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Queer yeshiva to publish first-ever collection of Jewish legal opinions written by and for trans Jews
(JTA) — In the midst of writing a 13-page analysis of a complex area of Jewish law, Rabbi Xava De Cordova found something she wasn’t expecting to see in the medieval-era sources: flexibility.
De Cordova is transgender and had long wondered whether she could feel a sense of belonging while studying reams of rabbinic writings on halacha, or Jewish law, which stretch back thousands of years and often prescribe different practices for men and women.
The laws of ritual purity, for example, prescribe specific behaviors for women on the assumption that they all menstruate. Trans women do not. De Cordova said that gap and others had her thinking, “I don’t really know if I can find a place for myself in this literature.”
But after digging into Jewish texts on the topic, De Cordova realized she’d sold the sages short: Medieval European rabbis were asking many of the same questions she was — and their answers reflected real-world complexity.
“I just found that the rabbis and the early halachic authorities’ understanding of niddah was so much more conceptual and vague and fluctuating than I ever realized before I started this particular work,” De Cordova said, using the Hebrew term for purity laws. Her conclusion: “Wow, there’s so much space for me within this literature.”
De Cordova’s realization is one of many that a dozen Jewish scholars and rabbis have had over the last year as they have scoured Jewish texts for guidance on how transgender Jews can adapt traditional rituals to their lived experience. Now, the group is preparing to release a batch of their essays, analyses of Jewish law called teshuvot, in hopes that they can inform the experiences of trans Jews who seek to live in accordance with traditional Jewish law.
The release of the essays comes at a time when lawmakers in dozens of states are targeting trans people and their rights, in some cases instigating fights that have heavily involved rabbis and their families.
In that climate, writing trans Jews into Jewish tradition “becomes an act of resistance because it’s about celebrating lives that are being demeaned and celebrating people who are being dehumanized in the public sphere,” said Rabbi Becky Silverstein, co-director of the Trans Halakha Project at Svara, the yeshiva founded in Chicago two decades ago to serve the queer community. The dozen rabbis and scholars are based at Svara and collectively form the Teshuva Writing Project.
Among the questions they have tackled: How could a trans man converting to Judaism have a bris, required for male converts? Is the removal of body tissue after gender-affirming surgery a ritual matter, given Jewish legal requirements for burying body parts? And is there a Jewish obligation, in certain cases, to undergo gender transition?
Just how widely their answers will be consumed and taken into account is a question. Most Jews who consciously adhere to halacha throughout their daily lives are Orthodox, and live in communities that either reject trans Jews or are reckoning with whether and how to accept them. Non-Orthodox Jewish denominations have made efforts to embrace trans Jews, but halacha is less often the starting point for most of their members. The Reform movement, the largest in the United States, expressly rejects halacha as binding.
Still, a growing number of Jews and Jewish communities strive to be inclusive while staying rooted in Jewish law and tradition. There are also a growing number of trans Jews who are connected to traditional communities, or who want to live in accordance with Jewish law.
“I think individual trans Jews who are not part of communities could use these teshuvot to guide their own decision-making,” said Silverstein, who was ordained at the pluralistic Hebrew College seminary. “We live in a time of religious autonomy in Jewish life, and where trans Jews actually are hungry for connection to tradition. And so they could use these teshuvot to help inform their own conversations.”
Organizations and initiatives such as the Jewish LGBTQ group Keshet; Torah Queeries, a collection of queer commentaries on the Bible; and TransTorah.org have created rituals, readings, blessings and customs for trans Jews, and Svara runs a Queer Talmud Camp as well as intensive Jewish study programs throughout the year. But until now, no collection of Jewish legal opinions has been published by and for trans people.
“Halacha has to be informed by the real lived experiences of the people about whom it is legislating,” said Laynie Soloman, who helps lead Svara and holds the title of associate rosh yeshiva, in an approach that they said the group had adopted from the disability advocacy community. “That is a fundamental truth about halacha that we are holding as a collective and taking seriously in the way we are authoring these teshuvot.”
The teshuvot will be published later this month, and follow a long tradition of rabbis setting halachic precedent by answering questions from their followers. Those answers are traditionally based on an analysis of rabbinic texts throughout history. They can address questions ranging from whether smoking cigarettes is permissible to the particulars of making a kitchen kosher for Passover.
Some Jewish legal questions tackled by the group at Svara had not previously been answered, such as how to mark conversion for someone who is male but does not have a penis. In other cases, accepted Jewish law pertaining to gender can be painful for those who are nonbinary or trans, either because the answer is not clear or because the law does not match up with contemporary understandings that gender and sex are distinct.
“[Those are] areas where trans people are sort of most likely to either feel lost themselves or be interrogated by their community. … And so they’re sort of these urgent halachic needs,” said De Cordova, who was privately ordained by a rabbi from the Renewal Judaism movement. “And 99.9% of the literature about them so far has been written by cis people, about us.”
De Cordova concluded that trans women are obligated in niddah, the ritual purity laws. In her teshuva, she provides several approaches to emulate the complicated counting cycle that tallies the days a woman is considered ritually impure following menstruation. She suggests using a seven- and 11-day cycle originally proposed by Maimonides, the 12th-century scholar and philosopher. De Cordova also suggests that the imposition of a cycle not based in biology means ancient and medieval rabbis had some understanding of womanhood as a social construct.
“There’s many cases in which the rabbis sort of choose to orient niddah around their understanding of women, which I would call the social construction of womanhood by rabbis, rather than observable physical phenomenon or actual women’s experience,” she said.
For De Cordova, the experience of writing about niddah provided her with new insights about some of the oldest Jewish legal texts on the subject.
“They’re flexible enough and sort of responsive enough that I can really find a lot of freedom and space in working with them,” she said of the ancient sources. “And that was just a really sort of wonderful and freeing transition to go through.”
Last year, the Conservative Movement approved new language for calling up a nonbinary person to various Torah honors. The rabbis behind the opinion consulted with groups serving LGBTQ Jews and synagogues centered on them, but acknowledged that they were imperfect authors.
“When my coauthors and I published the teshuva, we wrote in it that we are all cisgender rabbis and that we hope that, increasingly, halachic work dealing with nonbinary and trans and queer Jewish life and identity and practice will… come from queer rabbis and scholars themselves,” said Guy Austrian, the rabbi of the Fort Tryon Jewish Center, a synagogue in upper Manhattan. “And I think the publication of the first batch of teshuvot from the Trans Halakha Project shows that that process is underway, and I think that that can only be a good thing for the Jewish world.”
Scholars at Svara, the queer yeshiva based in Chicago, have served the Jewish LGBTQ community for two decades and are now creating the first written set of Jewish law by and for trans Jews. (Jess Benjamin)
Adding to the question-and-answer tradition of Jewish legal opinions means trans Jews will now have new texts to guide their religious practice, Silverstein said. Trans Jews, the writers of the opinions acknowledge, already have their own ways of performing Jewish ritual that accords with their lived experience. But they say that when it comes to Jewish law, informal custom without a sourced legal opinion is not enough.
“I want cis[gender] clergy to realize that there are resources written by and for trans people that they can turn to when they’re trying to help a member of their congregation,” De Cordova said.
The authors of the legal opinions applied to be part of the collective and come from a religiously pluralistic group, ranging in affiliation from Orthodox to Conservative to Jewish Renewal. They have varying expectations for how far-reaching the impact of the new legal opinions will be.
Mike Moskowitz, an Orthodox rabbi and the scholar-in-residence for trans and queer Jewish studies at Congregation Beit Simchat Torah, which serves the LGBTQ community, said the teshuvot could provide a model for observant Jews who are also trans.
“I think it’s significant in modeling what an informed conversation can look like, which hasn’t really happened in Orthodox publications,” said Moskowitz, who was not part of the collective that composed the teshuvot on trans Jews’ practice. “I hope this models what can be done in other movements. What’s been tricky is that every movement has a different understanding of what halacha means.”
Even within Orthodoxy, conflicting opinions already exist, in a reflection of how halacha has always operated. For example, Talia Avrahami, a transgender Orthodox woman, follows the opinion of the late Rabbi Eliezer Waldenberg, known as the Tzitz Eliezer, who ruled that a trans woman who undergoes gender affirmation surgery is a woman according to Jewish law. But Avrahami was told she could not sit in the women’s section of her synagogue, because the rabbi who the synagogue follows does not accept Waldenberg’s opinion. Months earlier, Avrahami had also been asked to leave her teaching job at an Orthodox day school after students and parents learned that she was transgender.
Avrahami declined to comment on the new teshuvot, citing restrictions set by her current employer.
Silverstein says some Conservative rabbis have expressed interest in using the opinions to guide practice in their own congregations. But he is less sure if they will be adopted in the Orthodox community, which is the target audience for most traditional literature on Jewish law.
“When it comes to the Orthodox community, I’m not sure I am bold enough to dream that these teshuvot specifically are going to be adopted,” Silverstein said. “I’m not even sure I know what that means. But it is my hope that they will permeate throughout the Jewish community, at least through the Modern Orthodox community.”
The scope of the opinions written by the collective extends beyond the trans community. The first batch of answers, for example, includes an opinion about how to increase physical accessibility to a mikvah, ritual baths used to fulfill some requirements of Jewish law.
“Judaism thrives and Torah thrives when people are bringing their life experiences to the text and asking their questions of the text,” Silverstein said. “That’s how new Torah is uncovered in the world. And that’s how Judaism and Torah has stayed alive through so much of Jewish history.”
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Australia’s Jewish community is defined by Holocaust survivors, Yiddishkeit, and immigrants
An attack on a Hanukkah celebration at Bondi Beach in Sydney on Sunday killed 15 people and left Jewish communities reeling worldwide. The violence has also drawn attention to the resilience of Australia’s distinctive Jewish community, shaped by the world’s largest concentration of Holocaust survivors outside Israel, a growing Yiddish revival scene, and a large number of South African Jewish immigrants.
Demographics and culture
About 117,000 Jews live in Australia, according to 2021 Census figures adjusted for likely undercounting. The community is largely urban, with 84% living in either Melbourne or Sydney.
Just over half of Australian Jews were born in the country. Among those born overseas, the largest immigrant groups come from South Africa and Israel.
Religious practice within the community is diverse, with roughly 4% identifying as Haredi, 18% as Modern Orthodox, 33% as traditional or Conservative, 11% as Reform, and 21% as secular. In other respects, the community is uniquely cohesive: About half of children attend Jewish day schools — the highest rate for Jewish day school attendance outside of Israel.
In recent years, the revival of Yiddish language and culture in Australia has drawn significant attention, with young people who view it as a “language of protest” leading the charge. Yiddish is a required daily subject at Melbourne’s Sholem Aleichem College, a secular day school with roots in the Jewish Labor Bund. The annual Australian “Sof-Vokh Oystralye” retreat immerses attendees in 48 hours of speaking Yiddish exclusively, while Kadimah, a Jewish cultural center and library in Melbourne, stages plays in the language.
Being in the Southern Hemisphere, Australians celebrate Hanukkah during their summer, taking pride in being among the first in the world to light the holiday candles due to their early time zone.
A destination for refugees
The Australian Jewish population nearly tripled in size from 1938 to 1961. The influx was driven by Holocaust survivors, Hungarian refugees who arrived after the Hungarian Uprising of 1956, and British Jews who migrated under the “Ten Pound Poms” program, which allowed them to move to Australia for just 10 pounds.
In the aftermath of World War II, Australia accepted Holocaust survivors who were living in displaced persons camps, at a time when many countries either refused to take them or imposed strict quotas — including the United States.
Not only was Australia one of the few countries willing to accept survivors, it was also just about as far from Europe geographically as one could get, offering a sense of safety in its isolation.
Yet the acceptance of Jewish refugees was at times begrudging. Minister for Immigration Arthur Calwell sold large-scale immigration in the aftermath of World War II not as a humanitarian concern, but under the slogan “populate or perish,” reflecting the need for population growth to boost the economy and enhance national security.
Calwell also covertly introduced bureaucratic measures to limit the number of Jewish Holocaust survivors allowed to enter Australia, including restricting the number of Jewish survivors permitted on ships leaving Europe to a quarter of all passengers.
But Calwell’s efforts to limit Jewish immigration ultimately fell short. In the aftermath of the war, roughly 27,000 Holocaust survivors settled in Australia. As of 2023, about 2,500 of those survivors were still living.
One of those survivors, Alexander Kleytman, who immigrated to Australia from Ukraine, was killed in Sunday’s attack at Bondi Beach while protecting his wife.
Australia’s relationship with Israel
Relations between Israel and Australia have been increasingly strained in the past year. Prime Minister Anthony Albanese had been sharply critical of Israel’s conduct in Gaza, calling Israel’s “excuses and explanations” for blocking aid to Gaza “an outrage.”
Tensions further escalated in September, when Australia was one of about 150 countries that moved to recognize a Palestinian state. In response, Israel revoked the visas of Australian representatives to the Palestinian Authority.
Yet Australia and Israel have historically been strong allies. Australia’s first external affairs minister, Herbert Vere “Doc” Evatt, played a key role in the United Nations partition plan for Palestine and the creation of the Jewish state.
In 2017, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu became the first incumbent Israeli leader to visit Australia, and former Australian Prime Minister Scott Morrison had said he was considering recognizing Jerusalem as the Israeli capital. But that position was reversed in 2022 after Albanese, a member of the Labor Party, took office.
Relations deteriorated further after an arson attack on a historic synagogue in Melbourne in December. Netanyahu sharply criticized Australia’s government, saying, “It is impossible to separate the reprehensible arson attack from the federal government’s extreme anti-Israeli position.”
Following the attack on a Hanukkah celebration at Bondi Beach, Netanyahu doubled down, saying he had warned Albanese that “your call for a Palestinian state pours fuel on the antisemitic fire.” Albanese rejected any link between the two, arguing that support for a two-state solution is a widely held position.
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Australia welcomed my family’s Holocaust survivors — and Bondi Beach soon became a symbol of renewal for me
Like so many Jewish Americans whose families immigrated prior to World War II, I grew up believing that none of my family had survived the Holocaust. When I would ask my older relatives, they would shrug. Only my grandfather shared anything about our relatives: He remembered how his parents would receive letters from Lithuania in the late 1930s and early 1940s, until one day they stopped coming.
As far as I knew, we were the only ones left. That is, until my uncle got a strange phone call from an elderly man who spoke with a hybrid German/Australian accent.
My uncle was skeptical; the person on the other end of the line claimed to be a cousin from the Australian branch of the Carvin family, despite the fact that my great-grandfather Max had invented the surname only after reaching the United States in the early 1900s.
The mysterious Australian said he was visiting Boston and asked if he wanted to meet. My uncle declined and ended the call, assuming it was a hoax or a scam.
My cousins, though, were curious. One of them began calling hotels across Boston asking for a Mr. Carvin until she tracked down the Australian. His name was Leo, and he graciously renewed his offer to meet for lunch.
When she arrived at the restaurant, she saw a man who looked much like her father, but older. And he was holding an envelope of letters written on my great-grandfather’s stationery from his home outside of Boston.
Over the course of an afternoon, my cousin learned more about my family history than any of us had uncovered in decades. Leo explained that his mother was one of my great-grandfather Max’s sisters, making Max his uncle. She and Max had continued to correspond during the interwar period; when the Nazis annexed Austria, her young adult children, including Leo, fled to Italy. Coming to the U.S. was no longer as straightforward as it had been for so many European Jews a few decades earlier, but Max tried to arrange visas for them. He suggested they begin using the surname Carvin rather than his sister’s married name, hoping it might increase the chances of obtaining visas.
It made no difference. Despite all of Europe being on the precipice of another world war, the United States would not take them in. But Australia would.
Leo and one of his brothers arrived in Freemantle, Western Australia in October 1938. To honor Max’s efforts to help them escape from Europe, they legally adopted the surname Carvin soon after their arrival. Eventually they found their way to Sydney, where they and their descendants would thrive.
In the years since Leo Carvin made that phone call to my uncle, we’ve gotten to know our Australian branch. They’ve traveled the east coast of the U.S. visiting my family multiple times; two of them crashed my wedding in Baltimore.
I’ve also visited them in Sydney on three occasions, and on each trip, we’ve repeated the same ritual: having drinks overlooking Bondi Beach at a clubhouse founded by Australian veterans of World War II’s North Africa campaign.
It would be wrong to say Bondi is unlike any other beach I’ve been to; in fact, it’s one of several beaches nestled in coves along the southeastern shore of Sydney, all equally inviting and picturesque. But Bondi is the one I will always think of as our family beach in Australia, and the veterans’ clubhouse as our local pub. It’s a place where I got to rediscover my family in a way that all too many Jewish Americans will never get to do, reuniting with the descendants of relatives who escaped the horrors of the Holocaust and found refuge in a new home.
My great-grandfather, an old-school Bundist, probably would have described our family’s immigration to Boston as doikayt, the Yiddish word for “hereness” that celebrates the diversity of the Jewish diaspora and our ability to thrive wherever we end up, often against difficult odds. I can’t help but think of doikayt whenever I think of Bondi Beach and the country that welcomed my extended family when other countries would not. It symbolizes more than just survival – it symbolizes renewal, prosperity, and resilience.
Bondi Beach may be 9,800 miles away from my current home — effectively on the opposite side of the world — but it will also be here for me. It’s become my home away from home, and a place for joyful reunions that defy all odds. And it would never have been possible if Australia had not opened its arms to my extended family.
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Sydney Opera House lit by giant menorah as vigils for Bondi Beach victims take place across Australia
(JTA) — The Sydney Opera House was illuminated by a large menorah Monday night, a solemn tribute to the 15 lives lost the previous day in an antisemitic terror attack that rocked Australia’s Jewish community.
The projected menorah, displayed on the iconic opera house’s largest sail, was called for by the premier of New South Wales, Chris Minns.
“Lighting the Opera House is a simple but powerful gesture: a message to the world that we cherish our Jewish community, that we honour their courage, and that we stand with them in solidarity and love,” Minns said in a statement. “Tonight, those candles are a symbol of resilience and a reminder that even in darkness, we choose to stand with one another.”
The light of the menorah was one of several acts of remembrance that sprung up across Australia on Monday, a day after two terrorists opened fire on a ChabadHanukkah event on Bondi Beach, killing 15 and injuring at least 40.
In an interview with the Australian broadcaster ABC on Monday, Australian Prime Minister Anthony Albanese said the two gunmen “weren’t part of a wider cell,” and had “engaged in this act of antisemitism, driven by ideology.”
Hundreds of bouquets were placed around a large menorah in front of the Bondi Pavilion on Monday, where more than 1,000 people gathered for a vigil, according to ABC.
“Yesterday was a tragic event, which words cannot explain,” Rabbi Yossi Shuchat told those gathered as he lit two candles to mark the second night of Hanukkah. “Lightness will always persevere; darkness cannot continue where there is light.”
At the vigil, a Jewish activist, Michelle Berkon, was removed by police for wearing a keffiyeh, the traditional Palestinian headscarf that has become a symbol of anti-Israel protest, according to The Australian.
In Sydney’s Hyde Park, hundreds also gathered for an interfaith ceremony where speeches were given by First Nation community members and spokespeople from the Jewish Council of Australia and the Australian Imams Council.
“So many in our Jewish community have received messages of love from leaders in different faith communities, from Palestinian friends and friends around this country, and in so doing, we are now learning we are all just flesh and blood, and we are all also the light,” said Rabbi Jeffrey Kamins from the Emmanuel Synagogue in Woollahra, according to ABC.
The Caulfield Shule, a synagogue in a suburb of Melbourne that serves a large Jewish community, was also packed to capacity by 2,000 people on Monday.
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