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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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US Formally Reopens Caracas Embassy as Ties With Venezuela Warm
Venezuela’s interim president Delcy Rodriguez speaks during a press conference, more than a week after the US launched a strike on the country and captured President Nicolas Maduro and his wife Cilia Flores, at Miraflores Palace in Caracas, Venezuela, Jan. 14, 2026. Photo: REUTERS/Leonardo Fernandez Viloria
The United States on Monday formally reopened its embassy in Caracas, the State Department said, citing “a new chapter” in diplomatic relations with Venezuela less than three months after US forces seized the country’s then-President Nicolas Maduro in a raid on the capital.
President Donald Trump’s administration has engaged with an interim government led by former Maduro ally Delcy Rodriguez, including on an agreement for the US to sell Venezuelan oil, and has issued sanctions waivers to encourage US investment.
The two countries agreed in early March to re-establish diplomatic relations that were severed in 2019 after the first Trump administration refused to recognize Maduro as the country’s legitimate leader, following a disputed election, and instead recognized an opposition lawmaker as the country’s president.
“Today, we are formally resuming operations at the S. Embassy in Caracas, marking a new chapter in our diplomatic presence in Venezuela,” the State Department said on Monday.
US forces captured Maduro on Jan. 3 after months of heightened tensions between the two countries, setting off a chain of changes in Venezuela. Maduro and his wife, Cilia Flores, are on trial in New York on drug trafficking charges.
The raid came after the Trump administration said it would reassert US dominance in the Western Hemisphere, but Trump has also cited the success of deposing Maduro as a model for the war with Iran that began last month. The move against Venezuela cut off a major source of oil to Cuba, where the president has also hinted at US military action.
Secretary of State Marco Rubio said days after the Caracas raid that Washington would first seek to stabilize Venezuela, then begin a recovery phase where US companies would have access to the country’s energy resources, before finally beginning a political transition.
The Trump administration appointed Ambassador Laura Dogu, a career diplomat with experience in Latin America, to lead engagement with the interim government.
The State Department on March 19 removed a “do not travel” advisory for Venezuela and said Americans were no longer at risk of wrongful detention by authorities there, although it still warns US citizens to reconsider travel due to the risk of crime, kidnapping, terrorism and poor health infrastructure in the country.
The State Department said on Monday that Dogu’s team was restoring the Caracas embassy‘s chancery building “to prepare for the full return of personnel as soon as possible and the eventual resumption of consular services.”
“The resumption of operations at US Embassy Caracas is a key milestone in implementing the President’s three‑phase plan for Venezuela and will strengthen our ability to engage directly with Venezuela’s interim government, civil society, and the private sector,” the State Department said.
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Lessons From the Classroom: By the Time We Try to Teach Democracy, It’s Already Too Late
Harvard University campus on May 24, 2025, in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Photo: Zhu Ziyu/VCG via Reuters Connect
Ronald Reagan warned that freedom is fragile — that it must be taught, protected, and deliberately passed from one generation to the next. For years, that warning could be heard as rhetoric. As the United States approaches its 250th anniversary, it reads as diagnosis.
Ruth Wisse makes a similar point in her recent Jefferson Lecture, and she does so with characteristic clarity. Democracy, she reminds us, does not reproduce itself. “Democracy is not transmitted biologically.” It must be taught, reinforced, and defended.
That line should be engraved above the entrance to every school in America.
But even Wisse stops one step short of the deeper problem.
By the time we try to teach democracy in college, it is often already too late.
Her lecture is about endurance — how a people survives, how a civilization persists, how freedom is carried forward across generations. Drawing on Jewish history, she shows that continuity is never accidental. It is built through teaching, repetition, and expectation. The Shema is not just a prayer; it is a civilizational blueprint: teach your children, speak these truths constantly, bind them into daily life.
This is how a people endures.
But in the United States today, we have largely abandoned this model — and nowhere is that abandonment more visible than in education.
For years, colleges and universities have imagined themselves as the primary sites of civic formation. When students arrive with weak civic knowledge or thin historical grounding, institutions respond with programming — substituting initiatives for formation and statements for substance — designed to shape values in real time.
But anyone who teaches knows the truth: students do not arrive as blank slates.
They arrive formed.
And what is formed early tends to endure.
They have already learned whether disagreement is something to engage or something to silence. They have already absorbed whether institutions deserve trust or suspicion. They have already internalized whether their country is something to inherit or something to dismantle.
These habits are not formed in college. They are formed much earlier — especially in high school. Political scientists Richard Niemi and Jane Junn showed decades ago that high school is the decisive window for civic formation — that the knowledge, attitudes, and habits students carry into adulthood are largely shaped before they reach college.
I see this every day in the classroom. Present students with a controversial text and ask them to engage it — really engage it — and a familiar pattern emerges. Some move immediately to moral judgment before they can articulate the argument. Others retreat, wary of saying anything contestable. Very few instinctively attempt persuasion – laying out a case, anticipating objections, and revising their views in response.
This is not a failure of intelligence. It is a failure of formation.
And higher education, rather than correcting this, often deepens it.
Wisse watched this transformation up close during her two decades at Harvard, where she saw what Lionel Trilling called the adversarial culture — the ascent of grievance over gratitude — displace the serious transmission of civic inheritance. She wanted to remind her colleagues that democracy requires active reinforcement, not passive assumption. What she witnessed instead was the substitution of critique for formation, of grievance for gratitude.
In place of formation, we have substituted expression. Students are encouraged to “share their truth” but are rarely required to defend it. In place of shared civic frameworks, we offer individualized narratives. In place of intellectual discipline, we reward performance — moral, emotional, and increasingly ideological.
The result is a generation that is often articulate but not persuasive, engaged but not grounded, confident but not resilient.
These are not small distinctions. They are the difference between citizens and spectators — between a democracy that endures and one that frays.
Wisse is right to warn that civilizations must be defended — not only militarily, but culturally. Here, the Jewish experience offers a lesson that has become newly urgent after October 7.
For many, especially in the Diaspora, there was a quiet assumption that security could be taken for granted — that integration was sufficient, that strength could remain in the background.
October 7 shattered that illusion.
It was a brutal reminder that survival requires not only memory and meaning, but power and preparedness. The same is true, in a different register, for democratic societies. Freedom depends not only on ideals, but on the willingness to defend them — culturally, intellectually, and, when necessary, physically.
But defense begins with formation.
And here is where Wisse’s warning should land most forcefully: we are no longer reliably forming the citizens we need to sustain the system we have.
In K-12 education, the shift has been profound. History is too often taught as indictment rather than inheritance. Authority is treated with suspicion rather than seriousness. Students are encouraged to critique before they are asked to understand. The result is not critical thinking — it is premature certainty.
By the time these students arrive on campus, the patterns are already established.
Colleges are not building civic habits. They are attempting — often unsuccessfully — to remediate their absence.
This helps explain why so many institutional responses feel hollow. Statements are issued. Committees are formed. New programs are announced. But none of this addresses the deeper issue: the habits required for democratic life were never built in the first place.
And habits, once unformed, are extraordinarily difficult to create under pressure.
If we are serious about sustaining a free society, we must shift our attention earlier — restoring serious civic and historical formation in K-12 education, where these habits are actually built. That means requiring students to read founding documents and debate their meaning — not merely critique their authors. It means teaching argument before self-expression, and inheritance before indictment.
Wisse closes with a call for renewed patriotism — a reminder that Americans benefit from an extraordinary inheritance but “do not sing of it enough.” That is true. But patriotism is not a slogan. It is a disposition, formed over time through exposure, expectation, and practice.
It cannot be summoned at the moment of crisis. It must be cultivated long before.
Reagan understood that. Wisse reminds us of it.
But here is the harder truth:
Democracy is formed early — or it is not formed at all. And when we wait until college to build it, we are no longer forming citizens — we are trying, too late, to repair the habits we failed to build.
Samuel J. Abrams is a professor of politics at Sarah Lawrence College and a senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute.
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Israel and the Impossible Standard of Moral Perfection
Jewish visitors gesture as Israeli security forces secure the area at the compound that houses Al-Aqsa Mosque, known to Muslims as Noble Sanctuary and to Jews as Temple Mount, in Jerusalem’s Old City, Photo: May 5, 2022. REUTERS/Ammar Awad
There is a standard applied to Israel that no other nation is expected to meet. It is not a standard of law, nor of morality as commonly understood. It is something far more rigid and far less honest. It demands perfection in the face of existential threats, and even then, it delivers condemnation.
As the conflict with Iran intensifies, Israel finds itself navigating a reality few countries have ever faced.
Iran has made its intentions unmistakably clear for decades. The destruction of Israel is not rhetoric for domestic consumption. It is official Iranian policy. It is repeated openly, consistently, and without apology.
When Iran strikes, it does not distinguish between civilian and military targets. In fact, it purposefully targets civilians. And it doesn’t only target Jews. Rockets do not ask who is religious or secular, Jewish or Muslim, Israeli or Arab. They fall where they are aimed, and often where they are not, with one purpose in mind: to kill, to terrorize, and to destabilize.
Israel, in contrast, is forced to think not only about survival, but about responsibility. This includes responsibility toward all of its citizens: Jewish, Muslim, Christian, Druze. The diversity of Israeli society is often overlooked, but in moments of crisis, it becomes impossible to ignore. Protection must extend to everyone, without exception.
That is why restrictions on public gatherings were imposed. Not as a political statement, but as a practical necessity. In wartime, large crowds are not just gatherings. They are potential mass casualty events waiting for a single missile.
Yet when Israel extended these restrictions during Ramadan, including closing access to major religious sites, the response was immediate outrage. The accusation was predictable: Religious discrimination. Oppression. A supposed targeting of Muslim worshippers.
The reality was different. The restrictions applied across the board. Muslims were not permitted at the Al-Aqsa Mosque. Christians were not permitted at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Jews were not permitted at the Western Wall or the Mount of Olives. This was not selective enforcement. It was a universal policy driven by security concerns.
But nuance rarely survives in the modern information environment.
Within hours, a simplified narrative took hold. Israel was once again cast as the aggressor, the oppressor, the state that denies religious freedom. The broader context disappeared. The ongoing threat, the indiscriminate nature of incoming attacks, the responsibility to prevent mass casualties, all of it was pushed aside.
Then, almost as if to underline the point, a rocket landed near Jerusalem’s Old City that very same day. It was a stark reminder of what was at stake. Had thousands gathered as they normally would, the consequences could have been devastating.
And yet, even that reality does not shift the narrative.
This is the dilemma Israel faces repeatedly. If it acts to prevent harm, it is accused of repression. If it refrains and harm occurs, it is blamed for negligence. There is no decision that escapes criticism, because the criticism is not rooted in the decision itself. It is rooted in a predetermined judgment against a state run by Jews.
Another example illustrates this pattern with uncomfortable clarity. A toddler was found approaching the Israeli border alone. In any other context, this would be seen for what it is. A child placed in danger, likely as part of a calculated attempt to provoke a reaction.
Israeli soldiers responded not with force, but with care. They ensured the child’s safety, provided food and water, and transferred him to the Red Cross. Evidence showed the child was unharmed at the time of transfer.
Yet the story that followed claimed abuse. Allegations of injuries surfaced, contradicting the available evidence. The facts did not matter. The narrative had already taken shape.
This is not simply misinformation. It is a pattern of interpretation that assumes guilt regardless of evidence.
As Easter approaches, restrictions on religious gatherings once again draw criticism. Clergy voice frustration. Observers condemn the limitations. But the fundamental question remains unanswered: What is the acceptable level of risk? How many lives can be gambled in the name of normalcy?
Israel does not have the luxury of abstract debates. Its decisions carry immediate consequences measured in human lives. That reality forces choices that are imperfect, often unpopular, and always scrutinized.
The tragedy is not only in the conflict itself, but in the inability of much of the world to acknowledge its complexity. Until that changes, Israel will continue to face an impossible standard, one where even its efforts to prevent tragedy are reframed as acts of injustice.
Sabine Sterk is the CEO of Time To Stand Up For Israel.