is a professor of politics at Sarah Lawrence College and a senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute.
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Israel and the Impossible Standard of Moral Perfection
Jewish visitors gesture as Israeli security forces secure the area at the compound that houses Al-Aqsa Mosque, known to Muslims as Noble Sanctuary and to Jews as Temple Mount, in Jerusalem’s Old City, Photo: May 5, 2022. REUTERS/Ammar Awad
There is a standard applied to Israel that no other nation is expected to meet. It is not a standard of law, nor of morality as commonly understood. It is something far more rigid and far less honest. It demands perfection in the face of existential threats, and even then, it delivers condemnation.
As the conflict with Iran intensifies, Israel finds itself navigating a reality few countries have ever faced.
Iran has made its intentions unmistakably clear for decades. The destruction of Israel is not rhetoric for domestic consumption. It is official Iranian policy. It is repeated openly, consistently, and without apology.
When Iran strikes, it does not distinguish between civilian and military targets. In fact, it purposefully targets civilians. And it doesn’t only target Jews. Rockets do not ask who is religious or secular, Jewish or Muslim, Israeli or Arab. They fall where they are aimed, and often where they are not, with one purpose in mind: to kill, to terrorize, and to destabilize.
Israel, in contrast, is forced to think not only about survival, but about responsibility. This includes responsibility toward all of its citizens: Jewish, Muslim, Christian, Druze. The diversity of Israeli society is often overlooked, but in moments of crisis, it becomes impossible to ignore. Protection must extend to everyone, without exception.
That is why restrictions on public gatherings were imposed. Not as a political statement, but as a practical necessity. In wartime, large crowds are not just gatherings. They are potential mass casualty events waiting for a single missile.
Yet when Israel extended these restrictions during Ramadan, including closing access to major religious sites, the response was immediate outrage. The accusation was predictable: Religious discrimination. Oppression. A supposed targeting of Muslim worshippers.
The reality was different. The restrictions applied across the board. Muslims were not permitted at the Al-Aqsa Mosque. Christians were not permitted at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Jews were not permitted at the Western Wall or the Mount of Olives. This was not selective enforcement. It was a universal policy driven by security concerns.
But nuance rarely survives in the modern information environment.
Within hours, a simplified narrative took hold. Israel was once again cast as the aggressor, the oppressor, the state that denies religious freedom. The broader context disappeared. The ongoing threat, the indiscriminate nature of incoming attacks, the responsibility to prevent mass casualties, all of it was pushed aside.
Then, almost as if to underline the point, a rocket landed near Jerusalem’s Old City that very same day. It was a stark reminder of what was at stake. Had thousands gathered as they normally would, the consequences could have been devastating.
And yet, even that reality does not shift the narrative.
This is the dilemma Israel faces repeatedly. If it acts to prevent harm, it is accused of repression. If it refrains and harm occurs, it is blamed for negligence. There is no decision that escapes criticism, because the criticism is not rooted in the decision itself. It is rooted in a predetermined judgment against a state run by Jews.
Another example illustrates this pattern with uncomfortable clarity. A toddler was found approaching the Israeli border alone. In any other context, this would be seen for what it is. A child placed in danger, likely as part of a calculated attempt to provoke a reaction.
Israeli soldiers responded not with force, but with care. They ensured the child’s safety, provided food and water, and transferred him to the Red Cross. Evidence showed the child was unharmed at the time of transfer.
Yet the story that followed claimed abuse. Allegations of injuries surfaced, contradicting the available evidence. The facts did not matter. The narrative had already taken shape.
This is not simply misinformation. It is a pattern of interpretation that assumes guilt regardless of evidence.
As Easter approaches, restrictions on religious gatherings once again draw criticism. Clergy voice frustration. Observers condemn the limitations. But the fundamental question remains unanswered: What is the acceptable level of risk? How many lives can be gambled in the name of normalcy?
Israel does not have the luxury of abstract debates. Its decisions carry immediate consequences measured in human lives. That reality forces choices that are imperfect, often unpopular, and always scrutinized.
The tragedy is not only in the conflict itself, but in the inability of much of the world to acknowledge its complexity. Until that changes, Israel will continue to face an impossible standard, one where even its efforts to prevent tragedy are reframed as acts of injustice.
Sabine Sterk is the CEO of Time To Stand Up For Israel.