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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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Reform Judaism helped craft the Voting Rights Act. Its evisceration gives Jews a new mission
Last week, the Supreme Court further gutted what is left of the Voting Rights Act of 1965. The Court’s ruling was terrible for the country, and particularly for communities of color whose votes will be diminished by this decision. But the ruling touched another, very personal nerve because the Voting Rights Act was partially drafted in my office, the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism.
The RAC is a longtime hub of civil rights activity. From the earliest days after our 1962 dedication, Reform movement staff with the RAC worked alongside the staff of other civil rights and public interest organizations, including the Leadership Conference on Civil Rights. The era’s social justice luminaries, our movement’s leaders among them, would gather around our conference table to discuss, debate and craft policies to address racial injustices — including legislation that became the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and Voting Rights Act of 1965.
Many American Jews have no idea of our community’s connection to the law’s origins, rooted in a Jewish commitment to working across lines of difference and in an understanding that our safety is in solidarity with other marginalized communities who experience bigotry. But as Jews, we all know that we can only flourish in a true democracy in which every voice is heard, because every vote counts equally.
For decades, section two of the Voting Rights Act helped ensure that voters of color had a fair opportunity to participate in the political process. By narrowing how states can use race data to draw electoral maps, the Court’s ruling will dilute the voices of communities of color, and further weaken a law often called the “crown jewel” of the Civil Rights Movement — one that was the product of a moral struggle in which people of many faiths, including Jews, risked their lives.
Rabbi Dick Hirsch, the founder of the RAC marched with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. in Selma because he understood that American Jewish safety is tied to the health of American democracy. During Freedom Summer, Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner — two white, Jewish men — were murdered alongside James Chaney, a non-Jewish Black man, while registering voters in Mississippi. Goodman and Schwerner did not see voting rights as someone else’s issue, but understood fighting for them to be a Jewish obligation.
That understanding is rooted in Jewish tradition. The Talmud teaches that “a ruler is not to be appointed unless the community is first consulted.” The VRA, which was reauthorized repeatedly over the decades by bipartisan majorities in Congress, was a crucial step to ensuring that communities of color were fairly consulted on the issues that affect their lives.
For decades after Reconstruction, Black representation in Congress was negligible and at times effectively nonexistent. That began to change only after the VRA became law. Today, there are more than 60 Black members of Congress, the highest number in American history. That progress was not inevitable. It was the direct result of legal protections that ensured fair access to the ballot.
By making it easier for states to defend discriminatory maps under claims of partisanship, the Court has weakened one of the most important tools to ensure fair representation. The result will be fewer fair Congressional maps — an effort well underway, in the wake of the decision, in states like Tennessee — less representative institutions, and a political system that reflects fewer voices.
Some will argue that this is simply the normal push and pull of constitutional interpretation, but history suggests otherwise. When democratic norms weaken, minority communities are among the first to feel the consequences.
For American Jews, this progression is not theoretical. Our security and prosperity, in this country as others, have depended not only on physical protection, but also on good laws, functional institutions and a system of checks and balances that uphold equal rights and reject discrimination.
George Washington recognized this in his 1790 letter to the Jewish community of Newport, Rhode Island, in which he promised that the United States would give “to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance.”
In recent years, we have seen how fragile those protections can be.
Antisemitism has risen sharply, often alongside forces that divide Americans along racial, ethnic, and political lines. Efforts to weaken voting rights, undermine trust in elections and concentrate power do not occur in isolation. They are part of a broader pattern that threatens the pluralistic democracy on which Jewish life in the U.S. depends.
When the Court took a major piece out of the VRA in 2013’s Shelby v. Holder decision, Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg famously warned in her stinging dissent that the Court’s decision was “like throwing away your umbrella in a rainstorm because you are not getting wet.” Today, the rain has not stopped. If anything, it is falling harder.
We must persevere through this storm. The path forward will not be easy, but it is clear.
In legislatures, we must push for stronger protections, among them state-level voting rights acts and renewed federal legislation. In the courts, advocates must continue to challenge discriminatory practices wherever possible. And at the ballot box, citizens must exercise their right to vote with renewed urgency.
For the Jewish community, this is a moment to organize. Through initiatives such as the Reform Movement’s 2026 Every Voice, Every Vote campaign, Reform Jews and our allies are working to expand access to the ballot and defend the democratic system that has allowed our community to thrive. This is how we put our values into practice.
Democracy requires participation, vigilance and a willingness to defend the rights of others. It demands that we act against all wrongdoings, not only when our own rights are directly threatened.
For Jews, that responsibility is part of our tradition and our history. As Rabbi Hirsch famously observed at the RAC’s dedication, “our forefathers did not rest with the issuance of general pronouncements from the detached heights of Mt. Sinai. They descended into the valley of reality.”
The Supreme Court decision is not just another technical shift in election law. It is a setback for American democracy, and for those of us who understand that democracy is not just a system of government but a moral commitment.
The question is whether we will meet this moment.
Democracy will not defend itself.
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Majority of New York City Jewish Voters Dissatisfied With Mamdani, Poll Shows
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Molotov Cocktail Attacks Target Jewish Institutions in Argentina in Two Incidents Within a Week
A display in Buenos Aires of pictures and names of victims of the 1994 AMIA bombing, in which 85 people died and hundreds more were wounded. Photo: Reuters/Marcos Brindicci.
Argentine Jews are on edge after Jewish institutions in Buenos Aires were targeted in Molotov cocktail attacks in two separate incidents in less than a week, deepening security concerns within the local Jewish community.
On Sunday, unknown individuals threw a homemade firebomb at the Chabad Lubavitch Jewish Community Center in La Plata, a city in southeastern Buenos Aires, in a brazen attack marking the second within a week.
Local authorities reported no significant material damage or casualties, though the incident has fueled alarm over a broader pattern of violence targeting Jews across the country.
The Buenos Aires Security Ministry and Police Counterterrorism Division have opened an investigation into this latest incident, examining possible links to an attack last week that appears to share a similar modus operandi.
The Delegation of Argentine Israelite Associations (DAIA), the country’s Jewish umbrella organization, strongly condemned this second attack, warning of a disturbing pattern of incidents and calling for an urgent investigation and clear condemnation.
“Violence must be countered through education and by bringing those responsible to justice. When hatred goes unpunished, it escalates, and today it is once again surfacing in tangible acts that cannot be normalized,” DAIA said in a statement.
“There is no room for indifference. Antisemitism is not an isolated incident, it is a threat that demands a firm response, coordinated institutional action, and the strict enforcement of the law,” it continued.
NUEVO ATAQUE ANTISEMITA EN LA PLATA
Una vez másExpresamos nuestro más enérgico repudio frente a un nuevo ataque antisemita ocurrido en la ciudad de La Plata, esta vez contra la sede de Jabad Lubavitch.
Advertimos que la violencia debe ser combatida con educación y con el… pic.twitter.com/h1jrYg56hY
— DAIA (@DAIAArgentina) May 3, 2026
In an alarming earlier attack, the Israelite Literary Center and Max Nordau Library in La Plata was targeted Thursday when unidentified individuals threw a homemade Molotov-type device at the building’s entrance.
Although the device failed to ignite, it shattered the building’s windows and caused some material damage. Fortunately, no fires broke out and no injuries were reported.
The center condemned the attack, pointing to a “growing level of antisemitism nationally and internationally” and warning that such trends are contributing to a broader climate of hostility.
“We cannot separate this episode from the rise in antisemitism and the climate of intolerance that enables expressions of hatred. This compels us to promote, now more than ever, a democratic coexistence based on respect for pluralism,” the statement read.
“These acts do not intimidate us – they strengthen our conviction to continue building culture, critical thinking, and community,” it continued.
In response to these latest attacks, Jewish institutions across the country have strengthened preventive protocols and reinforced internal security and surveillance measures.
La Plata Mayor Julio Alak denounced the attack as an assault on democratic coexistence and pluralistic values, reiterating that the city will firmly uphold mutual respect and reject all forms of hatred.
The DAIA called on authorities to act swiftly, identify those responsible, and apply the full extent of the law, stressing the need for decisive action to prevent further incidents.
“Impunity cannot be an option. This is an expression of hatred that not only harms the Jewish community but also threatens the fundamental values of coexistence, respect, and democracy,” the organization said.
“Every act of antisemitism that goes unpunished sends a message of tolerance toward hatred. Every firm response from authorities is a clear signal that society is unwilling to back down,” it continued. “To ensure these incidents do not happen again, determination, action, and justice are required.”
