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Ukrainian Jewish life has always taken place in Russian. Now a race to translate is underway.
LVIV, Ukraine (JTA) – The rabbis sat around a breakfast table, discussing Russia’s war on the country where they work in a mixture of Yiddish, Hebrew and Russian. They named their hometowns as Lugansk, Lvov and Dnepr, the Russian names for Ukrainian cities that have vaulted into international headlines since Russia invaded Ukraine in February.
Although they were focused on Ukraine’s progress in the fighting, the rabbis uttered not a single word in Ukrainian. How could they? Like the vast majority of Jews in Ukraine, none of them speaks the country’s official language.
Russian has long been the first language for a wide swath of Ukrainians, including the majority of the country’s Jews. But after the Russian invasion, many Ukrainians decided they wanted to speak less Russian and more Ukrainian. Many Jews, similarly horrified by the sight of thousands of Russian soldiers pouring over Ukraine’s borders and wishing to demonstrate their Ukrainian bonafides, have made the same choice — even as it means disrupting a long linguistic tradition.
So when the rabbis’ successors meet for pancakes and sour cream, they will be far more likely to introduce themselves as the rabbis of Luhansk, Lviv and Dnipro, the Ukrainian names for their hometowns that have become the standard in English. They will also likely be able to hand their students and congregants Ukrainian-language versions of central Jewish texts that simply do not exist now.
“Many of my friends say that they are embarrassed to use Russian as a language. They say that we are Ukrainian Jews, and that Russia is a terrorist country fighting us and that we shouldn’t use their language,” said Rabbi Meir Stambler, from Dnipro. “Others say that [Russian president Vladimir] Putin doesn’t own the Russian language. It is an issue.”
He added, “This is something that people are discussing all the time.”
A decade ago, half of Ukrainians said they spoke Russian as their native language. That number has declined to 20%, fueled in part by resentment over Russia’s aggressions in Crimea, a contested region that it annexed by force in 2014. But Jews have remained predominantly Russian-speaking, even in parts of western Ukraine where Ukrainian has long been the dominant language. (Russian and Ukrainian are related linguistically, but their speakers cannot understand each other.)
Russia’s war on Ukraine has Ukrainian Jews playing catchup. Stambler, who heads the Federation of Jewish Communities, a body affiliated with the Hasidic Chabad-Lubavitch movement that operates a network of 36 synagogues around Ukraine, offers a stark prediction: “Within 10 years, every Jew in Ukraine will speak Ukrainian.”
The dominance of Russian among Ukraine’s Jews, who numbered in the tens of thousands before the war, has deep roots.
“The historical trajectory of Jews in what is now Ukraine led them in the 19th century to adopt Russian rather than Ukrainian,” says historian Natan Meir, a professor of Judaic studies at Portland State University. “That was because Ukrainian was perceived as a peasant language that did not have any high culture associated with it, and because there were no economic advantages to adopting Ukrainian at the time.”
Now, the upside of switching to Ukrainian — demonstrating a national allegiance during a time of war — couldn’t be clearer.
“Jews feel quite integrated into Ukrainian society, but a shift, even if it is a gradual shift, to Ukrainian is going to make that more tangible than ever,” Meir said, calling the Russian invasion “absolutely game-changing” for Ukrainian Jews. “They will be perceived even more strongly than they have been as being wholly Ukrainian and part of the fabric of Ukrainian society.”
Most Ukrainian Jews, especially those educated since the collapse of the Soviet Union, can now speak some Ukrainian. But their ability often depends on where they grew up: Many Jews in traditionally Russophone cities such as Odesa, Dnipro or Kharkiv can struggle with the language, while their grandparents often cannot speak it at all.
Books in both Hebrew and Russian sit on a bookshelf at Medzhybizh. (Jacob Judah)
“Not more than 20% were Ukrainian-speaking at home,” says Stambler. “Take President [Volodymyr] Zelensky. He knew Ukrainian, but he didn’t speak it at home, and he had to polish it up when he became president.”
It will not be simple for the Jewish community to suddenly switch to Ukrainian, the most widely spoken European language without a standardized translation of the Torah.
Two years ago, a team of translators working in Israel, Austria and Hungary began working to produce Ukrainian-language Jewish texts. But before the Russian invasion, the effort had so far produced only a Ukrainian book of psalms, or tehillim.
In May, two months into the war, a decision was made to accelerate work on a daily prayer book. A Torah could follow.
“The chumash is difficult,” said Stambler, who oversees the half-dozen-strong team of translators from his base in Dnipro, using the Hebrew word for the printed form of the Torah. “We are working on it.”
While translating sacred texts can take years, other changes have come faster. The leaflets, brochures and calendars that are a fixture at any Jewish center in Ukraine were quickly swapped out Russian for Ukrainian, at least at the federation’s headquarters. Before February, these had often been produced and printed by Russian Jewish communities and shared with those in Ukraine, for simplicity’s sake.
“This differentiation from Russian Jewry is going to be huge,” said Meir, the historian. “Up until this point they have essentially formed one linguistic and cultural space that all Jews, whether they were in Ukraine, Russia or Belarus could move freely between.”
Now, the ties between those communities are both logistically complicated to maintain — trade routes have been ruptured — and also potentially a liability at a time when anyone in either Russia or Ukraine showing an affinity for the other country can face suspicion or penalties.
“This shift, if it actually happens, is going to be marking out a totally new cultural space for Ukrainian Jews and almost a declaration of independence,” Meir said “Or at least that is the aspiration, because there is so much of their heritage which is still based in the Russian language that it is going to be a long time before they can fully separate.”
That separation process, which began to take shape most clearly after 2014, has quickened. “We started doing things ourselves,” said Stambler. “We used to do about 20% in Ukrainian for the Jews in western towns like Lviv, Ivano-Frankivsk and Uzhhorod, but we are making a much stronger push now.”
He estimates that some 75% of material being distributed to Ukrainian Jewish communities by the Federation of Jewish Communities was in Ukrainian by September, up from 20% to 35% in January.
Young rabbis who come from the United States or Israel to serve small Jewish communities across Ukraine now say that they have had to add Ukrainian alongside their Russian classes.
“I began with Russian,” said one of those rabbis who works in Vinnitsya, until he decided over the summer that he had to learn Ukrainian. “I realized that I had to learn Ukrainian because I needed it on the street. I needed it to speak with the government and with the media.”
Signs in a synagogue in Ukraine are written in both Ukrainian and Russian. (Jacob Judah)
Some Ukrainian Jews are voting with their voices.
“My whole life, I spoke only Russian,” said Olha Peresunko, who before the war lived in Mikolaiv in southern Ukraine. “But after the 24th of February I am speaking only Ukrainian.”
Peresunko was speaking outside a Lviv synagogue this fall, where she and other refugees were waiting for food parcels. She had fled Mikolaiv, which has sustained repeated assault by Russian troops, for Lviv with her mother and two children while her husband is on the frontlines.
Her children are finding it hard to adjust to the exclusive Ukrainian environment in Lviv, but she is confident that they will make the shift. “They will speak Ukrainian as their first language,” Peresunko said.
Exactly how much the shift to Ukrainian will change local Jewish communities is a matter of debate. Rabbi Shalom Gopin, who fled to Kyiv in 2014 from his home community in Luhansk, an overwhelmingly Russophone city seized by Russia-backed separatists at that time, said he, too, believes that Ukrainian will displace Russian as the lingua franca of Ukrainian Jewry.
A Ukrainian woman displays her Ukrainian-language Jewish calendar as a source of pride, September 2022. (Jacob Judah)
“They are starting to slowly speak Ukrainian,” he said. “It is no problem. There are lots of Jews in America who speak English. We live here, and we speak the languages of the places that we live. It is normal.”
But Gopin said the linguistic shift “means nothing” amid other issues facing Jews in Ukraine, where Russia’s war is threatening to undo 30 years of Jewish community building, largely though not exclusively led by Chabad, Gopin’s Orthodox movement.
“The problem for the Jews of Ukraine is not language,” he said. “It is about how much they are going to synagogue, or how many children are going to Jewish schools, not about what they are speaking.”
Natalia Kozachuk, 45, a Jewish businesswoman in Lviv, sees only upside to shedding Russian, her native language. She has started to speak to her children only in Ukrainian.
“It will be hugely positive if Jews speak more Ukrainian,” Kozachuk said. This is the only way that Jews can truly “learn more about the Ukrainian people,” she said, “about their history and the positive qualities and strengths of Ukraine.”
“Only good can come of it,” she added. “We will understand each other better.”
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A famed rabbi’s yeshiva reopens for students for the first time since World War II
(JTA) — Dovid Hofstedter was visiting Belarus five years ago when he discovered that a historic Jewish school had turned into something else.
Hofstedter, a Canadian rabbi, was joining a group of rabbis from around the world at the Radin Yeshiva, nestled in the small town of Radun in western Belarus. The school was founded in 1869 by the famed Lithuanian rabbi Israel Meir Kagan, known as the Chofetz Chaim, and housed 300 students before World War II.
As Hofstedter delivered a lecture in the building, he was surprised to see it fill up with locals, who then gradually wandered out. He realized they didn’t know the building had once housed a yeshiva in a town where no Jews live today.
Instead, people had walked in expecting a play — and left when they didn’t get one.
The Radin Yeshiva had been converted into a theater, with a stage and red seats, Hofstedter told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency. Like many Jewish sites across Eastern Europe, where the Nazis’ annihilation was followed by decades of Soviet rule that stifled Jewish memory and communal life, the school’s history had been buried.
“In other places that I’ve been to in Eastern Europe, some yeshivas were used as a post office,” said Hofstedter. “Some were used as government buildings.”
This month, Hofstedter and another group of 100 international rabbis filled the building again, this time to inaugurate the reopened Radin Yeshiva, now fully restored to serve Torah students as a functioning school.
Yad Yisroel, a nonprofit dedicated to strengthening Jewish life in Belarus, bought the yeshiva building from the municipality of Radun (or Radin, according to its Yiddish pronunciation) in 2025. That spurred a year of planning and construction, headed internationally by Hofstedter, who founded the Torah study organization Dirshu, and locally by Moshe Fhima, who directs Yad Yisroel’s projects and leads a yeshiva in the southern city of Pinsk.
The restoration team replaced the building’s roof and windows, which had deteriorated over years of neglect. Inside, they installed a new Torah ark and recreated the wooden lecterns and chairs that filled the yeshiva before World War II. A library of books is being transported from Israel to stock the school’s shelves.
The Radin Yeshiva closed after the outbreak of World War II, when the Soviet Union occupied the region and Soviet authorities seized the building. Nazi Germany captured Radun in 1941. Some yeshiva students escaped to Japan, where they received aid from the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee. Rabbi Mendel Zaks, the Radin Yeshiva’s then-leader and the Chofetz Chaim’s son-in-law, fled in 1941 to the United States and reestablished the yeshiva in New York City. In the 1950s, the new school moved upstate to Suffern, New York, where it remains active.
Meanwhile, more than 2,000 Jews from Radun and neighboring villages were interned in a ghetto; most were killed by the Germans and local police.
Hofstedter believes that the Radin Yeshiva will draw interest from Jewish communities across Belarus. Though the country’s 30,000 to 50,000 Jews today are largely secular, Hofstedter said a subset of the community has shown interest in reconnecting with facets of their Jewish identity that were quashed under the Soviets, and the yeshiva can serve as a focal point for that rediscovery. Many of its students will also come from abroad, as Orthodox Jews make regular pilgrimages to study the Chofetz Chaim’s teachings and visit his gravesite.
The Chofetz Chaim, who lived from 1838 to 1933 and whose sobriquet is the title of his first and most famous book, was widely hailed as the leading Jewish scholar of his generation. His establishment of the Radin Yeshiva brought the town fame in the Jewish world of Eastern Europe, where current-day Belarus and Lithuania were home to many “Litvak” Jews who followed a rigorous, anti-Hasidic religious tradition. He remains influential among Orthodox Jews globally for his works codifying Jewish law and ethics, especially his guidance on refraining from “lashon hara,” or “evil speech” about others, said Hofstedter.
There are recent signs of renewed attention to Belarusian and Lithuanian sites of Jewish heritage, according to Alena Kuliounich, the deputy chair of the Union of Belarusian Jewish Public Associations and Communities. The Volozhin Yeshiva, another jewel of Lithuanian Jewish history founded in 1803, reopened as a museum in 2024. Today, no more than a handful of Jews are estimated to live in Volozhin, now in western Belarus.
“Volozhin demonstrates that a historic Jewish site can attract considerable interest even in the absence of a substantial local Jewish community,” Kuliounich told JTA.
Hofstedter, whose parents survived the Holocaust in Auschwitz and Mauthausen before rebuilding their lives in Toronto, had a different vision for the Radin Yeshiva. He explicitly did not want it to become a museum.
“We didn’t want to just have some sort of tribute to the past,” said Hofstedter. “We wanted to be in continuity with the future, the teachings of the Chofetz Chaim for future generations.”
At the Radin Yeshiva’s rededication ceremony, he was moved to watch rabbis from the United States, Israel, Britain, France and elsewhere join to celebrate the Chofetz Chaim. The Lithuanian sage’s teachings are followed by Jews across Orthodox movements. It was rare to see rabbis with a range of backgrounds and beliefs “come together with such a feeling of solidarity,” said Hofstedter.
“There was an enormous amount of emotion at that gathering,” he said. “After almost 100 years, to be able to come back to the Chofetz Chaim’s yeshiva, to rejuvenate it and have the yeshiva functioning — it was just incredible.”
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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Police shoot dead assailant outside Israeli Embassy in Serbia
(JTA) — An assailant with knives attacked a police officer guarding the Israeli Embassy in Serbia overnight before the officer shot him dead, according to Serbian authorities.
Interior Minister Ivica Dačić called the incident a “terrorist attack.” The attacker had two knives and shouted “Allahu Akbar” at the officer 15 minutes after midnight Wednesday morning at the embassy in Belgrade. One knife hit the officer’s face.
The officer, a member of the Gendarmerie unit who was identified only by the initials D.S., killed the assailant on the spot, according to the Higher Public Prosecutor’s Office in Belgrade. The attacker, who was dressed in black and whom Dačić described as a minor, has not been identified and was believed to be from the western city of Šabac.
Dačić said he raised Serbia’s terrorism threat level to “red,” the highest degree, triggering heightened security monitoring and increased police presence around infrastructure facilities and places where large crowds gather.
Dačić added that Serbian security services had been monitoring the attacker, who was “known to be a supporter of the Islamic State” and had posted an image of the terror group’s flag on his Instagram account.
Avivit Bar-Ilan, the ambassador of Israel to Serbia, said she was “deeply disturbed and shocked by the terrorist attack.” She thanked the member of the Gendarmerie for “his courage and decisive response.”
The attack was the second on Belgrade’s Israeli Embassy in two years. In June 2024, a man seriously wounded a police officer outside the embassy by shooting him in the neck with a crossbow.
Wednesday’s incident came the day after Israel held parliamentary elections, with preliminary results suggesting that neither Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s coalition nor the opposition bloc had secured a governing majority.
Serbia had its own pivotal election on Sunday, with the country’s student-led protest movement defeating the bloc led by longtime nationalist leader Aleksandar Vučić. Under Vučić, Serbia deepened ties with Israel, including through a new joint combat drone manufacturing plant.
The victorious Student List movement said in its platform, “We will not be complicit in the systematic attempt to destroy the Palestinian people that Israel is carrying out in the Gaza Strip, and we will intensify the delivery of humanitarian aid to Palestine in order to save lives and reduce the number of casualties.”
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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Netherlands reverses course, will sit out Eurovision again over Israel’s participation
(JTA) — The Netherlands is withdrawing from the Eurovision Song Contest, reversing an announcement that it would join the event and citing “sensitivity” over Israel’s participation.
The Dutch organization that oversees public broadcasting, the Nederlandse Publieke Omroep, or NPO, said on Tuesday that it failed to find sufficient support from broadcasters to ensure a Dutch artist could go to Eurovision.
“We have known for some time that Israel’s participation elicits various reactions in society and causes discussion and division,” said Jurre Bosman, NPO’s media director. “This is also the case among broadcasters and staff, and we understand that sensitivity.”
NPO said last month that the Netherlands would reenter Eurovision in 2027, when the world’s largest music competition will take place in Burgas, Bulgaria. The Netherlands boycotted the contest in May 2026, alongside Spain, Ireland, Iceland and Slovenia, because of Israel’s inclusion.
NPO’s pledge to rejoin Eurovision overrode a decision by the Dutch network Avrotros, which usually oversees the Dutch entry. Avrotros withdrew from Eurovision in August, saying the event “can no longer be considered neutral” with Israel taking part amid “the severe humanitarian suffering in Gaza and the ongoing restrictions on press freedom.”
Initially, NPO believed there was “sufficient support” among public broadcasters to allow the Netherlands to return, said Jet de Ranitz, the chair of NPO’s executive board. But the decision sparked backlash. Earlier this month, about 400 public broadcasting employees signed a letter titled “#NotMyEurovision” to NPO’s management and board, urging the organization to reconsider returning to the contest.
“We only want to send an artist or artists and staff to the festival if they can count on the full support of one or more broadcasters,” Bosman said.
The contest will still be broadcast in the Netherlands by the network NOS, as it was this year.
Eurovision director Martin Green said he was “deeply sorry” that the Netherlands would not participate, adding that the organizers understood the decision and “respect the strength of feeling behind it in the Netherlands.”
Ireland will also remain absent from Eurovision next year. The country’s broadcaster RTÉ said in September that “Ireland’s participation cannot be justified given the appalling and ongoing loss of lives in Gaza and the humanitarian crisis there.” In Spain, the head of broadcaster RTVE also said he favored a continued boycott.
Czechia pulled out of the event this month, but its public broadcaster cited budget cuts as the reason.
The controversy over Israel’s inclusion in Eurovision has prompted mass protests. The 2026 contest drew 131 million viewers, down 35 million from the previous year.
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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