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‘There was no time to sleep’: 4 Jews reflect on a year of helping Ukrainians at war
(JTA) — In the months after Russian tanks rolled into her country last February, the music largely stopped for Elizaveta Sherstuk.
The founder of a Jewish choral ensemble called Aviv in her hometown of Sumy, in the northeastern flank of Ukraine, Sherstuk had to put singing aside in favor of her day job and personal mission: delivering aid to Jews in Sumy.
“There was no time to sleep,” Sherstuk recalled to the Jewish Telegraphic Agency recently. “All my team members worked the same, 24/7.”
A year later, Sherstuk is still hustling as the Sumy director of Hesed, a network of welfare centers serving needy Jews in the former Soviet bloc. But she has also begun teaching music classes again, too — with performances sometimes held in bomb shelters.
Catch up on all of JTA’s Ukraine war coverage from the last year here.
Sherstuk’s story reflects the ways that Russia’s war on Ukraine has affected Jews in Ukraine and beyond. The conflict has killed hundreds of thousands, left even more in peril and fundamentally altered the landscape and population of Ukraine, forcing millions to flee as refugees.
But the war has also mobilized the networks of Jewish aid and welfare groups across Europe, leading to a Jewish organizational response on a massive scale not seen in decades. And Ukrainian Jews who have remained in the country have recalibrated their lives and communities for wartime.
Here are four stories about Jews who stepped in and stepped up to help, and a taste of the on-the-ground situations they found themselves in.
‘I was needed there’
Enrique Ginzburg, second from right, is shown with Ukrainian doctors in Lviv. (Courtesy of Ginzburg)
Since nearly drowning at 23, Dr. Enrique Ginzburg has felt he “had to pay back” for the extra years of life he was granted.
Now 65, the professor of surgery at the University of Miami’s Miller School of Medicine and its trauma division has lent his critical care expertise in Haiti, Argentina, Kurdistan and Iraq, in various emergency situations. But until last year, he had never been to a war zone.
The Cuba native felt drawn to Ukraine because his grandfather is from Kyiv, while his grandmother is from nearby eastern Poland. So early on in the conflict, he called Dr. Aaron Epstein, an old friend and the founder of the nonprofit Global Surgical and Medical Supply Group.
“Get yourself a flak jacket, a helmet, a gas mask and come on over,” Ginzburg said Epstein told him.
He has been to Ukraine twice under the nonprofit’s auspices, last April and July. Ginzburg’s explanation for why he flew across the world to put himself in danger: “I was needed,” he said.
His base was an emergency hospital in Lviv, a city located west enough that it became a major refugee hub. He consulted with front-line Ukrainian physicians, many of them young and inexperienced, and hospital administrators, watching the doctors in action. He also visited patients in hospital wards and helped to treat gunshot wounds and assorted combat injuries.
Ginzburg’s bags were packed with meaningful supplies. Some had been requested by his Ukrainian colleagues for medical use, mostly specialized catheters. But he also brought tefillin, the phylacteries used by Jews in their morning prayers. Ginzburg, who studied in a yeshiva while young but no longer considers himself Orthodox, wrapped them every day while in Ukraine.
Even though Lviv was far from the fighting, he could hear air raid sirens and the explosion of the Russian missiles, sometimes feeling the earth shake. When intelligence reports warned Ginzburg’s medical team of impending missile attacks, they sought refuge in safe houses.
“Today,” he told the Miami Herald last June, “I was calling my life insurance [company] because I have young sons and my wife, so I’m trying to make sure I have good coverage.”
By the end of his trips, Ginzburg lost count of the number of doctors he helped train and the number of patients he saw. “I’m sure it’s hundreds.” He plans to make a third trip sometime this year.
‘This is our new reality’
Karina Sokolowska is the director of the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee’s activities in Poland. (Courtesy of the JDC)
As the director of the JDC, or the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, in Poland, Karina Sokolowska has heard countless harrowing stories over the past year. But one sticks out in her memory.
It involved an elderly Ukrainian couple she met at the Poland-Ukraine border in late spring. The husband was in a wheelchair, and Sokolowska helped push him — back towards Ukraine. They had spent three months in a shelter in Poland but eventually “realized we cannot go looking for jobs, we cannot restart our lives. We are too old,” the woman said.
“If they are to die, they’d rather die back home,” Sokolowska said. “It’s a story of hopelessness. They are so vulnerable.”
Last year, about 8 million Ukrainian refugees made their way to Poland, the bordering country that accepted the most refugees. Early on in the conflict, Sokolowska contacted and visited Jewish communities throughout Poland, investigating the availability of places where the soon-to-be-homeless refugees could be housed. She also traveled to some of the border crossings where the Ukrainians entered, to arrange transportation to venues in Poland and to oversee the conditions in which the refugees would begin their new lives.
Later she would help with, among other things: arranging legal advice for the people who arrived with few identification documents; lining up medical care and drugs; finding them short- and long-term housing; connecting them to psychological counseling; providing kosher meals; and even caring for the refugees’ pets (“dogs and cats with no documents”).
According to JDC statistics, the organization “provided essential supplies and care” to 43,000 Jews in Ukraine and “aided 22,000+ people” there with “winter survival needs … more than double the amount served in previous years.” The welfare organization also claimed to provide “life-saving services” to more than 40,000 refugees in Poland, Moldova, Romania, Hungary, Bulgaria and other European locations. It also helped evacuate about 13,000 Jews from Ukraine. (Israeli Foreign Minister Eli Cohen recently said 15,000 Ukrainian Jews in total have immigrated to Israel since the start of the war.)
Karina Sokolowska, JDC director for Poland and Scandinavia sits in her office down the hall from a hotline room, in early March 2022. (Toby Axelrod)
At the height of the refugee flood, Sokolowska said her monthly JDC budget ballooned to more than what she previously spent in an entire year. Her office went from having a few employees to over 20. The amount of sleep she got decreased in tandem; she started taking sleeping pills to get rest when she could.
“This is our new reality” in Poland, she says of the JDC work with Ukrainian refugees. “This is our life now.”
Sokolowska, the granddaughter of Yiddish-speaking Holocaust survivors, became active in Jewish life during college, when a classmate heard her pronouncing some German words with a Yiddish accent and persuaded her to lead the Polish Union of Jewish Students. As JDC director for Scandinavian countries in addition to Poland, she typically organizes educational conferences and helps Jewish families learn about traditions they had not learned while growing up in the communist era.
Today, her sense of optimism has been ground down.
“Everything changed when war came to Ukraine — there is less hope,” Sokolowska said. “It’s a totally new everything. Every aspect of our life changed. Our hope for this to be over soon is going down, down, down. Nothing will change.”
‘It could [have been] me’
Tom and Darlynn Fellman volunteered in Krakow in October 2022. (Courtesy of Tom Fellman)
Sometime in the late 1890s, Harry Fellman, about 20 years old, left his home in Ukraine. According to family legend, he was a sharpshooter in the Ukrainian army and was about to be sent into active combat. Instead, he emigrated to the United States and settled in Omaha, Nebraska, where he became a peddler.
His grandson Tom Fellman — whose middle name is Harry — doesn’t know all the 120-year-old details, but he knows that he is grateful that Harry Fellman decided to leave Ukraine when he did.
“It could [have been] me, if my grandparents had not left when they did,” said Fellman, a successful real estate developer and philanthropist in Omaha.
In October, at 78 years old, Fellman made the reverse trip across the Atlantic to pitch in to the relief effort. He also wanted to pay what he sees as a debt to the memory of his late grandfather and to help the current generation of Ukrainian Jews.
He and his wife Darlynn served as volunteers for a week at the Krakow Jewish community center, joining hundreds (possibly thousands) of volunteers from overseas who have gone to Poland and the other nations in the region over the last year to participate in humanitarian programs on behalf of the millions of Ukrainian refugees. Fellman worked nine hours a day with a half-dozen fellow foreign volunteers in the basement of the community center, transferring the contents of “big, big” sacks of items like potatoes and sugar into small containers to be distributed to refugees in the building’s first-floor food pantry. His wife spent her time in an art therapy program that was set up for the refugee mothers and children to raise their spirits.
Fellman is “not particularly religious” but supports “anything Jewish.” In 1986, he accompanied a rescue mission plane of Soviet Jews headed to Israel. “It was the most rewarding experience of my life,” he recalled.
Fellman says he plans to return to Poland, in June, for the JCC’s annual fundraising bike ride from Auschwitz to Krakow.
What did his friends think of his septuagenarian volunteer stint? “They thought it was cool,” he said. “But none of them are going too.”
‘Everything was a risk’
Elizaveta Sherstuk runs a branch of Hesed, a network of welfare centers, in Sumy, Ukraine. (Courtesy of Sherstuk)
Sherstuk’s parents would have sent their daughter to a Jewish school in her early years if they had had the option. But Jewish education was not permitted In Sumy during the final years of communist rule in the Soviet republic. Sherstuk was exposed to Jewish life only at home.
Her parents infused her with a Jewish identity, she said, and her grandparents used to talk and sing songs in Yiddish. That inspired Sherstuk’s first career as a singer and a music teacher, during which she founded Aviv and took it on tour throughout the region singing traditional Jewish songs. Later, she became the director of Sumy’s branch of the JDC-funded Hesed network.
Sumy, an industrial city with a population of 300,000 before the war situated only 30 miles from the Russian border, was one of Russia’s first targets. In the days before the pending invasion, Sherstuk stockpiled food, which was certain to become scarce in case of war, and arranged bus transportation to safer parts of the country for hundreds of vulnerable civilians, mostly the elderly and disabled. The bus plan fell through for safety issues.
As the bombing started, it became dangerous for members of the local 1,000-member Jewish community, many of them elderly, to venture outside of their apartments. Sherstuk, working out of a bomb shelter, assisted by a Hesed network of volunteers, coordinated food and medicine deliveries.
The situation grew more dire, and she coordinated the Jewish community’s participation in a brief humanitarian corridor evacuation of vulnerable civilians that the Russians permitted. She communicated with Sumy residents mostly by smartphones provided by the JDC — the Russian attacks had cut the landlines — and accompanied the busloads of Sumy Jews to western Ukraine. Some of them eventually moved on to Israel, Germany, or other nearby countries, she said.
Sherstuk stayed in western Ukraine for a while (“The humanitarian corridors are only for one-way trips,” she noted), moving from place to place, keeping in touch with the Jews of Sumy and waiting for Ukraine’s army to make the trip back safe. But Sumy, like many Ukrainian cities, has come under frequent Russian rocket attack.
“Everything was a risk,” she said. “We were following whatever our hearts told us to do. We had to save people. I was the one who had to do it.”
Last May, Sherstuk was among 12 men and women (and the sole one from the Diaspora) who lit a torch at the start of Israel’s Independence Day in a government ceremony on Mount Herzl. During two weeks in Israel, she spent some time with members of her family, and held a series of meetings with JDC officials, government ministers and donors. “It was not a vacation,” she said.
After going back to Sumy, at the suggestions of her choral group members and fellow Sumy residents, she organized concerts in Hebrew, Yiddish, Ukrainian and Russian — some in person, some in a bomb shelter in the city’s central square, some online. She has now resumed her music classes, too, and it has all boosted morale. “I [teach] all the time,” she said.
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A Look Inside Gaza: More Questions Than Answers as Israel Remains Vigilant, Hamas Refuses to Give Up Weapons
Israeli soldier on guard in Gaza, February 2026. Photo: Jonathan Sacerdoti / The Algemeiner
GAZA — Going into Gaza remains a rare opportunity for journalists. Access has been tightly controlled throughout the Israel-Hamas war, and even now, months into a ceasefire that has paused the fighting without resolving it, entry is neither routine nor casual. Last week I had the opportunity to interview Nadav Shoshani of the Israel Defense Forces (IDF) inside the Gaza Strip itself, as he walked me through the so-called “Yellow Line” roughly dividing the enclave between east and west, the strained reality on the ground, and the directions in which this conflict may now move.
Shoshani is the IDF’s international spokesperson, one of the most visible Israeli figures to emerge since Hamas’s Oct. 7, 2023, invasion of the Jewish state. For months he has been a fixture in global media, correcting casualty claims and explaining operations in real time. In modern conflict, the spokesman is not an afterthought to the battlefield but an extension of it. What is said publicly shapes diplomatic reaction, public opinion, and operational latitude. English-language briefings in particular are conducted with as much care as any military deployment.
Spokesmen can be dry to interview: They do not reveal classified plans or freelance personal views. Instead, they articulate the institutional position. They present what Israel wants seen, understood, and, ideally, repeated. But even this is useful data for us journalists, and for our readers, too. It is a form of evidence, explaining the narrative the army — and the state — wants to be repeated. From this embed, and from this conversation, the message was consistent: tense but disciplined control in a moment of relative calm (but not peace), determination without appetite for escalation, action in response to violations rather than initiative for renewed war. It was almost as if they wanted to portray a sense of disciplined, determined boredom.
IDF international spokesperson Nadav Shoshani in Gaza. Photo: Jonathan Sacerdoti / The Algemeiner
We met at an IDF post a few hundred meters from what is now called the Yellow Line, the boundary dividing Israeli-controlled territory from areas still under Hamas control. Just beyond it lay Deir al-Balah and the central camps, dense urban belts whose origins stretch back to the aftermath of 1948 and whose political culture has long been shaped by displacement, factional rivalry, and Islamist terrorist organizations.
Shoshani’s own trajectory mirrors the way this war has pulled figures back into public roles. During his initial decade-plus in the IDF he served in key communications positions, including spokesperson for Military Intelligence and head of the IDF’s social media desk. In 2022 he moved into politics, advising Gadi Eisenkot in Israel’s parliament, known as the Knesset. He briefly entered private consulting. After Oct. 7, he was called back into uniform at Eisenkot’s request. Since then, he has become one of the IDF’s most recognizable English-language voices.
As we moved between locations in a military jeep, he spoke about operating in a conflict that is scrutinized but rarely visited, as a result of Israel’s own decision to bar free movement of journalists in the area. The informational theater runs parallel to the physical one. Every strike, every claim, every casualty figure is contested. The spokesman stands at the junction between battlefield and broadcast.
From the vantage point near the Yellow Line, the broader strategic dilemma came into focus.
Israeli military jeep driving in Gaza. Photo: Jonathan Sacerdoti / The Algemeiner
Hamas continues to control significant internal areas of Gaza. Israeli assessments indicate that weapons accumulated earlier in the war remain dispersed across the enclave. Tunnels are still being uncovered even in the southern city of Rafah, where the IDF has operated for an extended period. “The IDF are world class experts in dealing with terror tunnels,” Shoshani said. “And still, after a year plus in Rafah, there are still tunnels.” He described the network as vast and deeply embedded.
In the sector we were visiting, Shoshani said, there are dozens of tunnel shafts. “Single digits” are dismantled each week. It is a steady, grinding process rather than a decisive sweep. As the Israelis are still discovering new shafts and tunnels, the assumption is that the network is even more vast than they know. And for Israel, destroying the tunnels is part of Hamas’s commitment to disarmament in accordance with the US-backed ceasefire.
“The first line of the agreement says Gaza will be a terror free zone,” Shoshani told me. “The agreement speaks about Hamas disarming.” Israel, he said, is committed to that outcome.
Yet Hamas leaders abroad have recently made clear that disarmament is not under consideration. Khaled Meshaal has described surrendering weapons as removing the “soul” of the resistance. Instead, he has floated the prospect of a long “hudna” — a five, seven, or ten-year truce in which weapons remain intact. A pause, not a conclusion. The way things are at the moment it seems like America remains undecided, torn between the momentum of building on the relative calm of the ceasefire and the inclination toward helping Israel defeat its jihadist enemies.
That divergence defines the uncertainty of this moment. A ceasefire predicated on demilitarization rests on a premise one side openly rejects.
Landscape in Gaza, February 2026. Photo: Jonathan Sacerdoti / The Algemeiner
Israel currently controls somewhere between 51-58 percent of the Gaza Strip. Within Israel’s political and security leadership, the argument is not over whether Hamas must be weakened, but over how far that effort must go. One school supports sustained operational control and calibrated pressure, judging that persistent attrition imposes manageable diplomatic costs while limiting Israeli exposure. Another warns that leaving Hamas organizationally intact, even in a diminished form, merely postpones the next confrontation and preserves its capacity to reconstitute. The dispute turns on a single question: Can Hamas be contained, or must it be eradicated to prevent recurrence?
“We are literally standing between Hamas and our civilians,” Shoshani said, pointing toward Israeli communities only a kilometer or two away. The distance is short enough to be visible. Oct. 7 lingers as the unspoken baseline of risk. I walked through the burnt-out homes of Be’eri shortly after the massacre. I cried quietly among the makeshift memorials at Re’im for the Nova party victims slain by the barbarous Palestinian terrorists full of bloodlust. I met survivors from Nahal Oz, evacuated for months from their beloved home and living as a family of four in a single kibbutz bedroom in the north. The scars will remain in the psyche of Israel and Jews for decades to come.
The atmosphere at the post was quiet but taut. Occasional distant fire cracked and faded. Wind carried sand across the position. A short drive away, at the Kissufim crossing, pallets of humanitarian aid sat stacked inside Gaza, inspected and approved. “Every week, 4,200 trucks are going into Gaza,” Shoshani said. He emphasized that the Israeli depot on the other side was empty because everything cleared had been transferred into the Strip, awaiting collection by international agencies.
Supplies stacked in Gaza. Photo: Jonathan Sacerdoti / The Algemeiner
Humanitarian logistics and sniper fire exist side by side. Reconstruction frameworks are discussed internationally while tunnel shafts are dismantled meter by meter.
US President Donald Trump is expected to announce billions in funding for Gaza and provide an update on an international stabilization force at the next meeting of his Board of Peace. Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has now formally joined the initiative, signing a back-dated letter during his US trip last week. Public language emphasizes transformation and demilitarization.
Questions surrounding the proposed international stabilization force are also occupying serious attention among policymakers. Under the framework advanced during the Trump administration’s post-war planning, the concept envisages a multinational force deployed in Gaza after the cessation of major combat operations. Its stated purpose would be to oversee demilitarization, support reconstruction, assist in training local security forces, and provide a transitional security umbrella while Israeli forces reduce their footprint.
Within the proposed international architecture, Indonesia has emerged as a potential contributor. Jakarta signaled its readiness, in principle, to supply a substantial contingent to such a force, positioning itself as a Muslim-majority state willing to participate in post-conflict stabilization. The rationale is clear. Indonesian involvement would lend broader regional legitimacy to any arrangement and dilute the perception that Gaza’s future security is being shaped solely by Western actors or by Israel. But everyone knows that nobody can truly disarm Hamas other than the IDF.
Legitimacy is only one dimension of the problem. For Israeli decision-makers, the critical issues are structural and operational. Under what mandate would such an international force operate? Would it be authorized to conduct active counter-terror operations, or confined to monitoring and training? How would intelligence be shared? What happens if armed factions attempt to regroup or test the limits of the force’s authority? These are the foundations upon which success or failure rests.
Israeli soldier on guard in Gaza, February 2026. Photo: Jonathan Sacerdoti / The Algemeiner
The Indonesian proposal illustrates the wider tension embedded in the international force concept. A deployment designed primarily for peacekeeping and humanitarian support may stabilize the optics of the post-war environment, but stabilization in a territory where armed networks have deep roots requires more than presence. It requires enforceable authority, coherent command structures, and the political will to confront spoilers — all things I witnessed in the IDF outpost in Gaza but cannot imagine will be present among foreign forces.
I ask LTC Shoshani about the Indonesian rumors and statements. On the ground, foreign troops are absent. “I think that’s more in the in the level of declaration and statements made by politicians,” he said. “It’s not something on the ground happening right now. As you can see, there’s only IDF soldiers in Gaza, but we’re working within the [US-led Civil Military Coordination Center] CMCC for the different solutions that have been agreed upon.” For the IDF, political declarations have yet to alter operational reality.
The central questions remain stark. Can Hamas realistically be disarmed without permanent occupation? If not, can Israel accept a reduced but armed Hamas presence? And if neither path proves viable, how long before the present equilibrium fractures? My embed in the Gaza Strip seems designed not to answer these questions, but to prompt them to the rest of the world to ponder. Criticism is easy, but Israel has to deal in solutions.
Meanwhile, the yellow line is clearly marked, by fluorescent yellow blocks of concrete dotted along the length of the strip. “It is not the type of area where you cross by accident,” Shoshani said. The IDF post we were standing in was deliberately positioned 200 to 300 meters back, allowing time for warnings, leaflets, shots into the air if necessary. Escalation is designed to be gradual.
Israeli soldier on guard in Gaza, February 2026. Photo: Jonathan Sacerdoti / The Algemeiner
Yet he seems keen to point out that ceasefires erode incrementally. A sniper attack. A targeted strike in response. Another violation. The cumulative weight builds.
From inside Gaza, the picture is neither triumphant nor chaotic. It is controlled, watchful, provisional. Israel is holding territory, responding to attacks, dismantling infrastructure, insisting on disarmament as the stated end state. As Trump and his two key negotiators — Steve Witkoff and Jared Kushner — talk publicly about reconstruction and rebuilding, and as Britain, France, and Canada deal in fantasies of Palestinian statehood, the Israeli soldiers I meet are tasked with the boring, grinding, slow process of degrading Hamas, pushing back when it ventures forward, and keeping alert as it declares it will not disarm.
That thick mud wall Shoshani and I stand behind wasn’t here a few weeks ago. It has been built because the line did not hold well enough. Though the line itself remains in place, what lies beyond it, and what may yet cross it again, remains unresolved.
Jonathan Sacerdoti, a writer and broadcaster, is now a contributor to The Algemeiner.
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Pop Icon Boy George Says He Hopes to Perform in Israel, Reiterates Love for His Israeli Fans
Boy George, center left, and his Culture Club bandmates. Photo: BANG Showbiz
British pop legend Boy George reaffirmed his love for his Israeli fans and the Jewish state on Monday in a post on X, in which he also referenced the deadly Hamas-led terrorist attack in Israel on Oct. 7, 2023.
A video was posted on X that showed a past performance by Lady Gaga in Israel, in which she shouted to the audience, “You are strong, you are brave, you are confident, and I f–king love you Israel.” Boy George replied to the video on Monday afternoon and started off by saying, “I love Israel too.”
“Blaming an entire people is moronic,” added the Culture Club lead singer, who has been a long-time supporter of Israel. “You can be against war and still love humanity. Good for her,” he noted. “She loves her Israeli fans. Like I do. Some of them were probably killed on Oct 7th. I have DJ’d in Tel Aviv a number of times. I hope I will in the future!”
Photo: Screenshot/X.
After the Oct. 7 massacre in Israel, Boy George uploaded a since-deleted post on social media that said, “When you hurt women, children, and the elderly, your cause is doomed. I stand with Israel.”
In the past he has also criticized Pink Floyd frontman Roger Waters for comparing Israel to Nazi Germany. “I always thought Pink Floyd was part of [the] solution but Roger has fallen out of the dream,” Boy George told The Jewish Chronicle in 2023. “When you mix your own hostility with more hostility there is never any peace! Antisemitism is not rock ‘n’ roll!”
Boy George performed in Tel Aviv in 2011 and 2017, rejecting pressure from the boycott, divestment, and sanctions movement against Israel. During the 2017 concert at Tel Aviv’s Menora Mivtachim Arena, the musician performed a segment while wearing a bright yellow outfit adorned with Star of Davids. He was joined on stage by three other original members of the band Culture Club and also performed a duet with Israeli singer Dana International.
In 2020, he collaborated on a song with Israeli artist Asaf Goren titled “Rainbow in the Dark,” which features both English and Hebrew lyrics. Boy George also joined other celebrities in signing an open letter in 2024 that supported Israel’s inclusion in the Eurovision Song Contest that year.
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Jesse Jackson, civil rights leader with strained Jewish relations, dies at 84
(JTA) — The Rev. Jesse Jackson, the Black leader who sought to build a “rainbow coalition” for America’s future but struggled to include Jews in it, has died at 84.
For American Jews, Jackson’s use of an antisemitic epithet, criticism of Israel and association with the Nation of Islam’s Louis Farrakhan during his first presidential run in 1984 proved hard to overcome, even as the towering figure apologized in part and preached reconciliation.
“This man is brilliant, he is a leader,” Edgar Bronfman, then president of the World Jewish Congress, said in 1992 after inviting Jackson to address its conference in Brussels. “Do I trust him totally? Of course not. Because he is not a Jewish leader, he is a Black leader, he’s got a different agenda. Do I think that he and I can work together to bring the Black and Jewish communities together to fight against racism? Yes.”
Born in the Jim Crow South and educated as a Baptist minister in Chicago, Jackson emerged as a purveyor of a hopeful vision of racial inclusion and economic uplift in the years after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., with whom he had worked. After clashing with other King allies over the appropriate tenor of civil rights activism, he formed his own group — ultimately called Operation PUSH — to advance his vision: uniting groups marginalized economically or politically into a governing majority to achieve economic and social justice.
Soon, his group’s economic boycotts were winning commitments to minority hiring and propelling him into the political mainstream. Jackson succeeded in negotiating the freedom of U.S. hostages abroad, including in Syria and Cuba in 1984. Soon, he was mounting a historic campaign for president, becoming only the second Black national candidate since Reconstruction. In his second Democratic primary run, in 1988, he won 11 primaries and caucuses, nabbing 7 million votes and driving a dramatic expansion in the number of Black registered voters.
But criticism dogged Jackson, even as he notched civil rights and national politics wins. Some in his own community accused him of caring more about the concerns of affluent African-Americans than about the poverty afflicting the majority of Black people in the United States; others charged him with profiting personally off of his advocacy.
Perhaps the most significant breaches came with American Jews, who had played a prominent role in the civil rights movement of the 1960s.
In 1979, he met in Lebanon with Palestinian Liberation Organization leader Yasser Arafat in an effort to broker ties between the group and the United States. At the time, the U.S. position was not to engage with the PLO or its leader until it had acknowledged Israel’s right to exist.
Jackson also visited Israel during the same trip, but two Jewish members of the delegation — including one who helped plan it after working with Jackson to oppose a Nazi march in Skokie, Illinois, the previous year — quit in protest partway through, saying that they had concluded that Jackson was a “dangerous man” who “cares not one bit about the Israeli point of view.”
In 1983, soon after announcing his first presidential campaign, the far-right Jewish Defense League announced a “Jews for Jackson” effort to thwart him. The announcement prompted Jackson’s first denial that he was antisemitic.
Tensions exploded early the next year when Jackson admitted that he had used the term “Hymietown” to describe New York City in what he believed had been a private conversation with a reporter. The term, an offensive slur for Jews that riffs off the name Hyman, smarted for a community that had hoped antisemitism in the United States was a thing of the past.
Jackson first denied making the comments, including during a televised national debate, but then apologized in a speech at a synagogue in Manchester, New Hampshire, ahead of the first presidential primary. “It’s human to err, divine to forgive,” he said, explaining that he had not wanted the comment to disrupt his campaign.
“I appeal to you tonight as a Jewish community to find yourself in the rainbow coalition,” Jackson continued, adding, “I categorically deny that I am either antisemitic or anti-Israel.”
At the same time, Jackson declined to distance himself from Farrakhan, a longtime associate who had introduced him at a Chicago rally. After Farrakhan made new antisemitic comments, calling Judaism a “gutter religion,” Jackson’s campaign denounced the comments but not Farrakhan himself.
That summer, Jackson also made new comments about Israel that violated sacrosanct beliefs among American Jewish leaders. Jackson endorsed the idea of a Palestinian state alongside Israel at a time when the idea was far out of the mainstream of American and Israeli politics. He also raised questions about U.S. military aid to Israel, saying that Israeli weapons were being used to maintain apartheid in South Africa.
Relations had soured so much that Jackson became a wedge issue during the 1988 election, when Republican strategists and figures such as Vice President George Bush suggested that Democrats were not forceful enough in condemning antisemitism.
There were some signs of openness. Jewish leaders, including Rabbi David Saperstein of the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism, said Jackson had met privately with them in an effort to mend fences. “It is a different Jackson in 1988 than in 1984,” Abraham Foxman, national director of the Anti-Defamation League, said at the time. “One has to recognize and welcome that certain sensitivity he is now showing.”
By the early 1990s, Jackson had made gains in building trust with segments of the Jewish community, speaking at synagogues and Jewish community forums and participating in Holocaust remembrance events. In July 1992, he made two headlining speeches condemning hatred of Jews, at the Democratic National Convention and to a World Jewish Congress meeting in Brussels.
In the World Jewish Congress speech, he condemned antisemitism, praised Zionism as a “liberation movement” and called for Jews and Blacks to renew their joint fight against racism.
“Let us not turn closed scars into open wounds in the name of freedom and candor,” he said. “Let us be wise enough to act our way into a way of thinking, and not just think and talk ourselves into not acting.”
Bronfman, the WJC’s president, told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency at the time that he had invited Jackson to speak over the objections of many Jewish voices, because he wanted to make sure that a conference focused on racism against Jews also examined racism in the United States.
The speech won over some in attendance. “I was proved to be wrong,” said an Australian co-chair of the WJC’s board who had opposed Jackson’s invitation. “I do see genuine opportunities now, if we move forward, to some sort of a rapprochement.”
But Foxman said Jackson would still have to do more to convince him. “It is a record that has been marred by an insensitive view of Jewish history, the Holocaust, Zionism and the modern Jewish state, its government and their policies,” he said. “One speech to the Jewish community in the Palace of Congresses in Brussels will not repair it.”
Foxman said he would work with Jackson if Jackson chose to deliver similar comments before Black audiences in the United States.
By the late 1990s, a thaw appeared to have taken place. Yeshiva University invited Jackson to speak on the topic of Black-Jewish relations. While Jackson faced some protests at Park Avenue, at Y.U., President Norman Lamm praised him as a “leading, vibrant” activist who has “performed miracles in fostering racial harmony.”
During that speech, Jackson denied that “Black antisemitism,” then a topic of growing concern among Jewish leaders, was a structural phenomenon, saying that any hatred that existed was confined to misguided individuals and not a product of the community as a whole. He also argued that the far right posed a greater threat to Jews in the United States.
Around the same time, Jackson participated in a vigil on behalf of Iranian Jews outside Park East Synagogue in New York City. Rabbi Marc Schneier, whose father Arthur is Park East’s rabbi, said following Jackson’s death, “I have lost a cherished friend.”
Jackson maintained personal relationships with other Jewish figures. Following the death in 2021 of Robert Marx, a pioneering social justice advocate and leading Reform rabbi in Chicago who drew inspiration from his experiences marching with King, Jackson issued a bereft statement praising him as “the Jewish voice for justice” and saying, “We prayed together, sang together, and marched together. When Nazis marched in Skokie, we fought hate together. We have always been together. I love him so much. I miss him already.”
Some Jewish groups eulogized Jackson on Tuesday, though often acknowledging the wrinkles in his record. “It’s no secret that there were also very painful moments in Rev. Jackson’s relationship with the Jewish community, and he is a testament to engagement even when there are deep disagreements and pain,” said the Jewish Council for Public Affairs, a civil rights group, in a statement. “He went on to be a key ally to the Jewish community, underscoring the urgency of building strong, long-lasting alliances against bigotry wherever it exists.”
Jackson announced in 2017 that he had Parkinson’s disease and had been increasingly out of the public eye. He shared a stage with Farrakhan at a memorial service for the singer Aretha Franklin in 2018 and traveled to Auschwitz in 2019 for a memorial service for the Roma victims of the Holocaust before making his last major public appearance in a wheelchair at the 2024 Democratic National Convention in Chicago. His organization announced in November that he had been hospitalized, and his family announced on Tuesday that he had “died peacefully.”
He is survived by his wife Jacqueline; six children including his son Jesse Jackson, Jr., who was elected to Congress in Illinois; and several grandchildren.
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