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The Conservative movement youth group was already struggling. Then came COVID.
This article was produced as part of JTA’s Teen Journalism Fellowship, a program that works with Jewish teens around the world to report on issues that affect their lives.
(JTA) — Weeks before United Synagogue Youth’s International Convention in December 2021, Alexa Johnson picked out some of the exciting seminars she wanted to attend. It would be her first big USY event and the current high school sophomore was excited to visit Washington, D.C. from her home in Los Angeles.
But then the Omicron variant hit and the event was canceled. She was disappointed but figured she would go the following year. Then she learned that there would be no 2022 convention and she started questioning her affiliation with the national organization. Why should she stay affiliated with the Conservative movement youth group if they failed to provide her with engaging programming?
“I just feel there really hasn’t been enough programming as a whole,” said Johnson, who was looking forward to meeting other Conservative Jewish teens like her. Overall the programming dissatisfaction from her and other members of the 35-person chapter at Pasadena Jewish Temple and Center started after the pandemic. “We just feel like it’s really hard to get people involved because there isn’t much programming at a regional or international level that people want to go to or look fun to them,” said Johnson.
United Synagogue Youth serves almost 8,250 Jewish youth from 3rd to 12th grade as the primary Conservative youth group since its founding in 1951. Through local, regional and international events, generations of Jews have participated in USY, but for some, this may be the end of the road for their involvement.
For decades now, Conservative Judaism has seen their numbers fall as members flock to other denominations like Reform and the United States becomes increasingly less religious. In the 1950s and 1960s, Conservative Judaism — which, despite its name, is a centrist movement between more liberal Reform and the traditionalist Orthodoxy — was the largest Jewish denomination. Now, only 15% of American Jews identify as Conservative, according to the Pew Research Center.
With Conservative numbers on the decline, United Synagogue Youth is struggling to stay on its feet. Julie Marder, the interim senior director of teen engagement, was open about the organization’s membership struggles. “Coming out of the pandemic, numbers just weren’t where they used to be,” Marder said. “They were lower than we can continue to sustain.”
While the membership decline predated the pandemic, COVID undid a lot of their work to gain back members.
Stacey Glazer, associate director of synagogue support, who also oversees the southwest region of USY, said that the southwest region was successfully building up their membership pre-pandemic, but once COVID hit, the region’s progress was erased.
A staff shortage also led to reduced international and regional programming across the organization. As of publication, there were seven events listed for the 15 regions.
The challenges the staff face turn into frustration and disappointment for the teenage members.
Dan Lehavi, a high school senior who serves on the USY board of his Los Angeles synagogue and on the Far West Regional General Board, witnesses the changes firsthand. He said in 2018 and 2019, his region filled a banquet hall for the annual regional convention, but coming back after the pandemic, the group could fit into a much smaller room. “They did their best to make it a memorable weekend as possible, but it just doesn’t have the same energy when there are so few people,” said Lehavi.
As someone who has grown up with USY, Lehavi is disappointed by the decline in attendance and engagement. “It’s just really sad,” Lehavi said. “Generally, I think that USY has been an invaluable resource for the Conservative movement as a whole. I hope that the future of the Conservative movement is a lot brighter than the present.”
Despite serving a large Jewish community spanning across southern California, Hawaii, Arizona, Nevada, and more, the region did not organize many region-wide events. During the last school year, Far West offered five events, including a regional dance that was canceled due to low registration. This year, Far West is currently only offering one regional event, in partnership with the Southwestern region. The region hopes to announce another region-wide event later in the year.
“It has just made our chapter not feel like a USY chapter,” said Samuel Svonkin, a member of Far West USY from Los Angeles. “I don’t feel like we have any connection to USY itself.” Svonkin said that regional programming lacks a pull for his fellow members and the association with USY doesn’t attract teens.
Svonkin has been a member of USY since he was 13. He grew up with teens at his synagogue going to USY events and making friends and great memories. Now, he feels like his generation is being ignored. “I feel like they’re not focusing on what their youth want. And they’re instead trying to make something that works well for them. I think they’re struggling as a result of their own incompetence of looking at what teens actually want,” he said.
USY staff acknowledge that there are fewer events overall but say they are working to improve the teen experience. Glazer, associate director of synagogue support, who also oversees the southwest region of USY, suggests that Svonkin reach out to a local staff person. “If we don’t, we don’t hear from the teens —which, at the end of the day, this is who we’re here to serve — then it’s hard to know what they want,” she said.
In previous years, USY’s Marder said, there was no need to heavily advertise regional and international events; teens would just attend with their synagogues naturally. But now, “We can’t just build a regional convention and assume that people are going to come because we created it. We need to take a step back and start doing more local programming and support the chapters and help them build. Then we can build the bigger programs,” said Marder. Attracting more attendees is not an easy fix, but Marder and the rest of USY are working to build the best programs that they can create.
As they continue to regroup, USY is working towards supporting congregations in teen engagement and rebuilding the pipeline to USY. “That means redesigning and rethinking how we are running our regional and international programs to build up to the large programs that we once had,” Marder said. “We want to do it with excellence. To not just throw a program out there to throw out a program. That we are creati
This year, in place of an international convention, USY offered three different summits: a Heschel Summit at the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York City, a Civil Rights Journey based in Alabama and Georgia, and a Teen Climate Activism Retreat set in Maryland. Stacey Glazer wants USY’s events like these summits to focus on what young Jewish teens are interested in, whether that is religion or social justice.
Teens from Pinwheel USY, the Pacific Northwest Region of the Conservative movement youth group, attend an event in July 2022. (Via Facebook)
In addition to these three retreats, USY planned on hosting a Teen Leadership Summit in Denver, but the event was canceled. Glazer did not have an answer as to why the summit was canceled.
Focusing on what teens are interested in proved to be successful for USY. Last December, the official Instagram account reported that the Civil Rights Journey only had seven spots left, four days before the registration deadline. Moreover, over 1,200 teens participated in regional or international programming, according to an Instagram post summarizing some of USY’s successes in the second half of 2022.
On top of rethinking the way USY creates programs, last year, USY also cut membership fees for its individual members, a cost that was absorbed by the synagogue. Synagogues now pay just one fee to have all of its members be associated with the national organization. “I think we had some pretty good success with [cutting fees] this year,” Marder said. USY would not provide specifics to JTA but did say the organization is not losing money because of the pay structure change.
At the end of United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism’s fiscal year in 2022, the parent organization of USY reported that they collected a little over $6.3 million in membership dues, around a $45,000 increase from 2021. But that is still a drop from 2019, when United Synagogue collected over $7 million dollars in membership fees. Despite a recent increase in collected membership fees, the organization did see a stark decline in membership fees between 2019 and 2022, according to published figures.
Nevertheless, Glazer provided statistics that show membership growing. In March of 2018, USY recorded 5,138 members from 3rd grade to 12th grade. In June of 2020, USY recorded 4,408 members across those same demographics. From 2020 to their members now, they recorded an increase of about 3800 members as they now record having over 8,200 members.
Membership numbers are on the rise, but USY is having struggles with staff shortages, a large cause of reduced programming. Marder said that of the 12 regional staff members, only eight work full-time. With 15 active regions, supporting each region equally is a challenge. For regional overnight events this year, many nearby regions combined their events so more attention from staff and youth leaders could be put into the events.
Rather than hiring more staff, Stacey Glazer said that the organization wanted to work with the staff they have and “maybe come up with a new structure where we’re using each of our employees to the best benefit to USY as a whole,” said Glazer. She also said that the lack of staff is not because of financial pressures, but because they are working on restructuring the ways they function as a staff. And Glazer acknowledged that they will eventually need to hire more staff.
Additionally, Marder said that there are fewer full-time chapter directors at synagogues. During the pandemic, when Jewish organizations like synagogues were cutting staff, youth departments were heavily affected. Marder said that synagogues with chapter directors task them with other youth-related jobs as well.
The time USY is taking to rebuild may be causing the Far West region to struggle, but not all regions are dragging behind. Sigal Judd, a teen member of the Central Region — which encompasses parts of Indiana, Ohio, Kentucky, Michigan, Western Pennsylvania and West Virginia — was excited about the current status and future of her region. “We have really grown in the past few years and have had many more events to keep the people coming,” said Judd.
For Jewish teenagers who do not attend Jewish high schools, finding connections with other Jewish youth can be hard. Judd is grateful for the relationships USY gives her. “I am lucky to have these friendships from [Central Region USY] and a pen pal from the Far West region. I love being a part of the Jewish community through USY and growing my Jewish identity surrounded by kids like me,” she said.
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The post The Conservative movement youth group was already struggling. Then came COVID. appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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This isn’t just a dance group; it’s a model for what coexistence could look like
There are three of them onstage. Arielle Rosales, a Mexican Puerto-Rican Jew from the Lower East Side, is dancing flamenco. Amanda Castro, a Brooklyn-born Puerto-Rican from New Haven, is tapping. And Brinda Guha, a Bengali-Indian from New Jersey, is doing Kathak — a form of Indian classical dance. They’re three performers raised in different artistic traditions who became a trio a decade ago.
But as Soles of Duende, these artists never wanted to create a “fusion” that blurs or erases their identities, cultures, dance styles, or legacies. Nothing is stripped of its history or blended beyond recognition.
“We’re not trying to make a smoothie. We’re trying to make a fruit salad,” Rosales told me. “We want you to be able to pick up the pineapple and pick up the watermelon and pick up the mango.”
Together, the women move. They vocalize. They invent rhythms and songs with their feet. The sounds of Castro’s taps, Rosales’s heels, and Guha’s ghungroos — multi-tiered strings of bells that wrap from the ankles up toward the shins and calves — are just as much a part of the music played by their three counterparts in their band: a percussionist, an electric guitarist and a trumpeter.
You can hear these percussive dance forms and you can feel them, too, mingling and building, filling the air and shaking the room in rehearsals.
‘Carrying the blessing and burden of tradition’
The collaboration started as a one-off project. Rosales and Guha were friends, their paths having crossed at Broadway Dance Center, a popular New York City studio where Rosales taught flamenco and Guha ran what was then called the International Student Visa Program. In 2016, they applied to create a short piece and participate in a show together.
“We wanted to do a trio of three different percussive styles,” said Rosales. “We wanted a third sound.” They found it in Castro, who wowed Guha with a tap solo she performed at a competition.
“I was so enthralled with the fact that there were other women percussive dancers making space for other women percussive dancers,” Castro said. “There are still people who think percussive dance is a less-than art form,” she said. “It is something that never gets the flowers that it deserves.”
What started with an eight-minute piece at an experimental theater on the Lower East Side led to a year-long residency that culminated in a full-length production. The question explicit in its title “Can We Dance Here?” reflects the challenges they faced finding rehearsal spaces. Practitioners of percussive forms often find themselves in a perpetual search for floors they can dance on and spaces that will welcome, or at least tolerate, them.
“It was about permission,” Guha said, both literal and philosophical. Not just can we use this floor, she said, but: “Do we have permission to mess with tradition like this? Do we have permission to [have a] dialogue with each other and change a couple of rules?”
Over time, their questions evolved, Guha added: “How far can we go with this thing? How close to our humanity can we get through the form of percussive dance?” They stopped asking for permission as much, though they continue to seek a balance between honoring established practices and pushing them forward.
“All three of us are both carrying the blessing and burden of tradition,” said Guha, who started learning Kathak from her mother, an immigrant from Kolkata, India, at the small dance school she ran out of their garage. “I grew up with lots of students in the house. I grew up with ghungroos, our bells, literally jingling in our house all day long.”
Guha went on to study with other teachers, including in India, much as Rosales inherited the traditions of flamenco not only in New York City, but also in flamenco meccas in Spain and New Mexico. Castro learned about tap legacies and lineages in bits and pieces, from Fred Astaire movies to classes with icons like Jason Samuels Smith.
“The three of us are really open to breaking a lot of rules,” Guha said, “as long as we know what rules we’re breaking and why.”
They bonded fast, not only as artists with shared sensibilities, Rosales said: “We became family pretty quickly.”
‘We’re doing it in each of our own ways”
Two hours into rehearsal, Soles of Duende is floating in and out of choreography, trying steps, checking cues with the musicians, chatting and smiling, making jokes and scat singing rhythms for each other. You can see them through a glass storefront in East Harlem, an unassuming studio tucked between a corner laundromat and a stoop draped with a Puerto Rican flag, under which a few men gather around a card table.
Here at the Rhythmic Arts Center, they’re rehearsing sections from “The Kitchen,” a full-length production the group is currently developing. The show pays homage to the traditions and cultures that shaped them — all of which value gathering around food — and explores family dynamics, celebration, ritual, hardship, and connection. The kitchen, Castro said, looms large as a communal place where families show up, break bread, fight at the table, announce big news, and meet new people.
“We also have a deep, deep love of food,” Guha said, explaining that the three dancers and the band often eat together, whether they’re going out during tour dates, cooking for each other, or hanging out and talking about cooking shows on TV. “We gather around food at all times. When we’re sad, when we’re mad, when we’re creative, when we’re stuck.”
Indeed, inside the rehearsal space, there’s a plate of fruit set out on a bench. The floor vibrates, knocking over the phone Castro set up to film one of their final runs before the next day’s performance. She scurries over to prop it back up, then gives up. It’s no match for them as they dance for and with each other.
“The Kitchen” is about “nostalgia and culture and all of that, but it’s not just that,” Rosales said. “Each of our sounds, each of our instruments is an ingredient, and when you let it simmer, we literally are cooking up something live.”
Watching them close up, it’s striking to pick out moments when these three dancers are performing a phrase seemingly in unison, only to notice that they are each executing slightly different steps using distinct dance vocabularies. If the common thread for a particular step is bringing both arms up overhead and then back down to rest by the sides of the body, they have to ask themselves: What would that look like in tap, flamenco, and Kathak?
The result often looks so smooth — a 2022 New York Times review called their show “a treasure and a triumph” and they graced the March 2024 cover of Dance Magazine — that it belies the struggle it takes to compose coherent, polished choreography out of three different cultural forms and artistic languages.
“We get a lot of people that think they see the quote-unquote product and say, ‘Oh you guys you work so well together!’ And that’s true,” Rosales said. But the ultimate cohesion rarely comes easily. Sometimes they’ll spend a three-hour rehearsal choreographing just one minute of new material. “It is so hard to come up with these things, and it comes with a lot of blocks,” she said, “a lot of friction and sometimes arguments.”
They’ve learned along the way when they need to put an idea in the “parking lot” to deal with later, when they need to sit down and talk, when they need to admit their brains are mush, when they need to explain or understand something about one of their dance forms, and when they need to remember their shared goals.
“We’ve named the idea Greta,” Castro said. “So when we are not on the same page, we say, ‘Greta, what is the answer? … What does the work need?’ Then our feelings can’t get in the way.”
At about 9 p.m., it’s time to call it quits. The dancers, musicians, and Greta all seem satisfied. They’re ready for their show the following evening.
‘Talk to each other and with each other’
First they argue about rice. In an excerpt from “The Kitchen” they perform the next day, the three women congregate over an invisible pot. With all these cooks in the kitchen, Castro tells the audience, “you can imagine that each of them thinks that their pot of rice is the best pot of rice.”
“This is burnt!” one exclaims. Another slaps a hand away: “Get your hand out my pot.”
On this particular evening in August, Soles is the opening act on the opening night of the Battery Dance Festival. The annual event is held on an outdoor stage in a waterfront park at the southern tip of Manhattan, next door to the Museum of Jewish Heritage.
“Part of the mission of the festival is to break down barriers between people, between cultures, introduce new forms of dance to the audience members, and to bring people together,” said Battery Dance’s executive director Emad Salem. “They perfectly embody that mission,” he said, “coming together in this seamless way.”
Though the sky is gray and heavy with the threat of rain, the amphitheater-style seats are packed. And while it started drizzling earlier during the group’s tech rehearsal — leading to a scramble to cover equipment and altering the sound of the wooden flooring onstage — the audience is none the wiser.
Standing behind the last row of seats, Curtis Thomas can’t help but dance along as he cheers and applauds. “It’s just so vibrant. All of the energy comes right at you,” said Thomas, who is a dancer himself. “It immediately opens you up somehow. And I love the way it’s just so multidisciplinary and the way that all of the styles and forms of dance and music talk to each other and with each other.”
The symbolism of the scene is almost too much. Dancing against the backdrop of the Hudson River flowing into New York Harbor, with the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island visible in the distance, Soles of Duende demonstrates in dance what might be possible outside of it. At a time of entrenched polarization, they show you, Castro said, “what the dreamscape could be or a current reality could be.”
“When people see us performing, it really is a true example and testament to coexistence,” Rosales said. Whether they’re onstage or off, they can converse without changing who they are or how they speak. No one has to dim or diminish themselves. And “just like any musical form, we have to listen to each other.”
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Tidbits: This Jewish couple gives homeless dogs a free makeover
Tidbits is a Forverts feature of easy news briefs in Yiddish that you can listen to or read, or both! If you read the article and don’t know a word, just click on it and the translation appears. Listen to the report here:
אַ גרויסער בלאָער משׂא־פֿור האָט זיך אָפּגעשטעלט אויף אַ גאַס אין סקיד־ראָו, אַ באַקאַנטער אָרעמער געגנט אין לאָס־אַנדזשעלעס, פֿאַר אַ היימלאָזן מענטש מיט אַ הינטל.
„אײַער הינטל וויל אפֿשר מע זאָל אים צופּוצן אַ ביסל?“ האָט דער מאַן אינעם אויטאָ געפֿרעגט. לכתּחילה האָט דער היימלאָזער אויסגעזען צעטומלט. דערנאָך האָט ער געגעבן אַ קוק אויף זײַן הינטל, וואָס ער האָט שוין ווער ווייסט ווי לאַנג נישט געבאָדן אָדער אָפּגעשוירן, און צוגעשאָקלט מיטן קאָפּ.
מיט אַ שעה שפּעטער איז דאָס הינטל אַרויס פֿונעם משׂא־פֿור, אויסזעענדיק ווי אַ גאָר אַנדער הינטל. זײַן פֿעל, וואָס איז פֿריִער געווען שמוציק און פֿאַרפּלאָנטערט, האָט מען אויסגעוואַשן, צוגעשוירן און געבערשט ביז ער איז געוואָרן ווייך און גלאַנציק. איידער ער איז אַרויס פֿון אויטאָ האָט מען אים געגעבן אַ נאַש, וואָס ער האָט פֿריילעך אײַנגעשלונגען.
די אָרגאַניזאַציע וואָס האָט אויסגעבאָדן דאָס הינטל, „האָליוווּד מאָביל גרומינג“, באַלאַנגט צו טשאָק און יעל רובין. במשך פֿון די פֿאַרגאַנגענע 11 יאָר, האָבן זיי און זייערע מיטאַרבעטער גערייניקט בערך 5,000 הינט פֿרײַ פֿון אָפּצאָל.
דאָס פּאָרפֿאָלק, וואָס האָט אימיגרירט פֿון ישׂראל, האָט אין 2001 לאַנצירט אַ געשעפֿט וואָס ברענגט אַ לוקסוס־ספּאַ צו פֿאַרמעגלעכע אייגנטימער פֿון הינט. אָבער דערנאָך האָבן זיי באַשלאָסן אַז זיי ווילן אויך העלפֿן די מענטשן מיט הינט, וואָס קענען נישט באַצאָלן דערפֿאַר: סײַ הינט וואָס געפֿינען זיך אין אַ מיקלט פֿאַר חיות, סײַ הינט וואָס וווינען מיט זייערע אייגנטימער אויף דער גאַס.
„אַ מאָל האָבן די אייגנטימער מורא אונדז איבערצוגעבן די הינט, אַפֿילו אויב זיי קענען וואַרטן אין דרויסן,“ האָט יעל געזאָגט. „מיר לאָזן זיי אַרײַנקומען און זען וואָס מיר טוען. די הינט פֿילן זיך אויך בעסער. מע קען זען וויפֿל זיי האָבן הנאה פֿון דער באַהאַנדלונג און ווי עס שפּאַנט זיי אויס. דו ווײַזט זיי ליבע, גיסט זיי אַ נאַש, וואַסער צו טרינקען, און זיי באַצאָלן דיר מיט זייערע קושן.“
אויף דער פֿראַגע, צי זיי זאָרגן זיך נישט, וואָס וועט זײַן ווען די הינט גייען צוריק צו די האַרבע באַדינגונגען פֿון דער גאַס, האָט טשאָק באַטאָנט עטלעכע זאַכן: „זייערע אייגנטימער זענען תּמיד מיט זיי און פּאַסן אויף אויף זיי וויפֿל זיי קענען נאָר. די הינטלעך זענען זייערע ׳קינדער׳. עס זענען אויך דאָ אַ סך אָרגאַניזאַציעס וואָס באַזאָרגן זיי מיט עסן אומזיסט און אַנדערע זאַכן. זיי פֿאַרמאָגן ווייניק, אָבער זיי טוען דאָס בעסטע אויפֿצופּאַסן אויף זייערע הינט.“
צו לייענען וועגן דעם אויף ענגליש גיט אַ קוועטש דאָ.
To read about this in English click here.
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The tech worker campaigning for ‘Antisemite of the Week’ doesn’t want to talk about antisemitism
After accusations of discrimination led his San Francisco Tech Week event to be pulled from the schedule, a tech worker has decided to embrace his newfound notoriety.
Mostapha Benhenda cited security reasons last week when he denied an Israeli programmer admission to his AI hackathon event, explaining that he didn’t want the Israeli army to make participants’ electronics “explode in their faces and injure them.”
The Israeli tech worker — a former Israeli soldier named Adam Levi — posted the message online, leading sponsors to pull funding for the event. In the days since, Benhenda has begun openly campaigning for an “Antisemite of the Week” award from pro-Israel watchdog group StopAntisemitism.
“I am a competitor, I play to win, this prize will be my Ballon d’Or,” Benhenda said in a message to the Forward, referring to the annual prize for the world’s best soccer player.
Running this week through Sunday, San Francisco Tech Week draws tens of thousands of tech industry workers to hundreds of panels, competitions and parties across the Bay Area.
The saga began Sept. 29 when Levi posted a screenshot of Benhenda’s messages rejecting his RSVP to the event, called “Build Your Agentic Investment Bank Hackathon.” A page for the hackathon on the digital invitation platform Partiful claimed it had been co-sponsored by Tech Week and the convention’s founder, venture capital firm Andreessen Horowitz.
Levi’s post was reshared on X more than 1,000 times, leading to the event’s de-listing by Tech Week organizers, who said on X that the event had violated the program’s terms of service.
Levi told The Algemeiner that Andreessen Horowitz told him the company had removed its sponsorship.
Benhenda, whose LinkedIn says he attended college in France, declined to participate in phone interviews. But in messages to the Forward, his response to accusations of antisemitism appeared to shift over a manner of days from defensiveness to bemusement.
When first reached for comment, Benhenda denied that his rejection of Levi was antisemitic at all. He said he banned Levi because his LinkedIn indicated service in the Israeli military’s secretive Unit 8200 during September 2024, when the intelligence unit was linked to the simultaneous detonation of thousands of pagers owned by Hezbollah operatives across Lebanon. (Levi declined to be interviewed, but said on X that “building explosive pagers was never my thing.”)
“I understand Adam’s disappointment, and his resulting emotional accusation of antisemitism, but he perfectly knows it’s unfounded,” Benhenda wrote Sept. 29, adding, “I hope that over the next weeks he will get more clarity about this.”
However, after StopAntisemitism posted about Benhenda on X, he seemed to lose interest in contesting the claim — and began leaning into it instead.
On Saturday, Benhenda shared StopAntisemitism’s post about him with a request.
“I am competing for the ‘Antisemite of the Week’ award at the San Francisco Tech Week,” he wrote. “Can you show your support/hate with a retweet?”
Founded in 2018 by a social media influencer who goes by Liora Rez, StopAntisemitism.org frequently bestows its “Antisemite of the Week” awards to public figures — a mix of elected officials, civic leaders and celebrities — who antagonize Israel.
Recent recipients of the award — which is not actually awarded weekly — have included actor Javier Bardem and Rama Duwaji, the wife of New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani.
Last month, StopAntisemitism sponsored an event where a speaker was later criticized for Islamophobic rhetoric. (Rez did not respond to a request for comment on that story, or for this one.)
Benhenda said in messages to the Forward on Monday afternoon that he did not know very much about the organization, but that he was pining for its distinction, given the group’s 350,000 followers on X.
“What matters isn’t the label, but who puts it,” he added. “Go big or go home, that’s the game in the Silicon Valley.”
Later, though, Benhenda insisted that he still did not understand the accusations of antisemitism against him. His refusal of Levi, he said, had been solely due to Levi’s involvement in the Israeli military.
Meanwhile, he is forging ahead with the hackathon, hosting it Tuesday on the streaming platform Discord for nearly 200 registered participants.
Benhenda blamed the “tremendous lobbying from the Zionist lobby” for the change. But the venue where he had initially planned to host the event indicated there was no change. The supposed host, a coworking space called Frontier Tower, said in an email it had never booked Benhenda’s event to begin with.
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