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A government takeover could save a struggling Brooklyn hospital — while unsettling the Orthodox Jewish community it serves
As New York City moves to assume control of a financially distressed hospital that serves Brooklyn’s Orthodox Jewish community, some local players are pushing back, filing lawsuits in hopes of stopping the imminent merger with the city’s public hospital system.
Many Hasidic patients rely on Maimonides Medical Center, an independent nonprofit in Borough Park, as their local hospital. Even in a city where hospitals typically offer kosher food and are sensitive to Jewish patients’ needs, Maimonides stands out, with Shabbat elevators that stop on every floor, Yiddish-speaking staff and an onsite synagogue in the main lobby that hosts daily afternoon prayer.
New York City Health and Hospitals CEO Dr. Mitchell Katz has promised to retain those religious accommodations at Maimonides under the merger, noting in court documents that the merger agreement between Maimonides and the city requires preservation of existing religious and cultural practices at the hospital for at least 30 years.
“We certainly have heard concerns at community settings from the Orthodox Jewish community who are concerned about whether or not the hospital will still respect their cultural traditions,” Katz said at a New York City Council hearing earlier this month about the proposed merger. “And we’ve explained, ‘Absolutely.’” But, he acknowledged, “Change makes people worried.”
Such reassurances, however, have done little to assuage the plaintiffs in the pair of lawsuits seeking to block the merger, who include hospital’s trustees who disagreed with the decision to go public, Orthodox Jewish patient advocacy groups, and local Bobov, Satmar and Belz Hasidic congregations.
Their cases, filed against Maimonides Medical Center, the New York State Department of Health, and New York City Health and Hospitals, argue that relinquishing local control to the city hospital system jeopardizes the hospital’s Jewish character, conflicts with the nonprofit’s local mission, and threatens to deteriorate its quality of care.
The lawsuits have set up a clash between two groups who each argue they have the hospital’s best interest at heart: a city that says it wants to rescue a hospital on the brink of financial collapse, and Jewish leaders wary of public institutions, who prefer to keep the hospital’s management within the community it serves.
“Maybe at first you won’t see such a change in the culture, but over time, it’s inevitable that it’s just going to become a city-run hospital, like all the other city-run hospitals,” Martin Bienstock, a lawyer for the plaintiffs suing to block the merger, told the Forward. “If people lose trust in the hospital, because they lose that sense of affiliation, you’re going to get poorer health quality outcomes.”
The merger is set to be finalized on April 1, but could be disrupted by a judge’s pending decision on a request for a preliminary injunction blocking the transaction. The next hearing is scheduled for March 27.
A financial lifeline
Maimonides Medical Center, named for the 12th century Jewish scholar, was founded over a century ago by a group of Jewish women as a philanthropic effort to serve the poor. It has long served a diverse, largely low-income population that includes many immigrant communities, in addition to the Brooklyn neighborhood’s longstanding Jewish population.
Even as other independent hospitals shut down or merged with big medical systems, Maimonides held out. But recent years have brought mounting financial strain, exacerbated by the COVID-19 pandemic.
Last December, those financial troubles led the city to step in. Former Mayor Eric Adams, with just three days left in office, announced a plan to merge Maimonides Medical Center with the city’s public hospital system. Gov. Kathy Hochul endorsed the deal, backing it with a $2.2 billion grant as part of her broader push to stabilize New York’s struggling safety-net hospitals, which serve patients who can’t afford to pay for their care.
New York City’s public hospital system receives a higher Medicaid reimbursement rate than independent hospitals do — a potential lifeline for Maimonides, which receives 70% of its patient revenue from Medicare and Medicaid, according to the Healthcare Association of New York State.
The deal is poised to infuse Maimonides with more than $2 billion over five years, according to city hospital spokesperson Christopher Miller. The money will be used “for many important upgrades,” Miller said, including adopting electronic health records and renovating the hospital’s maternity ward, where more than 6,000 women give birth each per year — more babies than any other hospital in Brooklyn.
Advocates of the merger say that cash is urgently needed. Maimonides lost more than $165 million at its peak deficit in 2021 and has continued to operate tens of millions of dollars in the red in the years since, according to tax filings. A 2024 audit expressed “substantial doubt” about the organization’s ability to continue operating.
Those suing to block the transaction do not dispute that Maimonides’ finances are dire. But they argue that the hospital’s board did not adequately consider alternative options that could have allowed Maimonides to maintain its status as a private nonprofit, according to court documents that claim the hospital had snubbed potential partnerships with Touro University or Westchester Medical Center, according to court documents.
(The hospital’s CEO said in a court filing that he was not aware of any viable partners for Maimonides other than the city.)
Bienstock contends the merger will place Maimonides in the hands of an unwieldy government-sponsored bureaucracy — and under the political whims of New York City’s mayor, currently Zohran Mamdani, who oversees the city hospital system and proposes its budget.
“Any promises that they make, they’re always subject to later decisions by the Health and Hospitals board and mayor,” Bienstock said. “Ultimately, they’re going to be running the show.”
‘Grave concern’
It’s not the first time the hospital has had strained relations with the Orthodox community. During the pandemic, patients alleged that the hospital had removed patients from ventilators in ways that conflicted with Jewish values protecting the sanctity of life. Meanwhile, a campaign called “Save Maimonides,” led by local Orthodox Jewish leaders at odds with the leadership of CEO Ken Gibbs, alleged substandard patient care at the hospital and financial mismanagement.
Among the concerns was Maimonides Medical Center’s purchase of the naming rights to a minor league baseball stadium in Coney Island in 2021, and ballooning executive compensation even as the hospital lost millions. Gibbs’ salary was $3.2 million in 2020, up from $1.3 million the year prior, a payout hospital officials told THE CITY was deferred compensation Gibbs had been slated to receive after five years of work. Gibbs has earned roughly $1.8 million each year since.
In a statement to the Forward, Maimonides spokesperson Sam Miller said the hospital has won national recognition for “outstanding care across several clinical areas,” including top rank for its children’s hospital.
Asked about executive compensation and spending on the minor league baseball stadium, Miller said, “Our financial management is sound.”
Mendy Reiner, co-chair of “Save Maimonides” and founder of a nonprofit that connects patients with kidney donors, told the Forward he sees the proposed merger as yet another sign of the hospital’s decline. In his experience, locals who can afford to pay often travel across the river to Manhattan for what he described as superior care. U.S. News and World report currently ranks Maimonides 19th in the New York metro area, a market that includes some of the top-ranked academic hospitals in the nation.
“City hospitals are a failure across the board,” Reiner said. “And if we thought that Maimonides could go bad from bad to worse, here it is.”
In a statement, Miller said both Maimonides and NYC Health and Hospitals “run facilities that deliver high-quality care for their patients,” citing awards that include US News & World Report putting all 11 of the system’s hospitals on its “Best Hospitals 2025-2026” list.
H+H CEO Katz defended the public hospital system in court filings, arguing that the plaintiffs had made “inaccurate and baseless claims” about the quality of care and had “offensively” justified those allegations by pointing to the system’s large number of Medicaid patients.
Still, the proposed merger came as a shock to local state Assemblyman Simcha Eichenstein, who said he had been working with hospital leadership for years to come up with an alternative solution. In an October 2025 video address, he said the city’s proposal for Maimonides was “being shoved down our throats.”
“Let me be clear. This is a shortsighted, quick fix made without the slightest understanding of our local diverse neighborhoods,” Eichenstein said. “This is not collaboration. This is coercion.”
Hatzalah, the Jewish volunteer emergency medical service organization that partners with Maimonides, issued a letter last October “strongly” opposing the potential takeover as “not in the best interest of our community.” Hatzalah coordinators serving four heavily Orthodox Brooklyn neighborhoods — Borough Park, Crown Heights, Flatbush and Mill Basin — signed onto the letter “with grave concern.”
Since then, more Jewish institutions have joined the fight against the merger. Four Hasidic congregations — Congregation Khal Shaarei Zion Bobov, Congregation Kehilas Belz, Congregation Yetev Lev D’Satmar, and Khal Bobov 45 Inc. — signed onto the lawsuit filed against the hospital and state earlier this month, saying their congregants regularly rely on Maimonides for medical care. Other plaintiffs include Borough Park residents Chaim Beigel and Israel Minkoff, as well as the Orthodox Jewish patient advocacy groups Refuah Helpline and Chaim Medical Resource.
Miriam Knoll, CEO of the Jewish Orthodox Women’s Medical Association, said public hospitals can and do offer religious accommodations for Jewish patients. Still, she said, any new leadership must prioritize outreach to the local Jewish community to build trust.
For Knoll, the issue is close to home: She and all of her siblings were born at Maimonides, and her parents, both physicians, completed their medical residencies there.
“Maimonides is a deeply personal and important institution to the Jewish community in Brooklyn,” Knoll told the Forward. “And I think it’s very important that it continues to be a place that provides culturally sensitive care.”
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Fight wildfires and other climate crises with this spiritual guide to catastrophe
As smoke from Canadian wildfires blankets much of the Northeast and Midwest in a hazy fog, some Jews are observing this Tisha B’av by mourning a different kind of destruction: that of a planet in crisis.
Tisha B’av, the saddest day on the Jewish calendar that commemorates the destruction of the First and Second Temples, deals with themes of grief and resilience relevant to today’s climate crisis, said Rabbi Laura Bellows, director of spiritual activism and education at Dayenu: A Jewish Call to Climate Action.
In advance of Tisha Ba’av, Dayenu this week released a spiritual guide for the aftermath of extreme weather — including floods, storms, heatwaves and fires. It was a grim coincidence, Bellows said, that the guide’s publication coincided with a time when those prayers would be of particular use.
“The grief is real,” Bellows said. “Jewish tradition is really good at encouraging us not to ignore it, but actually to make space and time to be with that grief.”
The guide includes an adapted version of Mi Shebeirach, the prayer for healing, written by Rabbi Daniel Scher at Kehillat Israel in the Palisades. Scher wrote the prayer for his congregation after wildfires caused significant smoke damage to the synagogue’s building, leading it to close for several months. Roughly 250 synagogue members — and all three clergy — lost their homes.
“The fire has seared through our homes and hopes, yet we stand together in our pain, trusting that new life can blossom in our midst,” the prayer reads.
Other texts in the guidebook offer hope for rebuilding. Rabbi Zoe Klein of Temple Isaiah in Los Angeles adapted the daily prayer, “May it be your will that the Temple be speedily rebuilt in our own time,” into a plea for wildfire survivors: “May it be Thy will that homes be rebuilt in our own time.”
Another ritual offers a hand-washing ceremony for survivors of water-related natural disasters. Participants wash their hands and recite the Birkat HaGomel, a prayer traditionally said after surviving a life-threatening event.
It’s not the first year rabbis have linked the climate crisis to Tisha Ba’av. More than a decade ago, Rabbi Tamara Cohen, chief of program and strategy at the Jewish youth group Moving Traditions, co-wrote “Eikha for the Earth,” which adapts the Book of Lamentations traditionally read on Tisha Ba’av as a “lament for the Earth.”
“Checkerspot butterflies flee their homes; polar bears can find no rest. Because our greed has heated Earth,” the text reads.
The adapted text aims to “welcome in Jews who are not so connected to the idea of mourning for the ancient temple, which doesn’t necessarily move lots of people today,” Cohen told the Forward.
But the timing of this year’s Tisha B’av makes the text feel eerily relevant, she said, pointing to the line “forest fires reach down and spread like fury.”
Jakir Manela, CEO of the nonprofit Adamah, which leads immersive Jewish experiences grounded in nature, said he’s also feeling particular grief for the earth this Tisha B’av. Manela lives in Baltimore, where he and his kids have been unable to go outside due to the unhealthy air.
“This is destruction in front of our very eyes, and affecting the largest population centers on the planet,” Manela said. “If folks have trouble connecting with Tisha B’av and the grief and mourning that it calls us to do, maybe this year is the time when it will hit home.”
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Why am I the only one troubled by an Anne Frank House shot glass?
Readers, how many of you have ever looked at the Anne Frank House and thought: “Wow, I wish I had a miniature version I could drink alcohol from” ?
Probably very few of you. And yet a ceramic replica of the historic house filled with approximately 1.7ozs of Bols Dutch gin is available from KLM Dutch Airways as part of a gift series for business class passengers on international flights.
The airline first launched the Delft Blue miniature house line in 1952 as gifts for business class passengers on intercontinental flights. I first discovered them last month, when I was flying with my dad to Maputo, Mozambique, to cover the centenary celebration of a local synagogue. My dad and I initially thought these would make good Christmas gifts for my cousin’s kids until we heard the liquid sloshing inside. We ended up keeping these recreations — which included the house of aviator Anthony Fokker and one of the last wooden houses left in Amsterdam — for ourselves.
While researching these unique souvenirs, I quickly discovered that one of the historic recreations is the Anne Frank House, aka “KLM miniature number 47,” which the Dutch airline added to the collection in 1975. My initial reaction was shock: How could the airline take a place that represents such a tremendous tragedy and turn it into a shot glass?
I reached out to KLM and asked if they had ever received a complaint about the item. A representative wrote back to say that, from what he knew, there had only ever been one critical Instagram comment: that KLM tried to make money off of everything. Collectors shared the souvenir online, but nobody I could find on the internet expressed the surprise and revulsion I felt.
My request to chat on the phone for further comments on why KLM included the Anne Frank House in their collection didn’t garner the response I expected. The representative responded via email that the house is historic and if I wanted to know more about it, I could just Google it. The subtext of my question — that it feels like a strange and possibly inappropriate choice to turn a solemn landmark into a cutesy flask — didn’t seem obvious to him.
So why did it feel so obvious to me?
For so many, Anne Frank is the symbol of how horrendous the Holocaust was. The fact that she is an innocent child exposes the depraved nature of the Nazis. Most Americans are first introduced to the Holocaust through the story of her confinement in that house in Amsterdam.
Even though it is not where Frank died (that was Bergen-Belsen, at the age of 16), it feels like the place where her fate was sealed. It is not just a landmark included in a famous book; it was her prison and the last stop on the way to her death. Although some may associate it with Frank’s enduring spirit of hope, filling it with alcohol still feels obscene.
Frank’s image has been co-opted over and over again. Two years ago, a Norwegian artist used an image of Frank in a keffiyeh to bring attention to children being killed in Gaza. More recently, Frank has become a symbol for anti-ICE protesters of the dangers of letting law enforcement target people based on their ethnic background. Then there’s the viral satirical comedy musical Slam Frank, which reimagines Anne Frank as a queer Latinx girl with a Black mom and gay, neurodivergent dad in order to poke fun at woke culture.The KLM house feels like a less charged appropriation of Anne Frank’s legacy; it’s not pushing any sort of political agenda.
The ceramic house is also part of a larger kitsch culture that blurs the fine line between commemoration and trivialization. So many tragedies have been commodified in this way that there’s a term for it: “dark tourism.” There are plenty of 9/11 related objects out there — a Twin Towers Christmas tree ornament, stuffed search and rescue dogs — that feel like they border on exploitation.
But what makes the KLM Anne Frank house stand out is its contents. To use a house of such suffering as the container for gin feels minimizing. (It is worth mentioning that a New York winery did at one point produce a 9/11 commemorative wine, although some of the proceeds were donated to the National September 11 Memorial and Museum.) Once the Anne Frank flask is emptied of its contents, it will just be a ceramic trinket that could help keep the memory of the landmark alive. Does the fact that it was originally made to carry alcohol negate that power?
I asked a similar question nearly one year ago in my very first Looking Forward column when I wrote about a recording of Nazi marching songs and speeches made by a Jewish producer. Since that piece was published, I haven’t found a satisfying answer to when memorialization becomes inappropriate, but I have become more comfortable acknowledging how complex this issue is.
This will be my last Looking Forward, as my last day as an employee of the Forward (at least for now, as I embark on a new pursuit) will be July 31. It feels fitting that my time with this newsletter will end similarly to the way in which it started: scratching my head about Holocaust kitsch. But having to grapple with such a topic in my writing is just another day at the Forward.
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I gathered the data on Jewish fiction publishing. The trends are alarming.
(JTA) — In early 2023, I wrote a novel that was Jewish in every possible way. The lovers called each other “ahuvati” and “neshama sheli” — Hebrew for my love and my soul. There were scenes in Tel Aviv, family histories shaped by the Holocaust, a climax involving cancellation by left-wing antisemites, and an overall tone of aching sadness.
I was already a successful nonfiction author with two books that had sold more than 150,000 copies. I had a track record and a substantial online platform, And my new book garnered substantial interest. When I began querying fiction agents in early 2024, I received 20 requests for the full manuscript and four offers of representation in just six weeks.
But there were warning signs. One non-Jewish agent told me that my Jewish social media presence might make the book impossible to sell. “At least your characters aren’t Zionists,” she said. (My characters were obviously Zionists.) A Jewish agent gave me painful but pragmatic advice. She told me that I should probably remove all Jewish content in the book that didn’t directly drive the plot. Most painfully, she suggested that I change the name of a character named Yael. “It’s one of my favorite names,” she said. “But it’s Israeli.”
I signed with an agent who assured me that no such changes were necessary, and the novel went out to publishers.
It did not sell.
There are countless reasons a book may not be published. Taste is subjective. Editors carefully build their lists. Nobody is owed a book deal. And it remains entirely possible that my novel wasn’t as good as the agents thought it was.
But after I shared my experience online, Jewish writers began telling me stories that sounded unnervingly familiar. Authors whose expected book deals vanished. Writers whose agents could “no longer champion” their careers. Books that were bought for six figures before Oct. 7 but barely promoted afterward. Israeli agents with stacks of manuscripts that American publishers would not even consider.
For Jewish authors, perhaps the most visceral gut punch was a viral spreadsheet titled “Is your fav author a zionist???” It was a list of Jewish fiction authors, color-coded by how Zionist they were perceived to be, with a column detailing their purported transgression. The spreadsheet itself was eventually taken down, but the message sent to the industry was clear: If you work with Jewish authors, it will cost you.
Aware that even the staggering evidence I was amassing remained anecdotal, I wanted to find a way to track the impact of what was happening more empirically.
I turned to Publishers Marketplace, the leading industry database where many book deals are announced, and reviewed fiction deals for books by Jewish authors that publicly signaled Jewish or Israeli content. What I found was grim. Between 2023 and 2024, there was a 76% decline in fiction deal announcements to large presses that mentioned Jews, Judaism or Israel. The numbers improved somewhat in 2025, but they did not recover. Compared with 2023, announced sales of Jewish books were still down 47% at large presses.
And the early 2026 numbers are worse: Looking at what has been announced so far this year and annualizing the comparison, fiction deals mentioning Jewish content are down 82% at large presses compared with 2023.
Like all data sets, this one is imperfect. Not every book deal is announced on Publishers Marketplace, and not every announcement mentions Jewish content when a book contains it. It may be that agents and publishers are less willing than they once were to mention Jewish themes in deal announcements, despite the content of the books themselves.
But the data is the best we have for now. And if the problem is that Jewish content is something the industry feels that it needs to obscure when announcing deals, that is also a major problem.
Whatever the explanation, I found that there is no question that publicly announced fiction deals foregrounding Jewish themes dropped sharply after Oct. 7, and the decline appears to be worsening. This should alarm anyone who cares about Jewish literature, but also anyone who cares about the free exchange of ideas.
I am currently working with the Anti-Defamation League as it examines antisemitism in publishing. Part of my efforts have been to understand what’s happening on an individual level, because while data is important, it can only tell us so much.
As someone well connected in the Jewish literary scene, I reached out on social media to ask people across the industry to share their experiences. I expected a handful of messages. Instead, my inbox filled with accounts from published and unpublished authors, agents, editors, Big Five employees, audiobook performers and marketers. People from every part of the industry described specific patterns of exclusion around Jewish writers, Jewish stories and Israel-related material. These trends fit with what PEN America related at length last week in its report on Jewish and Israeli exclusion in publishing — a report that I believe held back from reckoning fairly and honestly with what Jewish authors are facing.
I had begun my investigation wondering whether my own novel simply wasn’t good enough. And the truth is, it may not be. But this isn’t about any one book. What we’re looking at is a broader pattern: Jewish stories have become professionally risky, while Israel-related material has become positively radioactive. Because of that, many institutions within publishing appear to be choosing silence over confrontation.
The stakes here are not simply professional disappointment for Jewish authors, or even the destruction of creative careers. For the Jewish community, the stakes are existential. If Jewish stories are not published, then part of the Jewish record goes missing.
As a people, text has been our portable homeland. We have used words to bind ourselves together, in argument and agreement, across generations. Sentences have tied Am Yisrael to Eretz Yisrael. Modern Zionism was argued into existence through pamphlets and speeches. Law, memory, argument, longing, testimony, jokes, recipes, grief, liturgy: we have always carried ourselves through history in words.
In the rabbinic telling of the Roman siege of Jerusalem, Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai’s plea is: “Give me Yavneh and its sages.” He does not ask to save the temple or Jerusalem, but instead to save the Jewish people through the study of Torah. In the face of what could have been our obliteration, he helped usher in the era of Rabbinic Judaism by placing his faith in our texts.
In the Warsaw Ghetto, Emanuel Ringelblum and his fellow members of Oneg Shabbat secretly documented Jewish life under Nazi occupation. As the death vise of history tightened around them, they preserved Jewish testimony. And in 1949, just months after Israel’s War of Independence, S. Yizhar published “Khirbet Khizeh,” a novel documenting the moral complexity of 1948 in real time. He trusted his readers’ collective empathy and intellect, even while his new state was raw, precarious, traumatized and still fighting to understand herself.
Jews do not wait until history is finished with us. We write while the dust is still in our mouths.
But our stories don’t only serve as testimony to our pain. They are also about sex, food, family, money, mysticism, ambition, marriage, doubt, Israel, diaspora, bad decisions, holy arguments, vulgar jokes, longing, grief, pleasure, and survival. They are the record of people who are still here, still making art, still spinning stories in multiple languages.
It is true that many of our most lasting stories did not need a publishing house at all. But carrying those stories forward has always been collective work. If the institutions entrusted with publishing literature will not carry or promote Jewish stories, then Jews will have to build the institutions that will.
While I still hope to publish my own novel one day, this stopped being about my manuscript a long time ago. What matters now is reenvisioning Jewish publishing as an act of peoplehood — one that we must all roll up our sleeves to make happen.
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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