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Jewish artists in Canada turned inward during 2024—and discovered bolder identities to share for 2025
Lelala Hewak has been taking portrait photos of hundreds, if not thousands, of Jews worldwide for a project called The J-Word, which is all about challenging assumptions about appearance.
“What we like to do, where we live, how we like to live, how we like to dress, how we like to worship—everything about us is different,” she said.

“It bothers me that people dare to make damaging generalizations, let alone slurs or attacks, and they don’t even know anything.”
She’s conscious that putting the spotlight on Jewish faces, right now, may “raise eyebrows” or encounter pushback, she says, but Hewak points to rising antisemitism as an issue on a worldwide scale.
“There’s plenty of people working on humanitarian and other political issues to do with how things are being handled by Israel in the Middle East. It’s not my area of expertise. Why would I dare go there?… Doesn’t mean I should be silent on this other problem.”
Hewak recently visited New York to take the portraits of freestyle rapper Kosha Dillz, and Rabbi Manis Friedman of Chabad Lubavitch—both of whom are familiar figures on social media. Her goal is not proving multiethnic Jews exist, she says.
“I’m not trying to say ‘Oh, look, we have different colour skin’,” but rather, that a Jew might wear, for example, anything from construction work clothes to the black suits of some religiously observant Jews.
Hewak’s playful, provocative art is one approach among many within Jewish creative circles, where artists have now contended for more than a year with a cultural world that often defaults toward overwhelming anti-Israel sentiment, and frequently poses litmus tests around it. Even artists who have refrained from commenting on the political situation post-Oct. 7 can find themselves under attack or cancelled.
Jewish arts events now tend to involve extra calculations about security for venues, audiences, and artists, causing artists to grapple with how much or in what capacity to identify Jewishly in their creative output.
What happens when you’re accused of disturbing public safety—just for showing up as Jewish cartoonist? Miriam Libicki illustrates her experience being banned from her hometown comic con (@theCJN): https://t.co/NRsrEQGOG9
Stay tuned for Miriam Libicki in Lilith’s new issue… pic.twitter.com/cAKcLlb5c4
— Lilith Magazine (@LilithMagazine) October 20, 2024
For some, this new environment has meant deliberately looking inward and making art that draws more explicitly on their tradition than ever before.
Toronto-based Tamar Ilana Cohen Adams, who performs Mediterranean music and dance, was in Izmir, Turkey on Oct. 7, 2023. Following the attack, her concerts, including one at a synagogue, were moved due to safety concerns, including fears of bomb threats.
“They took down the flyers that were all over Istanbul and Izmir, and we did private house concerts. Now that was the first time I felt that kind of need to hide as a Jew,” she said.

Tamar Ilana, as she’s professionally known, visited the region every summer growing up, with her mother, ethnomusicologist Judith Cohen, who immersed her in folk music traditions including Ladino and Sephardic songs. Now she’s the vocalist at the front of Toronto’s Jaffa Road, a Jewish/Middle Eastern fusion band, and leads Ventanas, her Mediterranean and world music project, in which she incorporates flamenco into her performance and composes new music using or referencing traditional forms.
The apprehensions have been a new experience within a musical and cultural world that was part of Tamar Ilana’s travels and upbringing.
“My whole life, it’s always been in the background. But I had never felt it myself until I was in Turkey. All the Jewish schools closed, Jews stayed home, Jews hid, and we hid our concert.”
During concerts in Spain after Oct. 7, she felt pressure to make statements related to the war, and decided to acknowledge the possibilities for coexistence that her music demonstrates, by closing out Ventanas shows with a Moroccan Sephardic number, or, with Jaffa Road, a tune in Hebrew and Arabic.
“This is music of the Sephardic Jews, Morocco, Arabic, Hebrew… an example of peace and how people can live together,” she’ll say.
But even absent political statements, audience members disrupted Jaffa Road’s performance six months ago at the 2024 Hillside Festival in Guelph, Ont., by yelling from beside the outdoor stage.
The band had to stop the show and she addressed the protesters.
“This isn’t how you do things. You do things through conversation,” she recalls saying.
“I was trembling… it was pretty crazy.”
Tamar Ilana was also targeted with a threatening Instagram message ahead of a live show she was producing, earlier in 2024.
“I was throwing an event for Indigenous women… We got these messages about turning it into a Palestinian fundraiser ‘or else,’ basically.” She called security. (Tamar Ilana has Cree-Salteaux ancestry from her father Robert Adams, who’s a poet and photographer.)
“This is without me saying anything at all, all year, so I can’t imagine [where the threat originated]… This is from people reading my bio and seeing I’m Jewish, is the only thing I can gather.”
Tamar Ilana, who recently released Ventanas’ latest album, says she’s feeling a shift toward “looking inwards” that Jewish friends and colleagues in particular have observed.
“Friends sort of emerged who happen to be Jewish… suddenly we were looking for solidarity in each other, and just to be in a room where we felt safe and where we felt surrounded by people who understood us.
“We heard our whole lives about Jewish history, and I’ve always felt like it was like an extended Jewish family. It’s almost… the family coming together now, when we need each other—even people who you don’t know that well, but there seems to be this cord,” she said. “It’s comforting, but it’s also a little scary that we need it.”
Aaron Lightstone, the Jaffa Road bandleader and oud player, said they were performing music based on poetry by Israel ben Moses Najara, a 15th century rabbi who lived in Gaza, Safed and Damascus, when demonstrators interrupted.
“If you’re protesting Tamar and Jaffa Road, you’re either totally ignorant because you have no business protesting; don’t know what you’re talking about; or totally antisemitic.”
Lightstone is rethinking music festival submissions for 2025, and wonders if it’s safer to focus on bookings at Jewish venues exclusively.
“As much fun as they are, should I be chasing Canadian jazz and folk festivals?”
It’s an odd question, Lightstone says, for a band centring “coexistence, [and] pushing Jewish music into [the] mainstream.”
Still, he says, “it doesn’t take a lot of people to be disruptive.”
A new brand of unity
Jewish Futures, an arts and culture salon held on Nov. 24, offered conversational spaces to foster a sense of Jewish unity in the arts. (The CJN was a promotional partner for its second year.)
Kultura Collective, an initiative by UJA Federation of Greater Toronto, organized the day, including a session on exploring Yiddish cultural expressions, where visual artist Jonah Strub discussed making artwork “as accessible as possible,” often through humour. His ultimate goal is “to provide representation to other queer and Jewish people.”
During a panel discussion titled “Jewish Infusions,” four artists shared how they’ve incorporated their Jewish identity into their creative practices and output.
Erez Zobary, a Toronto singer and songwriter, was releasing her new album, which explores her identity through connecting to her Yemeni Mizrahi background and her grandmother’s story of leaving Yemen for Israel via Operation Magic Carpet. Zobary received a Canada Council for the Arts grant to visit family in Israel as part of the personal project.
The new album is a departure from her previous work, where her songs “[talked] about getting dumped on a Thursday,” she said.
Making new music that’s so “outwardly Jewish,” with Hebrew and English song titles, plus Yemeni Jewish cultural elements, allowed her to see the process in a new way.
“Before I was making music about coming of age… breakups and living in the city and trying to figure out who I am,” said Zobary. “With this one, it definitely feels different.”
In the months following the Oct. 7 attacks, Zobary says, her writing process for the new album shifted.
“’I [had been] so excited to write this project and to share my identity with people… and then I just became so afraid to do it, and I think it took me months and months to get to a point again when I [felt] good to share it.”
Some panellists said they braced themselves for a negative reception that thankfully never came.
Playwright and actor Jordi Mand described an unexpectedly warm reception to her own work In Seven Days from audiences in London, Ont., where her family lives. The play unfolds as a family contends with their father opting for Medical Assistance in Dying (MAID), and includes a rabbi among the play’s five characters.
“The father goes through with ending his life … [it’s about] how we say goodbye to people we love, but it’s also about MAID in the context of Judaism.”
Thank you to everyone who joined us for Jewish Futures 2024 on Sunday! It was a beautiful afternoon of conversations, art-making and connecting as a creative community. @thethmuseum @ProssermanJCC
Photos @shaymarkowitz_ pic.twitter.com/96tIa8Si0K— Kultura Collective (@kultura_TO) November 26, 2024
Mand lives in Toronto but says she remains connected to her synagogue in London, and was apprehensive when her play was mounted in a city where the Jewish community is less prominent.
“I was absolutely terrified about sharing an unabashedly Jewish story there,” specifically, when the show’s run started last February at the Grand Theatre.
But the London response was “overwhelmingly positive,” she says.
“It really taught me a lot about where we are in place and time… [with] stories where there is such universality.”
Painter and jeweller Edith Barabash, who had been working as a lawyer in Victoria, B.C., started making and selling art out of a camper van two years ago. While there wasn’t much Jewish content at first, she now makes earrings of challah, babka, and matzah, and paints shofar-blowing scenes.

She lost online followers after releasing work with Jewish symbols.
“People who didn’t resonate with that, just unfollowed me immediately as soon as I started posting anything related to Judaism, Israel… a lot of the following that I built up until then was gone. And then a new following came.”
Barabash says she now feels called to bring community connections to her work—and now, she tends to stick to Jewish markets. She agrees “we’re becoming more insular.”
She also finds beauty in Jewish artists leaning into Jewish culture.
“When the world is more ready to hear those stories and see that art, we’re going to be so much stronger as a community, and our stories are going to be stronger.”
Josh Saltzman, a screenwriter whose recent short film is a horror set at a shivah, said he encounters antisemitism constantly in his industry, including social media posts from his crew members. It has led him to prepare for potential disruptions at film festival screenings.
When asked later if the antisemitism has worsened, Saltzman wrote in response: “I do believe it’s been worse since Oct. 7. Although I can’t say if antisemitism is spreading or people are just emboldened to be louder about it.”
However, he remains unapologetic about making space for Jewish culture.
“Every culture should get to share their stories… if people are going to unfollow any of us, any artists … their loss. Let them unfollow.”
While antisemitism is probably making Jewish artists more insular, that shouldn’t silence them, he says.
“I don’t want to let that stop me from making Jewish stories, because some people hate Jews. That’s the history of the world. So keep making art.”
Saltzman’s uplifting tone closed out the panel with a call for collective support.
“I feel like more than ever, I want to be more provocative with my work… I encourage any of you that are artists or have anything to say or even just how you live your life to spread [your] wings more,” said Saltzman.
“I am scared to do it, but I’m trying to and I want to… I feel like if I see other people spreading their wings, I’m more encouraged to do it as well,” he said, to a room of nodding respondents.

In the concluding conversation at the salon, Indigenous and Jewish actor and director Jennifer Podemski called stories her bridge-building effort, including Little Bird, the TV series she co-created about a First Nations woman adopted by a Jewish family during Canada’s Sixties Scoop, who tries to reconnect with her birth family and heritage.
“I am fascinated and dedicated to sparking humanity through story… that sparks something in someone else that they connect to, that creates a bridge,” said Podemski. “And in that bridge, you can build a conversation and from that conversation, you can have a dialogue.
“As much as I really didn’t like or enjoy being Native and Jewish pretty much most of my life… I realized that it was on purpose that I was this thing at this time and doing this work… to find humanity in some way, and tell the stories that can connect people.”
Now more than ever, she said, Jewish expressions may be sparking difficult conversations.
“Nobody cared about it before. Right now people care about [Jewish identity] because they don’t like it, and they don’t want you to exercise your Jewishness anymore… so I want to exercise it more.”
Pride in the face of prejudice
Sam Mogelonsky is director of Arts, Culture and Heritage at UJA Federation of Greater Toronto and runs Kultura Collective, which has now produced two Jewish Futures conferences since Oct. 7.
“Everyone’s approaching this moment differently,” said Mogelonsky.
Pride in being Jewish might look different for each person: Self-identifying in a website bio, for instance, as a Jewish Canadian or Israeli Canadian artist, “where maybe that word Jewish wasn’t there before,” said Mogelonsky, although she notes “some people have taken that wording out of their bios.”
Graphic artist Miriam Libicki has been banned by Vancouver Comics Arts Festival due to her past service in the IDF https://t.co/pJpK5tYTc7 h/t @JesseBrown
— The Canadian Jewish News (@TheCJN) May 29, 2024
There’s a sense of seeking out “like-minded creatives,” she says, which runs parallel with fears about “how you are going to be perceived by the wider community… that potentially, doors might close on you if you are outward with that identity.”
It’s both a complicated moment, and a sad one, says Mogelonsky, with fears about additional security needs, or perceptions that venues aren’t interested in Jewish cultural content.
“There’s many reasons why people may not want to be as open about their connections to being Jewish,” she said. “At the same time that we’re finding so much pride and joy in sharing these Jewish stories… we’re also finding moments of complication around that.”
Jewish Futures, she hopes, offered inspiration, helped grow connections, or simply allowed artists to hear “that other people are feeling the same way that you are.”
Mogelonsky developed the cultural salon concept following discussions she and UJA colleagues were having with artists during a previous event series called Art Schmooze, where informal gatherings—usually held at art galleries—brought artists together over wine and cheese.
Now, in some pockets of Toronto, gallery events are helping Jewish artists forge new connections outside the fraught, one-sided alignment of many left-leaning elements of independent arts communities.
Gillian Lahav and Zack Rosen were booking a show at a Dundas Street West gallery when the venue declined to host a Jewish-themed show. The painter friends instead ran a cat-themed exhibition, and invited friends for an Art Shabbat evening on a Friday in November. (The gallery says it’s open to hosting more Shabbat events.)
“It’s kind of difficult to find homes for Jewish work right now,” said Rosen. “There’s a sense in the broader world that to engage with Jewish work right now is unsafe for the venue holding it.”
He says the explicitly Jewish gathering provided an important—if also informal—Jewish community space.
“The scariness… some of the heaviness of the world around us now has brought us together,” says Rosen. “And that’s not a terrible thing.”
Lahav says Jewish artists have experienced a level of fear around how they will be received in such spaces.
“[People] are very quick to jump to one side of a binary that we know is nuanced but unfortunately the broader art world forgets is nuanced,” she said.
“When [they] go out of their way to assert which side [of the] boundary they land on,” that can alienate Jewish community members.
“At the same time, it’s an opportunity to see where we are welcome.” Community-based art galleries are where she feels “everyone knows they can have a home.”
Art Shabbat was a way to gather without “the weight we carry around all week.”
Petrina Blander launched her photo exhibition at the She Said Gallery, housed inside a laundromat at 384 Roncesvalles Ave., with a Friday night candle-lighting and challah blessings.
Shabbat Shalom Toronto, which continues to Jan. 8, is not an explicitly Jewish-themed exhibition, she says, although some of the images relate to Judaism, and Blander’s artist bio references her Israeli background.
But the photos were secondary to the gathering itself, according to Blander.

“The primary purpose was to bring people together… a safe space to break bread and connect.”
It’s a community where a nearby viaduct had been spray-painted “Fuck Zionists” in huge letters in the weeks after Oct. 7, as Israel’s military attacked Hamas in Gaza.
Blander says she isn’t religious, but found resonance in the idea expressed via the Netflix show Jewish Matchmaking, about how “‘there’s 15 million Jews and there’s 15 million different ways of being Jewish.’”
“I can’t tell you what part of this is Jewish [to me], because to me it doesn’t really matter… we all connect to it in a different way,” she said.
“There was prosciutto on the table… and two ginormous challahs, and they were blessed.”
Blander’s co-organizer Elise Kayfetz, who’s also the thrifting proprietor behind Vintage Shmatta, said Shabbat Shalom Toronto brought together “all walks of life, from Israel to down the street.”
“I haven’t been in a room with this many Jews since my bat mitzvah,” she said at the gathering.
Blander leaned over to Kayfetz: “This is my version of a shtetl in the heart of Toronto.”
The post Jewish artists in Canada turned inward during 2024—and discovered bolder identities to share for 2025 appeared first on The Canadian Jewish News.
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When Did the Current Wave of Antisemitism Begin?

Jewish-American Wall Street journalist Daniel Pearl. Photo: Screenshot
JNS.org – In nearly 30 years of writing and speaking about global antisemitism, I’ve been asked more than once if it’s possible to pinpoint when this present wave of hatred first reared its head. It’s a question that takes on added significance in the wake of the Oct. 7, 2023 Hamas pogrom in Israel—the event that continues to drive the topic of antisemitism to the top of the headlines around the world.
Of course, antisemitism never faded away entirely, as most Jews know all too well. The decades that followed the Allied victory over Nazi Germany, whose 80th anniversary we marked last week, ushered in an unprecedented age of empowerment for the Jewish people. In most of the Diaspora (the Soviet Union and the Arab states being glaring exceptions), the civil and political rights of Jewish communities were enshrined, bolstered by the widely shared taboo on antisemitic rhetoric and activity that coalesced alongside revelations of the horror of the Nazi concentration camps. More importantly, for the first time in two millennia, the Jews finally achieved their own state, with armed forces that proved eminently capable of defeating the threats to Israel’s existence from around the region.
We had been, in the parlance of the early theorists of Zionism, “normalized”—or at least we thought as much.
The age of empowerment was not a golden age. Jews still languishing in the Soviet Union were persecuted and forbidden to make aliyah. The flourishing of multiple armed Palestinian organizations after the 1967 war subjected Israelis and Diaspora Jews to terrorist outrages, among them airplane hijackings and gun attacks on synagogues. The United Nations, whose General Assembly passed a 1975 resolution equating Zionism with racism, became the main incubator of the loathing directed at Israel. The brief postwar honeymoon between the Jews and the political left ended around the same time, replaced with the defamatory barbs about “apartheid” and “Zionist racism” that still plague us today.
Even so, at the turn of this century, there was a notable deterioration. For much of the 1990s, the conflict between Israel and the Palestinians had seemed close to resolution, symbolized by the brief handshake on the White House lawn between the late Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin and PLO leader Yasser Arafat. But in 2000, five years after Rabin was assassinated in Tel Aviv, Arafat launched a second intifada against Israel, and the old hardline positions were reinstated. Much of the world followed Arafat’s cue, as demonstrated at the U.N.’s 2001 conference against racism in Durban, South Africa, held a few days before the Al-Qaeda atrocities in the United States on Sept. 11. There, NGOs and governments alike berated Israel, and Jewish delegates were subjected to the kind of abuse (“Hitler was right”) that has become all too common in the present day.
In tandem with the collapse in relations between Israel and the Palestinians, antisemitism returned with a vengeance, particularly in Europe, spurred by an unholy alliance of Islamist organizations rooted in the continent’s various Muslim communities, and a far left baying for Israeli and American blood after 9/11. It was in Pakistan, however, that the murder that came to symbolize this new reality occurred.
At the end of January 2002, Wall Street Journal reporter Daniel Pearl, an American Jew, was abducted from a hotel in Karachi by Islamist terrorists. A few days later, video surfaced online (at that time, the technology was still novel) of Pearl’s savage execution. After uttering his final words—“My father is Jewish, my mother is Jewish, I am Jewish”—Pearl was beheaded on camera by his captors.
To my mind, his sickening fate signaled the beginning of the revived trend that Jews are still confronting. I say that because this wasn’t a case of ugly rhetoric or graffiti, a smashed window or even an unsuspecting Jewish passerby getting punched in the face. This was a cold-blooded, ideologically driven murder that exposed the lethal violence that lurks inside every committed Jew-hater.
Last week, one of the terrorists involved in Pearl’s kidnapping and murder was reportedly eliminated during the Indian airstrikes on Pakistan undertaken in response to the killing of 26 civilians by Pakistani-backed terrorists in Kashmir on April 26. Abdul Rauf Azhar was a leader of the Jaish e-Mohammad terror organization who collaborated in Pearl’s abduction with fellow terrorists Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, one of the planners of the 9/11 attacks; and Omar Saeed Sheikh, a Pakistani national who grew up in England and briefly studied at my alma mater, the London School of Economics, before dropping out. Along with the murder of Pearl, Azhar was responsible for the 1999 hijacking of an Indian passenger plane, as well as attacks on the Indian parliament and an Indian army base in 2001 and 2016, respectively.
The significance of Azhar’s elimination now, when antisemitism is raging with far greater intensity than at the time of Pearl’s killing, should not be lost on anyone. During the 23 years that separate the deaths of Pearl and Azhar, Jews have endured insults and vandalism, assault and even murder. Much of this has tracked the troughs and peaks of conflict in the Middle East, especially the Second Lebanon War in 2006, and earlier wars in Gaza in 2008-09, 2014 and 2021.
Not all of the antisemitic outpouring is so closely connected. Some of the worst instances of hatred and violence, like the 2017 torture and murder of Sarah Halimi, an elderly Jewish woman living on her own in public housing in Paris, did not occur at a time of unusually high conflict in the Middle East. Rather, they were a consequence of the demonizing tropes and false claims about Jews that have become embedded in our culture over the course of this century.
We should feel a strong degree of satisfaction at the news that Azhar is dead and therefore unable to ruin the lives of other innocents like Daniel Pearl. However, that’s not the same as full justice, which would involve a comprehensive reckoning by politicians, influencers and thought leaders with the antisemitism that has stained our culture and our civilization. We know, more or less, where all this started. What we don’t know is where it will end.
The post When Did the Current Wave of Antisemitism Begin? first appeared on Algemeiner.com.
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How One University Dealt with Pro-Hamas Protesters

Anti-Zionist protesters at Rutgers University, New Brunswick on December 23, 2023. Photo: Kyle Mazza via Reuters Connect
JNS.org – In the four academic semesters since Oct. 7, 2023, anti-Israel protests organized by Hamas sympathizers have overtaken some US colleges and tarnished the reputation of American academia. Ivy League schools have been particularly soiled by a combination of ignorant students, radical professors and weak administrations that coddle them.
On the contrary, the Rochester Institute of Technology in New York, where I teach, dealt with pro-Hamas, antisemitic protests differently. While many schools are destroying their brands, RIT fought back.
The RIT brand has always centered on innovative and creative uses of technology. The university prides itself on its career-driven, motivated students of engineering, imaging, and computer science, and more recently, game design, film and animation. It has US Army and Air Force ROTC programs, and various defense and military research, including funding from the Space Force.
Just as important as what RIT has is what it doesn’t; there is no Middle East Studies department and no Students for Justice in Palestine (SJP) chapter. The absence of the former protects us from the most educated Israel haters, while the absence of the latter protects us from the least educated Israel haters.
However, nearby are the University of Rochester and Syracuse University, which have both, so we are not immune to Israel haters.
Anti-Israel, pro-Hamas demonstrations seemed ubiquitous on college campuses almost immediately after Oct. 7, though RIT was spared such ugliness for a month. On the lookout for demonstrations, I was proud of students for not aping the antics of those at other colleges in the state. Nor were there any fliers around campus commenting on the war in the Gaza Strip or announcing upcoming protests.
On Oct. 13, I saw about a dozen masked people—some sporting keffiyehs—loitering on one of the green spaces, but there were no chants or signs. If this was a protest, then these were amateurs.
A month later, on Nov. 13, the pro-Hamas infection came to RIT. The Muslim Students Association (MSA) held a demonstration during which protesters, many of them masked, openly cheered for the elimination of Israel, defended the Hamas murder-rape-decapitation massacre and called for an intifada “from New York to Palestine.” This was not the school I knew. The event was dominated by outsiders. Speakers were from the University of Rochester’s SJP chapter; the Party for Socialism and Liberation; and local, non-academic, anti-Israel organizations. The ringleader was Basem Ashkar, a local protester active in anti-Israel demonstrations since at least 2021.
Evidence of professional agit-prop organizations was visible in the protestors’ signs. Black lettering on a yellow background provided by the ANSWER Coalition proclaimed that “Resistance is justified when people are occupied.” Black lettering against a white background provided by the Party for Socialism and Liberation proclaimed that “Resistance against occupation is a human right!”
The crowd did not look like a typical gathering of the RIT students I have seen in the last 26 years. I wondered how many of those in attendance were paid professionals. One person who stood a head taller and looked decades older than most college students held a hand-written sign in Arabic that translated to “We will sacrifice ourselves for you, holy Aksa mosque. Freedom and independence for Jerusalem and Palestine.”
Shouts of Allahu Akbar (Arabic for “God is great”), the jihad battle cry, rang through the crisp November air, and sounds of ululating women reminded me of the infamous video of Palestinians in Jerusalem celebrating news of the Sept. 11, 2001 attacks in the United States as their loathsome leaders handed out candy to children.
At one point, protesters were led in an Arabic chant that former PLO leader Yasser Arafat used to promote suicide bombings during the Second Intifada in Israel. The translation? “With our souls and blood, we will sacrifice for Al-Aqsa. With our souls and blood, we will sacrifice for Palestine. With our souls and blood, we will sacrifice for Gaza.”
I wondered how many students, gleefully repeating what someone had instructed them to chant, knew what they were saying.
I believed that the hostile and antisemitic protest constituted a violation of RIT policy, so I initiated a complaint. I had meetings with the provost, and eventually, the president about the event.
RIT’s lawyers determined that the “river to the sea” chant was protected speech open to interpretation. And since the MSA had permission for its protest, it was determined that no policy had been violated.
What happened next was remarkable among most college campuses, as far as I can tell. Instead of inaugurating a new era of campus unrest, that November protest was the last one of the year. As the spring 2024 semester turned into the semester of tent encampments throughout North America, there were no more protests at RIT.
In January 2024, rumors spread that the administration had rejected all subsequent petitions for protests. I wasn’t able to confirm those rumors. RIT’s provost, Prabu David, told me that a single attempt to set up an “encampment” was quickly dismantled, and the people pitching tents were immediately removed from campus.
David Munson, the university’s president, is retiring this week. I met with him in November to discuss the RIT protest and how to prevent more in the future. He told me that he believes “RIT has done a good job of navigating the area between free speech and harassment. It has been easier because of the kindness of our student body and the availability of local law enforcement.”
He discussed policy changes, such as setting a limit of six hours for any approved protest, so that RIT would not become an encampment campus. We discussed the troubles that RIT’s previous provost, Ellen Granberg, now president of George Washington University, faced during the academic year when she called the Metropolitan Police in Washington, D.C., to clear an encampment on April 26, 2024, and they refused to come. Munson told me that he knew the sheriffs in Monroe County, N.Y., would respond if he called.
The fall 2024 semester was quiet, and so, too, was this current spring semester—or it was until we returned from spring break in late March.
It started with a single person on March 21, “protesting” in a central location with a Palestinian flag and signs decrying the “genocide in Gaza,” urging RIT to “divest from death” and calling to “Free Khalil.” I called campus security, and the responding officers stopped it quickly and professionally.
On March 26, the same student, along with several others, was in the same spot with the same flag and signs. Again, I called campus security, and, again, they shut it down quickly.
On April 4, there were more protesters. One addressed me by name. When I asked why he was dressed like a jihadi on Halloween, he responded that he was protecting himself from doxxing. I called security, and for a third time, they shut it down. I have seen no evidence of any protests on campus since then.
The university’s president and provost have won the battle, but the war continues. As RIT prepares for a new administration and new president, it will have to watch for the disruptive and potentially illegal SJP front.
To complicate matters, there is now an “unofficial” chapter of SJP at RIT, using the school’s name and violating its brand. The group’s website proclaims that its goal is to “agitate, demonstrate and otherwise make our voices heard on the RIT campus.”
RIT’s struggle with pro-Hamas demonstrations shows that even when a university does what is right and necessary, it must maintain vigilance against the Jew-hatred of today’s anti-Israel demonstrators.
Like preventing dandelions from taking over a pristine lawn, keeping such protests at bay requires continual deterrence. There is no one-time, magical panacea.
The post How One University Dealt with Pro-Hamas Protesters first appeared on Algemeiner.com.
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The Iran Nuclear Deal Trump Wants

Atomic symbol and USA and Iranian flags are seen in this illustration taken, September 8, 2022. Photo: REUTERS/Dado Ruvic/Illustration/File Photo
JNS.org – A fourth round of talks between Tehran’s envoys and Steve Witkoff, US President Donald Trump’s lead negotiator, did not take place in Rome over the weekend as had been expected.
Neither Tehran’s spokesmen nor the US State Department gave a clear explanation for why, but I’ll venture a guess: Iran’s rulers want concessions in exchange for continuing to talk.
They think Trump needs negotiations more than they do. Their assessment is based on years of palaver with presidents Obama and Biden.
Iranian Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei hopes that, concession by concession, he can convince Trump to embrace a warmed-over version of Obama’s Iran nuclear deal, the fatally flawed Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA), which Trump called “a horrible one-sided deal that should never, ever have been made.”
Sunday on “Meet the Press,” President Trump reiterated what he wants: “Total dismantlement [of Tehran’s nuclear weapons program]. That’s all I would accept.”
That means no uranium enrichment or reprocessing, and a halt to the regime’s development of missiles that can deliver nuclear warheads to American cities.
Witkoff is not a career diplomat. That may prove advantageous. Too often, career diplomats are overly eager to conclude deals because doing so brings them professional plaudits.
If those deals turn out to be bummers, so what? By then, the diplomats will have been promoted or awarded a professorship at an elite university where they can hold forth on The Art of Diplomacy.
That’s how North Korea became nuclear-armed after decades of negotiations and agreements.
That’s how Syria retained a stock of chemical weapons after the Obama administration claimed a Russian-mediated dialogue had brought about the destruction of the Assad regime’s CW arsenal.
The 2015 JCPOA is an especially egregious example. As Sen. Tom Cotton observed: “The deal didn’t block Iran’s path to the bomb; it paved the path.”
Obama argued that no one could have achieved a better deal than he had—an unfalsifiable argument. He also said that the only alternative to his deal was war—another unfalsifiable argument.
A policy of “peace through strength”—which was not Obama’s policy but is Trump’s—implies that your adversaries are more fearful of you than you are of them because they recognize your superior might and don’t doubt your willingness to act if push comes to shove.
To be fair, 10 years ago, Tehran had what was believed to be a first-rate missile-defense system supplied by Russia, and commanded powerful terrorist proxies throughout the Middle East and beyond.
You know what happened next: In 2017, Trump became president. The next year, he withdrew the United States from the JCPOA and began to impose serious strains on Iran’s economy.
On Jan. 3, 2020, Trump terminated with extreme prejudice Qassem Soleimani, the skillful commander of Iran’s elite Quds Force, responsible for killing hundreds of Americans and determined to kill hundreds more.
No war resulted and, by the end of that year, Tehran had just $4 billion in accessible foreign exchange reserves, limiting the support it could provide to Hezbollah, Hamas, Palestinian Islamic Jihad, its Shi’ite militias in Iraq and Syria, and the Houthi rebels in Yemen.
These effective policies came to a halt when Trump moved out of the White House and Biden moved in.
Hoping to seduce Iran’s rulers back into some version of the JCPOA, Biden gave them sanctions relief, pouring tens of billions of dollars into their coffers. He lifted the terrorist designation from the Houthi rebels.
Iran’s rulers smelled weakness, which did not mitigate their hostility toward “the Great Satan,” their determination to exterminate “the Little Satan” or their grand ambition to become the most powerful Islamic empire since the fall of the Ottomans.
Deploying thousands of advanced centrifuges, they expanded their nuclear weapons program, producing highly enriched uranium, and began the computer modeling necessary to make a nuclear warhead.
They sold oil to Beijing and drones to Russia for use in its war of aggression against Ukraine. Scores of attacks by Iran’s terrorist proxies in Iraq and Syria against American troops went unanswered by the Biden administration.
On Oct. 7, 2023, Hamas, bolstered by Iranian funds, weapons and training, invaded Israel and staged the worst massacre of Jews—and anyone who happened to be Jew-adjacent—since the Holocaust.
Since then, Israel has fought on multiple fronts. Hezbollah has been decimated. Tehran’s proxy in Syria has been overthrown.
Following two missile and drone attacks on Israel directly from Iranian soil in 2024, the Israeli Air Force destroyed most of Iran’s missile defense systems and severely degraded the regime’s ballistic missile production capability.
Iran’s rulers are now weaker and more vulnerable than they’ve been since the end of its war with Iraq in the 1980s.
President Trump has stated clearly: “We will not allow a regime that chants ‘Death to America!’ access to the most deadly weapons on earth.”
Others who support “dismantlement” include presidential advisers Marco Rubio, Pete Hegseth, Mike Waltz and the Senate Republican Conference, along with evangelical leaders.
So, too, does Witkoff. He has Trump’s ear and trust. If his Iranian interlocutors remain intransigent, there’s no reason for him not to report that to the president. No deal is better than a bad deal.
George Shultz, one of the most skillful American diplomats of the 20th century, left us this insight: “Negotiations are a euphemism for capitulation if the shadow of power is not cast across the bargaining table.”
Shultz had the experience and wisdom to recognize how the real world works. He understood that “peace through strength” is not just a catchy phrase. It’s a policy that must be implemented with confidence, courage and determination.
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