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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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‘Scarier Than the Holocaust’: Survivor of Nazi Camps, Oct. 7 Dies at 92
Daniel Louz speaks at Auschwitz-Birkenau as part of the annual March of the Living, May 2024. Photo: Screenshot
Less than two weeks after lighting a Holocaust Remembrance Day torch and saying the Oct. 7, 2023, attack on Israel was scarier than the Nazis’ genocide of European Jews, Daniel Louz, who escaped Nazi persecution as a child and survived the Hamas massacre at Kibbutz Be’eri eight decades later, has died at 92.
The nonagenarian lit a torch at the Israeli Holocaust Remembrance Day ceremony at Kibbutz Yad Mordechai, where the annual Holocaust and Heroism Memorial Rally has been held for decades. In an interview with the Yedioth Ahronoth newspaper before the ceremony, he spoke prophetically – and with humor – about his declining health.
“You see me happy and smiling in the photo, but my health is really not good,” he said. “Soon I will have to return my soul to the Creator, but I make an effort for the camera.”
Born in France, Louz was a child when Nazi Germany invaded in 1940. He and his family were held in three concentration camps in France, separated for years between different camps, with his mother and sister in one place and his father in another. The family survived, but most of his relatives, including 10 aunts and uncles and two cousins, did not.
Two years ago, on Holocaust Remembrance Day, Louz visited Auschwitz-Birkenau with the annual March of the Living, where he also took part in a torch-lighting ceremony.
Louz immigrated to Israel in 1949. He first lived on Kibbutz Nirim in the Negev and later made his home at Kibbutz Be’eri.
“I began to breathe again,” Louz said of the move to Israel.
Louz described the events of Oct. 7, 2023, in Be’eri, one of the communities hit hardest during the Hamas-led attack. On Oct. 6, like many Be’eri residents, Louz marked the kibbutz’s anniversary. The next morning, Hamas terrorists stormed the community. Of the kibbutz’s roughly 1,200 residents, 101 were murdered and 30 were kidnapped. Hundreds of homes were destroyed and more than two years later, most of the community is still living elsewhere.
Louz was inside his home as the attack unfolded.
“We were already hostages in our own home, when Hamas terrorists entered the kibbutz,” he said.
“It was a deathly fear. It was even scarier than I remember as a child during that war,” he added.
Louz said he had not recovered from the trauma of the attack and expressed his hope for an end to war, adding that while he no longer believed he would live to see peace himself, he hoped his grandchildren would.
At Birkenau, Louz tied the memory of the Holocaust directly to the massacre in southern Israel.
“We, the survivors of the Holocaust, who established a home and a state – that constitute our great victory over the Nazis and antisemitism – light this torch in memory of those who perished in the Holocaust, and in memory of those murdered on Oct. 7,” he said, his voice shaking.
Approximately 2,500 Holocaust survivors were in areas directly affected by Oct 7, according to Israel’s Ministry of Welfare and Social Affairs. Roughly 2,000 of these survivors were forced to evacuate their homes from the Gaza envelope and northern Israel due to the subsequent war.
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An Indiana town had no Jewish cemetery. When its mayor died, it built one
When Marcus Levy died in Aurora, Indiana, in September 1871, the city gathered.
Levy was 63 years old, a native of Prague, and the mayor of Aurora. After the upheavals of 1848, he left Europe and arrived in New York a stranger and without means before making his way west. He came to Aurora around 1855 and, over the years, served as city treasurer, county treasurer, school trustee, and then mayor at the time of his death.
He was unmarried and died a poor man after a failed business investment. At his funeral, one fraternal resolution noted the “entire absence of any one related to him by blood.” But he did not die unknown. He had, as The Israelite newspaper of Cincinnati put it, gained the respect of those around him through “his integrity, his talents, and his goodness of heart, both in his private and public life.”
His funeral was held in the Methodist Episcopal Church, the largest building in town. Rabbi Goldammer of Cincinnati had traveled roughly 40 miles to Aurora to officiate. When Levy’s death was announced, one local report noted, “the grief of his friends and the public at large was no less poignant.”
Aurora marked the death formally. The town council recorded its “unfeigned sorrow,” described Levy as “a competent, faithful, and honest public official,” ordered Council Hall draped in mourning for 30 days, and directed city officers to attend the funeral as a group.
At 1 p.m., according to an account of the day, the services began. The church was filled to capacity, and probably more than half of those who came could not get in. One account estimated the attendance at more than 4,000 people.
Then the procession formed.
A German band led. The Aurora lodge of Masons followed in full regalia. Then came the Odd Fellows lodges, also in regalia. Another band. The hearse. Ladies and gentlemen “of the Jewish faith” in carriages. Citizens on foot.
The procession moved under direction through the city to River View Cemetery. One account said it extended nearly three miles. Another called it the largest funeral procession Aurora had ever seen.
At the graveside, rites were performed. The Masons and Odd Fellows conducted their fraternal ceremonies. Afterward, Rabbi Goldammer read the Jewish funeral service.
‘The wind is favorable’
The burial itself had nearly taken place elsewhere.
Because Aurora’s Jewish population numbered just four families, local Jews had first agreed to send Levy’s remains to Cincinnati, where there was an established Jewish cemetery.
But Aurora resisted that plan. According to one report, the “impressive desire of the community” was to keep within the city “as a dear memory” the remains of the man they had respected for so many years. Another account stated Levy’s friends in the city, “irrespective of religious belief,” insisted that he should be buried where he had spent so much of his life.
And so he was.
Levy was interred in River View Cemetery, and Rabbi Goldammer consecrated the ground. Yet the work did not end with the funeral. Rabbi Isaac M. Wise later explained that the Jews of Aurora and neighboring Lawrenceburgh, “few in numbers,” attempted to purchase three adjoining lots so that Levy’s grave might become part of a Jewish burial ground.
A second effort followed: to place “an appropriate monument” above Levy’s grave.
To raise the money, local Jews turned outward. Wise wrote that Abram Epstein and Joseph Meyer of Aurora took the matter in hand and invited him to lecture in the city for the benefit of the monument fund. Wise had refused other outside engagements that winter, but he went to Aurora on Jan. 20, 1873.
The lecture was held in the Presbyterian church. Its pastor, the Rev. A.W. Freeman, with the unanimous consent of his congregation, offered the building for the occasion. Wise described it as “a very pleasant and spacious building.” Before the lecture, Freeman’s daughter played the organ, and four local vocalists, including “one of the most respected bankers of the place and his lady,” sang a quartet.
Though revival meetings were underway in two other churches that same evening, Wise said the church was well filled with “a highly intelligent class of people,” who listened patiently for an hour and a quarter as he lectured on episodes from Jewish history and the world’s progress since then.
Afterward, Freeman, who had introduced Wise, rose and proposed a vote of thanks, which was unanimously approved.
Wise did not know how much money had been raised. He hoped only that the work would continue until the fund was sufficient to erect “a respectable monument” to Levy. He added that he would willingly serve again for that purpose.
A local writer had remarked that the event would be a curious spectacle, a Jewish rabbi speaking in a Christian church before a Christian audience. Wise rejected the novelty. There was nothing peculiar in it, he wrote, for one “to whom all men are equals whatever their creeds, languages, or places of nativity may be.” He added, “We worship one God and love one human family,” and told readers afterward, “We are steering in that direction, and the wind is favorable.”
In Aurora, a Jewish mayor died, and the town did not send him away.
They buried him and then worked to mark the ground.
The post An Indiana town had no Jewish cemetery. When its mayor died, it built one appeared first on The Forward.
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Mediators Still Seek to Bridge US, Iran Gaps Despite No Face-to-Face Talks
People walk past a billboard with a graphic design about the Strait of Hormuz on a building, amid a ceasefire between US and Iran, in Tehran, Iran, April 27, 2026. Photo: Majid Asgaripour/WANA (West Asia News Agency) via REUTERS
Work has not halted to bridge gaps between the United States and Iran, sources from mediator Pakistan said, despite the absence of face-to-face diplomacy after President Donald Trump called off a trip by his envoys over the weekend.
Iranian sources disclosed Tehran’s latest proposal on Monday, which would set aside discussion of Iran‘s nuclear program until the war is ended and disputes over shipping from the Gulf are resolved. That is unlikely to satisfy Washington, which says nuclear issues must be dealt with from the outset.
Hopes of reviving peace efforts have receded since the US president scrapped a visit on Saturday by his envoy Steve Witkoff and son-in-law Jared Kushner to Islamabad, the Pakistani capital, where Iranian Foreign Minister Abbas Araqchi shuttled in and out twice over the weekend.
Araqchi also visited Oman over the weekend and went to Russia on Monday, where he met President Vladimir Putin and received words of support from a longstanding ally.
OIL PRICES RISE AGAIN
With the warring sides still seemingly far apart on issues including Iran‘s nuclear ambitions and access through the crucial Strait of Hormuz, oil prices resumed their upward march when trade reopened on Monday. Brent crude was up around 3.5% at around $108.8 a barrel by 1500 GMT.
“If they want to talk, they can come to us, or they can call us. You know, there is a telephone. We have nice, secure lines,” Trump told “The Sunday Briefing” on Fox News.
“They know what has to be in the agreement. It’s very simple: They cannot have a nuclear weapon; otherwise, there’s no reason to meet,” Trump said.
Araqchi expressed a different perspective, telling reporters in Russia that Trump requested negotiations because the US has not achieved any of its objectives.
ISLAMABAD REOPENS AFTER LOCKDOWN TO HOST TALKS
Senior Iranian sources, speaking on condition of anonymity, told Reuters the proposal carried by Araqchi to Islamabad over the weekend envisioned talks in stages, with the nuclear issue to be set aside at the start.
A first step would require ending the US-Israeli war on Iran and providing guarantees that Washington cannot start it up again. Then negotiators would resolve the US blockade and the fate of the Strait of Hormuz, which Iran aims to reopen under its control.
Only then would talks look at other issues, including the longstanding dispute over Iran‘s nuclear program, with Iran still seeking some kind of US acknowledgment of its right to enrich uranium for what it says are peaceful purposes.
In a sign that no face-to-face meetings are planned any time soon, streets reopened in Pakistan’s capital Islamabad, which had been locked down for a week in anticipation of talks that never took place. The luxury hotel that had been cleared out to serve as a venue was again taking reservations from the public.
Pakistani officials said negotiations were still taking place remotely, but there were no plans to convene a meeting in person until the sides were close enough to sign a memorandum.
SHIPPING SNARLED BY BOTH SIDES
Although a ceasefire has paused the US-Israeli strikes on Iran that began on Feb. 28, no agreement has been reached on terms to end a war that has killed thousands and driven up oil prices. Both sides could be settling in for a test of wills.
Iran has largely blocked all shipping apart from its own from the Gulf through the Strait of Hormuz since the war began. This month, the United States began blockading Iranian ships.
Six tankers loaded with Iranian oil have been forced back to Iran by the US blockade in recent days, ship-tracking data shows, underscoring the impact the war is having on traffic.
Between 125 and 140 ships usually crossed in and out of the strait daily before the war, but only seven have done so in the past day, according to Kpler ship-tracking data and satellite analysis from SynMax, and none of them were carrying oil bound for the global market.
With his approval ratings falling, Trump faces domestic pressure to end the unpopular war. Iran‘s leaders, though weakened militarily, have found leverage with their ability to stop shipping in the strait, which normally carries a fifth of global oil shipments.
However, experts have warned that the Iranian economy is on the verge of collapse, especially if the US blockade continues to slash Iran’s oil exports.