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
Israel Is Failing Its Commitment to Ethiopian Jews
Then IDF Chief of Staff Lt. Gen. Aviv Kochavi meets with Ethiopian-Israeli officers, July 28, 2019. Photo: Courtesy.
Last month, the State of Israel took the courageous step of announcing, with great fanfare, that they would be bringing in all the remaining B’nai Menashe from India. Jerusalem also ruled that it would not bring in Jews from Ethiopia because there are “no eligible individuals.”
After October 7, many people believed that the divides in Israel had melted: secular and religious, right and left, Ashkenazi and Mizrahi, veteran Israelis and new immigrants.
But one divide did not melt — the plight of the segment of Jews who are still stuck in Ethiopia.
Few cases expose this inconsistency more vividly than the contrast between two immigrant groups Israel is dealing with right now: the B’nai Menashe of Northeast India and the Ethiopian Jewish families still waiting in Addis Ababa and Gondar.
Both communities have claims that they are part of the Jewish people.
But only one is being brought.
In November 2023, in the middle of the war, Israel heroically brought more than 250 B’nai Menashe immigrants — from a community that has sent hundreds each year (218 in 2021, 274 in 2020, and many more in previous years). They arrive under the Law of Entry, undergo conversion afterward, and settle in supportive communities.
The Ethiopian Jewish community has centuries of documented Jewish lineage. Some groups (and parts of the Israeli government) contest that many of the Jews remaining in Ethiopia are not halachically Jewish, but these claims are greatly disputed.
Tragically, Israel is turning its back on the remaining 14,000 Jews in Ethiopia. Many, if not most, are first-degree relatives of the 175,000 Ethiopian Israelis already living in the country — parents, siblings, children, and spouses.
Since October 7, 2023, 40 Ethiopian-Israeli soldiers have been killed in Gaza and on the northern front. Representing just 1.7% of Israel, they account for over 4% of the deaths in the IDF. Many fallen soldiers left behind siblings or parents whom Israel has refused to bring.
“My son died defending Israel, but his sister is still stuck in Gondar. How is that justice?” one grieving mother told Yediot Ahronot this winter.
Israel has no convincing answer, a halachic inconsistency Israel refuses to acknowledge.
There is a second truth that makes the state’s inconsistency impossible to defend.
Virtually all Ethiopian immigrants undergo rabbinic giyur when they arrive in Israel. But those maternally linked do so, according to the Chief Rabbinate, out of extreme caution — not because their Jewish identity is unknown.
The Beta Israel have centuries of documented maternal-line Jewish descent, recognized by:
- Rav Ovadia Yosef and the Chief Rabbinate (1973)
- The Radbaz in the 16th century
- Rabbinic delegations from the 19th and 20th centuries
- Every serious historical study of Beta Israel origins
Indeed, many thousands of Ethiopian families today can show direct maternal Jewish lineage — the halachically determinative line.
The Chief Rabbi of Israel, Rav Shlomo Amar, wrote that Jews in Ethiopia “are completely Jewish without any doubt.” According to the Chief Rabbi, any confirmatory immersion in a mikvah, ritual bath, was a stringency to remove all doubt, not a requirement.
The B’nai Menashe also received religious recognition by Israel from Rav Amar. However, in contrast to the Jews from Ethiopia, Rav Amar ruled that they are the “Seed of Israel” requiring a conversion to immigrate. Although their connection is real, sincere, and important, every B’nai Menashe immigrant undergoes full conversion, not confirmatory immersion.
And yet, while Israel rightfully and courageously brings thousands of B’nai Menashe with ease, it blocks thousands of Ethiopians whose lineage many believe to be stronger, older, and halachically grounded.
In 2022, the Israeli cabinet passed Government Decision 716, which obligated the state to:
1. Bring 3,000 Ethiopian Jews, a quota imposed because of short term budgetary considerations, not because of the number of remaining Jews in Ethiopia.
2. Complete the process within two years,
3. Reconvene afterward to decide on the next stage and bring in all others eligible.
While the State brought the initial 3,000, it never reconvened and never made the legally required follow-up decision. Thousands of Jews’ cases were never fully reviewed.
Instead, the Interior Ministry announced that the issue required “further examination” — as if decades of verifications, committees, and unanimous cabinet votes had not already taken place.
It is my understanding that the burdens Israel places on Ethiopian Jews are not applied to other groups. The government’s own Harel Committee confirmed in 2023 that Israel’s Ethiopian-aliyah criteria were “inconsistent and incoherent,” that family separations were “often unjustified,” and that Interior Ministry demographic concerns were “based on flawed assumptions.”
Yet not a single recommendation has been implemented.
One Ethiopian father whose son fell in Gaza told Kan News: “Israel trusted my son with a rifle. It will not trust me with a plane ticket.”
If Israel wants strict standards, apply them uniformly. If Israel wants broader inclusion, include also those with stronger claims.
What cannot be defended is a two-tier system of Jewish belonging. October 7 taught Israel who its defenders are. Ethiopian Israelis fought in every front-line brigade and paid a devastating price. Their families deserve the same commitment they have shown to the State of Israel.
The demand is simple and just: One standard. One policy. One people.
Gail Propp is a board member or officer of numerous boards. She has advocated on behalf of the Jews in Ethiopia for over 20 years.
Uncategorized
I’m an Australian Jew: Your Support, and Support From Around the World, Really Matters to Us
A woman keeps a candle next to flowers laid as a tribute at Bondi Beach to honor the victims of a mass shooting that targeted a Hanukkah celebration at Bondi Beach on Sunday, in Sydney, Australia, Dec. 16, 2025. Photo: REUTERS/Flavio Brancaleone
Last Sunday, on the Bondi Beach beachfront, something broke in Australian society.
Two Jihadi terrorists — a father and son — decided to “Globalize the Intifada,” actualizing the chant so many anti-Israel demonstrators have been repeating in Australia over the past two years.
They did it by launching a murderous attack on innocent men, women, and children celebrating the first night of Hanukkah.
And by the time they were finally stopped, 15 people lay dead, their blood staining the grass and sand amidst the petting zoo and face painting booths.
It was both the deadliest terror attack in Australian history and the greatest loss of Jewish life since the October 7 massacre.
But as shocked as we are, and as traumatized as we feel, every Jew in Australia will tell you the same thing: we are not surprised.
In the pages of The Algemeiner itself, I had warned about this exact scenario for years.
This massacre had been building ever since the sickening displays of open Jew-hatred in Australia on the very evening of October 7. Even as the Hamas attack was still taking place, firebrand imams were standing in the street of Sydney and screaming to a joyous crowd, “This is a day of celebration! This is a day of courage!”
Just two days later, on the steps of the Sydney Opera House, chants of “F the Jews” echoed around Australia’s most famous icon, as thousands of people celebrated the “success” of the Hamas terror spree in southern Israel.
The failure of the police authorities, the state government, and the federal government to snuff out that hatred right there and then meant a green light was tacitly given for the greatest increase in Jew-hatred in Australian history.
From that moment, antisemitic graffiti popped up everywhere. Anti-Israel demonstrations that often descended into violence and chaos were held weekly, intimidating the Jewish community. Soon after came the torching of vehicles in Jewish neighborhoods. Then attacks on businesses and houses of worship.
Schoolchildren were subjected to antisemitic assaults on buses. In the virtual world, Jewish creatives were doxed by online groups, leading to many artists and musicians losing their livelihoods. In the physical world, they were attacked in the streets. Worshipers were forced to evacuate synagogues during Friday night Shabbat services. And one synagogue was burnt down in an arson attack, while others were similarly targeted.
Each escalation added to the mounting pressure on the social cohesion of our multicultural society until it finally gave way, with disastrous consequences, last Sunday.
So how does the Australian Jewish community feel right now, knowing that the attention of much of the world has been focused on this small community of 120,000 people in this far-flung island, making up less than half a percent of the population?
Well, we feel worried. We feel vulnerable. We feel abandoned. We feel devastated and traumatized. We feel isolated and alone. And we feel an overwhelming sense of grief and sadness.
It is a feeling that most Jews felt right after October 7. A deep and aching numbness in which the joy of life had been taken from us, leaving just empty vessels struggling to feel anything, unable to eat, to smile, to laugh.
Many Australian Jews believed we were in the lucky country, far from those places in the old world like France, Belgium, or the UK, where Jews were forced to hide their identity and violence was never far.
But that illusion has been shattered, along with a realization that has hit Australia — and hit it hard. We now know that the hatred we once believed belonged to distant places is now firmly entrenched in our own soil — and in our own lives.
However, we also feel something else.
Last evening, I attended a Hanukkah candle lighting at another beachfront in Melbourne to celebrate our identity and show solidarity with our community. While there was a strong police contingent and I never felt unsafe, I nevertheless instinctively couldn’t help scouring the buildings and the surroundings, trying to assess if there were any visible threats lying in wait. It sounds crazy, yet this is how many Jews feel right now — extreme vigilance is now part of our existence.
However, seeing the support from not just the Jewish community but from the wider community has been overwhelming. I, along with many other Australian Jews, have received messages of support and love from around the world, from America and from Israel and from South Africa and from the UK. Ordinary Australians have been donating blood in huge numbers and laying floral tributes at the massacre site and at synagogues and public menorahs around Australia.
Just as Australian Jews held vigils for the victims of October 7, so now are Israeli Jews holding vigil for the victims of the Bondi Beach terror attack.
Never underestimate the power of standing with someone who is hurting, and the impact that support has, because I know that we all feel it deeply down under in this far corner of the world.
So how do I feel now? Still wounded, bewildered, horrified and angry — but what I can say is that with the heartfelt support we have received, I feel a little less lonely than I did before.
Justin Amler is a policy analyst at the Australia/Israel & Jewish Affairs Council (AIJAC).
Uncategorized
Unearthing the Hasmoneans: The Hanukkah-Era Wall That Speaks to Israel’s Present
Illustrative: The remains of a fortress destroyed by the Hasmonean rebels during the Maccabean revolt, Lachish Forest, Israel. Photographed in 2021. Photo: Twitter.
Archaeology rarely makes headlines. But every so often, a discovery surfaces that does more than illuminate the past — it clarifies the present.
The newly uncovered Hasmonean wall beneath Jerusalem’s Tower of David is one of those finds. It is not simply another artifact to be cataloged and displayed. It is a stone witness — silent but immovable — to the long and relentless Jewish struggle for sovereignty in this land. And at a time when Israel’s legitimacy is contested, distorted, or denied outright, its discovery could not be timelier.
The wall dates to the Maccabean period, an era historians often reduce to a footnote and schoolchildren remember as the backstory to Hanukkah.
But the Hasmoneans were not cartoon heroes resisting cartoon villains. They were political actors navigating the brutal geopolitics of their age — Judeans wrestling for autonomy against a Hellenistic empire, fighting over the right to govern themselves, to worship freely, and to determine their own future.
Now, we have physical confirmation of one of their defensive fortifications in Jerusalem: a wall built by Jews to defend Jewish Jerusalem — before Rome, before Byzantium, before the Caliphates, before the Crusaders. A wall predating every empire that later claimed this city while attempting to erase, reinterpret, or overwrite the people who first built it.
Archaeology vs. Historical Denial
What makes this discovery especially resonant is that it arrives amid a renewed wave of historical denial. Those who insist the Jewish connection to Jerusalem is a modern fabrication — colonial, foreign, or imposed — must now deny a structure that predates Islam by seven centuries and the Arab conquest by nearly a millennium.
The Hasmonean wall does not tell the whole story of Jerusalem; no single find ever could. But it does something powerful nevertheless: it joins a growing archaeological record that makes historical erasure impossible without embracing absurdity.
Modern Zionism did not arise in a vacuum. It was not conjured only out of poetry, yearning, or trauma — though it contains all those things. It emerged because the Jewish people, after millennia of statelessness and persecution, sought to restore something they had already built before.
The Hasmoneans were the first Jews in recorded history to achieve independent governance in Jerusalem after exile. Their reign was imperfect, but imperfection does not negate legitimacy. The point is not to romanticize them; the point is to recognize them.
The core struggle of the Hasmoneans — to maintain Jewish self-determination amid hostile regional forces — is the same struggle Israel faces today. The enemies have changed in name, flag, and rhetoric, but their aims are eerily familiar: to sever Jews from their homeland, define Jewish identity as illegitimate, and deny Jewish sovereignty in the land of Israel and Jerusalem.
Archaeology as a Battleground
Archaeology has become one of the most contested battlegrounds in the war over historical narrative — not because the artifacts are ambiguous, but because they are inconvenient. Every discovery that affirms Jewish antiquity threatens ideological projects built on the absurdity of denying it.
That’s why the politics around archaeology in Jerusalem will only intensify. Every trowel of earth is now an act of testimony. And every stone uncovered has the potential to expose those who insist — against all evidence — that Jewish sovereignty here is a colonial intrusion rather than the restoration of indigenous rights.
The Hasmonean wall does not resolve today’s political conflicts. But it does something essential: for those who don’t embrace the absurd, it places today’s debates within the only frame that makes them intelligible — the long arc of Jewish peoplehood in this land.
Jewish sovereignty in Judea is not new. It is the restoration of something ancient and indigenous. And Jerusalem is not simply the symbol of that recovery; it is the evidence of it.
As more sections of the city are excavated, they continue to tell the same story: the Jewish return to Zion is not an invention of modern nationalism. It is the latest chapter in an ongoing project — undertaken by ancestors who built walls to defend their freedom and by descendants who must still do the same.
And there is no time of year when this truth resonates more clearly than Hanukkah, a holiday too often reduced to merely candles and gifts. Hanukkah is, at its core, the celebration of Jewish sovereignty reclaimed, defended, and rededicated. It commemorates a people who refused to surrender their identity, faith, or homeland. The Jewish presence in Jerusalem is not a modern miracle, but an ancient one — rekindled across millennia.
Micha Danzig is an attorney, former IDF soldier, and former NYPD officer. He writes widely on Israel, Zionism, antisemitism, and Jewish history. He serves on the board of Herut North America.