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The Dominican Republic was a haven for Jews fleeing the Nazis. A museum project could tell that story.
SOSUA, Dominican Republic (JTA) — Sitting inside a small wood-frame shul just around the corner from Playa Alicia, where tourists sip rum punch while watching catamarans glide by, Joe Benjamin recounted one of the most uplifting but often forgotten stories of Jewish survival during the Holocaust.
“I was bar mitzvahed right here,” he said, pointing to a podium at the front of the sanctuary in La Sinagoga de Sosua. It was built in the early 1940s to meet the spiritual needs of about 750 German and Austrian Jews.
At the time, the Dominican Republic was the only country in the world that offered asylum to large numbers of Jewish refugees, earning the moniker “tropical Zion.”
Benjamin, 82, is president of the Jewish community of Sosua and one of only four surviving second-generation Jews remaining in this touristy beach town on the northern coast of the Dominican Republic. His parents were part of the unconventional colony of Jewish immigrants who established an agricultural settlement between 1940-47 on an abandoned banana plantation overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.
“When I talk about that, I get goosebumps,” Benjamin said. “This is a distinction that the Dominican Republic has. It was the only country that opened its doors to Jews.”
Joe Benjamin, president of the Jewish Community of Sosua, inside the sanctuary of La Sinagoga. (Dan Fellner)
At the 1938 Evian Conference in France, attended by representatives of 32 countries to address the problem of German and Austrian Jewish refugees wanting to flee Nazi persecution, the Dominican Republic announced it would accept up to 100,000 Jewish refugees. About 5,000 visas were issued but fewer than 1,000 Jews ultimately were able to reach the country, which is located on the same island as Haiti, about 800 miles southeast of Miami.
Benjamin was born in 1941 in Shanghai, the only other place besides the Dominican Republic that accepted large numbers of Jewish refugees during the Holocaust. Shanghai, then a divided city not under the control of a single government, did not require a visa to enter. About 20,000 Jewish refugees immigrated there, including Benjamin’s parents, who fled Nazi Germany in 1939.
In 1947, with a civil war raging in China, Benjamin’s father realized the country “was getting a little difficult” and looked for another place to raise his two children.
“I think my father read it in a newspaper – there was a Jewish refugee colony in the Dominican Republic,” he says. “My father had no idea where that was, but he said, ‘I’m going there.’”
Benjamin’s family took a ship from China to San Francisco, a train to Miami, and then flew into Santo Domingo, the Dominican Republic’s capital city. At that time, the city was officially called Ciudad Trujillo after the country’s dictator, Generalissimo Rafael Trujillo, who ruled the Dominican Republic from 1930 until his assassination in 1961.
Photos of some of the 750 Jewish refugees who settled in Sosua in the 1940s on display at the Gregorio Luperon International Airport in Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic. (Dan Fellner)
Historians suggest the Dominican dictator’s motives in accepting large numbers of Jewish refugees at a time when so many other countries — including the United States, Canada and the United Kingdom — turned their backs were fueled more by opportunism than altruism. It’s believed that Trujillo wanted to improve his reputation on the world stage following the 1937 massacre of an estimated 20,000 Black Haitians by Dominican troops. Furthermore, Trujillo liked the idea of allowing a crop of mostly educated immigrants who would “whiten” the country’s population.
“He was a cruel dictator,” Benjamin said of Trujillo. “But it’s not for me to judge. Because for us, he saved our lives. If you’re drowning and someone throws you a rope, you hold on to it. You don’t start asking his motive. You just hold on.”
In 1947, Benjamin was among the last group of Jewish refugees to arrive in Sosua, one of about 10 families known by the other colonists as the “Shanghai group.” The Sosua settlement was run by an organization called the Dominican Republic Settlement Association (DORSA) that was funded by the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee in New York.
“DORSA would give you 10 cows, a mule, a horse and a cart,” said Benjamin. “My father by profession was a cabinet-maker. He thought he was going to do that here. But there was no market for that. So he dedicated himself to farming.”
Benjamin said conditions in Sosua were “primitive” and a difficult transition for many settlers who had been city-dwellers in Europe. Still, he spoke fondly of a childhood in which he was relatively insulated from the horrors that befell so many other Jewish children his age.
“We had enough to eat,” he says. “We enjoyed the beach. And I went to a Jewish school.”
La Sinagoga de Sosua in the Dominican Republic served the spiritual needs of the Jewish refugees who found a safe haven in Sosua during the Holocaust. It’s now open only for the high holidays. (Dan Fellner)
The school, originally called Escuela Cristobal Colon, opened in 1940 in a barracks and was attended by Jewish children as well as the children of Dominican farm workers. The school still exists and is now called the Colegio Luis Hess, named after Luis Hess, one of the Jewish settlers. Hess taught at the school for 33 years and lived in Sosua until his death in 2010 at the age of 101.
While the children attended school, men worked on farms and women cooked dinner for their families, who ate communal style. Beds were lined with mosquito netting to prevent malaria. As men greatly outnumbered women — Trujillo did not allow single Jewish women to enter the country — intermarriage was common.
Over time, the agriculture venture failed and DORSA instead decided to promote a beef and dairy cooperative, Productos Sosua, which ultimately proved successful.
After finishing high school, Benjamin moved to Pittsburgh to attend college (he’s an engineer who once built and flew his own airplane), got married and started a family. After 17 years in the United States, he decided in 1976 to return to the Dominican Republic, where he became an executive with Productos Sosua. He worked there until he retired in 2004, when the firm was sold to a Mexican company.
“All my life I talked about Sosua as my home,” he said. “I like it here. Everybody knows me.”
A street mural recognizes Sosua’s Jewish history on the main road connecting Sosua with Puerto Plata on the north coast of the Dominican Republic. (Dan Fellner)
Today, Sosua is vastly changed from the sleepy town in which Benjamin was raised. In 1979, an international airport opened in Puerto Plata, just a 15-minute drive to the west. Sosua morphed into a congested tourist destination known for its golden-sand beaches and water sports. It also became a hub of the Dominican sex tourism industry.
Most of Sosua’s Jewish population immigrated to the United States by the early 1980s. Benjamin estimates that only 30-40 Jews remain in Sosua, most of whom are not religiously observant. As a result, the synagogue hasn’t been able to financially sustain a permanent rabbi for more than 20 years. Services are held only on the high holidays, when a rabbi is flown in from Miami.
Benjamin says a group of seven Jews chips in about $2,500 a month to pay for security and other operating expenses.
“It’s very hard to get the Jews here to pay,” he said. “When we bring in the rabbi, we try to charge something. But we don’t get any people if we charge.”
Next to the synagogue is a small museum called the Museo Judio de Sosua, which offers a window into the town’s Jewish roots. Five years ago, the U.S. Embassy in Santo Domingo donated $80,000 to the museum to preserve and digitize its archives. However, the museum, which is badly in need of repairs, has been closed for the past year.
The Museo Judio de Sosua, which tells the story of the Jewish refugees who found a safe haven in the Dominican Republic during the Holocaust. The museum is closed while the community waits for funding to reopen it. (Dan Fellner)
Benjamin has been in discussions with the Dominican government in hopes it will soon finance a major renovation of the museum that would include an exhibition hall big enough to accommodate 100 people for events. Benjamin says he is optimistic the project, which has a price-tag approaching $1 million, will be green-lighted by the government.
“They are very positive about it because it could become a tourist attraction,” he says, noting that Puerto Plata and nearby Amber Cove have become popular port-stops on Caribbean cruises originating in Florida. “If it comes to fruition, it will be in the next year. Because if they don’t do it by then, the government changes. And the next government never continues what the previous government started.”
Otherwise, there are only a few remnants of Jewish life in Sosua for visitors to see. In Parque Mirador overlooking the Atlantic, there is a white cement-block star of David, built to honor the Jewish refugees. About 70 Jews, including Benjamin’s parents, are buried in a Jewish cemetery about a five-minute drive south of the synagogue.
The main street connecting Sosua with Puerto Plata has a street mural depicting the town’s history that features a large star of David right above a scuba-diver. And two of the most prominent streets in Sosua — Dr. Rosen and David Stern — still bear the names of two of the colony’s Jewish founders.
Dr. Rosen Street in downtown Sosua is named after Joseph Rosen, one of the founders of the Dominican Republic Settlement Association. (Dan Fellner)
There had been an exhibition about Sosua’s Jewish colony at the Museum of Jewish Heritage in New York but it closed several years ago. All the more reason, Benjamin says, that the Sosua museum reopens as soon as possible so that the story of the Jews who found a Caribbean cocoon to ride out the Holocaust isn’t forgotten.
“Look at what’s happening in the world — there is a rise in antisemitism,” he said. “It’s very important that our history is documented. It will also be a place where Dominican schoolchildren can come and learn about Judaism.”
With the museum closed, the only place in the area to see photos of the Jewish settlers on public display is the departure lounge in Puerto Plata’s airport. Next to a Dominican band serenading travelers with meringue music, there is a display of pictures showing the colonists riding horses, tilling the fields, attending school and praying in La Sinagoga.
“When they came here, the Jews found no antisemitism at all in this country,” said Benjamin. “They were as free as anybody. They had a wonderful life.”
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New voices in Yiddish: A prose and poetry contest
לכּבֿוד דעם 85סטן יאָר זינט מע האָט פֿאַרלייגט דעם ייִדישן זשורנאַל „אױפֿן שװעל“, וועט די אָרגאַניזאַציע וואָס שטיצט דעם זשורנאַל, די „ייִדיש־ליגע“, דורכפֿירן אַ קאָנקורס פֿון נײַע ייִדיש־שפּראַכיקע לידער און פּראָזע.
אַ זשורי פֿון אָפּגעקליבענע מומחים וועט אָפּשאַצן די אַרבעטן, און די דרײַ בעסטע פֿון ביידע קאַטעגאָריעס וועלן באַלוינט ווערן מיט געלטפּרעמיעס.
די פּראָזע־שאַפֿונגען קענען זײַן ביז 2,500 װערטער, און אַלע אַרײַנגעשיקטע מאַטעריאַלן מוזן זײַן נאָך נישט קיין געדרוקטע. דער טערמין אַרײַנצושיקן די שריפֿטן איז דער 31סטער אָקטאָבער 2026.
די געווינער-ווערק, און בכלל אַן אָפּקלײַב פֿון די אַרײַנגעשיקטע שאַפֿונגען, וועט מען אויך דרוקן אין דעם יובֿל-נומער. „זאָלן אונדזערע לייענערס געניסן פֿון נײַע ליטעראַרישע שאַפֿונגען אויף מאַמע-לשון!“ האָט די שעף־רעדאַקטאָרין פֿון „אויפֿן שוועל“, מרים טרין, געזאָגט.
די שריפֿטן שיקן מען דורך בליצפּאָסט צו info@leagueforyiddish.org.
The post New voices in Yiddish: A prose and poetry contest appeared first on The Forward.
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Jewish languages meet in Birobidzhan
אויף אַן אינטערנאַציאָנאַלן ייִדישן קולטור־פֿעסטיוואַל לעצטנס אין ביראָבידזשאַן האָט מיך, ווי אַ ייִדישיסט, באַזונדערס פֿאַרחידושט די אינערלעכע ייִדישע פֿיל־שפּראַכיקייט.
דער „אינטערנאַציאָנאַלער פֿעסטיוואַל פֿון ייִדישער קולטור און קונסט“ איז פֿאָרגעקומען פֿונעם 6טן ביזן 9טן סעפּטעמבער.
מיט איינעם פֿון די געסט, הרבֿ עובֿדיה איסאַקאָוו, האָב איך לאַנג געשמועסט וועגן זײַן אייגענער ייִדישער שפּראַך — דזשוהורי, אַ שפּראַך ענלעך אויף פּערסיש. מיט אַנדערע געסט, דרײַ טוניסער ייִדן, וואָס וווינען אין ישׂראל, האָבן מיר גערעדט וועגן זייער מאַמע־לשון, אַ ייִדישן מין אַראַביש. דערצו האָט אַ זינגער און כּלל־טוער, אליעזר (איגאָר) דאַבאַקאַראָו, מיר געזאָגט אַז ער איז אויפֿגעוואַקסן אין סאַמאַרקאַנד, אוזבעקיסטאַן, רעדנדיק אויף בוכאָרי — פּערסיש מיט אַ ייִדישן טעם.
אויף עטלעכע אונטערנעמונגען האָט מען אויך געזונגען לידער אויף העברעיִש. בעת דער שבתדיקער סעודה (כ׳בין אָנגעקומען מיט עטלעכע אַנדערע געסט פֿון פֿריִער, ערבֿ־שבת) האָבן מיר אַרומגערעדט די קשיא, צי איז לשון־קודש אָדער דער מאָדערנער העברעיִש באמת אַ ייִדישע שפּראַך? דער ביראָבידזשאַנער הויפּט־רבֿ אפֿרים קאָלפּאַק, אַ ליובאַוויטשער חסיד, האַלט, אַז נישט. לשון־קודש איז, לויט אים, די געטלעכע שפּראַך, דורך וועלכן דער רבונו־של־עולם האָט באַשאַפֿן די וועלט איידער דער ערשטער ייִד, אַבֿרהם אָבֿינו, איז געבוירן געוואָרן. אַזוי איז די מעשׂה לויט דער ייִדישער מסורה.
די עכטע ייִדישע שפּראַך, אויף וועלכער ייִדן האָבן גערעדט טאָג און נאַכט במשך פֿון דור צו דור, די שפּראַך פֿון די גרעסטע צדיקים און קדושים, איז דווקא ייִדיש. איך בין מסכּים דערמיט, נאָר, פֿאַרשטייט זיך, אַ סך מענטשן האַלטן אַנדערש.
דער ערשטער פֿעסטיוואַל פֿון דעם מין איז אָרגאַניזירט געוואָרן נאָך אין דער סאָוועטישער תּקופֿה, אין 1989; דערנאָך, מיט איבעררײַסן — יעדע צוויי יאָר. דער 13טער אינטערנאַציאָנאַלער פֿעסטיוואַל פֿון ייִדישער קולטור און קונסט איז פֿאָרגעקומען אין 2017. זינט דעמאָלט און ביז איצט האָט מען אים, צוליב פֿאַרשיידענע שוועריקייטן, נישט געקאָנט אָרגאַניזירן.
להיפּוך, האָט די איצטיקע אונטערנעמונג געשטעלט דעם טראָפּ אויף ייִדן אַרום דער וועלט בכלל, אויף פֿאַרשיידענע ייִדישע עדות, לאַוו־דווקא ייִדיש־רעדנדיקע אַשכּנזים. די אויסלענדישע געסט זענען געקומען פֿון ווײַסרוסלאַנד, מדינת־ישׂראל און כינע. ווי געזאָגט, זענען דרײַ פֿון די ישׂראלדיקע באַטייליקטע געבוירן געוואָרן אין טוניס. דערפֿאַר קאָן מען זאָגן, אַז צפֿון־אַפֿריקע איז אויך געווען פֿאָרגעשטעלט.
בסך־הכּל האָט מען דורכגעפֿירט 160 אונטערנעמונגען, על־פּי רובֿ גאַנץ קליינע, און עטלעכע גרויס־מאַסשטאַביקע. צוליב דעם גוטן וואַרעמען וועטער, איז דער אומזיסטער שלוס־קאָנצערט, וווּ ס׳איז אַרויסגעטראָטן דער באַקאַנטער מאָסקווער כאָר בראָש מיט מיכאַיִל טורעצקי, פֿאָרגעקומען אין דרויסן, אויף אַ פּלאַץ לעבן דעם ברעג פֿונעם טײַך ביראַ.
אומגעוויינטלעך איז געווען דאָס פֿאַרזוכן די גרעסטע חלה אין דער וועלט — איבער 12 מעטער (40 פֿוס) די לענג — וואָס די אָרטיקע קולינאַרן האָבן קונציק אויסגעבאַקן אונטער דער השגחה פֿון הרבֿ קאָלפּאַק. צווישן קליינע און פּשוטע אונטערנעמונגען איז געווען אַ וואַרשטאַט ווי צו שרײַבן די ייִדישע אותיות. די הויפּט־רעדאַקטאָרין פֿון „ביראָבידזשאַנער שטערן‟, יעלענע סאַראַשעווסקאַיאַ, האָט מיך געבעטן איר מיטצוהעלפֿן. זי האָט צוגעטראַכט אַ ספּעציעלן פּלאַסטיק־טראַפֿאַרעט (שטענצל־אותיות) מיטן ייִדיש אַלף־בית, טאַקע לויט די ייִוואָ־תּקנות: מיט אַ קמף אונטערן אַלף, צוויי יודן מיט אַ פּתח אאַז״וו), וואָס דערמעגלעכט אָפּצוצייכענען יעדן אות אויף אַ גרינגן אופֿן. זענען מיר געזעסן אין דרויסן מיט אַ טישל און געוויזן יעדן נײַגעריקן פֿאַרבײַגייער, ווי אַזוי עס שרײַבן זיך אויף ייִדיש זייערע נעמען צי אַנדערע פֿראַזעס.
די אַטמאָספֿער איז געווען אַ לוסטיקע און אומפֿאָרמעלע. עטלעכע געסט האָט פֿאַרחידושט די אַלטע סאָוועטישע אַוואַנגאַרד־אַרכיטעקטור, וועלכער ס׳איז טאַקע געווידמעט אַ נײַ בוך, וואָס מע האָט אויך פּרעזענטירט אויפֿן פֿעסטיוואַל. אין דער זעלבער צײַט, איז אין דער שטאָט פֿאָרגעקומען אַ באַשיידענע פּאַראַלעלע אונטערנעמונג: דער פֿעסיטיוואַל פֿון ייִדישע באָבעס — מיט אויסשטעלונגען, פֿאַרמעסטן, קאָנצערטן, אַ יריד פֿון היימגעמאַכטע קליידער און אַנדערע חפֿצים.
וואָס שייך דער שפּראַך בוכאָרי, באַטראַכטן אַ סך בוכאַרישע ייִדן אין קווינס דאָס לשון ווי אַ באַזונדערע שפּראַך. במשך פֿון אַ סך יאָרן האָט מיטן פֿאָרווערטס מיטגעאַרבעט דער בוכאַרישער פֿאָטאָגראַף אַרקאַדי יאַגודאַיעוו, מיט וועלכן איך פֿלעג שמועסן וועגן זײַן מאַמע־לשון. בעצם איז זי סתּם פּערסיש, אָבער מיט אַ צאָל ספּעציפֿיש ייִדישע עלעמענטן.
אַן אַנדער מעשׂה איז דזשוהורי — די שפּראַך פֿון די קאַווקאַזישע באַרג־ייִדן, וואָס האָט אַן אָפֿיציעלן סטאַטוס אין דאַגעסטאַן, איינער פֿון די רוסלענדישע דרומדיקער ראַיאָנען. אָפֿיציעל הייסט ער טאַטיש, ווײַל לויט דער סאָוועטישער טערמינאָלאָגיע איז ער ענלעך אויפֿן מוסולמענישן לשון טאַטיש. דער חילוק צווישן דזשוהורי (וואָס מיינט „ייִדיש‟) און טאַטיש איז אָבער ממשותדיק, הגם נישט אַזוי גרויס, ווי צווישן ייִדיש און דײַטשיש. דאָס איז טאַקע אַ באַזונדער לשון מיט אַן אייגענער ליטעראַטור.
אין דער שטאָט דערבענט, פֿון וואַנען עס איז אָנגעקומען קיין ביראָבידזשאַן הרבֿ עובֿדיה איסאַקאָוו, גייט אַרויס די צוויי־שפּראַכיקע דזשהורי־רוסישע צײַטונג „וואַטאַן‟ („היימלאַנד‟). איסאַקאַוו איז אויך אַ שוחט, אַ מוהל און אַ באַגאַבטער מאָלער. אַן אויסשטעלונג פֿון זײַנע ווערק איז געווען א טייל פֿונעם פֿעסיטיוואַל. נאָך איין קאַווקאַזישער ייִד, אַלבערט ראַפֿיִעוו, האָט פֿאָרגעשטעלט זײַנע פּרעכטיקע מיזרחדיקע טעפּעכער מיט אַ ייִדישן טעם.
די אינערלעכע ייִדישע פֿאַרשיידנאַרטיקייט איז געווען, לויט מײַן מיינונג, דער וויכטיקסטער מאָמענט פֿון דער אונטערנעמונג. עטלעכע זאַכן וואָס ס׳איז כּדאַי צו דערמאָנען איז, אַז אין רוסלאַנד זענען פֿאַראַן צוויי אָפֿיציעל אָנערקענטע ייִדישע לשונות — ייִדיש און באַרג־ייִדיש (דזשוהורי); אַז אַ סך ספֿרדים רעדן נאָך אַלץ אויף לאַדינאָ אָדער ייִדיש־אַראַבישע דיאַלעקטן, און אַז בײַ די בוכאַרישע ייִדן איז פֿאַראַן אויך אַן אייגענער דיאַלעקט און אַ באַזונדערע קולטור.
בקיצור, ייִדן שטעלן מיט זיך פֿאָר נישט עפּעס אַ מאָנאָטאָנע מאַסע, נאָר אַ בונטן „מערבֿ־מיזרחדיקן‟ טעפּעך פֿון פֿאַרשיידענע עדות מיט זייערע אוניקאַלע לשונות און טראַדיציעס.
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The Yeshiva issue that won’t go away
A backroom deal to gut oversight of private schools – specifically to bail out yeshivas that fail to teach basic subjects, condemning tens of thousands of Hasidic students to illiteracy and choking off the chance to participate in broader society – is coming back to haunt its architects. New York’s Governor and the Legislature likely assumed they secured a political win that would quickly fade from public attention.
They were wrong.
The state was forced to justify its actions before a judge in a pair of hearings in April as part of a lawsuit challenging the rollback that was filed last September. As a longtime attorney, I can tell you that the language of small-minded politics translates poorly to the courtroom. The state’s lawyers were forced to advance arguments that legitimize educational denial and forced insularity. And in doing so, they mar our state’s tradition of protecting individual rights.
Renowned education attorney Michael Rebell was leading the suit on behalf of Hasidic and Haredi students who have been harmed by the dismantling of standards. The plaintiffs argue that the state abandoned its obligation to ensure all children receive a “sound basic education,” a constitutional floor for schooling recognized by the Court of Appeals.
To justify the evisceration of standards, the state claims our guarantee of a sound basic education does not apply to students of nonpublic schools. It strikes at the foundation of New York’s educational system, which was codified in the State Constitution’s Education Article through a Constitutional Convention more than 130 years ago.
The Article’s framers made their intention clear: to ensure all children are prepared for engagement in civic life, whether they attended a public or nonpublic school. As one delegate of the Convention avowed, “there can be found no man in this Convention who will say that there are children of the State that ought not to be educated.”
The principle is simple: While parents may choose religious or private education, the state still bears responsibility for ensuring all children receive the basic tools necessary to function as citizens. But to defend last year’s rollback, state lawyers argued that parents are “free to opt out” of public schools, even if the alternative schools deny students the tools to understand the world around them. The state’s position, taken to its logical conclusion, permits nonpublic schools to teach children anything, or nothing at all.
This becomes even more troubling as New York expands support for nonpublic education. Through its recent opt-in to the nonprofit scholarship tax credit program, New York will see billions more dollars in donations toward private school tuition. Establishing baseline standards for curriculum is essential for producing an informed citizenry — that becomes significantly more difficult when our tax system props up institutions without meaningful oversight.
The state’s arguments also undermine New York’s reputation as a national leader in protecting individual rights.
State officials have aggressively defended voting rights protections, reproductive freedom, and anti-discrimination laws against legal attack. As a rogue White House tramples upon our rights, our Governor, Legislature, and Attorney General have gone to great lengths to fortify our protections.
Yet in this case, the state was effectively arguing that tens of thousands of children can be carved out both from the guarantee of a right and the opportunity to participate in society. State lawyers even contended that students denied a basic education possess no actionable deprivation of liberty or property rights.
This is a glaring departure from the contentions our state makes for the preservation of individual liberties against violation from the government. How could we credibly argue, for example, that immigrants should be able to sue ICE agents over due process rights if students can’t sue the state over their constitutional guarantee to an education? It’s a slippery slope: Deny one group legal protection against harm from the state, and you imperil the sanctity of all those protections.
The lawsuit over last year’s budget deal is still ongoing. A decision may come down any time now, but certainly is likely before the end of the year. An appeal by the losing party is all but certain. That means New York’s lawyers may continue to be forced into defending arguments that sanction students’ educational deprivation and societal isolation, and, in the process, irreparably damage our status as a bulwark for individual liberty.
The political architects of this deal may have hoped the issue would quietly disappear. Instead, the consequences are only becoming harder to defend.
The post The Yeshiva issue that won’t go away appeared first on The Forward.
