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American Jews created historic summer camps. Or did summer camps create American Jews?
(JTA) — Among Sandra Fox’s most memorable finds during her years mining American archives for materials about Jewish summer camps was a series of letters about the hours before lights-out.
The letters were by counselors who were documenting an unusual window in the day when they stopped supervising campers, leaving the teens instead to their own devices, which sometimes included romance and sexual exploration.
“It was each division talking about how they dealt with that free time before bed in ‘age-appropriate ways,’” Fox recalled about the letters written by counselors at Camp Ramah in Wisconsin, the original iteration of the Conservative movement’s network of summer camps.
“I’ve spoken to Christian people who work at Christian camps and have researched Christian camps. There is no free time before bed,” Fox told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency. “That’s not a thing if you don’t want kids to hook up. So it was just amazing to find these documents of Camp Ramah leaders really having the conversation explicitly. Most of the romance and sexuality stuff is implicit in the archives.”
The letters are quoted extensively in Fox’s new book, “The Jews of Summer: Summer Camp and Jewish Culture in Postwar America.” Fox, who earned a PhD in history from New York University in 2018 and now teaches and directs the Archive of the American Jewish Left there, tells the story of American Judaism’s most immersive laboratory for constructing identity and contesting values.
Next week, Fox is launching the book with an event at Congregation Beth Elohim in Park Slope, Brooklyn. (Tickets for the Feb. 23 event are available here.) Attendees will be able to tour adult versions of some of the most durable elements of Jewish summer camps, from Israeli dance to Yiddish and Hebrew instruction to Color Wars to Tisha B’Av, the mournful holiday that always falls over the summer.
“I never considered doing a normal book party,” Fox said. “It was always really obvious to me that a book about experiential Jewish education and role play should be celebrated and launched out into the world through experiential education and role play.”
Sandra Fox’s 2023 book “The Jews of Summer,” looks at the history of American Jewish summer camps. (Courtesy of Fox)
We spoke to Fox about her party plans, how Jewish summer camps have changed over time and how they’ve stayed the same, and the cultural history of that before-bed free time.
This interview has been condensed and lightly edited for clarity. We’ll be continuing the conversation in a virtual chat through the YIVO Institute for Jewish Research Feb. 27 at 1 p.m.; register here.
Jewish Telegraphic Agency: Given how much Jews like to talk about camp, were you surprised that this book hadn’t already been written?
Sandra Fox: There’s been a lot of fruitful research on the history of various camps, but it’s usually been focused on one camping movement or one camp type. So there are articles about Zionist camps. There are certainly articles out there about the Ramah camps. A lot of camps have produced books — either their alumni associations or a scholar who went to let’s say, Reform movement camps have created essay collections about those camps. And there are also books about Habonim and other Zionist youth movements.
I don’t really know why this is the first stab at this kind of cross-comparison. It might be that people didn’t think there would be so much to compare. I think the overwhelming feeling I get from readers so far, people who preordered and gotten their books early, is that they’re very surprised to hear how similar these camps are. So perhaps it’s that scholars weren’t thinking about Jewish summer camps that came from such diverse standpoints as having something enough in common to write about them all at once.
Also distance from the time period really helps. You can write a book about — and people do write a book about — the ’60s and ’70s and have been for decades, but there’s a certain amount of distance from the period that has allowed me to do this, I think, and maybe it also helps that I’m generationally removed. A lot of the scholars who’ve worked on camps in the postwar period went to camps in the postwar period. It makes a lot of sense that it would be harder to write this sort of sweeping thing perhaps. The fact that I’m a millennial meant that I could write about the postwar period — and also write kind of an epilogue-style chapter that catches us up to the present.
What’s clear is that there’s something amazing about studying summer camp, a completely immersive 24/7 experience that parents send children away for. There’s no better setting for thinking about how adults project their anxieties and desires about the future onto children. There’s also no place better to think about power dynamics and age and generational tension.
I was definitely struck by the “sameyness” of Jewish camps in your accounting. What do you think we can learn from that, either about camps or about us as Jews?
I do want to say that while there’s a lot of sameyness, whenever you do a comparative study, there’s a risk of kind of collapsing all these things and making them seem too similar. What I’m trying to convey is that the camp leaders from a variety of movements took the basic structure of the summer camp as we know it — its daily schedule, its environment, its activities — and it did look similar from camp to camp, at least on that surface level.
If you look at the daily schedules in comparison, they might have a lot of the same features but they’ll be called slightly different things depending on if the camp leans more heavily towards Hebrew, or Yiddish, or English. But the content within those schedules would be rather different. It’s more that the skeletal structure of camp life has a lot of similarities across the board and then the details within each section of the day or the month had a lot of differences.
But I think what it says is that in the postwar period, the anxieties that Jewish leaders had about the future of Judaism are really, really similar and the solution that they found within the summer camp, they were pretty unanimous about. They just then took the model and inserted within it their particular nationalistic, linguistic or religious perspectives. So I think more so than saying anything about American Jewry, it shows kind of how flexible camping is. And that’s not just the Jewish story. Lots of different Americans have embraced summer camping in different ways.
So many people who have gone to camp have a fixed memory of what camp is like, where it’s caught in time, but you argue that camps have actually undergone lots of change. What are the most striking changes you documented, perhaps ones that might have been hard for even insiders to discern as they happened?
First of all, the Israel-centeredness of American Jewish education as we know it today didn’t happen overnight in 1948, for instance. It was a slower process, beyond the Zionist movements where that was already going on, for decades before 1948. Ramah and the Reform camps for instance took their time towards getting to the heavily Zionist-imbued curricula that we know.
There was considerable confusion and ambivalence at first about what to do with Israel: whether to raise an Israeli flag, not because they were anti-Zionist, but because American Jews had been thinking about proving their loyalty to America for many generations. There were some sources that would talk about — what kind of right do American Jews have to raise the Israeli flag when they’re not Israeli? So that kind of Israel-centeredness that is really a feature of camp life today was a slower process than we might think.
It fit camp life really well because broader American camps used Native American symbols, in some ways that are problematic today, to create what we know of as an iconography of camp life. So for Jews, Israel and its iconography, or Palestine and iconography before ’48, provided an alternative set of options that were read as Jewish, but it still took some time to get to where we are now in terms of the Israel focus.
One of the reasons I place emphasis on the Yiddish summer camps is to show that in the early 20th century and the mid-20th century there was more ideological diversity in the Jewish camping sphere, including various forms of Yiddishist groups and socialist groups and communist groups that operated summer camps. Most of them have closed, and their decline is obviously a change that tells a story of how American Jewry changed over the course of the postwar period. Their legacy is important, too: I have made the argument that these camps in a lot of ways modeled the idea of Yiddish as having a future in America.
What about hookup culture? Contemporary discourse about Jewish camps have focused on sex and sexuality there. What did you observe about this in the archives?
I think people think of the hookup culture of Jewish camps today and certainly in my time in the ’90s and 2000s as a permanent feature, and in some ways I found through my research and oral history interviews that that was the case, but it was really interesting to zoom out a little bit and think about how Jewish summer camps changed in terms of sexual romantic culture, in relationship to how America changed with the sexual revolution and the youth culture.
It’s not it’s not useful to think about Jewish hookup culture in a vacuum. It’s happening within America more broadly. And so of course, it’s changed dramatically over time. And one of the things I learned that was so fascinating is that Jewish summer camps were actually their leaders were less concerned in a lot of ways about sexuality at camp in the ’40s and ’50s, than they were in the late ’60s and ’70s. Because earlier premarital sex was pretty rare, at least in the teenage years, so they were not that concerned about what happened after lights out because they kind of assumed whatever was going on was fairly innocent.
In the late 1960s and 1970s, that’s when camps have to actually think about how to balance allowance and control. They want to allow campers to have these relationships, to have their first sexual experiences, and part of that is related to rising rates of intermarriage and wanting to encourage love between Jews, but they also want to control it because there’s a broader societal moment in which the sexuality of teenagers is problematized and their and their sexual culture is more public.
There’s been a real wave of sustained criticism by former campers about the cultures that they experienced, arguing that the camps created an inappropriately sexualized and unsafe space. There’s been a lot of reaction to that and the broader #MeToo moment. I’m curious about what you can speculate about a future where that space is cleaned up, based on your historical research — what is gained and what, potentially, could be lost?
Without being involved in camping today — and I want to really make that disclaimer because I know a lot of change is happening and lot of organizations are involved to talk about this issue better, to train camps and camp leaders and their counselors to not create a pressured environment for camper — I think what the history shows is that this hookup culture did not come about out of nowhere. It was partly related to the broader changes in America and the sexual revolution.
But it was also partly created because camps really needed to have campers’ buy-in, in order to be “successful.” A huge argument of my book is that we think about the power of camps as if camp directors have campers as, like, puppets on strings, and that what they do is what happens in camp life. But actually, campers have changed the everyday texture of life at camp over the course of the decades in so many different ways by resisting various ideas or just not being interested.
So hookup culture is also part of making campers feel like they have freedom at camp and that’s essential. That’s not a side project — that is essential to their ability to get campers to come back. It’s a financial need, and it’s an ideological need. If you make campers feel like they have freedom, then they will feel like they freely took on the ideologies your camp is promoting in a really natural way.
The last part of it is rising rates of intermarriage. As rates of intermarriage rose in the second half of the 20th century, there’s no doubt in my mind from doing the research that the preexisting culture around sexuality at camp and romance at camp got turbo-boosted [to facilitate relationships that could potentially lead to marriage between two Jews]. At that point, the allowance and control that camp leaders were trying to create for many decades leans maybe more heavily towards allowance.
There are positives to camp environments being a place where campers can explore their sexualities. There’s definitely a lot of conversation about the negative effects and those are all very, very real. I know people who went through horrible things at a camp and I also know people who experienced it as a very sex-positive atmosphere. I know people in my age range who were able to discover that they were gay or lesbian at camp in safety in comparison to home, so it’s not black and white at all. I hope that my chapter on romance and sexuality can maybe add some historical nuance to the conversation and give people a sense of how this actually happened. Because it happened for a whole bunch of reasons.
I think there’s a consensus view that camp is one of the most “successful” things the Jews do. But it’s hard to see where lessons from camp or camp culture are being imported to the rest of Jewish life. I’m curious what you see as kind of the lessons that Jewish institutions or Jewish communities have taken from camp — or have they not done that?
Every single public engagement I do about my work has boiled down to the question of, well, does it work? Does camp work? Is it successful? And that’s been a question that a lot of social scientists have been interested in. I don’t want to oversimplify that research, but a lot of the ways that they’ve measured success have been things that are not necessarily a given to all Jews as obviously the right way to be a Jew. So, for instance, in the ’90s and early 2000s, at the very least, a lot of research was about how, you know, “XYZ” camp and youth movement were successfully curbing intermarriage. A lot of them also asked campers and former campers how they feel about Israel, and it’s always if they are supportive of Israel in very normative ways, right, giving money visiting, supporting Israel or lobbying for its behalf — then camps have been successful.
I’m not interested in whether camps were successful by those metrics. I’m interested in how we got to the idea that camp should be successful in those ways in the first place. How did we get to those kinds of normative assumptions of like, this is a good Jew; a good Jew marries a Jew; a good Jew supports Israel, no matter what. So what I wanted to do is zoom out from that question of success and show how camp actually functions.
And then the question of “does it work” is really up to the reader. To people who believe that curbing intermarriage is the most important thing, then camps have been somewhat successful in the sense that people who go to these heavily educational camps are less likely to marry out of the faith.
But I am more interested in what actually happened at camp. And in terms of their legacies, I wanted to show how they changed various aspects of American Jewish life, and religion and politics. So I was really able to find how camping was essential in making kind of an Israel-centered Jewish education the norm. I was also able to draw a line between these Yiddish camps over the ’60s and ’70s that closed in the ’80s and contemporary Yiddish. The question of success is a real tricky and political one in a way that a lot of people have not talked about.
And is camp also fun? Because you’re creating a camp experience for your book launch next week.
Camp is fun — for a lot of people. Camp was not fun for everyone. And so I do want to play with that ambivalence at the party, and acknowledge that and also acknowledge that some people loved camp when they were younger and have mixed feelings about it now.
The party is not really a celebration of Jewish summer camp. People will be drinking and having fun and dancing — but I want them to be thinking while also about what is going on and why. How is Tisha B’Av [the fast day that commemorates the destruction of the ancient Jewish temple in Jerusalem that falls at the height of summer] commemorated at camp, for example?
Or what songs are we singing and what do they mean? I think a lot of people when they’re little kids, they learn songs in these Jewish summer camps that they can’t understand and later they maybe learn Hebrew and go, whoa, we were singing what?! My example from Zionist summer camp is singing “Ein Li Eretz Acheret,” or “I Have No Other Country.” We were in America and we obviously have another country! I don’t think anyone in my youth movement actually believes the words “Ein Li Eretz Acheret” because we live in America and people tend to kind of like living in America and most of them do not move to Israel.
So at the party we’ll be working through the fun of it, and at the same time the confusion of it and the ambivalence of it. I want it to be fun, and I also want it to be something that causes people to think.
—
The post American Jews created historic summer camps. Or did summer camps create American Jews? appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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Montenegro’s tiny Jewish community navigates uncertain territory as hostility toward Israel increases
(JTA) — PODGORICA, Montenegro — At the entrance to Nikšić, Montenegro’s second-largest city, a vintage fighter jet painted in the colors of the Israeli Air Force perches atop a giant concrete pedestal, as if about to take flight.
The monument, unveiled in 2024, commemorates “Operation Velvetta” — a top-secret plan that ferried 17 Supermarine Spitfire aircraft from Czechoslovakia, via what was then Yugoslavia, to Israel in 1948. The brazen scheme, carried out under the noses of British and Soviet spies, helped ensure the fledgling Jewish state’s military superiority during its War of Independence.
At the monument’s base, a bronze plaque in Serbian, English and Hebrew calls it “a permanent reminder to the unbreakable friendship of Montenegro and Israel.”
Yet lately, that friendship is being tested in ways not seen since Montenegro — smallest of the six republics that once comprised Yugoslavia — declared its independence in 2006.
“Yes, there’s antisemitism here. It’s much better than some other places, but the situation has changed,” said Rabbi Ari Edelkopf, who heads the Religious Jewish Community of Montenegro in Podgorica, the capital. “When I came here, I never believed we’d need 24-hour security. But since Oct. 7, we’ve had Free Gaza marches in all the major cities. My office is following every antisemitic portal here in Montenegro,” he said, referring to websites that report local news. “We’re paying a lawyer to monitor all this.”
A replica of a Supermarine Spitfire fighter jet honors the 1948 “Operation Velvet” in Nikšić, Montenegro — a monument unveiled in 2024 that symbolizes Montenegro’s historic friendship with Israel. (Larry Luxner)
Several recent incidents involving Israeli visitors to this Connecticut-sized country of 625,000, have unnerved the local Jewish community, which numbers fewer than 1,000, even as the capital is on the verge of getting a major new Jewish cultural center set for completion this fall.
In the Adriatic beach resort of Budva, a recent violent brawl between local Montenegrins and some 20 Israeli tourists has triggered alarm among both local Jews and Israeli tourists.
It’s still unclear who or what provoked the incident, which took place after midnight July 12 at a beach bar where the Israelis — 12 men and eight women — had been drinking. Edelkopf said he believed the incident had begun with a personal altercation but escalated when the locals realized the tourists they were sparring with were Israeli.
According to an Israeli government alert about the incident, the locals “shouted ‘Free Palestine’ and ‘F*** Israel’” after learning about the origins of the tourists, who the alert said were not wearing indicators of their national or religious identity.
“Then they came back with a few friends and really beat the hell out of them,” said Edelkopf, a Chabad rabbi who’s originally from Los Angeles and who’s lived in Montenegro for nine years.
“They put out cigarettes on their faces, and threw metal chairs and tables at them. It was horrible and very aggressive,” he said. “Most of the Israelis were injured; one of them had a broken jaw.”
The Israeli government assisted in helping the Israeli tourists expedite their flights out of Montenegro, though one member of the group remained in the country while hospitalized, according to Israel’s National Center for Combating Antisemitism, an initiative of the Diaspora ministry. The ministry’s alert said that police failed to intervene.
Rabbi Ari Edelkopf, a Los Angeles-born Chabad emissary, reads a story about himself in a Podgorica newspaper in April 2026. Edelkopf heads the Religious Jewish Community of Montenegro. (Larry Luxner)
“I am waiting for the Montenegrin government to take action,” Edelkopf told JTA from his Podgorica synagogue, which was previously a private house. “Until now, they have not offered any official response.”
Despite the recent hostilities, the rabbi said, Montenegro has long welcomed Israeli tourists as well as residents. And Jews have been living here for millennia before Yugoslavia existed.
Ruins dating from the 4th century C.E. indicate a flourishing Jewish community in Kotor, not far from Budva along the Adriatic. In fact, one of the country’s most important religious sites is the presumed tomb of Shabbatai Zvi, located in nearby Ulcinj. The 17th-century Jewish false messiah died shortly after his exile there in 1673 by the Ottoman Empire, which ruled much of the present-day Balkans.
While most Montenegrins are Eastern Orthodox Christians, about 20% are Muslims of either Bosnian or Albanian origin. In 1992, after communism collapsed and Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia and Macedonia broke away from the former Yugoslavia, the remaining two republics — Serbia and Montenegro — created the new Federal Republic of Yugoslavia.
In 2006, Montenegro declared independence following a referendum on the issue, and six years later, then-Prime Minister Igor Lukšić granted Judaism recognition as the country’s fourth official religion, alongside the Eastern Orthodox Church, the Catholic Church and Islam.
“The Jews are very well accepted here,” said Nikolla Camaj, vice-president of Montenegro’s parliament and one of five ethnic Albanians in the 81-member body. “Officially we have very good relations with Israel, and people support the idea that Israel must be protected. But there’s a problem because in Montenegro we have a lot of Muslims — Albanians and Bosniaks — and they don’t like what’s happening in Palestine.”
A pro-Palestinian mural painted on the side of a Podgorica apartment building has been the site of multiple pro-Palestinian rallies in Montenegro. (Larry Luxner)
In Podgorica, a huge mural painted on an apartment building two blocks from the municipal bus terminal depicts Gazan refugee children, a slice of watermelon symbolizing the Palestinian resistance, and the declaration “Montenegro Stands With Palestine.”
In early July, Israeli tourists visiting Plav — a resort town near Montenegro’s borders with Kosovo and Albania — were harassed by a local couple, who called the visitors “baby killers.”
That doesn’t surprise Edelkopf at all.
“Local people are being fed articles translated from very strong anti-Israel news outlets,” the rabbi said. “The main TV channels and online portals here are filled with lies and garbage against Israel, and the people have started to believe that Israel is committing genocide.”
Even so, Israeli tourists keep coming. In 2025, according to official figures, 110,249 of them visited Montenegro — up from 73,513 the year before — most of them via direct flights from Tel Aviv. A Facebook group for Israelis planning trips to Montenegro has more than 80,000 members, who swap advice and share photos and tips from their trips.
A citizen of Montenegro beats a pot next to a placard reading “Zionism Is Not Dead Yet, And We Don’t Know When It Will Be” that features a swastika inside a Jewish star during a pro-Palestinian rally in Podgorica, Sept. 14, 2025. (Savo Prelevic / AFP via Getty Images)
Israel has no embassy in this country; instead, it’s represented by Avivit Bar-Ilan, Israel’s resident ambassador in Serbia, who could not be reached for comment.
Montenegro’s few Jews are split between Edelkopf’s traditional Orthodox Jewish synagogue and the local progressive Jewish congregation led by its president, Nina Ofner Bokan.
A computer science engineer, Ofner Bokan, 41, has represented her community since 2020. Last September, she was reelected unanimously for a five-year term. She’s also senior advisor to the president of the Montenegrin parliament, and a vice-president of the World Jewish Congress.
“We feel very protected here, and we have an amazing relationship with all the other religious communities,” Ofner Bokan said. “Over the years, we’ve made strong connections. … Jews can walk with a kippah or a Star of David without any problem.”
Last October the community held its 12th annual Mahar conference in Budva, which featured speeches by several dignitaries including Deputy Prime Minister Budimir Aleksić.
Nina Ofner Bokan, president of the Jewish community of Montenegro, is also vice president of the World Jewish Congress and senior advisor to the president of the Montenegrin Parliament. (Larry Luxner)
“Montenegro is recognized as a country that cherishes diversity, fosters dialogue, and stands as a nation where the Holocaust did not occur and where antisemitism has never had — and will never have — any foundation,” Aleksić assured his audience. “We are proud of that fact.”
Ofner Bokan’s Jewish congregation was founded in 2011, and she is its third president. In November 2024, she and other local Jews held a ceremony to mark the groundbreaking of the first purpose-built synagogue in Montenegrin history. Ar Ashem is slowly taking shape on a donated plot of land fronting Radosava Burića Street, she said, and will be finished in February.
With around 150 active members, the congregation’s spiritual leader is Luciano Moše Prelevic, who, like Edelkopf, claims to be Montenegro’s chief rabbi. The two communities have nothing to do with each other — and that hasn’t changed even with a recent influx of Jews from warring Russia and Ukraine.
“Ours is the one that signed the contract in 2012 with the government recognizing the Jewish community,” said Ofner Bokan, whose parents were from the Serbian city of Novi Sad. “But in public, Jews are not going to talk badly about each other. If we do, then what will other people think?”
A sign at the construction site of Montenegro’s new Jewish cultural center, as seen in April 2026, shows that it is planned for completion in November 2026. (Larry Luxner)
Edelkopf, who with his wife Chana has eight children, spent 17 years in Russia running the Chabad outpost in Sochi. But he was deported in March 2017 after a Russian court determined that he was a “threat to national security” and came directly to Montenegro.
“We are officially the Religious Jewish Community of Montenegro,” he said, while acknowledging deep divisions among the Jews of this relatively tiny country. “We do have things we need to improve, and we are not proud of that.”
One relative newcomer is Tatiana Nirman, who is originally from St. Petersburg, Russia. Soon after the war with Ukraine broke out in February 2022, she moved to Montenegro and now directs cultural programming for the 150 or so Jews she estimates now live in Budva, the resort town where the brawl took place.
“We’re here in Montenegro because it’s a beautiful, comfortable country, and one of the few places we could come on a Russian passport,” said Nirman, 40, who lives in the coastal town with her husband and two children. She adds that about 80% of her programs on art, music, Jewish history and cooking are in the Russian language.
Also living in Budva is Anna Davidi, 51, an Armenian-born Jew whose ancestors were from Iran. During the Nagorno-Karabakh War of the 1990s, Davidi’s family moved to Ukraine, where she studied music in Khmelnytskyi.
She married a Jewish man from Breslov with whom she had a son and daughter, but later divorced and relocated to Montenegro after realizing there was little to keep her in Ukraine.
“What attracted me was Montenegro’s exceptionally clean and beautiful nature, and the high level of tolerance among its people,” said Davidi, who moved here in 2012. “My brother, his wife and I came to Montenegro simply to explore it as a possible place to live. And almost from the moment we arrived, we fell in love.”
A former fashion designer and restaurant owner with a degree in psychology, Davidi landed a job in real-estate upon moving to Montenegro, and now represents an Israeli company involved in land sales. She said she sees both Montenegro and Israel, where she travels regularly to see her children and grandchildren, as important stops on her Jewish journey.
“When I look back, I see that my long road toward Israel has passed through several countries and generations: my ancestors came from Iran; I was born in Armenia; from there I moved to Ukraine; from there I moved to Montenegro,” Davidi recalled. “I hope that my next destination — perhaps the final station on this long journey — will be Jerusalem.”
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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Israeli court delays Ben-Gvir’s plans for an Israeli ‘Crocodile Alcatraz’
(JTA) — An animal welfare group’s appeal to an Israeli court is delaying plans to surround a high security prison for Palestinians with Nile crocodiles.
The proposed 560-foot moat was first floated by far-right National Security Minister Itamar Ben-Gvir in December. If built, it would surround a special wing at Ketziot Prison in southern Israel holding Palestinian security prisoners, including members of Hamas’ Nukhba force who took part in the Oct. 7, 2023, invasion of Israel.
“Anyone who murdered, massacred and raped and behaved like an animal deserves to be guarded by an animal just like them,” a statement from Ben-Gvir’s ministry said at the time.
The project moved forward last month after Environmental Protection Minister Idit Silman reclassified crocodiles from protected wildlife to “tended wild animals,” allowing security agencies to house them at their facilities. Her nod came despite objections from Israel’s Nature and Parks Authority and her ministry’s legal adviser, who said Silman did not have the required legal authority to make the reclassification..
After Silman’s announcement, Ben-Gvir shared an AI-generated image of himself petting a crocodile on a leash alongside the caption, “Are you thinking of attempting to escape? Think again.”
Let the Animals Live, an animal welfare group, petitioned against Silman’s decision. The Jerusalem District Court on Aug. 2 issued a temporary order barring the crocodiles’ transfer. The state has until Aug. 16 to respond.
The petition argues that using crocodiles as prison guards would cause the animals severe suffering, removing them from an environment not amenable to their thriving, and could endanger both the public and the reptiles. Let the Animals Live also contends that Silman lacked the authority to create what amounts to a new legal category for wildlife through a ministerial declaration rather than legislation.
The Israel Nature and Parks Authority said in a statement that there was no sufficient professional basis for using crocodiles at security facilities and warned that the plan posed significant risks to public safety, the environment and the animals’ welfare, including the possibility that the crocodiles could escape.
Ben-Gvir accused the court of siding with terrorists after the injunction was issued. “Once again the legal system is on the side of the terrorists and against the people of Israel,” he wrote on social media.
His ministry has allocated 21 million shekels, about $7 million, for the project, according to Channel 12 News. The plans include provisions for feeding and caring for the crocodiles, as well as specially designed resting areas.
The proposal was inspired by Florida’s “Alligator Alcatraz,” the remote migrant detention center promoted by the Trump administration. Unlike Ben-Gvir’s plan, animals were not brought to the Florida facility or kept as a man-made security barrier. Officials instead pointed to the alligators, crocodiles and pythons already inhabiting the surrounding Everglades as a deterrent to escape. Florida shut down Alligator Alcatraz in June because of difficulties meeting operational costs. It also faced lawsuits.
Senior Israel Prison Service officials visited the Hamat Gader crocodile farm in January to learn how the animals are kept in captivity.
Yosi Mousanejad, the Hamat Gader site’s manager, told Channel 14 that the delegation came “to study” the animals. They appeared not to know that crocodiles are largely inactive during the winter, he said, a factor that could limit their effectiveness as a year-round security measure.
Mousanejad also told the Kan broadcaster that he had no intention of supplying any of the farm’s roughly 200 crocodiles to the prison system.
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
The post Israeli court delays Ben-Gvir’s plans for an Israeli ‘Crocodile Alcatraz’ appeared first on The Forward.
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This Jewish museum is lending art across America — with one condition
Take a stroll through the Cleveland Museum of Art. Look closely in the Korean art galleries, and you will find a Jewish ritual spice container.
Among its collection of Italian Baroque art, you’ll stumble upon a marble Jewish marriage panel.
In the Middle East galleries, 19th-century Torah finials from Tbilisi, Georgia, blend seamlessly with the Islamic art that surrounds them.
Until recently, none of those objects were there. Like many art and history museums across the U.S., Cleveland had almost no Jewish ceremonial art on display. The few that do often display it in separate galleries exclusively reserved for Jewish art.
Now, Cleveland is just one of about a dozen museums across the country participating in a quiet initiative led by New York’s Jewish Museum, which is lending works from its collection to institutions that have little or no Jewish works on view. The Jewish Museum has one condition: don’t put them in a Judaica gallery.
“Jewish culture exists because for 3,500 years it’s been wandering the global diaspora,” said James Snyder, the director of the Jewish Museum, the art museum at the helm of the initiative. “How it looks is a function of its engagement, not its disengagement.”
An Iraqi menorah adorned with peacocks belongs in a Middle East gallery, he argues, where visitors can see that the peacock was a common decorative motif across the region’s art, regardless of religion. A German Torah crown belongs among European decorative arts to tell the story about how, for centuries, Jewish ceremonial silver was largely crafted by non-Jewish silversmiths after Jews were barred from joining silver-making guilds.
20th century. Courtesy of The Jewish Museum
Bill Griswold, the director of the Cleveland Museum of Art, told the Forward that while the museum has had significant collections of Islamic, Christian, Buddhist and Hindu works, it “didn’t have a single important object of Jewish ceremonial art.” This, despite the fact that Cleveland has one of the country’s largest Jewish populations.
At the Toledo Museum of Art, curator Robert Schindler said there was “exactly zero Judaica” there until November 2025, when the museum purchased a rare 12th-century Afghan kiddush cup for $4 million — a record price for Judaica. The Toledo museum also joined the Jewish Museum’s lending initiative; a 13th-century synagogue inscription from Cairo will be displayed in a gallery that intends to compare different world religions.
“It’s a gap in the collection, and it’s a gap in the stories and narratives that we’re telling,” said Schindler. “This is sort of a very active way of trying to reckon with, and also make up for some of the things that we just didn’t collect previously.”
Jewish Museum curator Danny Smith-Salfati calls the partnerships “artistic interventions,” each one tailor-made. Staff from the Jewish Museum work alongside local curators to identify objects that naturally fit within existing galleries. They also train docents on the Jewish significance of the objects and how they fit into the historical narrative of the gallery where they are placed.
Museum directors say the response has been overwhelmingly positive. At the Detroit Institute of Arts, hundreds of visitors have shown up for events dedicated to the viewing of objects that include one of the oldest known Torah shields in the world and a casket from the 15th century adorned with zodiac symbols.
Judith Dolkart, the museum’s deputy director, said the interest has prompted the museum to think seriously about adding Jewish ceremonial art to its permanent collection.
Griswold said the Cleveland museum has welcomed more guests in this calendar year than in recent history, a surge he attributes in large part to interest in the works on loan from the Jewish Museum.
“When I’ve been in the galleries, and these works have been on view, there have been people gathered around these vitrines [glass cases], fascinated to discover something really new in the context of our collection,” he said.
Snyder began his tenure at the Jewish Museum in October 2023, just three weeks after the Oct. 7 attacks on Israel. He found himself navigating a moment of extraordinary tension. Museums across the country are still wrestling with pressure to take a stance on the conflict, confronting challenges such as disputes over public-facing staff members wearing keffiyehs to work and protests and vandalism tied to accusations that museum officials were providing support to Israel during the Gaza War. Jewish museums were not immune to that strife. According to a survey by the Council of American Jewish Museums, 81% of Jewish museums in North America and Europe reported antisemitic or anti-Israel harassment after Oct. 7.
“Museum staff were making statements that were shifting to the left, and shifting to pro-Palestinian, anti-Israeli,” Snyder said. “Museum boards were shifting the other way: pro-Israeli, shocked, horrified, and that was producing conflict in museums … it was in every museum in town.”
Once he took the helm, Snyder created a post-Oct. 7 action plan to help the Jewish Museum navigate the moment, which included a directors’ talk series and an educational program for staff on the Middle East, racism and antisemitism, and exhibits about the traumas of the war. He also thought hard about the museum’s approach to curation, seeking to explicitly draw connections between Jewish objects and the places and cultures in which they developed.
“A culturally specific museum is segregating itself,” he explained. “What you need to do is show that Jewish culture has been in the global diaspora longer than any other single culture for 3,500 years, demonstrating resilience and engagement worldwide.”
Suddenly, Snyder began receiving calls from directors of encyclopedic museums across the country. How could they build a collection of Jewish art and artifacts in their spaces?
His answer was blunt. “You really can’t today,” he told them. Most major Judaica already belongs to museums or private collectors, and when important objects do come to market, private buyers often outbid institutions, he said. Instead, he offered them another solution: borrow from the Jewish Museum.
“Take a dozen from us and don’t put them in a room,” Snyder recalled telling museum directors. “Sprinkle them. Take something from the Italian Renaissance, German Baroque, British Imperial, American Colonial, Asian…”
Smith-Salfati says this initiative fulfills part of the Jewish Museum’s mandate.
“We’re introducing Jewish material and Jewish concepts and Jewish ideas that are not widely known,” he said. “And debunking myths about what Judaism is and looks like.”
Snyder agrees.
“We see part of our job as dispersing Jewish culture across the landscape of our own American diaspora,” Snyder said. “It’s what we feel is our mandate — and one that’s all the more relevant because of the times we’re in.”
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