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Standing on Albania’s Jew Street, I learned firsthand the country’s lifesaving culture of hospitality
BERAT, Albania (JTA) — Stone paths wind through the Ottoman-style houses built into the hillside of Berat, Albania. They lead to an imposing 13th-century castle at the peak — the top priority for most visitors to this 60,000-person town 90 minutes south of the capital, Tirana. I had other plans.
Albanians take pride in their ancient code of “besa,” which translates to “keep the promise” and leads them to prioritize guests and religion in their homes. For Albanian Jews or those who fled there from elsewhere in the Balkan Peninsula as German forces advanced during World War II, it promised safe harbor with Albanian families and even throughout entire towns. Albania is the only country in Europe whose Jewish population grew during the war.
Berat’s Solomoni Museum explains this history and that of earlier Jews in the area. At least, so I hear: Under the stone arches off the plaza, I found only locked doors.
Some people collect souvenir spoons or Starbucks city mugs when they travel, others collect memories. I collect fragments of Jewish identity. Planning this trip to Albania with friends, I insisted on a stop in Berat to see the small museum and wasn’t about to give up.
“I’ll call her,” offered the woman behind the desk at the Ethnographic Museum across the street. “Her” referred to the caretaker, the widow of the Orthodox Christian professor who started the museum — Albania’s only one dedicated to Jewish history — as a passion project funded by his pension. After Simon Vrusho’s death in 2019, the museum closed until a French-Albanian businessman heard the story and donated funds for it to reopen in a larger, permanent location.
But the call ended with bad news: The caretaker was sick, and the museum would remain closed. I grimaced. Seeing my reaction, the Ethnographic Museum docent did what all Albanians do — anything she could to make me feel better, to make sure I enjoyed my stay in her town. In this moment, that meant explaining everything she knew about Jews in Albania.
A view of the exterior of the Solomoni Museum, the country’s only museum about its Jewish history. (Naomi Tomky)
Jews first arrived in the country as Roman captives, almost 2,000 years ago. But the first major wave, especially to Berat, came from Spanish Jews fleeing the Inquisition. The Ottoman Empire, which ruled the area at the time, offered nominal religious freedom.
This month, the country’s prime minister announced plans to open a museum in Tirana dedicated to the stories of Albanian citizens who sheltered Jews during the Holocaust, when the country was occupied by both fascist Italy and later Nazi Germany. Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust remembrance authority, has recognized at least 75 Albanians as Righteous Among the Nations for saving Jews.
“You can see the street where the Jews lived,” the docent noted. I perked up and jotted down her directions.
Six blocks away, I found a simple black plaque with white lettering, barely the size of my forearm and posted high on a white brick wall. It read, “Rruga Hebrentje.” I stared at it. Two millennia of Jewish history in the country, and one closed museum forced me to take heart in a little sign saying “Jew Street.”
A sign in Berat, Albania, reads Rruga Hebrentje, or Jew Street. (Naomi Tomky)
Jews have company in this razing of history: The brutal post-World War II communist regime of dictator Enver Hoxha shuttered all religious institutions in 1967, declaring Albania the world’s first atheist state. His forces destroyed more than 2,000 mosques, churches and other sacred buildings, arresting priests, clerics and imams, many of whom disappeared forever into labor camps and hidden graves. “Religion is the opium of the people,” Hoxha wrote, quoting Karl Marx.
It felt selfish to pout about the lack of Jewish history when so much religion, so many people and huge swaths of Albanian culture had been so recently and violently erased. I joined my friends to explore Berat’s exceptions to the wanton destruction, starting at the Sultan’s Mosque, which dates to the 15th century and boasts an intricately carved wooden ceiling. We expected to admire just the outside, since our guidebook said the doors opened only around Friday prayer.
But as we stared at the somewhat ordinary façade, a friendly gentleman chatted us up. He spoke Albanian, Greek and a bit of Italian, the last of which proved useful at matching up to our Spanish and French. He told us a little about the mosque and the casual styles of observance by most Albanian Muslims, but we only realized he worked there when he invited us inside, retrieving a key when we responded with excitement.
We marveled at the green, red and gold ceiling, illuminated by a round chandelier. He asked if we wanted to climb up the minaret, warning us about the ascent. Narrower than the width of my hips, the tightly coiled spiral of 94 stairs featured a layer of dust and cobwebs that stuck to our bare feet. But at the top, swallowing my fear of heights, confined spaces and bugs, I reaped the reward: a 360-degree view of the “thousand windows” that give the town its nickname, flanking both banks of the Osumi River, and the double eagle of Albania’s red flag flying proudly above it all from the castle.
A view of the ceiling inside the Sultans Mosque in Berat. (Naomi Tomky)
Back on the ground, we thanked the man profusely and dropped donations in the box outside the mosque door as we prepared to say goodbye. Instead, he led us across the square to another building – the Halveti Tekke, or Teqe. Light flowed through the high stained-glass windows onto the walls of the 700-year-old gathering place belonging to the mystic order of Sufi Muslims called Bektashi. Chains hung from the ornate gold-leaf-decorated ceiling over a space where, according to our new friend, the bektashi, or dervishes, used to perform their whirling rituals.
“You want to go up?” he asked my friend’s eight-year-old daughter. She nodded excitedly, and he tossed her a ring of keys, pointing the way to the balcony. As she climbed the stairs, I noticed a pair of six-pointed stars framing the main doorway, a reminder of my original mission, even if they were likely not Stars of David.
But if I felt sad about missing out on the Jewish museum, I was heartened by what I did receive: a first-hand lesson on Albania’s life-saving culture of hospitality.
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My Path to Being More Observant: Building a Jewish Life on Love, Not Fear
Reading from a Torah scroll in accordance with Sephardi tradition. Photo: Sagie Maoz via Wikimedia Commons.
I love connecting Jews to Judaism. There’s a big part of the Jewish world where people don’t know what they’re missing out on. If people have only ever been exposed to one stream of Judaism from a young age, their worldview will be shaped by that experience. We have access to knowledge, spirituality, and meaningful ways to connect to G-d, and we should be sharing this with all Jews.
I try to show them love by inviting them to Shabbat dinners and powerful experiences. These are all very important things to me. But I wasn’t always this way.
I grew up in Sharon, Massachusetts, surrounded by a rich tapestry of Jewish life. I attended Temple Israel, a Conservative synagogue, spent summers at Camp YJ in Amherst, New Hampshire, and was involved in BBYO throughout high school. Between Hebrew school three days a week and my parents hosting many Jewish holidays, Judaism was woven into the fabric of my daily life.
Yet despite this strong foundation, my journey to Aish’s yeshiva program wasn’t something anyone might have predicted. I was always connected with Judaism growing up, and I had many Modern Orthodox friends in college, but yeshiva wasn’t initially on my radar. That changed when I got to the University of Michigan.
At Michigan, I connected with Michigan Hillel and became deeply involved in Israel activism and Jewish student leadership. I also developed a meaningful relationship with Rabbi Fully Eisenberger, at the Jewish Resource Center, who taught me for four years. The Jewish Resource Center at Michigan became instrumental in my growth, supported my learning journey, and gave me confidence in my decisions.
The Jewish Resource Center was tremendous to me. I really felt supported in my journey and my learning, and that allowed me to feel confident in my decisions to go to Aish.
I had visited Israel four times before that point, starting with a five-week trip through Camp YJ in 2019. After I graduated from Michigan, I had a consulting job lined up in Manhattan starting in February, which gave me a perfect window of time in between. I decided Israel was my best option to increase my Jewish knowledge and set up my Jewish future for success. Ultimately, that meant yeshiva.
Having arrived at Aish in September 2025, I dived headfirst into intensive Jewish learning. While my studies have been overwhelmingly positive, the transition hasn’t been without its challenges. I’ll admit that my biggest hurdle is wanting to run before I know how to walk.
I wish I could read Gemara all day, but translations are hard for me. Sometimes you just have to take your time and say the words correctly and with intention. Time is my challenge. That’s my hurdle.
Despite these mild frustrations, I have found incredible support among my rabbis. Rabbi Daniel Schloss has been particularly influential in helping me understand halakha, Jewish law. The way he gets me to think through the principles of Shabbat is very powerful, because it shows I have the ability to interpret halakha and use it correctly. He’s an incredible teacher.
Rabbi Ethan Katz has also been instrumental in my growth, as he’s helped me learn to study at a pace that I desired, and I’m grateful for that. He has such positive energy, and I really appreciate that.
Throughout my journey, my family has been remarkably supportive. My parents have embraced this increasingly observant path I have been traveling, catering to my needs and ensuring I can build the Jewish future I envision. While they haven’t necessarily followed the same trajectory themselves, their gift to me was the foundation that made everything else possible.
Even as I learn, I’m always looking for ways to give back. Before arriving here, I led a Birthright Israel trip, and will be leading another one. I look forward to the day when I can host people regularly and get involved with outreach organizations back in New York.
People often ask me if I’m wary of being in New York, but I refuse to let others define my Jewish identity. Our Judaism is made up of things we love. We love being Jewish, celebrating the holidays, and connecting with the community. I’m looking to find positive ways to build my Judaism.
Thanks to my upbringing and studies, I feel confident and proud of my Judaism. I want to bring that confidence and passion with me, ready to share what I’ve learned and continue growing in my connection to the most fulfilling Jewish life.
The author holds a Bachelor’s degree in Economics and a minor in Entrepreneurship and Judaic Studies from the University of Michigan, and recently attended Yeshiva in Israel at Aish.
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Holocaust Survivor, 96, Celebrates Aliyah to Israel With Five Generations of Descendants
Charlotte Roth’s aliyah ceremony, attended by five generations of her descendants. Photo: Nefesh B’Nefesh
Holocaust survivor Charlotte Roth formally immigrated to Israel on Wednesday and celebrated with an aliyah ceremony attended by her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren who live in the Jewish state.
“It is a truly wonderful moment in my life to be able to call myself Israeli, a citizen of our Jewish state,” said Roth, 96. “Walking these streets with five generations of my family fills my heart with deep joy and strength, especially when I see Israeli soldiers and feel safety and pride where there was once fear.”
Aliyah refers to the process of Jews immigrating to Israel.
Roth made the move to Israel with help from Nefesh B’Nefesh — a nonprofit organization that promotes and facilitates aliyah from the US and Canada — and the Israeli government’s Population and Immigration Authority, in cooperation with the Ministry of Aliyah and Integration and three nonprofits: The Jewish Agency for Israel, Keren Kayemeth LeIsrael, and Jewish National Fund–USA.
The Holocaust survivor was born in Czechoslovakia. In 1944 during Passover, at the age of 14, Roth’s family was forced into a Jewish ghetto. Weeks later the family was deported to the Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp in a cattle car and faced horrific conditions during their transportation. Upon arrival at the Nazi death camp, which was the second day of the Jewish holiday of Shavuot, Roth was separated from her mother and siblings, and never saw them again.
Roth did forced labor in Auschwitz. She survived the Nazi concentration camp, a death march, and imprisonment in another camp before she was liberated at the end of World War II. Her mother and siblings did not survive the Holocaust and before she had a chance to reunite with her father, he committed suicide, thinking that his whole family had died. Roth met her future husband in a Displaced Persons camp, where they married and had their first child before immigrating to the United States. They had four children together and today Roth is the matriarch of nine grandchildren, 26 great-grandchildren, and 11 great-great-grandchildren.
Rabbi Yehoshua Fass, co-founder and executive director of Nefesh B’Nefesh, said Roth’s life journey “is a testament to the extraordinary resilience of the Jewish spirit.”
“From unimaginable darkness emerged a light that has shone for over five generations,” he added. “Her aliyah, surrounded by her family in the Jewish homeland, is profoundly moving and represents courage, renewal, and the enduring triumph of our nation. We are deeply privileged to share in this remarkable moment.”
Roth continues to wear one possession that she still has from before the Holocaust, which is a ring engraved with the initials “IS,” for Ilanka Shvartz, the name she was given at birth.
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DePaul University Denounces Antisemitic Harassment, Targeting of Jewish Students
Students walk into the student center on the campus of DePaul University in Chicago, Illinois, US, Oct. 2, 2025. Photo: REUTERS/Jim Vondruska
DePaul University in Chicago has denounced an antisemitic incident which took place near its grounds last Wednesday, with President Robert Manuel saying he is “outraged.”
According to the university, a group of its students, as well as others from Loyola College and Roosevelt University, were harassed at the local Olive & Oak Café during a regular outing hosted by Hillel and the Jewish United Fund. During a verbal onslaught, the perpetrators demanded that the students leave for being Jewish while a JUF staff member was subject to battery, according to a description of the incident told by the Chicago Police Department.
“While this incident occurred off campus, I am outraged that our students were targeted and harassed because of their Jewish identity,” Manuel said in a statement on Monday. “These actions are inexcusable. DePaul University condemns antisemitism in all its forms and will continue to stand firm in doing so, in line with our Catholic, Vincentian values.”
He continued, “We are working to determine whether any of the offenders are affiliated with DePaul community, and we will take swift, consistent action if any violations of university policy are identified … Acts of hate and violence has no place at DePaul — or anywhere. Our commitment to foster a campus environment rooted in dignity, care, and respect for all remains unwavering.”
Last Wednesday’s incident is not the first time Jewish DePaul students have been subject to alleged battery and discrimination.
In November 2024, two Jewish students participating in a pro-Israel demonstration at DePaul University were “brutally” assaulted by two ruffians who concealed their identities with masks. At least one of the men, Adam Erkan, involved in the assault has since pleaded guilty to misdemeanor battery. According to court documents, he approached the victims, Max Long and Michael Kaminsky, in a ski mask while shouting antisemitic epithets and statements. He then attacked both students, fracturing Kaminsky’s wrist and inflicting a brain injury on Long, whom he pummeled into an unconscious state.
Law enforcement identified Erkan, who absconded to another location in a car, after his father came forward to confirm that it was his visage which surveillance cameras captured near the scene of the crime. According to multiple reports, the assailant avoided severer criminal penalties by agreeing to plead guilty to lesser offenses than the felony hate crime counts with which he was originally charged.
His accomplice, described as a man in his age group, remained at large as of late last year.
“One attacker has now admitted guilt for brutally assaulting two Jewish students at DePaul University. That is a step toward justice, but it is nowhere near enough,” The Lawfare Project, a Jewish civil rights advocacy group which represented the Jewish students throughout the criminal proceedings, said in a statement responding to the plea deal. “The second attacker remains at large, and Max and Michael continue to experience ongoing threats. We demand — and fully expect — his swift arrest and prosecution to ensure justice for these students and for the Jewish community harmed by this antisemitic hate crime.”
Antisemitic incidents on US college campuses have exploded nationwide since Hamas’s Oct. 7, 2023, massacre across southern Israel.
The 2025-2026 academic year has seen a continuation of that pattern.
Earlier this month, a non-student graffitied Nazi insignia on the campus of Northwestern University. The Schutzstaffel (SS) symbol representing the notorious paramilitary group under Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party in Germany was spray-painted on Northwestern’s campus in Evanston, Illinois. The SS played a central role in the Nazis’ systematic killing of 6 million Jews during the Holocaust.
In January, a right-wing influencer and University of Miami student upbraided her Jewish peers in a tirade in which she denounced them as “disgusting” while accusing rabbis of eating infants.
“Christianity, which says love everyone, meanwhile your Bible says eating someone who is a non-Jew is like eating with an animal. That’s what the Talmud says,” the social media influencer, Kaylee Mahony, yelled at members of Students Supporting Israel (SSI) who had a table at a campus fair held at the University of Miami. “That’s what these people follow.”
She continued, “They think that if you are not a Jew you are an animal. That’s the Talmud. That’s the Talmud.”
The Talmud, a key source of Jewish law, tradition, and theology, is often misrepresented by antisemitic agitators in an effort to malign the Jewish people and their religion.
Mahony can also be heard in video of the incident responding to one of the SSI members, saying, “Because you’re disgusting. It’s disgusting.”
Follow Dion J. Pierre @DionJPierre.