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Long-delayed Pittsburgh synagogue shooting trial to begin Monday, igniting pain, fear and hopes for closure
(JTA) — Every Thursday, Brad Orsini gets on a conference call with dozens of other security specialists who, like him, focus on preventing threats to American Jews. But in a few days, and for the coming months, the conference call won’t just address the dangers of the present and future. It will also deal with events that occurred more than four years ago.
That’s because next week marks the beginning of the trial of the gunman who is accused of killing 11 worshippers in a Pittsburgh synagogue in October 2018.
Orsini, who oversaw the city’s Jewish communal security on the day of the attack in the neighborhood of Squirrel Hill, hopes to find a sense of closure in the alleged shooter’s prosecution. But he also knows that the trial threatens to broadcast the white supremacist ideas that lay behind the attack, and continue to pose risks for Jewish communities. And he worries that, in addition to providing a possible pathway for survivors and victims’ families to move into the future, it could also thrust them back into a painful past.
“It’s long overdue,” Orsini said. “This has been looming large over the Pittsburgh community and, quite honestly, the Jewish community in the nation. We’re all looking toward finishing this trial and prosecuting this actor for what he did.”
At the same time, he added, “This trial is going to reopen wounds that this community has suffered for almost five years now, and it’s going to have the ability to retraumatize many people in the community. And we have to be concerned about that.”
Beginning on Monday, those countervailing emotions and expectations will come to bear as the deadliest antisemitic attack in American Jewish history is litigated in court. The trial, which will begin with jury selection, is expected to last about three months. Few doubt the guilt of the accused shooter, Robert Bowers, whose name is hardly uttered by Jewish residents of Squirrel Hill. But what remains unclear is what the trial will mean for American Jews — and for the families most directly affected by the attack.
Some hope for the defendant to get the death penalty — even though that will mean prolonging the legal ordeal — while others have advocated against it. Some hope for the trial to shed light on the threat of white supremacy, even as renewed attention on the attack could inspire other violent extremists. And some hope the trial will help them move past the tragedy, even as they know it will be difficult to hear the details of the shooting laid out in court.
“The country is going to have to undergo this unprecedented trial of the country’s worst mass killer of Jews,” said Jonathan Greenblatt, CEO of the Anti-Defamation League. “It’s going to be really hard, so I think our community is really going to have to buckle down and brace ourselves.”
The attack on Saturday morning, Oct. 27, 2018, killed 11 people from three congregations, all of which met at the same building, and injured six others, including four police officers. The defendant faces 63 criminal charges, including hate crimes and murder charges. He has pleaded not guilty. The prosecution is seeking the death penalty — a choice some relatives of victims are vocally supporting. Previously, leaders of two of the three congregations that suffered the attack had opposed the death penalty in this case.
“This massacre was not just a mass murder of innocent citizens during a service in a house of worship,” Diane Rosenthal, sister of David and Cecil Rosethal, who died in the attack, told local journalists, according to reporting by the Pittsburgh Union Progress. “The death penalty must apply to vindicate justice and to offer some measure of deterrence from horrific hate crimes happening again and again.”
For the survivors and families of victims, the trial will likely be especially painful. Some told the Pittsburgh Jewish Chronicle that they intend to take time off work, delay a vacation or be away from family for an extended period of time to be present at the proceedings.
“I want to see justice happen, but at the same time, I hate to think about the families having to potentially see images of what happened and things of that sort,” Steve Weiss, who survived the attack, told the weekly Jewish newspaper. “I’m sure they have mental images, but to have to actually see photos of victims and things of that sort I think can really be difficult for them.”
One thing few people question is the shooter’s guilt, despite his plea of not guilty. He offered to plead guilty in 2019 in exchange for taking the death penalty off the table, but prosecutors, determined to pursue capital punishment for the crime, rejected the plea.
It was the same thing that had happened in the case of the man charged with killing nine Black worshippers in a Charleston, South Carolina, church in 2015. But there, despite the rejected guilty plea, the trial took place a year and a half after the attack, and the shooter was sentenced to death. (In an illustration of the length of death penalty cases, his latest court proceeding happened in October, and he has not yet been executed.)
In contrast, the Pittsburgh trial is not starting until four and a half years after the shooting there. Part of the reason for the delay stems from the work of the defense team, which has pushed back the trial through various court filings. The alleged shooter’s lead attorney, Judy Clarke, has defended a series of high-profile attackers: the Unabomber, the attacker in the 1996 Atlanta Summer Olympics bombing and the Boston Marathon bomber, among others. According to Pittsburgh’s local CBS affiliate, her singular goal is to avoid the death penalty for her client.
But in many other ways, the parallels between the Charleston trial and this one are clear. Both concern shootings by alleged white supremacists in houses of worship, tragedies that have become gruesome symbols of a national rise in bigotry. In both, the culpability of the defendant was assumed before the trial began. Like the Pittsburgh defendant, the Charleston shooter has been lionized by white supremacists, including some who cited him as an inspiration for their own violent acts.
And in both cases, there is an understanding that a conviction does not heal the wounds opened by the shooter.
“This trial has produced no winners, only losers,” said the judge in the Charleston shooter’s trial, Richard Gergel, according to the New Yorker. “This proceeding cannot give the families what they truly want, the return of their loved ones.”
Still, some who are watching the Pittsburgh trial closely hope that it will bring new facts and connections to light. Amy Spitalnick, the executive director of Integrity First for America, a nonprofit that spearheaded a multimillion-dollar victory in a civil trial against the organizers of the 2017 far-right rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, hopes that the Pittsburgh trial illustrates the links among different white supremacist shootings — such as the attacks in El Paso, Texas; Christchurch, New Zealand; and at a synagogue in Poway, California.
Those attackers spouted similar conspiracy theories and referenced other recent violent attacks in their manifestos. Spitalnick said that the accused Pittsburgh shooter allegedly communicated with the organizers of the Charlottesville rally on the social network Gab, which is known as a haven for right-wing extremists.
“Trials like this can really be illustrative of how deep the poison of white supremacy and antisemitism goes,” she said. In the Charlottesville trial, she said, “The reams and reams of evidence… really helped pull back the curtain on what motivated the defendants, how they operated, the tools and the tactics of the movement, the conspiracy theories at its core.”
There’s also the possibility that, with the attack resurfacing the shooter’s motivations, and putting him back in the spotlight, it will act as an inspiration for other white supremacists. In the years following the synagogue shooting, Pittsburgh became a kind of pilgrimage site for the defendant’s admirers — leading to continued harassment of local Jews.
“We’re giving a platform to an individual who is a Jew hater, who wanted to kill all Jews,” Orsini said. “What does that spark in other like-minded people? We need to be very cognizant throughout this trial on what kind of chatter is going to be out there on the deep dark web, or even in open portals.”
In the face of concerns about retraumatization, Greenblatt said the ADL is preparing resources on how to discuss the trial with students and amid the Jewish community.
“To relive the horrors of, the grief of, the event — this thing being constantly in the news — it’s going to be hard to avoid, it’s going to be difficult and it could be grisly and upsetting,” Greenblatt said. “I would much prefer this trial didn’t happen — I would much prefer this crime never happened, I would much prefer that those people were all still with us today — but this is where we are.”
He added, “If there might be some ability to raise awareness among the non-Jewish population of what we’re facing, [that] would be of value.”
One potential challenge for American Jews as a whole, Spitalnick said, is that federal prosecutors don’t necessarily share the needs of Jews who will be following the proceedings. While the trial will conjure a mix of emotions for Jews locally and beyond, she said, prosecutors will be more focused on the nuts and bolts of what happened that day and the details of the accused attacker’s actions and motives.
“We’re going to probably spend a lot of time hearing from the prosecution about what motivated him, but it’s not through the lens of what we as Jews think about when we think about Jewish safety,” she said. “It’s through the lens of making the case that this guy did what he did motivated by this extremism and hate… It’s going to be very deliberate and tactical and precise, versus where we as American Jews have been thinking about this from a deeply personal, communal safety perspective.”
The deliberate and detailed work of prosecutors, however, may not be at cross purposes with the emotional needs of Jews, Orsini said. When the trial ends, he said, the establishment of Bowers’ guilt may itself prove to be transformative for how Jews relate to the tragedy, in Pittsburgh and beyond.
“The fact that this individual has not been fully brought to justice… and is not convicted yet of this mass shooting — in some way, yes, that closure and finality will be done at the end of this trial,” he said. “The community can kind of regroup and truly become resilient once this phase is over with.”
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Chaim Beer’s new book revolves around J. Opatoshu’s novella ‘A Day in Regensburg’
„לווייתן ברוח“ פֿון חיים באר
פֿאַרלאַג: עם עובד (2026)
303 זײַטן
די טעג איז אַרויס אין ישׂראל אַ נײַ, אייגנאַרטיק בוך, „לווייתן ברוח“ (אַ וואַלפֿיש אין ווינט), פֿונעם אָנגעזעענעם ראָמאַנען־שרײַבער און עסיייִסט חיים באר. דאָס איז דאָס 17סטע בוך זײַנע, וואָס אַלע פֿון זיי ווערן פֿאַררעכנט אין ישׂראל פֿאַר דער „סמעטענע“ פֿון דער העברעיִשער ליטעראַטור. איינער פֿון זײַנע פֿריִערדיקע ביכער האָט מײַסטעריש באַשריבן די באַציִונגען צווישן ח.־נ. ביאַליק, ש.י. עגנון און י.-ח. ברענער.
דאָס נײַע בוך איז אַ ביסל שווער צו דעפֿינירן: מע לייענט עס ווי עס וואָלט געווען אַ שפּאַנענדיקער ראָמאַן, אָבער עס געהערט גיכער צום זשאַנער פֿאַקטפּראָזע (non-fiction בלע״ז). אַלץ וואָס ער דערציילט אינעם בוך האָט טאַקע פּאַסירט. הייסט עס, אַז דער מחבר פֿון בוך איז גלײַכצײַטיק דער נאַראַטאָר: ער דערציילט וועגן פֿיגורן וואָס ער קען, מיט זייערע אמתע נעמען, און וועגן געשעענישן וואָס ער האָט אַליין דורכגעלעבט. און הגם „לווייתן ברוח“ איז געשריבן אין חיים בארס פּרעכטיקן העברעיִש — ער איז דאָך אַ גרויסער קענער פֿון די שפּראַך-אוצרות און דערצו אַ בקי אין די קליינע אותיות — האָט דאָס בוך אויך אַ סך צו טאָן מיט ייִדיש.
קודם-כּל, איז די הויפּטטעמע פֿונעם בוך יוסף אָפּאַטאָשוס נאָוועלע „אַ טאָג אין רעגענסבורג“, וואָס איז אַרויס אין יאָר 1933. און השנית, אין משך פֿונעם בוך באַקענט זיך דער מחבר (און דער נאַראַטאָר) מיט אַ ריי ייִדישע שרײַבערס און פֿאָרשערס — י. ל. פּרץ, ש. אַנ-סקי, מאַקס עריק, דבֿ סדן (שטאָק), חנא שמערוק און נאָך אַ סך אַנדערע ייִדישע פֿיגורן וואָס שטייען אויף תּחיית-המתים.
דער סיפּור-המעשׂה הייבט זיך אָן אין אַ ביכערקראָם אין ירושלים מיט פֿערציק יאָר צוריק. באר קויפֿט אַן עקזעמפּלאַר פֿונעם בוך „ספֿר חסידים“, אַן אַשכּנזיש-העברעיִשן חיבור פֿונעם 12טן יאָרהונדערט, און טרעפֿט צופֿעליק אינעם בוך נאָך אַ ביכל: די העברעיִשע איבערזעצונג פֿון יוסף אָפּאַטאָשוס ראָמאַן „אַ טאָג אין רעגענסבורג“ („יום ברגנספורק“). דער פֿאַרקויפֿער, וואָס איז נישט קיין עם-האָרץ, זאָגט אים: „זאָלסט וויסן אַז דאָס בוך איז אַ ווילדע מציאה!“ (די צוויי לעצטע ווערטער זײַנען אין בוך געשריבן אויף ייִדיש, ווי אַ סך אַנדערע ייִדישע אויסדרוקן וואָס באר ניצט).
אין אויטאָבוס, אויפֿן וועג אַהיים, הייבט באר אָן לייענען אָפּאַטאָשוס נאָוועלע, און תּיכּף ווערט ער אַנטציקט. היות ווי חיים באר איז אַליין אַ רעדאַקטאָר פֿון אַ ביכער-פֿאַרלאַג („עם עובד“), קווענקלט ער זיך, וואָס צו טאָן מיט דער נאָוועלע: זאָל ער אויסאַרבעטן די אַלטפֿרענקישע איבערזעצונג? זאָל ער עס איבערזעצן פֿון דאָס נײַ? צום סוף, קומט צו אים אין זינען גאָר אַ נײַער אײַנפֿאַל: אַנשטאָט איבערזעצן די נאָוועלע וועט ער דערציילן וועגן איר. במילא ווערט „לוויתן ברוח“ אַ דערציילונג וועגן אַ דערציילונג.
אין דער צווישנצײַט באַקענט זיך באר מיט דער געשיכטע פֿון דער אַלטער ייִדישער קהילה פֿון רעגענסבורג. די שטאָט געפֿינט זיך אין דרום־דײַטשלאַנד, צווישן מינכן און נירנבערג, אויפֿן טײַך דונײַ. דאָרטן האָבן אינעם 12טן יאָרהונדערט געלעבט די בעלי-תּוספֿות און די תּלמידים פֿון רבנו תּם. אינעם 13טן יאָרהונדערט, זײַנען דאָרטן באַרימט געוואָרן דער עטישער שרײַבער און קבליסט ר׳ יהודה החסיד מיט זײַנע תּלמידים, באַקאַנט ווי די „חסידי אשכּנז“ (די דאָזיקע „חסידים“ האָבן, אַגבֿ, גאָרנישט צו טאָן מיט די תּלמידים פֿונעם בעל־שם־טובֿ).
נישט געקוקט אויף די בלוטיקע קרײַצצוגן פֿון יענע צײַטן האָבן ר׳ יהודהס תּלמידים אָנגעשריבן „ספֿר חסידים“: אַ וויכטיקע שאַפֿונג פֿון אַ פֿאַנאַטישער און פֿאַנטאַסטישער פֿרומקייט און עס האָט זיך אַנטוויקלט אין רעגענסבורג אַ חשובֿע קהילה און אַ וויכטיקע ישיבֿה, וואָס זענען פֿאַרבליבן ביזן גירוש-רעגענסבורג אין יאָר 1519, ווען אַלע ייִדן זײַנען פֿאַרשיקט געוואָרן פֿון שטאָט. דער בית-עולם איז דעמאָלט פֿאַרשוועכט געוואָרן, און די מצבֿות האָט מען באַנוצט ווי בוי-מאַטעריעל.
אָפּאַטאָשוס „אַ טאָג אין רעגענסבורג“ דערציילט וועגן די לעצטע טעג פֿון דער ייִדישער קהילה דאָרט — אַ חתונה אין שטעטל, מיט כּלי־זמרים און חבֿרה-שוישפּילערס, פֿריילעכע באַנקעטן און באַלן — וואָס שטעלן זיך אָפּ מיט אַ מאָל, ווען די ייִדן באַקומען די בשׂורה פֿונעם גירוש. שטעלט באר אַזאַ קשיא: „צי האָט דער מחבר פֿון בוך באַנוצט אַ ליטעראַרישע טאַקטיק, כּדי די לייענערס זאָלן ווערן אַזוי באַצויבערט פֿונעם קאַרנאַוואַל, אַז זיי וועלן זיך נישט ריכטן אויף דער טראַגעדיע וואָס דערוואַרט זיי?“
במשך פֿונעם בוך לייענט מען ווי באר באַקענט זיך מיט פֿאַרשיידענע ענינים וואָס האָבן אַ שייכות סײַ מיט אָפּאַטאָשוס נאָוועלע און סײַ מיט רעגענסבורג. אָט, למשל, שילדערט אָפּאַטאָשו אינעם בוך אַ קאַרנאַוואַל, וווּ עס באַווײַזט זיך „דער שפּילמאַן“ — אַן אַרכעטיפּ אין דער ייִדישער ליטעראַטור וואָס אַ צאָל ליטעראַטור־פֿאָרשער האָבן באַצייכנט ווי אַ מין ייִדישער טרובאַדאָר, וואָס האָט כּבֿיכול געוואַנדערט פֿון איין קהילה צו דער אַנדערער. דערצו באַקענט זיך באר, און במילא די לייענערס, מיט אליהו בחור; מיט פֿאַרשיידענע ייִדישע אַרויסגעבערס און דרוקערס; מיט ייִדישע רופֿאטעס; מיט דער אויטאָביאָגראַפֿיע פֿון גליקל האַמעל און מיט נאָך אַ סך אַנדערע ווערק אין אַלט-ייִדיש און אין נײַ-ייִדיש, ווי „דער דיבוק“ און „בײַ נאַכט אויפֿן אַלטן מאַרק“.
צוזאַמען מיט בארן באַזוכן מיר געוועזענע ייִדישע אינסטיטוציעס, ווי די ענגע ייִדישע ביכערקראָם אויף ברענער גאַס אין תּל-אָבֿיבֿ. „וואָס ברענגט אײַך צו אונדז, חבֿר ׳בער׳, נאָך אַ שאָק מיט יאָרן?“ (אַזוי רופֿן זיי דעם שרײַבער מיט אַ טיפֿן ייִדישן אַקצענט.) ענטפֿערט ער אַז ער זוכט ביכער פֿון אָפּאַטאָשון. ער ווייסט גאַנץ גוט אַז די צוויי פֿאַרקויפֿערס „פֿילן זיך אַז זיי זײַנען די היטערס פֿון די אוצרות פֿון ייִדיש, און יעדעס מאָל וואָס זיי לאָזן אַרויס אַ בוך פֿון דעם שוץ-קעלער איז אַ פֿאַרברעכן, כּמעט ווי זיי וואָלטן עס מפֿקיר געווען“. צום סוף גיבן זיי אים דאָס בוך, אָבער מיט אַ וואָרענונג אַז אויב ער דאַרף עס נישט מער, זאָל ער עס אין גיכן צוריקגעבן.
אין חיים בארן איז אַ פּנים אַרײַן אַ מין רעגענסבורגער דיבוק: איצט וויל ער שוין אַלץ וויסן וועגן רעגענסבורג. כאָטש נאָך די צוויי גרויסע גירושים (דער פֿון 1519 און דער פֿון די נאַציס) איז גאָרנישט נישט געבליבן פֿון דער רעגנסבורגער קהילה, וויל ער זען יעדעס רעשטל מיט זײַנע אייגענע אויגן. פֿאָרט ער קיין רעגענסבורג זוכנדיק די ברעקלעך פֿון די ייִדישע מצבֿות, וואָס מע קאָן נאָך זען דאָ און דאָרטן אין די מויערן און אין די אַלטע הײַזער. ווײַזט זיך אויס אַז הײַנט צו טאָג קאָן מען אַפֿילו קריגן אין רעגענסבורג אַ מאַפּע, וווּ עס זײַנען מאַרקירט די גענויע ערטער פון די מצבֿות. גייט חיים באר זוכן „די נעכטיקע טעג“, וווּ ער אַנטדעקט, למשל, אַ מצבֿה פֿון אַ פּעסל בת יוסף, וואָס איז געשטאָרבן אין יאָר 1482.
אָבער פֿאַר וואָס איז חיים באר אַזוי פֿאַרכּישופֿט געוואָרן דווקא פֿון „אַ טאָג אין רעגענסבורג“? אַ פּנים פּרוּווט ער מיט דער הילף פֿון דער נאָוועלע פֿאַרשטיין ווי אַזוי מע לעבט אינעם שאָטן פֿון אַ קומענדיקן שטורעם. דאָס בוך „לווייתן ברוח“ איז געשריבן געוואָרן אין דער צײַט פֿון דער קריג וואָס האָט זיך אויסגעבראָכן דעם 7סטן אָקטאָבער 2023, און וואָס האָט, צום באַדויערן, זיך נאָך אַלץ נישט געענדיקט. אין די כּמעט דרײַ יאָר האָבן מיר, ישׂראלים, אַ סך געטראַכט וועגן די טראַגעדיעס וואָס מיר און אונדזערע שכנים האָבן איבערגעלעבט, און וועגן די וואָס קאָנען נאָך קומען, חלילה.
„הגם די נאָוועלע פֿון אָפּאַטאָשו דערציילט וועגן דער ווײַטער פֿאַרגאַנגענהייט — שרײַבט באר — פֿאַרנעמט זי זיך אין דער אמתן מיט אַן אייביקער מענטשלעכער סיטואַציע: ווי מענטשן קען זײַן אַזוי קורצזיכטיק און נישט זען די דראַמאַטישע און קריטישע מאָמענטן וואָס לויערן אויף זיי.“
The post Chaim Beer’s new book revolves around J. Opatoshu’s novella ‘A Day in Regensburg’ appeared first on The Forward.
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The Jewish Brigade fought fascism in Italy. Now its flags spark protests.
(JTA) — When the Jewish Brigade appears today in Italian public debate, it is rarely about the British Army unit, formed largely by Jewish volunteers from Mandatory Palestine, that was sent to fight in Italy in the final months of the Second World War.
The Jewish Brigade has become a screen onto which other conflicts are projected: Zionism and anti-Zionism, antisemitism, Israel and Palestine, the meaning of antifascism and the ownership of public memory.
This is why recent tensions in Milan and Rome during Italy’s Liberation Day commemorations were not simply disputes about flags or parades. They were symptoms of a deeper problem: the difficulty of allowing history to remain history, while also recognising that memory is always political.
On April 25, Italy celebrates its liberation from Nazi occupation and fascist rule. It is the most important civil holiday of the Italian Republic, a foundational moment in the country’s democratic identity. But precisely because it is so symbolic, it has always been a stage on which the political tensions of the present are acted out.
The Jewish Brigade occupies a peculiar place in this story. Militarily, its contribution to the Allied campaign in Italy was limited. The Brigade arrived late at the front, in early 1945, and fought for only a short time. Its soldiers were deployed in Romagna, north of Ravenna, along the Lamone, and later near Riolo Terme and the Senio river. About 50 of its soldiers died.
Yet to measure the Brigade only by military impact is to misunderstand its historical significance. Its importance was symbolic, political and psychological. These were Jews in uniform, fighting under a flag marked by the Star of David, against the army of the regime that had attempted to annihilate European Jewry. For many of the volunteers, especially those who were committed Zionists, service in Italy represented more than participation in the Allied war effort. It was a form of Jewish self-assertion, and a claim to political dignity before the world.
This is one reason the Brigade mattered then. It also helps explain why it matters now.
After the war, the memory of the Jewish Brigade did not immediately become central to Italian public memory. For decades it remained relatively marginal, preserved above all within parts of the Jewish community and in the recollections of veterans. Its later rediscovery, especially from the 1990s and 2000s, coincided with new struggles over the meaning of April 25. Some Italian Jewish communities began to bring the Brigade’s flag into Liberation Day commemorations to remind the public that Jews had not only been victims of fascism and Nazism. They had also been combatants, liberators and political actors.
That reminder was, and remains, historically legitimate. Italian Jews belong fully to the history of the Resistance and to the history of the Republic that emerged from the defeat of fascism. The Jews of Mandatory Palestine who served in the Jewish Brigade also belong to the history of Italy’s liberation, however brief their time at the front. They fought in Italy, against German forces, alongside other Allied soldiers and alongside the reborn Italian army. To deny their place in that history is not a neutral act of historical correction. It is an exclusion.
At the same time, it is clear that the Brigade has become controversial not only because of what it did in 1945, but because of what its flag is understood to mean today. The flag of the Jewish Brigade is virtually identical to the later flag of the State of Israel. For some, this makes it a proud symbol of Jewish resistance to Nazism and of the Jewish contribution to liberation. For others, especially in the context of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, it is read primarily as a symbol of Israel and therefore as a political provocation.
This is the heart of the problem. The dispute is often presented as a debate about history, but it is in fact a debate about the present. People argue about the Brigade because they are really arguing about the legitimacy of Zionism, about whether anti-Zionism can become antisemitism, about whether Israel should be understood as a national project or an imperial one, and about what antifascism should mean today. These questions generate fierce disagreements, and April 25 gives them a highly charged public stage.
There are two competing visions of Liberation Day. One sees April 25 primarily as a historically defined Italian commemoration: the day on which the country remembers those who fought between 1943 and 1945 to free Italy from Nazi-fascism. In this interpretation, the Jewish Brigade clearly has a place, because it took part in that struggle. Palestinian flags, by contrast, are harder to place within that specific historical frame, not because Palestinians were fascists, but because they were not participants in the liberation of Italy.
The other vision is more dynamic and internationalist. It sees April 25 not only as the commemoration of a past event, but as an annual reaffirmation of resistance to oppression in the present. In this interpretation, the presence of Palestinian flags, Ukrainian flags, Iranian dissidents or other contemporary causes can be understood as part of a broader antifascist language. April 25 becomes not only the memory of Italy’s liberation, but a ritual of solidarity with those who resist domination elsewhere.
The Jewish Brigade forces us to confront this tension. It belongs to the historical April 25 because it helped liberate Italy. It also belongs to the broader moral history of antifascism because it embodied Jewish armed resistance to Nazism. But its memory is now inseparable from the unresolved political and psychological impact of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict on Italian, and indeed international, public life.
This does not mean that every criticism of Israel is antisemitic. It is not. Nor does it mean that Jewish history should be used to silence Palestinian suffering. It should not. But it does mean that excluding Jews from an antifascist march, insulting people carrying the symbols of the Jewish Brigade, or treating Jewish participation in Liberation Day as illegitimate is a profound historical and moral failure. Antifascism without Jews is not antifascism. An April 25 in which Jews are tolerated only if they hide the symbols they decide to choose is not a healthy democratic ritual.
The answer is not to turn the Jewish Brigade into a weapon in today’s political battles. Nor is it to erase it in the name of avoiding controversy. The answer is to recover the complexity of its history. The Brigade was a military unit, but also a symbol. Its soldiers were liberators in Italy, survivors or relatives of victims of European catastrophe, Zionists of different kinds and human beings who often carried grief, hope and a desire for revenge. Their story links the Holocaust, the Second World War, the end of empire, the birth of Israel and the politics of memory in postwar Italy.
That is why the Jewish Brigade matters today. It reminds us that history cannot be reduced to slogans, that memory can both illuminate and distort, and that democratic societies must make room for complexity and uncomfortable truths.
The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of JTA or its parent company, 70 Faces Media.
The post The Jewish Brigade fought fascism in Italy. Now its flags spark protests. appeared first on The Forward.
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Jerusalem Pride march turns toward the Knesset as LGBTQ Israelis eye pivotal election
(JTA) — JERUSALEM — The Pride march in Israel’s capital city changed its traditional route on Thursday to end near the Knesset, in a show of force ahead of elections that could have major implications for the status of LGBTQ Israelis.
“If the current government has a problem with LGBTQ+ people, then the current government can go home, because the community is here to stay,” opposition leader Yair Lapid said during the culminating rally.
Jerusalem’s Pride march is always more muted than the raucous celebration that takes place each June in Tel Aviv. But this year, the looming election, which must be held by Oct. 27, galvanized participation.
More than 10,000 Israelis gathered in Sacher Park for the rally, according to Noa Fisher of the Jerusalem Open House, the LGBTQ+ equality organization that organizes the event.
“It’s always more like a protest than anything else. This year, especially,” said Hadas Bloemendal, chair of the Jerusalem Open House, walking alongside the crowd with her baby in a stroller.
“I’m supposed to be on maternity leave,” she said. “But this year, I had to be here.”
The status of LGBTQ Israelis is complex. While the country has a thriving gay culture and the speaker of the Knesset is openly gay, same-sex marriage is prohibited by law and some haredi Orthodox lawmakers have spoken with disdain about LGBTQ people and said they want to see their rights rolled back. The elections this fall will determine whether those lawmakers retain power in the next government.
Michal Rozin, a former lawmaker from the liberal Meretz party, urged rally-goers on Thursday to boo after recounting a 2023 comment by a member of the United Torah Judaism party, a partner in the governing coalition, who said the LGBTQ community is “the most dangerous thing for the State of Israel, more than Islamic State, more than Hezbollah, more than Hamas.” (He was commenting during Pride month, before Hamas’ Oct. 7 attack on Israel.)
Avi Maoz, an anti-LGBTQ politician who was part of the current government until last year, called this year’s march an “abomination” in a post on social media on Thursday.
The rally marked 11 years since 16-year-old Shira Banki was killed when a haredi Orthodox man stabbed six Jerusalem Pride attendees, weeks after being freed from prison after staging a similar attack a decade earlier.
“Some of the friends she walked with are still, today, volunteering. That’s what echoes the most, what she chose to do,” Bloemendal said.
Security was intense Thursday, and the gathering area before the march was completely sealed off. More than 2,000 Israel Police officers and border agents were dispatched to protect the march, according to Israeli police spokesperson Dean Elsdunne.
Behind a wall of tour buses was a counter-demonstration hosted by the extremist group Lehava, which opposes Jewish-Arab coexistence and gay relationships. By the time the march left Sacher Park for the Rose Garden near the Knesset, only a few dozen men remained in the heavily policed and cordoned-off area.
“Those standing outside and protesting against us have forgotten what it means to be Jewish and have forgotten what it means to be human,” Lapid said from the stage.
Despite the counter-protest, spirits were high at the rally, where attendees said they were determined to make their voices heard at a time when they feel their country is closing itself off to LGBTQ+ life.
“The LGBTQ+ community is present everywhere that the fate of this country is being written,” Rozin said in her speech. “But there are those who continue to incite against it.”
Lapid has long made LGBTQ+ equality a central tenet of his platform. His alliance this year with Naftali Bennett (a religious Zionist who historically opposed same-sex marriage) is notable in part because Bennett announced at their April 26 press conference announcing a joint campaign that a government under his leadership would advance same-sex marriage in Israel.
Marriage in Israel is regulated by the Rabbinate, which prohibits LGBTQ+ unions, leaving many couples to wed abroad and petition to have those marriages recognized at home. Lapid promised that “in the first 100 days of the next government, we will bring legislation that says the rights of every couple in Israel will be equal. Mom and dad, dad and dad, mom and mom — everyone the same rights.”
The nearly 10,000 attendees gathered beneath different banners and identities, some flying the flags of their youth movements, from socialist to LGBTQ+ organizations, to different political factions, including the Democrats, which made a significant showing at the event.
Drummers from the Pink Front led the rally toward the Rose Garden near the Knesset, passing through a tunnel, with chants echoing off the stone walls.
Shira Zagury, CEO of Shira Banki’s Way, founded by Banki’s parents the year after her murder to build coexistence and pluralism in Israeli society, said the march “continues to mark a moment of inclusion and positivity.”
Before the march set off for the Rose Garden near the Knesset, Rabbi Tamar Elad-Appelbaum recited the Traveler’s Prayer, praying for the marchers’ safety and alluding to Banki’s death nearly 11 years before.
“In the face of violence, hatred, and attempts to send us back into the closet, we will march this year and every year and say, ‘We are here to stay,’” she said.
The post Jerusalem Pride march turns toward the Knesset as LGBTQ Israelis eye pivotal election appeared first on The Forward.