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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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How a Jewish play from 1908 enshrined the idea of America as a cultural ‘melting pot’
It’s long been unfashionable to refer to the United States as a “melting pot.” Identity politics and multiculturalism have undermined the ideal of an assimilation so complete that it obliterates ethnic distinctions. Now the persistence of difference is hailed, at least in some quarters, as enriching rather than estranging, even if the associated metaphors — “salad bowl,” “kaleidoscope,” “mosaic” — lack poetic vigor.
The first reference to the U.S. as a melting pot is said to date to J. Hector St. John de Crèvecoeur’s 1782 Letters from an American Framer, in which he wrote: “Here individuals of all nations are melted into a new race of men.” Similar notions surfaced in the writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry James and the historian Frederick Jackson Turner. But it was Israel Zangwill’s 1908 play, The Melting Pot, that injected that industrial metaphor into the national consciousness.
Set in New York City, the play is a love story between a musically gifted Russian Jewish immigrant of Sephardic extraction and a gentile settlement house worker from the pogrom-wracked city that he fled. Its backdrop is the turmoil of an early 20th-century America trying to make sense of massive waves of Eastern European, and particularly Jewish, immigration. The playwright was an English Jew, a disillusioned Zionist who had begun looking to the U.S. as the promised land.
After its debut in Washington, where it was praised by President Theodore Roosevelt, The Melting Pot moved to Broadway in 1909 and has since enjoyed occasional revivals. Crescendoing debates around immigration, antisemitism and who deserves to be an American seem to lend it renewed currency.
So, at least, was the reasoning of Jesse Bernstein, producing artistic director of Philadelphia’s Theatre Ariel, whose focus is Jewish-themed work. Bernstein adapted and directed Zangwill’s play, and has teamed with the Philadelphia Artists’ Collective, which produces rarely seen classics, to mount it. Their streamlined, modern-dress version, part of the America250 celebration, opened Wednesday at Philadelphia’s historic Arch Street Meeting House.
Bernstein said in an interview that he pruned as much as half an hour from the original (it now runs about 95 intermission-less minutes) with an ear to modern sensibilities. He also has made some additions that undercut the play’s triumphalism. The Melting Pot nonetheless remains an odd fusion of melodrama and polemic, interesting mostly as an historical curiosity.
Bernstein’s direction does the piece no favors with a stiff, presentational style, in which characters frequently address the audience rather than one another. On the other hand, when they turn away, the meeting house’s unfavorable acoustics make them more difficult, sometimes impossible, to hear. Offstage characters sit in chairs behind the action awaiting their cues. Meghan Jones’s spare set, representing both the Quixano family home and different locations within the settlement house, is draped with oriental rugs and strewn with steamer trunks and valises.
The protagonist, David Quixano, played with endearing sensitivity by Adam Galloway, survived the infamous 1903 Kishinev pogrom, in which all his immediate family were murdered and he himself was shot and left for dead. After that trauma, America has become both his dream and his salvation. In New York, he lives with his cynical uncle, Mendel, also a musician; his Yiddish-speaking grandmother; and an Irish American housemaid, Kathleen (Jessy Gruver), who wrestles comically with Jewish customs and dietary laws.
Through a violin concert, David meets and falls for the lovely Vera (Lexi Thammavong), a former Russian “revolutionist” who now combats poverty through settlement house work. David is composing an American symphony that will convey his rapturous views of his adopted homeland. He finds a ready admirer in the German conductor Herr Pappelmeister (Adam Pelta-Pauls, speaking convincing German).
Standing in David’s way, personally and professionally, are two villains — the wealthy, unscrupulous nativist Quincy Davenport (Eli Lynn), a married man who lusts after Vera, and Vera’s estranged father, Baron Ravendal (Brian McCann), a reactionary Russian military commander who turns up unexpectedly. McCann brings a strangely mannered intensity to a role that is already a caricature.
Zangwill’s characters represent a spectrum of early 20th-century attitudes. Ravendal and Davenport, brutal in different ways, both give free rein to their antisemitism. Frau Quixano (played by a bewigged McCann) and Mendel Quixano (J Hernandez, appropriately world-weary) reflect the resistance of older immigrants to assimilation — and especially to its culmination in interfaith romance.
The Melting Pot is deadly serious at times, larded with apocalyptic symbolism and images of Jewish suffering. But it also has its share of comedy, including the maid Kathleen’s gradual embrace of Jewish traditions and some playful digs directed at critics.
It is up to David, the musical prodigy, to articulate the famous message at the play’s core. Early on, he declares his fealty to a new American ideal:
America is God’s Crucible, the great Melting-Pot where all the races of Europe are melting and re-forming! …A fig for your feuds and vendettas! Germans and Frenchmen, Irishmen and Englishmen, Jews and Russians—into the Crucible with you all! God is making the American. The real American has not yet arrived. He is only in the Crucible, I tell you — he will be the fusion of all races, perhaps the coming superman.
David returns repeatedly to this soaring rhetoric, lauding American greatness born of industrial-grade homogenization, and seeking to embody it in his symphony.
The original play ended exuberantly, with both love and David’s melting pot vision of “the glory of America” conquering all. Bernstein’s adaptation, with its insistence on relevance, duly complicates that vision. He wraps the action with supporting characters challenging David’s view of American harmony, and with the future of the betrothed couple clouded in doubt.
The Melting Pot runs at the Arch Street Meeting House, 320 Arch St., Philadelphia, through Nov. 8.
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‘I wanna blow up a synagogue’: Online posts lead to hate crime charge against Utah man
(JTA) — A Utah man accused of possessing explosive devices, searching online for nearby synagogues and making online threats to kill Jews is due in court Friday to face charges including attempting to commit a hate crime.
A federal grand jury indicted Skyler AJ Rose, 22, on Wednesday, the Department of Justice said in a release.
Rose allegedly made threats on social media, including “I wanna blow up a synagogue,” leading the FBI to join the Ogden City Police Department in a search of his home, where they allegedly discovered six pipe bombs, two rifles and ammunition.
A review of a cellphone seized from the home allegedly showed that Rose had searched online for a nearby synagogue, according to the Department of Justice.
The charges Rose faces include possession of an unregistered destructive device, threats to kill and injure people and to destroy a building, and attempting to commit a hate crime.
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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Will this election end the battle over drafting Haredi men into the Israeli army?
(JTA) — Whether to extend military conscription to haredi men, a longstanding question fueling political tensions in Israel, has boiled over since Hamas launched the current war with Israel with its deadly raids on Oct. 7, 2023.
Hundreds of thousands of Israeli soldiers and reservists battled on Israel’s southern and northern fronts and the manpower needs, especially in combat units, increased dramatically. Reservists served for extended periods and many of those serving in the standing army were forced to remain for an extra four months or longer – at an enormous price to soldiers’ families and to Israel’s economy. For the ultra-Orthodox, the Torah study that young men carry out in place of military service provides an important spiritual defense for the Jewish state. Community leaders are extremely fearful that young men will be unable to practice or outright abandon a haredi lifestyle as a result of army service with secular and modern Orthodox Jews.
In some parts of the country, families continue to bury their dead from the battlefield, while in others Haredi protestors block roads and tussle with police to avoid the draft. The preferred political solution of kicking the can down the road on this deeply divisive issue – which has lingered in legislative limbo for decades – might finally come to an end with the Oct. 27 elections.
Which Israelis are currently drafted to the army, and what are their conditions of service?
Most Jewish Israeli men and women are subject to compulsory service at age 18. Men currently serve 32 months, and women generally serve 24, although some roles require longer service. Conscripts are generally allowed to defer service for a year or two in order to attend pre-military programs. Exemptions for service may apply for medical, religious, family or other legally recognized reasons. Druze and Circassian men are generally drafted, while Israeli Arabs are generally not. Conscripts who ignore draft orders are subject to sanctions that can ultimately lead to imprisonment.
Upon completion of compulsory service, most soldiers are placed in reserve units, and are called up periodically for training and for active duty in wartime. Reserve duty is generally mandatory until age 40 for non-officers and 45 for officers. Enforcement of a call up order for reserve duty is traditionally less severe than enforcement of compulsory service; sanctions against reservists who avoid call ups are rare.
Following the outbreak of war on Oct. 7, hundreds of thousands of reservists were called up for extended periods. Between the outbreak of war and the end of 2025, some 28% of male reservists and 20% of female reservists served for over 150 days. Current IDF policy allows for up to 55 days of reserve duty per year for combat soldiers, compared to a cap of 54 days over three years (18 days per year on average) prior to the war.
Are Haredim legally exempt from IDF service?
No. Historically, a small number of full-time haredi yeshiva students were allowed to defer service until they aged out of eligibility, amounting to a de-facto exemption. As the share of Haredim in the population grew, so did legal challenges to their exemption, on grounds of inequality. Since June 2023, there are no longer any legal exemptions in place for haredim, and all haredi men face the same legal requirement to enlist as non-haredim.
What is the mainstream haredi approach to IDF service?
Haredim generally oppose IDF service, although recently some small groups of modernizing haredim appear more open to it. Haredi officials and spiritual leaders argue the Torah study that young men carry out in place of military service provides an important spiritual defense for the Jewish state. At the same time, haredi community leaders view the IDF as a bastion of secularism and are fearful that haredi men will not be able to maintain their lifestyle during service.
Historically, how did the draft exemption for Haredi men begin?
In 1948, Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion agreed to exempt about 400 yeshiva students so Torah scholarship could be rebuilt after the Holocaust. The arrangement expanded gradually, as the military and political leadership tolerated the arrangement for practical and coalition-building reasons. In 1977, Menachem Begin’s government removed important limits on the haredi exemption. As a result, the number of draft-age Haredi men outside the army grew from roughly 7,000 in the late 1970s to tens of thousands by the 2020s.
When did opposition to the exemption first arise?
Opposition grew sharply in the 1980s and 1990s as the haredi IDF exemption grew significantly. Legal challenges to the exemption were initially rebuffed by the court, but were eventually successful, as the Supreme Court in 1998 first deemed the exemption illegal, and ruled that such an exemption needed to be anchored in legislation that met constitutional standards of equality.
Following the 1998 ruling, how did ensuing coalitions deal with this issue?
The two decades following the 1998 ruling saw various legislative and policy proposals aimed at increasing haredi enlistment. Two laws passed, in 2002 and 2014, but both were eventually struck down by the court on grounds of inequality, as they still enabled widespread haredi exemptions. The second law was struck down in 2017, but the court approved numerous extension requests by the government for the provisions of the law to continue to apply until it could come up with a new law. This left the de-facto exemption in place until the law finally expired in June 2023.
Why did coalitions keep trying to exempt significant numbers of haredim instead of drafting them?
First, haredi parties wield significant political power. In recent decades they have usually occupied 15-20 seats in the 120-member Israeli Knesset, and since 2009 have been part of Netanyahu’s right-wing bloc, save for two years (2013-2015). Governments have been wary of enlisting haredim en masse so as not to lose the support of haredi politicians.
Second, the IDF has not always been keen on drafting haredim. Haredim require special accommodations in terms of Kashrut and mixed-gender military bases. Haredim also go through an autonomous education system and special efforts are required to instill in them the motivation and sense of duty that are prevalent in general Israeli society.
So have any haredim served in the IDF in recent decades?
Yes, some specific programs have opened up for haredim, mainly in technology-oriented units. The numbers of annual haredi draftees has fluctuated, but in the years leading up to the expiration of the draft law the average was slightly over 1,000.
What changed in the IDF’s perspective and the perspective of the general public after Oct. 7?
The mass call-up of reservists for extended periods of time brought many Israelis to experience the inequality between them and the haredi public first hand. In addition, the expansion of the war to numerous fronts and new security requirements led to a manpower shortage in the IDF, especially of combat soldiers. Officials have described the shortfall as a national-security issue, and the roughly 100,000 Haredi men aged 18 to 29 are viewed as the only large available pool of potential combat recruits. Researchers have also pointed out that without a new policy the inequality in Israeli society will continue to grow – by 2050 over 40% of the 18-year-old potential male Jewish recruits will be haredi.
What was the outgoing Netanyahu government’s policy after Oct. 7?
The government did not implement significant policy changes to begin drafting haredim in significant numbers, and refrained from instituting sanctions that could have increased the price of draft evasion. The government’s inaction was challenged in court, and the Supreme Court ruled in June 2024 that barring a new law, the continued exemption was illegal. However, the government has continued to push back on attempts by the Attorney General, who leads Israel’s law enforcement apparatus, to abide by the ruling and begin taking measures to increase haredi draft numbers. The government argued in its defense that it was working on a new law which required time.
Did the government pass a new law?
No. The Netanyahu government attempted to pass a new law that would have incrementally increased haredi draft numbers while enabling the majority of haredim to remain exempt. The attempts failed due to push back from legal authorities, the political opposition, the general public, and a number of politicians from within the coalition. Instead, in July 2026, in the final weeks of parliamentary activity prior to the election recess, the Netanyahu-led coalition passed a law to freeze enforcement against haredi draft evaders until after the election. On September 3rd, the Supreme Court struck down this law as well.
So haredi draft numbers have remained at pre-war levels?
No. In order to abide by the 2024 Supreme Court ruling and the Attorney General’s interpretation of that ruling, government officials working within the different ministries removed certain subsidies and privileges from draft evaders, and the police and IDF gradually increased their enforcement efforts. The number of haredi draftees rose as a result. Between July 2025 and the end of June 2026, some 4,298 haredim enlisted, as opposed to 2,811 haredim in the parallel period in 2024-25.
How have haredi rabbis, politicians and the general public responded to growing demands that they enlist?
Leading rabbis affiliated with the three main haredi parties – the non Hasidic Degel Hatorah party, the Hasidic Agudat Yisrael party and the Sephardic Shas party – forcefully opposed IDF service, with some explicitly calling on young haredi men to ignore draft orders should they receive them. Politicians from the three parties also voiced strong opposition to a large increase in haredi draftees, and were willing only to consider minor increases.
A large majority of haredim who received draft orders ignored them, and approximately 90,000 haredi men are legally considered draft evaders, with levels of severity increasing the longer they ignore the orders. Some arrests of draft evaders were met by mass protests and disturbances, including in recent weeks. Some more modernized haredim have increasingly expressed a willingness to serve. These views are represented in two new haredi parties participating in the current election, called Hakahal (roughly translated as “the community”) and Hatzibur Haharedi (“the haredi public”).
Is the haredi draft issue prominent in the election campaigns?
Yes. In a recent poll by the Israel Democracy Institute, a proposition that the next government should draft haredim equally received the most support among a series of propositions. Nearly all of the Zionist opposition parties have made their intention to increase the haredi draft a prominent part of their campaigns. Some opposition party leaders have attempted to frame the election as a choice between the “draft evasion bloc” and the “bloc that serves.” On the other hand, some haredi rabbis and party leaders have expressed their disappointment with Netanyahu’s failure to manufacture a new exemption, and have stated that they no longer view themselves as part of the Netanyahu bloc. However, they have not stated support for any other candidate and are likely to side with Netanyahu again if he is able to form a new government.
What are the most likely scenarios after the next government is formed?
Three outcomes are plausible:
- A compromise: full-time Torah scholars receive a narrow exemption, while others perform military or civilian service under threat of sanctions.
- Continued stalemate: the government delays enforcement, leading to further court battles and coalition crises.
- Broad enforcement: a government less dependent on haredi parties implements substantially wider enlistment.
The first scenario is probably the most politically workable, but the details will determine whether the courts accept it.
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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