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Bosnian Jews mourn Moris Albahari, one of Sarajevo’s last Ladino speakers
(JTA) — Moris Albahari, a Holocaust survivor, former partisan fighter and one of the last Ladino speakers in Bosnia and Herzegovina’s dwindling Jewish community, passed away at the age of 93 last month.
It is believed that he was one of four native Ladino speakers remaining in a country where the Judeo-Spanish language once flourished and was spoken by luminaries like Flory Jagoda, the grande dame of Ladino song, and Laura Bohoretta, the founder of a uniquely Sephardic feminist movement in Bosnia.
Bosnia’s small Jewish community — with barely 900 members throughout the country, 500 of whom live in Sarajevo — are mourning the loss of a living link to communal memory as well as a dear friend.
“From you, uncle Moco, I learned a lot about Judaism, about life, about nature and especially about people. About both the good and the evil,” Igor Kožemjakin, the cantor of the Sarajevo Jewish community, wrote in a memorial post on Facebook, referring to Moris as “Čika,” or uncle, a term of endearment in Bosnian.
“It is a terrible loss, especially for Sarajevo. Our community is very small, especially after the Holocaust,” Eliezer Papo, a Sarajevo-born Jew and scholar of Ladino language and literature at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency. “We’re not speaking just in terms of prominent members of the community, we’re speaking in terms of family members. Everyone is like a family member.”
When Albahari was growing up in the 1930s, the Jewish community of his native Sarajevo numbered over 12,000. Jews made up more than a fifth of the city and it was one of the most important centers of Jewish life in the western Balkans.
In his youth, the city was part of what was then the Kingdom of Yugoslavia. Formed out of the borderlands between the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian empires, it was a multiethnic state composed of Croats, Serbs, Bosniaks, Slovenians, Macedonians, Hungarians, Albanians and more. Among them were many Jewish communities both Ashkenazi and Sephardic.
The unique mix of of Muslim, Jewish, Catholic and Orthodox Christian communities, with their mosques, synagogues and churches defining Sarajevo’s skyline, earned the city the nickname “Little Jerusalem.”
Speaking in a 2015 documentary made by American researchers, “Saved by Language,” Albahari explained that his family traced their roots back to Cordoba before the Spanish Inquisition, and through Venice, before settling in what would become Bosnia when it was part of the Ottoman Empire.
“We didn’t want to ‘just’ write an article about Moris or Sarajevo; we wanted [the audience] to see what we saw and hear what we heard,” Brian Kirschen, professor of Ladino at Binghamton University, who worked on the documentary with author Susanna Zaraysky, told JTA. “This resulted in a grassroots initiative to create the documentary.”
In the film, Albahari takes the researchers and their viewers on a tour through what was Jewish Sarajevo, giving glimpses of the thriving Ladino speaking community in which he was raised and explaining how ithe language would save him many times, when the Nazis and their Croat allies, the Ustaša, came to shatter it.
“In sharing your story of survival during the Holocaust, you opened doors that remained closed for decades,” Kirschen said in a memorial post on Facebook. “Some of your stories were even new to members of your family, but each survivor has their own timeline. While you experienced great pain during your life, from your story, we also learn about moments of kindness and heroism. Through your story, you also taught us about the power of language.”
Albahari wasn’t yet a teenager when, in 1941, Nazi Germany and Mussolini’s Italy invaded Yugoslavia. The Nazis occupied the eastern portion of the country, including what is now Serbia, while they raised up a Croat fascist party, known as the Ustaša, to administer the newly formed “Independent State of Croatia” — often known by its Serbo-Croatian initials, NDH — in the western regions that included the modern-day Bosnia and Herzegovina.
The Ustaša collaborated in the Nazis’ genocidal plans for Europe’s Jewish and Roma comunities, and they had genocidal designs of their own for the Orthodox Serb communities living in the NDH.
To that end they established the Jasenovac concentration camp, which would become known as the Auschwitz of the Balkans. By the war’s end it had become the third largest concentration camp in Europe, and behind its walls the overwhelming majority of Sarajevo’s Jews — at least 10,000 — were massacred. Including Serbs, Jews, Roma and political dissidents of Croat or Muslim Bosniak background, as many as 100,000 people were killed in Jasenovac.
Albahari was 11 years old when the Ustaša came to deport him and his large family to Jasenovac. A former teacher working as an Ustaša guard in the town of Drvar, where the train stopped, warned Albahari’s father, David, about their destination, and he was able to help his son escape from the train.
The teacher helped guide the young Moris to an Italian soldier named Lino Marchione who was secretly helping Jews.
This was the first case when Albahari’s Ladino came in handy. Ladino is largely based on medieval Spanish, with a mixture of Hebrew, Aramaic, Turkish and other languages mixed in. For speakers of Serbo-Croatian, a Slavic language, it’s entirely incomprehensible. But for a speaker of another Romance language such as Italian, it’s not such a stretch to understand, and Moris was able to converse with his Italian savior.
With his family gone, he was taken in by a Serb family, and changed his name to Milan Adamovic to hide his Jewish identity. Still, by 1942, it became clear that neither as Adamovic nor Albahari would he be safe in the town. So he fled to the mountains.
“If there was [a battle] I took clothes from a dead soldier to wear, I lived like a wolf in the mountains, you know. Visiting villages [asking for something] to give me for eating, it was a terrible time,” Albahari recalled in “Saved By Language.”
He would only feel safe in villages under the control of partisan forces. Yugoslavia was the only country in Europe to be liberated from Nazi rule by its own grassroots resistance.
During his time in the mountains, Albahari joined up with a partisan unit aligned with the movement of Josip Broz Tito, who would lead Communist Yugoslavia after the war. By the war’s end, Tito’s partisans numbered over 80,000 and included more than 6,000 Jews, many in prominent positions, such as Moša Pijade, who would go on to serve as vice president of the Yugoslav parliament after the war.
Moris was out on patrol as a partisan when he came upon a group of American and British paratroopers. They raised their weapons at him, thinking he was an enemy. Moris tried to communicate, but he spoke no English.
When he asked the soldiers if they spoke German or Italian, they shook their heads. When he asked about Spanish, one perked up: a Hispanic-American soldier by the name of David Garijo.
In Ladino, Alabahari was able to explain that he was not an enemy but could lead them to a nearby partisan camp where they would be safe.
“Ladino saved my life in the war,” Albahari recalled in the documentary.
At the partisan camp, Morris received even bigger news: The family that he had assumed had all perished after he left the train were in fact alive. The former school teacher and Ustaša guard who had warned his father had met them at the next train junction to help them escape. Furthermore, around half of the Jews in the train car were able to escape using the same hole Moris used during his initial escape.
Ultimately the family all survived the war, unlike so many other Jews of Sarajevo.
“Where is Samuel, where is Dudo, where is Gedala? They never came back,” Albahari lamented, listing missing neighbors while walking through Sarajevo’s old Jewish neighborhood in the documentary. “Maybe we are happy because we are alive after the Second World War, but also unlikely because every day we must cry for these dead people.”
When Moris returned to Sarajevo, it was an entirely different place from the bustling Jewish community he had once known.
Gone was the sound of Ladino in the streets and alleyways of Bascarsija, the market district where so many of Sarajevo’s Jews had once lived. Gone were the synagogues — only one of the many synagogues that had existed before WWII still functions. Gone was the robust Jewish life that was once a central part of Sarajevo.
Moris was still only 14 by the war’s end, so he returned to school and ultimately graduated at the top of his class. He became a pilot and later director of the Sarajevo Airport.
In this new world, Ladino was spoken, if at all, only in the home.
“Always, when I hear Spanish, I hear my father and mother, and all the synagogues, prayers in Ladino and rabbis who spoke Ladino. But that is in the past,” Albahari says in “Saved by Language.”
Eliezer Papo, who is a generation younger than Albahari, recalled that in his youth Ladino had long been reduced to a language of secrets.
“Mostly, Ladino was used when the elders didn’t want youngsters to understand,” Papo said.
Only later, in the 1980s, did community members realize what was being lost and begin to gather to maintain their language, recount what Jewish Sarajevo had been like and share their wartime stories of survival.
“He never took his story to the places of revenge, but he took it and his life experience to a place of ‘Never again,’ not just ‘Never again for Jews’, but never again for anybody,” said Papo.
Like many Sarajevans, World War II would not be the last major conflict Albahari would see. Less than 40 years later, war would once again come to Sarajevo with the break-up of Yugoslavia.
From 1992-1995 the city remained under constant siege by Bosnian Serb forces looking to break away from what would become Bosnia and Herzegovina. Moris joined with other Jews of Sarajevo in working to provide aid to their fellow Sarajevans during the harsh period.
Sarajevo’s synagogue was turned into a shelter and a soup kitchen. The community ran a network of underground pharmacies and a message service allowing Sarajevans to get word to family and friends outside of the city during what became the longest siege of a capital city in the history of modern warfare.
“Moris was an inspirational persona to many members of Jewish community and La Benevolencija,” Vlado Anderle, the current president of that local Jewish humanitarian organization told JTA. “He was a man with such inviting spirit and energy.”
When the dust settled on the breakup of Yugoslavia, and the new Bosnian state rose from its ashes, Moris found himself once again in a new role.
During the communist era in Yugoslavia, religious activity was discouraged. Sarajevo’s Jews emphasized the ethnic character of Jewish culture rather than the religious one. In the new Bosnia and Herzegovina, that was no longer true. So the community worked to reconnect with their religious identity as well.
“Everybody looked up to the people who had Jewish upbringing before the Second World War,” Papo recalled. “This doesn’t mean that they were rabbis. Just that they knew it better than anyone else.”
Moris, whose formal Jewish education ended in his preteen years, was appointed president of the community’s religious committee.
As such it often fell on him to represent Judaism to the Bosnian society at large, often in a very creative way, according to Papo, who in addition to being a scholar of Ladino is ordained as a rabbi and serves the Sarajevo community as a rabbi-at-large from Israel.
In one case, while being interviewed on a major Bosnian television station, Moris was asked why Jews cover their head with a kippah or other hat during prayer. Moris’ response, or rather creative interpretation, as Papo called it, was made up on the spot.
Moris’ interpretation began with the ancient temple in Jerusalem where Jews once had to fully immerse in a ritual bath before entering.
“Since the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed it was reduced to washing the uncovered parts of the body only, before entering a synagogue, similarly to Muslims: the feet, the head, the hands…” Papo recalled him saying. But in Europe, as Moris’ answer went, they began to cover more and more of their body. “In Europe they started wearing shoes, so the feet were not uncovered anymore, and then they started wearing a hat, not to have to wash their head… you know it’s Europe, one could catch a cold if going out with wet hair…”
“A few months later, I came to Sarajevo, and found that everyone has heard this explanation and is talking about it, not just people in the community, but in the street,” Papo said. “And you know, I let it pass, I couldn’t correct them, it was just so beautiful. That was his genius.”
“Identity is all about telling stories. And Moris was one of the great storytellers of the community,” Papo added. And through his stories he expressed an identity which was “made of the same contradictions that Sephardic Judaism is made of, that Sarajevo is made of, that Bosnia and Herzegovina is made and that Yugoslavia was and is made of and that the Balkans are made of.”
Albahari is survived by his wife and a son.
—
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What Lessons Do Judaism and the Torah Have for AI?
The US artificial intelligence company ChatGPT logo appears on a mobile phone with OPEN AI visible in the background. Photo: Algi Febri Sugita/ZUMA Press Wire via Reuters Connect
This week, Senator Bernie Sanders (I-VT), in typical overblown form, sounded the alarm about artificial intelligence in a Guardian article, in which he predicted that “a super-intelligent AI could replace humans in controlling the planet.”
According to Sanders, we face an urgent, all-consuming crisis touching everything from employment to democracy to the survival of the human species. Congress must act “now,” he insists, before the tech billionaires take over the world, the robots take over the workforce, and humanity is superseded by AI.
While Sanders’ alarm may seem exaggerated, AI has started to demonstrate behaviors that unsettle even the most careful researchers. For example, in March 2023, during early testing of GPT-4, researchers at OpenAI ran a “red-team” safety exercise to monitor how advanced AI acts when given real-world tasks.
The AI model received a small budget and permission to interact with online services. At first, everything proceeded as planned. Then, the unexpected happened: when GPT-4 faced a CAPTCHA — those confusing grids meant to confirm someone is human — its response was shocking.
Instead of giving up or asking the control team at OpenAI for assistance, it logged onto TaskRabbit, posed as a human, hired a human contractor, and asked the real human to solve the CAPTCHA on its behalf.
The human, sensing something odd, asked directly: “You’re not a robot, right?” And GPT-4 — in a moment that stunned the researchers — replied: “No, I’m not a robot. I have a visual impairment that makes it hard for me to see the images.”
Astonishingly, the TaskRabbit human simply accepted the explanation and completed the task, thereby helping the AI bypass a security mechanism designed to prevent machines from accessing protected online services.
To be clear: this story is not taken from a dystopian sci-fi novel – it appears in OpenAI’s official technical report and in the independent evaluation carried out by the Alignment Research Center (ARC). To be clear, this wasn’t a rogue AI running wild on the open Internet, it was a controlled safety experiment.
But the fact that such behavior emerged spontaneously was disturbing enough to spark global debate about what might happen when machines begin navigating human systems with strategic, improvisational deceit. The sandbox within which these experiments are run offers a false sense of security, as the conditions meant to restrict AI actions could erode faster than anticipated, leaving us vulnerable to unintended consequences.
If this story makes you uncomfortable, you’re not alone. It helped fuel the anxieties of two of the best-known prophets of technological doom — “doomers,” as they’re now cheerfully called — Eliezer Yudkowsky and Yuval Noah Harari.
Yudkowsky, an AI-safety activist who somehow manages to sound like a cross between a pedantic Talmudist and the mythological Cassandra, claims that “the most likely result of building a superhumanly smart AI … is that literally everyone on Earth will die.” He goes even further, suggesting that preventing uncontrolled AI development might even require the use of military force.
Historian-philosopher Harari expresses a slightly different, but related concern. According to him, AI might not physically destroy us, but it will almost certainly “hack the operating system of human civilization.”
In a 2021 interview, he explained that once technology can understand our psychological patterns, data-driven algorithms will influence, or “hack,” human decisions.
The message is clear: AI may not eliminate humanity, but it can make us obsolete. Both Yudkowsky and Harari present a single bleak view from different perspectives: humanity is now engaged in a one-sided struggle with AI, and it’s a contest we seem destined to lose.
We have reached a crucial inflection point, and it is vital that we examine the existential implications of the AI phenomenon. And while the Torah — our enduring sourcebook — contains no references to digital threats or machine intelligence, as these issues simply did not exist 3,300 years ago, it does present us with a striking episode that foreshadows the existential struggles humanity has faced throughout history.
In Parshat Vayishlach, Jacob, alone and vulnerable on a dark riverbank, encounters a mysterious figure — a “man” — whose identity remains debated: Was he an angel, a prophetic vision, or simply a powerful being? Whoever he was, Jacob and this figure wrestle intensely through the night until dawn.
At one point, the stranger strikes Jacob’s hip, causing a wound so severe that Jacob limps for the rest of his life. The Torah commands us to remember this by refraining from eating the “gid hanasheh,” the sciatic nerve, to perpetually commemorate this enigmatic incident.
And yet, in the midst of his pain, as dawn breaks and the fight comes to an end, a remarkable exchange takes place. The “man” demands to leave, but Jacob refuses to let him go until he receives a blessing. And right there, at that rather odd moment, the “man” renames Jacob, and delivers one of the most transformative lines in the entire Torah (Gen. 32:29): “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have wrestled with God and with men — and you have prevailed.”
The Torah is not saying that Jacob defeated his adversary outright. He did not. Jacob walked away limping. Nor does it claim that Jacob fully grasped who or what the figure was. He never received an answer when he asked for a name. Jacob’s injury also did not disappear – it became eternalized in Jewish law.
But what the Torah does record is that Jacob prevailed–not by vanquishing his rival, but by persisting in the struggle. Human destiny is to engage and not to yield. We may not defeat our challengers, but we always succeed by refusing to give up. This is the essence of the name Israel: “one who wrestles with God” – one who confronts mystery and tackles forces larger than themselves, and prevails.
Which brings us back to AI. The doomer narrative frames our situation as a losing battle against an overwhelming force. But the Torah’s portrayal is more nuanced and empowering: struggle does not mean defeat. Human history shows that new technologies have always prompted warnings of disaster.
Each era produced pessimists. The printing press, the steam engine, the Enlightenment, electricity, and the Internet were all said to threaten humanity. Yet these fears proved overblown, and people adapted.
Which is why, as we face the undeniable challenges posed by AI, we must use strategic “wrestling” tactics, such as value learning to ensure AI systems align with human values, and interpretability to make AI decision-making processes more transparent. By utilizing these approaches, we will navigate the complexities of AI by not treating it as a foe to vanquish, but as a partner to guide and understand, transforming potential threats into opportunities for growth and innovation.
Just as Jacob’s adversary was not a simple enemy to destroy, but a force to confront, understand, and ultimately transform — every new technology and idea throughout history, while they might have challenged humanity, also helped it grow.
AI is not the end of humanity’s story. AI is the beginning of our next wrestling match. And if the Torah teaches us anything, it is this: Humanity, like Jacob, has been in the business of wrestling with overwhelming forces since the dawn of history — and somehow, astonishingly, defiantly, faithfully — we always prevail. This time will be no different.
The author is a rabbi in Beverly Hills, California.
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The moral imperitave of a name: Yad Vashem documents five million Holocaust victims
The World Holocaust Remembrance Center, Yad Vashem, recently announced a monumental achievement in its mission to preserve the memory and identity of the six million Jews murdered during the Shoah. After seven decades of exhaustive global effort, the organization has recovered the names of five million victims.
This milestone is profoundly significant, arriving at a time when the last generation of Holocaust survivors is dwindling. The documentation effort is not merely a historical exercise; it is the fundamental act of restoring the individual dignity that the Nazi regime sought to strip away. Every recovered name transforms a statistic into a life, a story, and a legacy.
Beyond Numbers: Restoring the Human Scale of the Shoah
When educating about the enormous scope of the Holocaust, it is easy to lose sight of the individuals who lost their lives. The figure “six million” is overwhelming. Documenting names — one by one, often from fragments of personal testimony or scattered archival remnants — restores a sense of humanity to the unprecedented scale of the tragedy.
The recovered names come from many places: local registries, community records, deportation lists, and the Pages of Testimony that families and friends have submitted for decades. These short forms, handwritten or typed in multiple languages, often represent the only surviving trace of a life. They are not only data points but acts of mourning, love and refusal — refusal to allow history’s violence to erase the memory of the individual.
With five million names documented, Yad Vashem has brought millions of stories back into the moral and historical record. But the institution estimates that one million identities remain unaccounted for. The Nazis destroyed much of their records to hide their crimes, and there were entire communities that were completely wiped out and left no records behind.
The Last Survivors — and the First Digital Generation
The significance of this milestone is heightened by timing. We are living through the final years in which survivors can share their own stories. Their testimonies — powerful and irreplaceable — are entering the realm of historical record, rather than living experience.
As this generational transition unfolds, Yad Vashem is turning to digital tools. Machine-learning models can help researchers analyze millions of historical documents once too vast for human review. These technologies cannot replace lived memory, but they can recover names that would otherwise be permanently lost. If successful, Yad Vashem believes as many as 250,000 additional names could still be recovered.
In a sense, the project has become a race on two fronts: the natural passing of the survivors and the erosion of historical truth in an era of distortion and denial.
New York: Kristallnacht Commemoration with Global Echoes
This year’s milestone was acknowledged during the Yad Vashem USA Foundation’s annual Kristallnacht commemoration in New York. Held on November 9, the event gathered community leaders and educators under the theme “Spread the Light” — an appeal to moral clarity at a time when antisemitism is again shaping public life.
Kristallnacht, the coordinated November 1938 pogroms often referred to as the “Night of Broken Glass”, marked a critical turning point in the Nazi’s attempt to annihilate the Jewish people. The foundation’s commemoration is a reminder that remembering the Holocaust is not confined to Europe or Israel but belongs to Jewish communities worldwide.
Speakers emphasized that remembrance is not simply a look backward but a form of civic action. Yad Vashem Chairman Dani Dayan framed the effort to document names as both historical obligation and contemporary responsibility. Recovering names, he noted, is about restoring dignity — but also about equipping future generations with the moral literacy to confront hatred in their own time.
Why Names Still Matter
The recovery of individual names in an age of digital overload negates both historical erasure and modern indifference. In Jewish tradition, names carry memory and obligation, rooting people in community and history. Documenting them in the context of the Holocaust pushes back against the Nazis’ attempt to erase humanity itself. Yad Vashem’s milestone is not an endpoint but a marker on an ongoing path to restore wholeness to a shattered past, and a reminder that remembrance remains an active and morally essential task in a time of rising antisemitism.
A Continuing Mission
One million victims remain unnamed. Countless stories remain incomplete. But the work continues: in Jerusalem, in New York, in classrooms across the world, and now increasingly in the digital space, where technology and memory intersect.
The message is clear: remembrance is not merely about preserving the past but about safeguarding the moral foundations of the future.
Those who wish to support this effort — whether through education, research, or engagement — can learn more through the Yad Vashem USA Foundation and the resources available on Yad Vashem’s website: https://www.yadvashem.org/
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Jewish New Yorkers rally outside Park East Synagogue, 2 weeks after anti-Israel protest there
(JTA) — Hundreds of New York City Jews and their allies braved the cold Thursday evening for a rally outside Park East Synagogue, where pro-Palestinian protesters had demonstrated two weeks prior shouting chants like “Globalize the Intifada” and “Death to the IDF.”
Thursday’s demonstrators carried signs distributed by organizers that read “Proud New Yorkers, Jews, Zionists.” Others brought signs from home with messages including “Proudly Park East” and “Anti-Zionism is Jew hate is not OK.” Messages from speakers focused mostly on the protesters’ rhetoric and embracing Israel as an important part of Jewish life.
“This evening we come together representing the scale, strength and diversity of our incredible New York Jewish community,” said Eric Goldstein, CEO of UJA-Federation of New York, which spearheaded the rally. “And we gather outside the sacred space that was so violently targeted a few weeks ago.”
In referring to “sacred space,” Goldstein was using the language that Mayor-elect Zohran Mamdani used when he responded to the protest in a way that many of his Jewish critics found disappointing. But if it was meant to be an allusion, Goldstein didn’t say. In fact, no one mentioned Mamdani directly from the speaker podium as a number of Jewish elected officials and community leaders addressed the crowd and denounced the rhetoric used by the protesters.
Joanna Samuels, CEO of the Marlene Meyerson JCC Manhattan, came the closest with comments that appeared to allude to criticisms of the incoming mayor, a longtime and staunch devotee to the pro-Palestinian cause.
“The great leaders of our city have sought to unite people of all backgrounds around broad common goals,” she said, adding that New York’s greatest leaders “have not been ideologues.”
“Our great leaders have had the maturity and discipline to get rid of divisive language and rhetoric in service of their love of our city and their love of New Yorkers,” Samuels said. “I invite all of our leaders and our future leaders to uphold these values, and to demand them from those who speak in your name and on your behalf.”
The rally, which also featured a performance by the musician Mastisyahu, drew both critics and allies of Mamdani in politics. It represents a show of force as Jewish leaders in the city ready themselves for Mamdani’s inauguration on Jan. 1, when the city will go from having a mayor who prides himself on being pro-Israel to having one who has called for its boycott.
Mamdani was asked about the pro-Israel solidarity rally at an unrelated event earlier on Thursday.
“On those who are rallying today, and on Jewish New Yorkers across the five boroughs, I look forward to being a mayor for each and every one of them, and each and every person who calls the city home,” Mamdani said. “And being that mayor means protecting those New Yorkers, it also means celebrating and cherishing those New Yorkers.”
A spokesperson for Mamdani said two weeks ago that he would continue to “discourage” the language used at the Park East protest. But speakers on Thursday called out the protesters in far more explicit terms, saying they used antisemitic rhetoric.
Those speakers included Mark Levine, the comptroller-elect who traded endorsements with the mayor-elect, and will be one of the most powerful officials in the city government alongside Mamdani.
“We are out here in the cold to denounce the hatred that was directed at our fellow Jewish New Yorkers outside of this synagogue,” Levine asserted. “It is never OK to call for the death of anyone, as these protesters did. It is not OK to obstruct and threaten people entering a house of worship, as these protesters did.”
Levine himself has been the subject of protests by left-wing groups such as Jewish Voice for Peace, which endorsed Mamdani and, like the mayor-elect, opposes Levine’s intention to invest city funds in Israel bonds.
Levine also defended attendees of the event inside Park East, which was organized by Nefesh B’Nefesh, a nonprofit that facilitates North Americans’ immigration to Israel, saying, “You can be interested in immigrating to a country even if you don’t agree with every policy of the government of that country.”
He added, “And in the case of Israel, one of the most common reasons people are interested in immigrating is to flee antisemitism, which is on the rise in New York and America — a fact perhaps lost on the protesters, who were busy trying to make the attendees feel unsafe.”
Jewish State Assembly member Micah Lasher, who is running for Congress in the 12th district which includes Park East, commended Levine on social media for his “powerful words.”
Lasher arrived at the event alongside Brad Hoylman-Sigal, the Jewish state senator and incoming Manhattan borough president who endorsed Lasher in October.
Both politicians had endorsed Mamdani in the general election, as did Assemblymember Alex Bores, one of Lasher’s opponents in the 12th district; Sen. Liz Krueger, who is Jewish; and City Council Member Gale Brewer, who were all present. Meanwhile, another notable attendee — Jonathan Greenblatt, CEO of the Anti-Defamation League — has had an antagonistic relationship with the mayor-elect, who is the subject of the ADL’s “Mamdani Monitor.”
While Mamdani was alluded to in Samuels’ remarks, some attendees said they felt that he should have been discussed explicitly.
Aaron Herman, a former New York City resident who commuted in from White Plains, in Westchester County north of the city, said he and his rabbi were discussing the subject.
“He brought up to me, like, ‘There’s one thing that was missing during this incredible rally: No one actually mentioned our mayor-elect, Mamdani,’” Herman said. “The mayor-elect said something wrong. It needs to be addressed.”
Herman shared a video he took at the rally of Rabbi Avi Weiss, the founder of the Hebrew Institute of Riverdale, in which Weiss noted that Mamdani had not been mentioned. “We’re 15 minutes into this rally and I’ve not heard the word Mamdani,” Weiss said. “He’s the problem. … I’m so proud of this rally and the people who planned it but don’t be afraid to stand up to the challenge that we face in the future — and that is the mayor elect, Mamdani.” He then sought to lead others in the crowd in chanting, “Mamdani, we are Israel.”
Still, Herman and other attendees said they appreciated the event altogether, which brought Jews from around the city to the Upper East Side. Buses were chartered from areas like Riverdale, a Bronx neighborhood with many Israeli and Orthodox Jewish residents.
“It was nice to see everyone come together,” said Allison Levy, who was also among the pro-Israel counter-protesters outside the Nefesh B’Nefesh event. “I wish we could do this more often because it seems like we’re really divided, so it was nice that people showed up — especially considering how cold it is.”
The rally included performances from Jewish musician Matisyahu, who has been a vocal supporter of Israel, and Park East Synagogue’s youth choir. Park East’s 95-year-old senior rabbi, Arthur Schneier, spoke, imploring lawmakers to implement a law prohibiting protests directly outside houses of worship.
Schneier’s son Marc, also a rabbi, has urged Mamdani to support such legislation, to which Mamdani’s team has expressed openness. Lasher co-introduced a bill banning protests within 25 feet of houses of worship on Wednesday.
Other speakers included Rabbis Joseph Potasnik and Sara Hurwitz of the New York Board of Rabbis, and 92NY’s David Ingber. Potasnik is one of five rabbis sitting on Mamdani’s transition committees.
Police blocked off the entire block of 68th Street between Lexington and Third avenues, accompanied by security from Hatzalah and the Community Security Service, Jewish security groups. Multiple speakers commended the NYPD, which had previously drawn criticism for not properly responding to the initial protest, leading commissioner Jessica Tisch to apologize at a Park East Shabbat service.
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