Uncategorized
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.
—
The post Bosnian Jews mourn Moris Albahari, one of Sarajevo’s last Ladino speakers appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
Uncategorized
Four seasons in five sonnets
אָסיען
דאָס צאַרטע ביימל צערטלדיק
צעוויגט זיך אויפֿן ווינט
שוין לאַנג אין אירע בלעטעלעך
קיין זומערפֿרייד מער ניט גרינט
די בלעטלעך טאַנצן גאָלדענע
צום טאַקט פֿון לופֿט וואָס רינט
פֿון קאַנטן פֿון פֿאַרוואָלקנטע
מיט קילקייטס שטאַרן דין
די בלעטעלעך, די בלעטעלעך
זיי מאָנען גאָרניט כּלל
בלויז פֿאַרן סוף קאָקעטעלעך
זיי טענצלען מיט אַ שטראַל
אַזוי עס קלאַפּט אַ הערצעלע
וואָס ווערט פֿון אַלטקייט יונג
אַזוי דאָס לידל ס׳לעצטיקע
קלאָר לייגט זיך אויף דער צונג
און מיטן ווינטל פֿרישינקן
צעזינגט זיך פֿראַנק־און־פֿרײַ
בלײַב, וועלטל מײַנס, פאַֿרכּישופֿטע,
געזונט, אַדיאָ, גוד־בײַ
2021
•
ווינטער
ביים גיין פֿאַרביי דעם אַלטן וואַלד
דערשפּירסטו: אים איז ביטער קאַלט:
די צווײַגן ציטערן פֿאַר קעלט,
די שטאַמען בייגן זיך פֿאַרקוועלט.
און אַלע חיות פּלוצים אָפּ,
און פֿייגל אַלע ווי אָן קאָפּ.
מערניט א שפּערל שפּרינגט זיך דרייסט…
ווי קומט ער גאָר פֿון שטאָט? ווער ווייסט…
גיסטו דעם שפּערל גלײַך אַ וווּנק:
„דער וואַלד איז אַלט און דו ביסט יונג!“
נאָר ער גאָר מאַכט זיך קעלאָיאָד,
אויף דרערד אַלץ שפּרינגט ער, נישטערט דאָרט…
דו קלערסט בײַם גיין פֿאַרביי דעם וואַלד:
זאָל עקן זיך דער ווינטער באַלד!
2018
•
צישן סוף און אָנהייב
דו ווייסט, דער ווינטער וועט פֿאַרגיין
באַלד
און אַלץ באַנײַט זיך: פֿעלד. בוים, שטיין,
וואַלד
און ס׳נעמט אַלץ שפּיגלען זיך אין דיר —
בלום
און בין, און פֿייגל אָן אַ שיעור, —
קום,
שטיי אויף פֿון ווינטער דרעמל און
שײַן!
אַוועק עס וועט פֿון אונטער זון
פּײַן,
דײַן שמייכל ווידער — פֿרײַ און יונג
שפּרייט
די פליגל איבער קינד־און־קייט
ברייט,
דײַן גאָב איז גרויס, און מײַן געזאַנג —
קלאַנג
טויכט אויף, אין יעדן אות געפֿאַנגט —
דאַנק
2019
•
פֿרילינג
די צאַרטע גרינקייט
פֿון ערשטע בלעטלעך
קומט שטענדיק
ניט צו פֿרי,
ניט שפּעטלעך.
ס׳קומט תּמיד ממש
צו דער צײַט
און גרינג,
פֿון בייזע פֿרעסט
באַפרײַט
ס׳הייבט אָן
די גרויסע פֿרייד
צו שוועבן
ווײַל ס׳ווערט באַנײַט
דאָס גרינע לעבן
פֿאַרקוואַרטע ביימער
ווערן לײַט
2024
•
דער זומער איז אַן עקשן
דער זומער איז אַן עקשן, ער וויל ניט, וויל ניט קומען
הגם אויף בייטן וואַקסן צעקווייטיקט שוין די בלומען
הגם די ביימער אויכעט זיך שאָקלען שטאַרק צעגרינטע
דער זומער איז זיי חושד, וויל זיך פֿון דאַן אַהין טאָן
וואוהין אַהין? — טוסט פֿרעגן און ס׳ענטפֿערן די ווינטן:
צו סאַמע קוואַל פֿון רעגן, צום וויכערס אורקוואַל בלינדן…
דער זומער זיך פֿאַרטײַעט, ער וויל זיך ניט צעבליִען
פֿאַרציטערט מענטש און חיה באַלד גרייט פֿאַר אים זיך מיִען
נאָר ער טוט אַלץ זיך הײַען, מיט שטראַלן טוט ניט בריִען
דער פֿרילינג שוין פֿאַרבײַ איז און נאַט אײַך — אָסיען פֿריִער!
פֿאַרחושכט גרינע וועלדער מיט פּוסטע שטעט און שטעטלעך —
בײַ גרויע שטיינער עלנטע, נעפּלדיק פּאַנדעמלעך…
נאָר ער, ער מוז דאָך קומען, אָנקומען סוף־כּל־סוף און
צעקושן זיך מיט בלומען, אויסהיילן גרויל מיט האָפֿונג
ווײַל ניט אומזיסט די ביימער צעגרינטע זיך צעוויגן —
אָט־אָט מיט טויזנט חנען צעוויקלט זיך זײַן ניגון!..
דערווײַל זשע בלאָזן ווינטן, צעיושעט זיך דער רעגן
בעת דער פּאַנדעמער ווינטער וויל מערן זײַן פֿאַרמעגן
2020
•
פֿיר צײַטן פֿון אַ גאַנץ יאָר
ס׳טוט דער פֿרילינג אַלץ זיך בעטן
ביז אין ווינטער נעכט אין שפּעטע
„פֿעלט־וועלט־וואַלד, רק ניט פֿאַרגעסט מיך —
ס׳איז ניט סתּם וואָס כ׳הייס אויך — וועסנע!..“
און דער לאַנגער, כמורנער אָסיען —
רײַסט אַראָפּ אַלץ, דרעשעט, קאָסיעט…
מ׳רופֿט אים ניט אומזיסט אויך האַרבסט, —
ר׳סטראַשעט דעם ווינטער: ״אויך דו, שטאַרבסט!״
און דער שטרענגער, שאַרפֿער ווינטער
ווייסט שוין ניט וואו ר׳זאָל אַהינטער
צי פֿון וואַנעט ר׳זאָל אַרויסעט,
ווײַל ער האָט מער ניט קיין עתיד.
שיקט ער ליבע־בריוו דעם זומער,
נאָר פֿון היץ ווערט יענער — שטומער —
ביז די פֿייגל בויען נעסטן
לשם וועסנע, לשם וועסנע…
2017
•
פֿינעף סאָנעטן
1. און אפֿשר האׇט ער רעכט
און אפֿשר איז גערעכט דער מעכטיקער פּאָעט:
דער עכטיקער איז ער, די איבעריקע זאַנען
אַן ערבֿ־רבֿ פֿון שטיקלעך גראַפֿאָמאַנען
בעת ער באַשאַפֿט פֿון טאָיוּ־וואָיוּ אַ סאָנעט?
און אפשר האָט ער רעכט, דער מײַסטער פוֿן קופּלעט,
וואָס דויערט, ברויזט און קלינגט איבער אַ טויזנט ימען,
בלויז ער, רק ער אַליין לסוף געווינען וועט
די קרוין די איינציקע פֿון ליד דעם סאַמע־סאַמע?
נו יאָ, ווער ווייסט, ווער קאָן דאָס משפּטן אַצינד,
צווישן אַפּנים, מעגלעך, אפֿשר און מסתמא,
צי וועט דען איבערבלײַבן מיטן גײַסט פֿון ווינט
דער וועלטבאַשאַף פֿון ניסימדיקע גראַמען?
טאָ וואָס זשע דען? — מערניט, אַ שטילער עפּיטאַף:
אין ליד זײַנס חנדלט זיך אויך פּראָסטער ערבֿ־רבֿ
2017
•
2. „לידער, לידער, לידערליי“
אַ לידער־קלעטער, צי אַ לידער־פֿלי
צו־מאָל אין שפּעטסטער שפּעט
ווען ס׳ווערט שוין גראָד גאַנצפֿרי
צו־מאָל אינמיטן גאַנג פֿון גיכן טאָג
וואָס זשאַלעוועט אַ גלעט
קיין צײַט ער ניט פֿאַרמאָגט
אַ ליד אַ וווּנדער, צי אַ ליד אַ וווּנד
אַ פלֿאַם אַ קוועלכל וועקט
אַ הימל גרייכט צום גרונד
אַ לידער־אָטעם, צי אַ לידער־גרוס
אין יעדן וואָרט עס שטעקט
די מעגלעכקייט פֿון מוז
אַ ליד־געזאַנג, צי גאָר אַ ליד־געשריי
פֿון טיפֿער פֿרייד, פון וויי
2018
•
3. אַ ליבע־גרוס
דער ווינטער ווי קאַלט ר׳זאָל ניט ווערן
די וויוגע די בייזע, דער פֿראָסט —
זיי וועלן ניט קענען צעשטערן
די ליכט וואָס צו מיר דו דערטראָגסט
די שטערן, קאָן דאַכטן, געהערן
ניט מיר און ניט דיר, און פֿאַרדראָס
וויל אונדזער ממשות פֿאַרשטערן
און פֿאָרט ס׳איז פֿאַר דיר — יעדער אות
וואָס כ׳טו פֿון מײַן האַרצן אויסשרײַבן
מיט זוניקן שטראַל אויפּֿן שניי
און כ׳ווייס אַז די אויפֿשריפֿט וועט בלײַבן
וועט אויסשטיין דעם גרעסטן זאַוויי
דער ווינטער אַלץ שאַרפֿער און שאַרפֿער
נאָר אים איבערלעבן באַדאַרף מען.
2019
•
4. ביימער
דערהערן דעם זיכּרון פֿון די ביימער
וואָס שטייען וואַך יאָרהונדערטער, צי מער
און בלײַבן דאָ מיט זיי איינער אַליינער
כּל־זמן עס קומט ניט קיינער ניט אַהער
זיך שאָקלענדיק צום טאַקט פֿון זייער תּפֿילה
דערשפּירן יעדן רינג און רונג אין זיי
מיט יעדן שאָרך און בייג פֿון צווײַגן פֿילע
מיט פֿרייד פֿון פֿרילינג און מיט אָסיען־וויי
מיט אומגעהײַער זאַפֿטיקייט פֿון גרינקייט
אום רײַפֿן זומער ווען אַלץ זשומט און בליט…
אום פֿראָסטיק קאַלטן ווינטער מיט זײַן פֿלינקײַט —
צעכראַסטעטעטע זיי שטייען אויפֿן ווינט
דערהערן דעם זיכּרון פֿון געדויער
פֿון קיוּם און פֿון ווידערקום ביסט לאָער
2022
•
5. פּאַנטאַריישיתדיקס
.
שוין צײַט דו זאָלסט וויסן דער טאָג איז פֿאַרבײַ
דער אָוונט איז יונג נאָך, די נאַכט איז נאָך פֿרײַ
די שטערן נאָך שלאָפֿן, דער ווינט איז נאָך לינד
די בערן פאַֿרשלאָפֿן דעם ווינטער געשווינד
און אַלץ וואָס קאָן טרעפֿן, וועט טרעפֿן געוויס:
דער בונד ווערן לויז און דער גזר ווערן ברית
דער אומרו פֿון אָנמאַכט וועט דויערן לאַנג
בעת דו טוסט צעוויקלען דײַן ניגון און קלאַנג
געשוועסטער, געברידער — געמיינזאַמע לײַט —
די זון גייט באַלד אונטער פֿון יעטווידער זײַט
זי בעט זיך פּאַטעטיש: פֿאַרגעסט זשע מיך ניט
די האָפֿענונג לעצטע צום אין־סוף דערפליט
נאָר אַלץ וואָס וועט ווערן, וועט גרייכן דעם צוועק
בעת גלגל החוזר זיך דרייט אָן אַן עק
2026
The post Four seasons in five sonnets appeared first on The Forward.
Uncategorized
My university is enabling the Trump administration’s worst fallacies on antisemitism
The Department of Justice has filed its second lawsuit of the year alleging rampant antisemitism at UCLA, where I teach.
The suit is a repetition of the same old string of allegations that President Donald Trump’s administration first made in the summer of 2025, when it froze $584 million in research funds and then tried to extract an additional $1.2 billion from UCLA. Those assertions are based on a mix of self-reporting and hearsay, assembled to make the case that the UCLA campus is awash in antisemitism.
A small number of the allegations I know or believe to be true. But the overarching claim made in the federal complaint is so partisan and partial as to be comical.
The new suit alleges that UCLA tolerated antisemitic expression and acts on campus — especially at a short-lived pro-Palestinian encampment that took place in April 2024.
It accuses UCLA of tolerating an “appalling hostile educational environment against its Jewish and Israeli students.” The fact that UCLA’s chancellor, Julio Frenk, has made the fight against antisemitism one of the pillars of his administration — and makes constant reference to the recent recommendations of a campus Initiative to Combat Antisemitism — seems not to have registered. The feds are clearly suffering from a bit of UCLA Derangement Syndrome.
This latest federal suit against UCLA succumbs to the Trumpian instinct to alter the facts to fit one’s political proclivities. In this worldview, every instance of support for Palestinians or criticism of Israel is cast as antisemitic; there can be no legitimate form of pro-Palestinian expression.
Even more remarkably, there can be no admission that the greatest display of violence that unfolded on our campus amid pro-Palestinian protests was not against pro-Israel students. Instead, it was perpetrated by pro-Israeli hooligans against the pro-Palestinian encampment activists on the evening of April 30, 2024.
Yet true to form, the complaint describes the events of that night as a battle between equals: “the occupiers and counter-protestors attacked each other with pepper spray, blunt objects, and even fireworks.” In fact, what took place was a vicious assault by one group against another — those in the encampment — that went on for more than four hours without police intervention.
This reshaping of truths seen as inconvenient betrays a tendency by Trump and his associates to adopt an exceptionally narrow lens of observation that allows for shameful distortion and denial. That tendency showed up in a farcically named 2025 executive order, “Restoring Truth and Sanity to American History,” which sought to erase any trace of racial prejudice from the annals of this country. And it continues to be present in Trump’s astounding revisionist account of January 6, 2021, which casts the violent insurrectionists as American heroes betrayed by their country.
Sadly the Justice Department’s misrepresentations in its latest complaint are founded not only on Trumpian denialism, but also on UCLA’s own antisemitism initiatives.
Both the taskforce and a subsequent action group charged with investigating on-campus antisemitism have advanced a decontextualized and one-sided story of what took place at UCLA. They have failed to acknowledge the relational nature of anti-Israeli and anti-Palestinian expression; blurred the distinction between hate speech and legitimate, albeit harsh, political expression; and left the concerns of the pro-Palestine side almost entirely unrecognized.
Paradoxically, the singular focus on antisemitism dilutes the very effort to combat it by ignoring the wider ecosystem of hate in which antisemitism operates.
I know members of the taskforce and the action group, as well as Chancellor Frenk. They are colleagues and friends of mine. But I disagree with the way they have gone about the work of combatting antisemitism at UCLA.
To begin with, none of the six UCLA scholars who hold chairs in Jewish studies and whose work touches on antisemitism — myself included — were part of the taskforce that issued its report, or the action group that followed in its wake. Some were initially invited to be part of the taskforce but chose to step down because they did not feel in sync with its direction.
Why?
Because that direction was grounded in a flawed equation of antisemitism with anti-Zionist and anti-Israel expression.
The UCLA action group’s most recent recommendations call for the adoption of the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance definition of antisemitism, which largely advances this understanding. The recommendations give lip service to the assertion that not all criticism of Israel is antisemitic, but neither the taskforce nor the action group has ever indicated when, if ever, criticism of Israel is not anti-Israel — a category so capacious as to leave little room for criticism of any sort.
An additional concern: many of the recent action group recommendations focus on “time, place, and manner” restrictions on campus debate. While ostensibly intended to promote a safe campus environment, in practice they seem to be largely aimed at inhibiting pro-Palestinian forms of expression.
What about an alternative strategy that leverages what we do best at universities: education?
Restricting conversation has never led to positive social change. What could is a major new educational effort devoted to a multi-disciplinary analysis of antisemitism, perhaps alongside Islamophobia. The university could investigate more deeply the interconnected nature of hate in our time by supporting research efforts like those of the UCLA Initiative to Study Hate — which, full disclosure, I direct.
A more expansive tack like this stands a better chance of being effective in bringing various campus stakeholders, including students, into the fight against identity-based hate — which includes but is not restricted to antisemitism. That, rather than narrowing space for free speech, should be the goal.
Unfortunately, our own campus’ efforts to combat antisemitism move in another direction, a choice the Trump administration is working hard to reinforce with their ill-intentioned weaponization of antisemitism. I fear that UCLA will suffer for this — and that, at the end of the day, little will be done to reduce hatred and prejudice against Jews.
The post My university is enabling the Trump administration’s worst fallacies on antisemitism appeared first on The Forward.
Uncategorized
How ‘Hacks’ botched its Yiddish line
In the most recent episode of HBO Max’s critically acclaimed comedy-drama Hacks, Robbie Hoffman, who plays Randi, an ex-Hasidic assistant to agents who represent stand-up comedian Deborah Vance (Jean Smart), says a line in Yiddish. Unfortunately, as any fluent Yiddish speaker will confirm, it’s grammatically incorrect.
In the episode, “The Garden” — referring to Madison Square Garden — Vance’s nemesis Bob Lipka (played by Tony Goldwyn) manages to ruin the comedian’s dream performance at the renowned venue. Luckily, her crew succeeds at securing their boss a stage in Central Park (albeit with free tickets) but they have only a couple of days to convince people to fill the seats. They spread out into the streets of New York City handing out fliers, desperate to get people to come to the ad hoc performance.
Randi does her part by returning to her former community — an apparently Hasidic neighborhood in Brooklyn — and hands out fliers to the pious passers-by. Since Haredi Jews eschew secular performances of any kind, Randi’s attempts are sure to be futile but it’s a funny scene, so I get it.
Yet, when Randi tries to convince them in Yiddish to “come see Deborah Vance in Central Park,” the verb she uses is grammatically incorrect. For you grammar nerds out there, here’s what the error was: Instead of using the command form, “kumt zen Deborah Vance,” “come see Deborah Vance,” she uses the infinitive, “kumen tsu zen Deborah Vance.”
It’s as if she were to say, in English: “To come to see Deborah Vance.”
Surprisingly, as was reported in Alma, Hoffman had called her mother Connie, who, she says, actually writes plays in Yiddish, to run the line by her. If her mother is indeed a fluent Yiddish speaker, we can only conclude that she may have mis-heard the sentence.
Unfortunately, badly translated or mispronounced Yiddish lines are all too common in TV series and films, from the 1992 film A Stranger Among Us with Melanie Griffith to the 2019 mini-series Unorthodox. Interestingly, the Israeli show Shtisel, produced in Israel, did a much better job of getting the Yiddish right.
In any case, the correct way for professional studios to get lines translated into a foreign language is not to wing it, but to hire a professional interpreter who can actually come onto the set and rehearse the lines with the actor. It may raise production costs a bit but at least then, the Yiddish dialogue will sound authentic.
The post How ‘Hacks’ botched its Yiddish line appeared first on The Forward.