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LGBTQ Israelis fear setbacks as homophobic parties win a place in Netanyahu’s coalition
TEL AVIV and JERUSALEM (JTA) — It was the day before Israel’s Nov. 1 election. In a classroom in downtown Jerusalem, Avi Rose was teaching about Jewish identity through art to a group of Jewish students from abroad spending a gap year in Israel. Suddenly, movement outside caught his eye.
Rose stopped his lecture and approached the second-story window. He was unprepared for what he saw. Dozens of religious Jewish youth from the homophobic Noam party were marching down Jerusalem’s Jaffa Street, chanting and carrying large anti-LGBTQ signs.
The sight was distressing for Rose, a gay Israeli artist who emigrated from Canada 20 years ago. In 2007, he and his husband, Ben, became the first Israeli citizens to have their same-sex marriage certificate from abroad recognized in Israel.
“I’m teaching this wonderful group of young people that have come from all over the world to have their moment in Israel, to finally be free in their Jewish homeland, to be in this democratic Jewish safe space. And they have to see their own teacher going, ‘Oh my God. There are these people out there who their sole purpose is to hate me.’ And it was a dissonance,” recalled Rose, who lives in Jerusalem with his husband and their 10-year-old twins.
“I mean, what the hell am I doing here if that’s the way we are as a Jewish people?” he continued. “And I was scared. I won’t lie to you. I was scared…. I had flashbacks about what my grandparents went through in Europe. And I had to remind myself we aren’t quite there yet. I’m not at the point [where I am going to] pack my bags and protect my children and get out of here.”
By the end of the next day, 14 members of the union of three far-right parties — Noam, Otzma Yehudit (or Jewish Power) and National Union — became the third-largest slate in the Knesset and the second largest in the governing coalition that Benjamin Netanyahu is now assembling. Netanyahu’s other coalition partners are two haredi Orthodox parties, Shas and United Torah Judaism. It will be the most right-wing conservative, religious government in Israel’s history, and its leaders are already vowing to roll back rights that LGBTQ Israelis have only recently won.
Israel does not permit same-sex marriage. But its Supreme Court has strengthened protections for Israelis who enter same-sex marriages abroad, requiring that the marriages be recognized by the state and ensuring that same-sex couples be permitted to adopt children and pursue surrogacy. Now, a Shas lawmaker could be appointed to head the ministry in charge of granting marriage licenses, and a self-proclaimed “proud homophobe” is poised for a leadership position as well.
“I don’t think they’ll criminalize my marriage or take my children away,” said Rose. “But there is a general sense of fear seizing the LGBTQ community.”
Noam, the smallest of three factions making up the joint Religious Zionism list, has focused on advancing policies that prevent the creation of non-traditional families, such as same-gender parents or children created through surrogacy, which it calls “the destruction of the family.” The party’s election slogan was a call to make Israel “a normal” nation.
A man sits outside Shpagat, a gay bar in Tel Aviv, in November 2022. (Orly Halpern)
In a 2019 tweet, the party outlined its vision for what “normal” means. “A father and a father is not normal,” the list began. It ended by alluding to the party’s opposition to Pride flags: “Asking to remove a flag that represents all this madness — that’s actually quite normal.”
One afternoon last week, two male cooks wearing tight black T-shirts exposing prodigious biceps were preparing for opening hour at Shpagat, Tel Aviv’s first gay bar. “Ohad,” who asked not to use his real name out of fear of being harmed, told JTA that there was great concern among his peers about how the new government would shift budgets, change laws and policies and deny LGBTQ Israelis their rights.
“I’m concerned that we will lose all the rights we gained with the recent government and over the last few years,” said Ohad. The outgoing government, a centrist interlude after more than a decade of right-wing leadership, was the most progressive in Israel’s history in terms of the gay community. “We’re talking about the most basic things, like being allowed to donate blood, being allowed to parent children through surrogacy, cancelling the prohibition of LGBTQ+ ‘conversion therapy.’ It’s both to cancel things and to go backwards.”
Yair Lapid speaks at the Tel Aviv Pride Parade on June 10, 2022, weeks before becoming Israeli prime minister. His government was Israel’s most progressive on LGBTQ issues.(Alexi Rosenfeld/Getty Images)
Indeed, one of the memes that worried Israelis have shared widely since election results came out reads, “Don’t forget that tonight, we are moving the clock back 2,000 years.”
Another issue is the distribution of government funding. Israel’s Ministry for Social Equality, for example, allocated 90 million shekels ($26.7 million) this year to benefit the LGBTQ community, which included funding for LGBTQ centers in some 70 cities. The education ministry and local municipalities also provide budgets to the Israel Gay Youth organization, and for teaching in schools about LGBTQ inclusion. Avi Maoz, the head of the Noam party, said he wants to cancel “progressive study programs” about gender.
A spokesperson for the Noam party was unable to make Maoz available and declined to otherwise offer comment.
Transgender Israelis could face the most stark changes. About 40% of transgender people have attempted suicide at least once in their life, according to the health ministry, and more than half avoid receiving medical care. Last year, the outgoing government’s health minister, Nitzan Horowitz, who is gay, set new policies to make healthcare more accessible to the transgender community.
Now the fear is that these policies will be canceled, as will be subsidies for sex reassignment surgeries and drugs. “For all the boys and girls who are in the process of defining their gender identity physically and emotionally, it will make their treatments very expensive or unaffordable,” said Ohad. “That can jeopardize their lives.”
It’s clear that the right-wing party leaders are not sympathetic to the plight of LGBTQ Israelis. Bezalel Smotrich, the head of the Religious Zionist party, identifies himself as a “proud homophobe.” In August, his party protested the enrollment of a third-grader at a religious boys’ school who had transitioned from his gender assigned at birth.
“There is no place in the national religious school system for such confusion of opinions and views that seriously harm the values, natural health and identity of its students,” Smotrich wrote to the education ministry.
The right-wing parties have trained their sights on Israel’s Supreme Court, which has delivered crucial victories to LGBTQ advocates and other minorities. The parties say the court is out of step with Israeli values.
One of the first legislative measures the next government intends to pass is the High Court Bypass Law, which would allow a simple majority of the Knesset’s 120 lawmakers to override Supreme Court rulings on laws that the court struck down, thereby undermining the court’s ability to protect human and civil rights.
“It will leave us as a defenseless minority,” said Liad Ortar, the head of an environmental, social and corporate governance firm, who spoke to JTA from the Climate Change Conference in Egypt. Ortar and his husband have 8-year-old twins through a surrogate from Thailand.
Liad Ortar, right, is concerned that Israel’s incoming government could enact policies that hurt families like his where both parents are of the same sex. (Courtesy Ortar)
Many LGBTQ Israelis fear that lack of tolerance from government ministers could translate into incitement, harassment and physical attacks in the public sphere, and that the religious right-wing extremists who have directed violence towards Palestinians will now target them as well.
“In recent months there has been a very extreme escalation in what’s happening with the settlers and their violence, including the army, that doesn’t really provide protection,” said Ohad. “Not long ago there was an attack on a left-wing woman activist.… Those people are now going to become the ministers of education and culture. So aside from the Arabs and what the settlers do to them there, the next easy target is the gay community.”
In 2015, a religious Jewish man stabbed and killed Shira Banki, a 16-year-old girl marching with her family in Jerusalem’s gay pride parade — weeks after he completed a 10-year sentence for a similar attack in 2005. Now, members of the Religious Zionism slate have called to abolish gay pride parades.
“It’s not only that we are really afraid and worried about our own future. But it’s also our kids’ future. How will it look? And not just the kids of a gay couple, but gay children,” Ortar said. “We’re going to go back to the time where homosexuality can’t be shown publicly, whether at school or in the public sphere. Where they might beat the hell out of a gay couple because they walked hand in hand. Or cursing children in schools because their parents are gay.”
Not all LGBTQ Israelis are alarmed by the incoming government. Gilad Halahmi, a gay man who lives in Tel Aviv, has been active in promoting the Otzma Yehudit and has developed a personal rapport with its leader, Itamar Ben-Gvir. “The fact that he and Smotrich have an anti-LGBTQ agenda doesn’t mean they hate [us],” he said.
Halahmi said he believes his involvement has mitigated Religious Zionist stances on LGBTQ issues, and he also said Amir Ohana, a Knesset member from Netanyahu’s Likud party who is gay, had helped shift right-wing politicians’ views on those issues. But even without that, he said, the tradeoff to get the policies he wants on other issues is worth it.
“I give up LGBTQ rights, but I get something that is much more important to me in return, which is the economic issue, the security issue, the migration issue, governance,” Halahmi said. “It’s things that are 10 times more important to me than public transportation on Shabbat or whether I’ll get married in Israel or abroad.”
But for those who value religious pluralism and LGBTQ rights — and polls have shown that a majority of Israelis do — the current moment is alarming. On Sunday, Ben-Gvir vowed to revoke government recognition of non-Orthodox conversions to Judaism, in the latest sign that a far-right coalition would seek to create practical changes quickly.
For Rabbi Mikie Goldstein, the new government’s threatened assault on pluralism and LGBTQ rights offers a one-two punch that has him questioning whether he should continue living in Israel. Goldstein, an immigrant from England, was the first out gay pulpit rabbi in Israel when he took the reins of a congregation in Rehovot in 2014. Now, he leads the Conservative movement’s Rabbinical Assembly in Israel, working to support rabbis and their congregations who belong to the movement, known as Masorti in Israel.
“If I can’t do my work properly, if I’m not accepted — how much can you take?” Goldstein said. “I’m not prepared to give up yet [on Israel] but it’s certainly crossed my mind.”
LGBTQ activists say they won’t give up rights without a fight — and that they are prepared to mount one.
“We are very much united,” said Ortar. “We have a very strong civil infrastructure. The LGBTQ community is very well established in social and demographic groups. A lot of us are in the media, industry, high tech. After the statement about abolishing the parade, you could hear the drums beating. There will be demonstrations if that happens.”
In 2018, some 100,000 people demonstrated — outraged after then-prime minister Netanyahu voted against a bill to allow gay couples to use surrogacy.
Members of the LGBTQ community and supporters participate in a demonstration against a Knesset bill amendment denying surrogacy for same-sex couples, in Tel Aviv, July 22, 2018. (Tomer Neuberg/Flash90)
Last week, Netanyahu tried to assuage fears and ordered officials in his close circle to tell the press that his government would not allow any change to the status quo regarding LGBT rights. But he did not come out saying it himself.
“This is the time to be angry, not scared,” said Rose. “We can’t be complacent anymore. The privilege of complacency has come to an end. That has to be the message of this election. You have to fight for what you want.”
—
The post LGBTQ Israelis fear setbacks as homophobic parties win a place in Netanyahu’s coalition appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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For fleeing Jews, Venezuela was a golden land — now in exile, they watch their homeland’s unrest with trepidation
After their overcrowded motorboat ran aground and took on water, the 15 migrants swam up to a Tampa beach. The men they paid back in Havana had promised they’d be in Miami within five hours; instead they were at sea for five days, running out of food and water.
Two of the migrants had to be carried ashore, where they were swiftly detained by the police. Years prior, their entry would have been easy with a pathway to citizenship, but now with an anti-immigrant backlash they were sentenced to a year in jail.
After a week, a sympathetic Cuban-born prison guard smuggled out a letter asking for help. “They hold us,” it read, “as if we were criminals, murderers, in stifling dark rooms. We are given only black coffee in the morning and fed once a day, and very limited at that.”
The letter writer worried that he and his fellow refugees might spend months in the dark cell without air or light. But what he feared most was being deported.
Amazingly, the letter got them out.
The letter’s author was Mordechai Freilich, a 26-year-old Polish Jew who had run into trouble as a socialist organizer in a shoe factory in Cuba then ruled by General Gerardo Machado. Written in Yiddish, the letter was mailed to Freilich’s uncle in New York who was instructed to share it with this newspaper, the Forward, which published it on May 14, 1931 under the headline: “Jewish immigrants rescued from sinking boat and arrested when they try to smuggle themselves into America.”
Mordechai, known as Máximo, had written articles for the Forward before he’d left Poland two years earlier. At the time, it was the most widely read ethnic publication in the United States. The newspaper’s general manager, the influential New York politician Baruch Charney Vladeck, persuaded the future governor of New York Herbert H. Lehman to intervene. Freilich and the others were released on condition they find a country to accept them within two weeks.
“The United States was the goldene medine; it was the salvation, but it was closed,” Máximo’s daughter Alicia Freilich told me by phone from her home in Delray Beach, Florida, “Venezuela became our goldene medine.”
Alicia was born in Caracas in 1939, and for the past 57 years, she has been a columnist for El Nacional, the leading Venezuelan newspaper, which itself has become an exile. In 2018, the government seized its headquarters. Today, the web-only publication is blocked by the nation’s internet providers, limiting its readership to the Venezuelan diaspora and those within the country determined enough to digitally bypass the censorship.
In 2012, Freilich suspected her phone was tapped by the government and fled to Florida. If it wasn’t for her advanced age, she’s sure she would have been jailed for her criticism of then-President Hugo Chavez.
“I became an immigrant at the age of 73,” Alicia told me in Spanish the week after President Nicolás Maduro and his wife were arrested by American forces. “I never thought I’d leave.”
Since 2012, a quarter of Venezuela’s population, nearly 8 million people, have left, fleeing food insecurity, political oppression and spiraling gang violence. Though Venezuela was once home to a community of 25,000 Jews, its Jewish population has fallen to 5,000. Alicia Freilich remembers full synagogues, and generous charities that allowed for even the poor to attend Jewish day schools and take advantage of the busy community center, and Jewish retirement home. Now the first thing visitors to the website of the nation’s leading Sephardic organization see is detailed information on how to apply for Spanish citizenship,
While there was a small Sephardic Jewish community in Venezuela in the 19th century, the country’s Sephardic families came mainly from Morocco during the country’s post-war oil boom. Most Venezuelan Jews, however, are Ashkenazi, the children or grandchildren of Eastern European Jews who left Europe before the Holocaust, like Alicia’s parents Máximo and Rifka, or survivors who came after the war, like Alicia’s ex-husband Jaime Segal.
In 1938, Máximo made a return trip back to Poland. “I begged them [my extended family] to leave, that there was going to be a war,” Máximo told Alicia in an interview published in her 1976 book Interviewees in the Flesh, “but they laughed at me.” After the war, his in-laws, Alicia’s aunt and uncle Gutka and Abraham, who survived Auschwitz, joined the family in Caracas.
Officially, Venezuela had restrictive immigrant policies, but made exceptions. In 1939, the government of Eleazar López Contreras gave refuge to 250 German Jews onboard the Caribia and Köningstein ships which had been denied entry at all other ports. Máximo Freilich was one of the representatives of the Jewish community who welcomed the new arrivals at the port in La Guaira.
“Venezuelans are magnificent, generous,” Alicia told me, “like my father used to say, ‘the people are so generous that even a beggar would offer some of his coffee.’”
Máximo, like most Jewish immigrants at the time, was a “claper,” the Yiddish term for an itinerant salesmen. After years of “claping” on doors, peddling rags, he graduated to a Caracas storefront. Among Jews, the self-educated Máximo was a respected figure, a contributor to Yiddish newspapers like the Forward, a settler of disputes, a man consulted over beet soup and gefilte fish. But he never mastered Spanish, and to Venezuelans he remained a “musiu,” slang for a foreigner.
In 1987, Alicia wrote her first novel, Cláper, adapting Máximo’s Yiddish diary from his early years in America, which she intertwines with her own story. Máximo’s journey is from his shtetl, fictionalized as “Lendov,” Alicia’s is from her sheltered Jewish day school childhood into the wider Venezuelan society, attending college and starting her career. She mixes in literary circles, rubs shoulders with leading intellectuals and leftwing dissidents, yet she’s never fully at ease, discovering she is not so different from the “Polish peasant” parents she wished to escape.
“Half a century ago, a bunch of musiús began arriving. They knocked on doors in order to sell rags. They knocked: clap, clap, clap,” she writes reflecting on her success in journalism. “So daughter of a cláper, I too am a caller. When I knock and knock from the pressroom, what I wish to sell for free is what we might call ethical anxiety.”
Alicia’s part of the narrative comes in the form of a monologue to her psychoanalyst, like in Philip Roth’s novel Portnoy’s Complaint, which she references in her book. But Caracas is not Newark. Beyond the middle class of the cities is vast poverty. Venezuelan Jews helped build the democracy that emerged in 1958 after the Pérez Jiménez dictatorship, and for four decades Venezuela was considered one of Latin America’s most stable and affluent countries. But oil wealth bred corruption, inequality fueled unrest and by the 1990s the system was fracturing.
In 1999, the socialist Hugo Chavez, who had led a failed coup attempt seven years earlier, was elected president. Initially popular for promising to redistribute oil wealth to the poor, Chavez chipped away at democratic norms leading many professionals to exit the country in the early 2000s.
“They never directly target the [Jewish] community,” said Alicia, but Chavista anti-Israel rhetoric created a hostile atmosphere. In 2009, armed men overran the nation’s largest synagogue Tiféret Israel in Caracas, desecrated the sanctuary, stole objects and spray painted antisemitic and anti-zionist messages demanding the government expel Jews. That’s when she first thought about leaving.
Soon, she said, her younger sister Miriam Freilich, a culture writer for El Nacional and host of a radio program, decided it was impossible to be an independent female journalist in Caracas. She moved to Colombia before joining her daughter in Israel, and passed away in Spain last year. Alicia’s two sons had left years earlier. They did post-graduate studies abroad in the 1990s and decided not to return.
Ernesto Segal is a physician in Florida and Ariel Segal, who has lived in both the U.S. and Israel, is a communications professor in Lima. “’I prefer Venezuela as a people, as a climate, as the landscape,’ Ariel, 61, told me over Zoom from Lima. “I haven’t returned because of the Chavismo.”
“‘We lived in paradise, but we didn’t realize it,’ Ariel said. He particularly remembers Club Hebraica, the Jewish community center in Caracas, not just a sports center but a hub for youth groups, singles mixers, and holiday celebrations. It’s where he went to school. “After Chavez, we realized, ’wow, that was wonderful. We had freedom. We could change the president every five years. Politicians never threatened each other.’”
For years after he’d left, Ariel returned for weeks at a time each year to lecture at Venezuelan universities on authoritarianism and the Middle East. Then, in 2016, he was accused by name on a government television program of being an agent of the Mossad. He hasn’t been back since.
It was after Chavez’s death in 2013 that most Venezuelans migrants left. With a fall in oil prices and Nicolas Maduro in power came inflation, shortages and increased corruption. Increases in U.S. sanctions further strained the economy making it difficult for the average person to access food and medicine. Early waves of middle-class immigrants left the country on planes with visas. Jewish Venezuelans headed to Florida, Spain, Panama, and Israel.
More recent migrants are poorer without passports or visas. Many fled initially to countries within the region with over 2 million residing in Colombia, but others were forced to head north to the United States. Their treacherous and unauthorized immigration was not so different from Máximo’s journey in 1931.
At the end of his first term, President Trump deferred deportation for Venezuelans. More recently, he has turned hostile claiming “hundreds of thousands” of Venezuelan migrants are members of what he calls “savage” and “bloodthirsty gangs” like the Tren de Aragua, which he says President Maduro sent to “terrorize Americans.” Last year, he stripped the protective immigration status of more than half of the nation’s 1.2 million Venezuelan immigrants, targeting them for deportation. Now, his administration has suggested that with Maduro in prison, Venezuelans can return home.
“They took the clown out of the circus, but they left the rest of the troupe,” Alicia told me. Maduro’s arrest has been celebrated by Venezuelan exiles, but she doesn’t feel it’s enough. The current acting president Delcy Rodriguez and her brother, Jorge, the National Assembly president, long allies of Maduro, are extremely dangerous, she says.
She’s hopeful that slowly things will improve, but she says that Trump’s unpredictable personality and disregard for the rule of law worry her, as both a Venezuelan and as a Jew living in the United States. While he has been friendly to Jews, she says she fears he could easily turn on them, and, she added, his focus with Venezuela is oil, not human rights. “They are not acting with solid democratic principles in the country,” she said, “but the United States [democracy] itself is also at risk.”
Even if Venezuela gets on the path to democracy, it will take time. Alicia doesn’t believe exiles will return home anytime soon. She herself doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. At 86, her energy goes into her weekly column for El Nacional. On the 80th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, she wrote about her survivor aunt and uncle. Mostly, though, she focuses on current Venezuelan politics.
Her father had written from Caracas for Yiddish speakers thousands of miles away. Now, Alicia speaks to a Venezuelan diaspora.
In a recent column, she stressed the only people with the legitimate authority to run Venezuela and restore freedom to the masses are those who were fairly elected in 2024 “There is no other correct way to rescue the imperfect and perfectible democracy,” she concluded.
Florida, Alicia Freilich told me, is not her home; her community, her focus, her heart remain in Caracas. It reminds me of something she quoted her father as saying: “I stayed back in Lendov, just my feet left.”
The post For fleeing Jews, Venezuela was a golden land — now in exile, they watch their homeland’s unrest with trepidation appeared first on The Forward.
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Netanyahu alleges that Israeli soldiers died because Biden-era arms ’embargo’ meant they ‘didn’t have enough ammunition’
(JTA) — Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu alleged in comments on Tuesday that Israeli soldiers died during the war in Gaza because of a Biden-era “embargo” on weaponry.
“We paid a very heavy price in the war,” Netanyahu said during an appearance in Jerusalem. “Part of it is that at a certain point, we simply didn’t have enough ammunition, and people fell, heroes fell. Part of the loss of ammunition was also a result of the embargo.”
The Biden administration held back some heavy arms from Israel in mid-2024 in an effort to pressure Netanyahu not to enter the southern Gaza city of Rafah. It pledged to continue supplying other weapons.
Both Netanyahu and President Donald Trump, who resumed sending the heavy weapons in March 2025, have said the Biden-era restrictions amounted to an “embargo” and have charged that the Biden administration held back more arms than it said.
Biden administration officials immediately decried the comments, saying that Netanyahu was lying and emphasizing Biden’s personal and political support for Israel.
“Netanyahu is both not telling the truth and ungrateful to a president that literally saved Israel at its most vulnerable moment,” Amos Hochstein, whom Biden appointed as a Middle East envoy during the Gaza war, told Axios, in one example. He reiterated the point on X, where he noted that the Biden administration sent $20 billion in military aid to Israel and also participated twice in deflecting Iranian missile attacks.
The comments come at a delicate time for Netanyahu. The retrieval earlier this week of Ran Gvili, the last Israeli hostage in Gaza, adds pressure for him to support a new phase in the Gaza ceasefire which has the potential to become a wedge between him and Trump.
At the same time, the prime minister is facing potential political turmoil at home, with elections required before the end of the year and a budget process getting underway Wednesday that could trigger earlier elections if lawmakers cannot reach a deal over haredi Orthodox army enlistment.
The comments also come as Netanyahu has recently said he wants to “taper” U.S. military aid to zero over the next decade and instead position Israel to fund its own defense. A top Republican lawmaker, Sen. Lindsey Graham, said he thought the shift should come sooner.
The post Netanyahu alleges that Israeli soldiers died because Biden-era arms ’embargo’ meant they ‘didn’t have enough ammunition’ appeared first on The Forward.
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Looking back on my 30 years as a Yiddish translator
איך בין געווען אַ מאָדערנער חסיד אַ בעל־תּשובֿה, וועלכער פֿילט זיך היימיש סײַ צווישן די חסידים, סײַ צווישן די וועלטלעכע ייִדישיסטן.
נישט לאַנג צוריק האָב איך געבלעטערט מײַן עלטסטע אָפּגעהיטע העפֿט מיט לידער אויף ייִדיש, אָנגעשריבן אין 1995 – 1996. האָב איך זיך פֿאַרטראַכט, אַז עס באַקומט זיך אַ יוביליי פֿון מײַן ייִדיש־שאַפֿן און אַן אײַנפֿאַל אַ ביסל אָנצושרײַבן וועגן דעם.
עפּעס האָב איך געגראַמט אויף ייִדיש נאָך פֿריִער, אָבער פֿון יענע „אורשאַפֿונגען‟ מײַנע איז נישט געבליבן קיין שפּור. אין יענער אַלטער העפֿט, וואָס האָט דורכגעמאַכט אַ לאַנגן וועג קיין אַמעריקע און מיט יאָרן שפּעטער צוריק קיין רוסלאַנד, געפֿינען זיך אויך דרײַ מײַנע איבערזעצונגען פֿון מײַן באַליבטן רוסישן דיכטער אָסיפּ מאַנדעלשטאַם.
אין 2002 זענען יענע איבערזעצונגען פּובליקירט געוואָרן אינעם אינטערנעץ־זשורנאַל „דער באַוועבטער ייִד‟, נאָר אין גאָר אַנדערע ווערסיעס. די היסטאָרישע העפֿט איז דעמאָלט געווען אין פּעטערבורג, און איך האָב געוווינט אין קווינס. אויף אויסווייניק האָב איך מײַנע טעקסטן נישט געדענקט און ממילא געמוזט זיי איבערשרײַבן. דער נײַערער נוסח האָט זיך באַקומען לאַוו־דווקא בעסער, פּשוט אַנדערש. פֿאַרגלײַכט:
געהיים איז שאָרכען אינעם וואַלד:
אַ פּרי פֿאַלט אַראָפּ אַנטשוויגן
אין אייביק הילכן פֿונעם ניגון,
וואָס וועלדער־שווײַגעניש אַנטהאַלט.
(1995-1996)
אַ טויבער, אַ געהיטער קלאַנג:
אַ פּרי איז אַראָפּגעפֿאַלן
אינמיטן טיף און אייביק שאַלן
אין שטילקייט פֿונעם וואַלד־געזאַנג.
(2002)
אינעם זעלבן יאָר, ווען אָט די שורות זענען דערשינען אינעם „באַוועבטן ייִד‟, האָב איך אָנגעהויבן אַרבעטן ווי אַ נײַעס־איבערזעצער אינעם פֿאָרווערטס. צוערשט האָב איך געאַרבעט צוויי טעג אַ וואָך; ביסלעכווײַז, מיט עטלעכע יאָר שפּעטער, האָב איך אָנגעהויבן אַרבעטן אין דער רעדאַקציע די גאַנצע וואָך. פֿאַרן באַקומען די שטעלע, זײַענדיק אַ יונגער ענטוזיאַסטישער יאַט, האָב איך געפֿירט ייִדיש־לימודים פֿרײַ פֿון אָפּצאָל אויף דער אינטערנעץ און פֿאַרשיידענע דיסקוסיעס אַרום דער ייִדישער שפּראַך. מײַן מיטבאַטייליקטער אין דעם איז געווען אַריה לאָנדאָן ז״ל (1946 – 2017) – דער זשורנאַליסט פֿון די ייִדיש־אוידיציעס אויף דער אינטערנאַציאָנאַלער ישׂראלדיקער ראַדיאָ „קול ישׂראל‟. מיר האָבן אָפֿט אַרומגערעדט מאַנדעלשטאַמס לידער.
ווי אַזוי האָב איך געפֿונען די אַרבעט אינעם פֿאָרווערטס? ערגעץ אין די ייִדישיסטישע אינטערנעץ־פֿאָרומס האָט זיך פֿאַרשפּרייט אַ קלאַנג, אַז דער פֿאָרווערטס זוכט אַ מיטאַרבעטער. האָב איך זיך פֿאַרבונדן מיט דער צײַטונג און זיך געיאַוועט אינעם ביוראָ. באַלד איז צו מיר צוגעקומען אַ סימפּאַטישע רויטהאָטיקע פֿרוי, וועלכע האָט זיך פֿאָרגעשטעלט: „איך בין שׂרה־רחל שעכטער‟. מיט אַזאַ באַשטעטיקנדיקן טאָן האָט זי זיך באַגריסט, אַז איך האָב פֿאַרשטאַנען אַז איך מוז זיך מאַכן, אַז איך ווייס, ווער זי איז!
דעם אמת געזאָגט, האָב איך קיין השׂגה נישט געהאַט. אין יענע יאָרן, צו וועלכע עס געהערט מײַן אַלטע לידער־העפֿט, האָב איך געטראָפֿן אַ קופּע נומערן פֿונעם פֿאָרווערטס אין דער פּעטערבורגער שיל, איבערגעלייענט אַ פּאָר צי אפֿשר אַ טוץ צײַטונגען. קיין שׂרה־רחל שעכטער האָב איך דאָרט נישט באַמערקט. פּונקט דעמאָלט, ווען איך האָב זיך געלאָזט קיין אַמעריקע, כּדי זיך אָנצושליסן אין אַ וויליאַמסבורגער ישיבֿה, האָט שׂרה־רחל באַקומען איר שטעלע אין דער צײַטונג.
רעדן האָב איך אין אַמעריקע גערעדט די ערשטע יאָרן רק אויף ייִדיש און כּמעט קיין ענגליש נישט געקענט, נאָר אינעם סאַטמאַרער וויליאַמסבורג האָב איך קיין פֿאָרווערטס אַוודאי בכלל נישט געזען.
אינעם ביוראָ האָט מיר יענע, נאָך אומבאַקאַנטע פֿרוי אײַנגעהענטיקט אַ שטיקל פּאַפּיר און געבעטן איבערצוזעצן אַ נײַעסל פֿון ענגליש אויף ייִדיש. האָב איך עס געטאָן, גלײַך באַקומען די שטעלע און זיך באַלד גוט באַקענט מיט דער רעדאַקציע: באָריס סאַנדלער, איציק גאָטעסמאַן, באָריס בודיאַנסקי און אַנדערע. אין גיכן האָב איך זיך אויך באַקענט מיט כּמעט אַלע באַוווּסטע ניו־יאָרקער ייִדישיסטן, און געוואָרן אַ יוצא־דופֿנדיקער פּאַרשוין: אַ מאָדערנער חסיד אַ בעל־תּשובֿה, וועלכער פֿילט זיך היימיש סײַ צווישן די חסידים, סײַ צווישן די וועלטלעכע ייִדישיסטן.
אַגבֿ, יענע איבערזעצונגען פֿון מאַנדעלשטאַמען האָב איך אַמאָל אויך פֿאָרגעלייענט אויף „קול ישׂראל‟. צו דער דאָזיקער ראַדיאָ־אוידיציע האָט דער פֿאָרווערטס האָט געהאַט אַן אומדיקערט צופֿעליק שײַכות. אַריה לאָנדאָן האָט מיר פּשוט אָנגעקלונגען אין דער רעדאַקציע און רעקאָרדירט דעם שמועס.
אינעם ביוראָ האָב איך נישט זעלטן געשמועסט וועגן מאַנדעלשטאַמען מיטן ייִדישן פּאָעט שלום בערגער וועלכער האָט דעמאָלט געפֿירט די וועבזײַט פֿון דער צײַטונג; שפּעטער האָב איך איבערגענומען אָט די מלאָכה.
אין מײַן היים־ביבליאָטעק שטייען נישט ווייניק ביכער, וואָס איך האָב זינט דעמאָלט רעדאַקטירט, איבערגעזעצט צי טיילווײַז אָנגעשריבן. דרײַסיק יאָר איז אַ לאַנגער וועג – אַ גאַנצע תּקופֿה, נאָר צו מאַנדעלשטאַמען קער איך זיך אום כּסדר. דעם פֿאַרגאַנגענעם דעצעמבער, בין איך אויפֿגעטראָטן אינעם פּעטערבורגער ייִדישן קהילה־צענטער מיט מײַנע נײַע איבערזעצונגען פֿונעם דאָזיקן פּאָעט אין פֿאַרגלײַך מיט מײַנע צען ייִדישע איבערזעצונגען פֿון רײַנער־מאַריאַ רילקעס לידער. מסתּמא צום ערשטן מאָל זענען רילקעס לידער איבערגעזעצט געוואָרן אויף ייִדיש; דער ליטעראַטור־פֿאָרשער וואַלערי דימשיץ האָט מיר געזאָגט, אַז קיין פֿריִערע ייִדישע איבערזעצונג פֿונעם דאָזיקן דיכטער אויף ייִדיש האָט ער נישט געזען.
וואָס שייך דעם פֿאָרווערטס, זענען בײַ מיר פֿונעם ייִנגערן דור מיטאַרבעטער פֿאַרבליבן באַזונדערס וואַרעמע זכרונות פֿון צוויי מיידלעך, דעמאָלט גאַנץ יונגע: אַנע (חנה) קוקאַ פֿון בערלין און ליודמילאַ שאָלאָכאָוואַ פֿון קיִעוו. נישט לאַנג האָבן זיי אָפּגעאַרבעט אינעם פֿאָרווערטס, נאָר מיט זיי האָט מען אַלעמאָל געקאָנט שמועסן אויף כּלערליי טשיקאַווע טעמעס (אַרײַנגערעכנט פּאָעזיע!) און זיך גוט אָנלאַכן. משה־יודאַ דײַטש, אַ סאַטמאַרער חסיד, וועלכער האָט דעמאָלט מיט אונדז געאַרבעט ווי אַ מיטדיזײַנער, איז געווען שטאַרק אומצופֿרידן דערמיט. סטײַטש, איך שרײַב טיפֿע אַרטיקלען וועגן חסידות און קבלה, און פּראַווע קלות־ראָש מיט אַ דײַטשקע און אַן אוקראַיִנקע! סאַראַ חוצפּה!
אויך זייער טשיקאַווע איז מיר געווען צו פֿירן די רובריק, דער עיקר, וועגן וויסנשאַפֿטלעכע ידיעות און נײַעס, וואָס האָט טאַקע געהייסן „טשיקאַוועס אַרום דער וועלט‟. כ׳האָף, אַז מע וועט דיגיטאַליזירן יענע נומערן און איך וועל קענען יענע אַרטיקעלעך אַליין איבערצולייענען.
להיפּוך צו אומאָנגענעמע קאָרפּאָראַטיווע צי סתּם העסלעכע אַרבעט־סבֿיבֿות, איז די פֿאָרווערטס־רעדאַקציע געבליבן אין מײַן זכּרון אַ פֿרײַנדלעכע חבֿרה, כּמעט אַ משפּחה, וווּ מע האָט געקאָנט שעפּן פֿון די מיטאַרבעטער און ביוראָ־באַזוכער אַ סך ידיעות וועגן די סאָוועטישע ייִדישע שרײַבער, דעם בונד, די אַמאָליקע ייִדישיסטישע אָרגאַניזאַציעס, און נאָך, און נאָך. און וואָס שייך מאַנדעלשטאַמען, וועל איך אים, אַוודאי, ווײַטער איבערזעצן.
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