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A new book made me appreciate Jewish Sunday schools — and the volunteer women who have powered them
(JTA) — As a kid I went to Sunday school at our Reform synagogue. I didn’t hate it as much as my peers did, but let’s just say there were literally dozens of other things I would have preferred to do on a weekend morning.
As a Jewish adult, I had a vague understanding that Sunday school was a post-World War II invention, part of the assimilation and suburbanization of American Jews (my synagogue was actually called Suburban Temple). With our parents committed to public schools and having moved away from the dense urban enclaves where they were raised, our Jewish education was relegated to Sunday mornings and perhaps a weekday afternoon. The Protestant and Catholic kids went to their own religious supplementary schools, and we Jewish kids went to ours.
In her new book “Jewish Sunday Schools,” Laura Yares backdates this story by over a century. Subtitled “Teaching Religion in Nineteenth-Century America,” the book describes how Sunday schools were the invention of pioneering educators such as Rebecca Gratz, who founded the first Sunday school for Jewish children in Philadelphia in 1838. As such, they were responses by a tiny minority to distinctly 19th-century challenges — namely, how to raise their children to be Jews in a country dominated by a Protestant majority, and how to express their Judaism in a way compatible with America’s idea of religious freedom.
Although Sunday schools would become the “principal educational organization” of the Reform movement, Yares shows that the model was adopted by traditionalists as well. And she also argues that 20th-century historians, in focusing on the failures of Sunday schools to promote Jewish “continuity,” discounted the contributions of the mostly volunteer corps of women educators who made them run. Meanwhile, the supplementary school remains the dominant model for Jewish education among non-Orthodox American Jews, despite recent research showing its precipitous decline.
I picked up “Jewish Sunday Schools” hoping to find out who gets the blame for ruining my Sunday mornings. I came away with a new appreciation for the women whose “important and influential work,” Yares writes, “extended far beyond the classrooms in which they worked.”
Yares is assistant professor of Religious Studies at Michigan State University, with a joint appointment in the MSU Program for Jewish Studies. Raised in Birmingham, England, she has degrees from Oxford University and a doctorate from Georgetown University.
Our conversation was edited for length and clarity.
Tell me how your book came to be about the 19th century as opposed to the common 20th-century story of suburbanization.
There’s a real gap in American Jewish history when it comes to the 19th century, chiefly because so many American Jews today trace their origins back to the generation who arrived between 1881 and 1924, the mass migration of Jews from from Eastern Europe. So there’s a sense that that’s when American Jewish history began. Of course, that’s not true at all.
The American Jewish community dates back to the 17th century and there was much innovation that laid the foundations for what would become institutionalized in the 20th century.
Sunday school gets a very bad rap among most historians of American Judaism. If they’ve treated it at all, they tend to be dismissive — you know, there was no substance, they just taught kids the 10 Commandments, it was run by these unprofessional volunteer female teachers, so it was feminized and feminine.
But there’s also a lot of celebration of Rebecca Gratz, who founded the first Sunday school for Jewish children.
That’s the first indication I had that there might be more of a story here. Rebecca Gratz is lionized as being such a visionary and being so inventive in developing this incredible volunteer model for Jewish education for an immigrant generation that was mostly from Western Europe. And yet, by the beginning of the 20th century, [Jewish historians] say it has no value. So what’s the story there?
Two other things led me on the path to thinking that there was more of a story in this 19th-century moment. I did my Ph.D in Washington, D.C. And as I was searching through the holdings of the Library of Congress, there were tons and tons of Jewish catechisms.
“Sunday school gets a very bad rap among most historians of American Judaism,” says Dr. Laura Yares, author of the new book, “Jewish Sunday Schools.” (Courtesy of the author)
A catechism is a kind of creed, right? It’s a statement of religious beliefs. “These are things we believe as Jews.”
So Jewish catechisms had that, but they were also philosophical meditations in many ways. Typically, the first question of the catechism was, what is religion? And then the second question is, what is Jewish religion?
And then I started reading them. They were question-and-answer summaries of the whole of Judaism: belief, practices, holidays, Bible, you name it, that the children were expected to memorize. This idea that you’ve got to cram these kids with knowledge went against this historiographic dismissal of this period as being very thin and that kids were not really learning anything. The idea that children had a lot to learn is something that Sunday school educators actually really wrestle with during this period.
What was the other thing that led you to pursue this subject?
When I was beginning to research my dissertation, I was working as a Hebrew school teacher in a large Reform Hebrew school in Washington, D.C. And I remember very distinctively the rabbi coming in and addressing the teachers at the start of the school year. He said, “I don’t care if a student comes through this Hebrew school and they don’t remember anything that they learned. But I care that at the end of the year they feel like the temple is a place that they want to be, that they feel like they have relationships there and they have an (he didn’t use this word) ‘affective’ [emotional] connection.”
And so I’m sitting there by day at the Library of Congress, reading these catechisms that are saying, “Cram their heads with knowledge.” What is the relationship between Jewish education as a place where one is supposed to acquire knowledge and a place where one is supposed to feel something and to develop affective relationships? The swing between those two poles was happening as far back as the 19th century.
You write that owing to gaps in the archives, it was really hard to get an idea of the classroom experience. But to the degree that there’s a typical classroom experience in the 1860s, 1870s and you’re the daughter or grandchild of probably German-speaking Jewish immigrants, maybe working or lower middle class, what would Sunday school be like? I’m guessing the teacher would be a woman. Are you reading the Bible in English or Hebrew?
You are probably going for an hour or two on a Sunday morning. It’s a big room, and your particular class would have a corner of the room. It’s quite chaotic. Most of the teachers were female volunteers. They were either young and unmarried, or older women whose children had grown. Except for the students who are preparing for confirmation — the grand kind of graduation ritual for Sunday schools. Those classes were typically taught by the rabbi, if there was a rabbi associated with the school.
There would be a lot of reading out loud to the students with students being expected to repeat back what they had heard or write it down so they had a copy for themselves. Often the day would begin with prayers said in English, and often the reading of the Torah portion, typically in English, although in many Sunday schools, we do have children reporting they learned bits of Hebrew by rote memorization. Or they memorized the first chapters of the book of Genesis, for example, but I’m not sure that they quite understood what they memorized. “Ein Keloheinu” is a song that often children tell us [in archival materials] that they had memorized in Hebrew. They probably would have learned at least Hebrew script, and a little bit of Hebrew decoding. But it is fair to say that if they were reading the Bible, they were reading it mostly in English, because you have to remember that most of the women who were volunteering to teach in these schools came of age in a generation where Hebrew education wasn’t extended to women.
What’s the goal of these Sunday schools?
The Sunday school movement arose because there was a whole generation of immigrant children who did not have access to Jewish education, because their parents didn’t have either the economic capital or the social capital to become part of the established Jewish community. They couldn’t afford a seat in the synagogue, they couldn’t afford to send their children to congregational all-day or every-afternoon schools [which were among the few options for Jewish education when Gratz opened the Philadelphia Sunday school]. Sunday schools are really a very innovative solution to a problem of a lack of resources.
You also write that the founders of these supplementary schools want to defend children against “predatory evangelists.”
That was how Rebecca Gratz described her goal when she created the first Sunday school. She was very, very worried about the Jewish kids who were not receiving any kind of Hebrew school education. She talks about Protestant missionaries and teachers who would go out onto the street ringing the bell for Sunday school and offering various kinds of trinkets, and Jewish kids would get kind of swept into their Sunday schools. There was a very concrete need to give Jewish children somewhere else to go.
So Gratz and the people who created the first Hebrew Sunday school in Philadelphia looked at what the Protestants were doing and they saw that Protestant Sunday schools were providing very accessible places where kids could go and get a basic primer in their religious tradition.
The approach was to teach Judaism as a religion, as opposed to Judaism as a people or culture, to demonstrate that being Jewish was as compatible as Protestantism with being wholly American.
That is certainly part of it. It’s a demonstration that Judaism is compatible with American public life. But I think there’s actually a much bigger claim that the Sunday schools are making. The claim is not only that Judaism is as good as Protestantism, but that Judaism does religion better than Protestantism. These rabbis who were writing catechisms and teaching confirmation classes were saying that Judaism does liberal religion better than liberal Protestants, liberal Catholics and other kinds of liberal denominations. You see the same sentiment in the Pittsburgh Platform as well, which is the foundational platform of the Reform movement written in the 1880s. Sunday schools take that idea and bring it down to a grassroots level.
There are many, many fewer Jews in America in much of the 19th century, before the waves of Eastern European immigrants arrived beginning in the 1880s They didn’t really have strength in numbers, or the kind of self-confidence to have a system of day schools, yeshivas or heders, the elementary schools for all-day or every day Jewish instruction.
And this is also a community that has grown up at the same time as the birth of public education in America, independent of churches. That really emerged beginning on the East Coast in the 1840s.This generation of Americans really believes in the power of public education to craft an American public. It’s a project that 19th-century American Jews believe in and want to sustain. So Sunday schools don’t just become the preferred Jewish model because of lack of resources, but because American Jews really believe in the idea of public education.
What happens at the beginning of the 20th century, with the arrival of Eastern Europeans with different models for Jewish education?
A new generation tries to reform Jewish education, led by a young educator from Palestine named Samson Benderly, who leads the new New York Bureau of Jewish Education. He tries to change American Jewish education to make it more professionalized, but to bring more traditionally inclined Jews on board he has to convince them that he doesn’t want to make more Sunday schools, because Sunday schools by the end of the 20th century had become very much associated with the Reform movement in a way that they weren’t when they were founded and for much of the 19th century.
A painting of Philadelphia philanthropist and Jewish education activist Rebecca Gratz by Thomas Sully. (The Rosenbach of the Free Library of Philadelphia)
Benderly is surveying the scene of recent immigrants living in New York City [tenements] and other kinds of downtown environments, and his proposal is to create these community institutions for these dense communities, where children can be taught Hebrew in Hebrew. His disciples also created Jewish camps as a way to get children out of the inner cities and develop the muscular Zionist ideal of healthy bodies and a robust sense of Jewish collectivity.
You write that Benderly’s vision is a sort of masculine response to the “feminizing” perception of the Sunday schools.
These women teachers are recognizing that they’re being criticized for the kind of thinness of the Jewish education that they’re teaching in comparison to other models, but in periodicals like The American Jewess women are writing back and saying, “But you didn’t teach us Hebrew! I didn’t get that opportunity as a woman, so what do you expect?” It’s really important to note that the women did the best that they could in the time that they had available, and that they were the product of opportunities that were denied to them.
What lessons did you learn about Sunday school and Hebrew school education in the 20th century that relate to your research into the 19th century?
The move that is so decisive for shaping American Jewish education is suburbanization. Rather than having a large immigrant generation who are living in these tight ethnic enclaves, you have American Jewish children who are predominantly growing up in the suburbs, and socializing with children from all sorts of different backgrounds who are attending public schools. The place that you go to get your Jewish education is the synagogue supplemental school, which becomes the dominant model for American Jewish education up until today. Benderly might reflect that it looks a lot more like the Sunday school movement of the 19th century than his vision.
Today’s model is really a religious model. And by that I mean that students go to Hebrew school primarily to kind of check a religious box, to learn about the thing that makes them distinctive religiously, and to achieve a religious coming-of-age marker, which is the bar, bat or b mitzvah. Certainly the curriculum today is more diverse, embracing more aspects of traditional Judaism then you would have seen in a 19th-century Sunday school: more Hebrew, more of a sense of Jewish peoplehood, ethnic identity and Zionism of course. But the question that American Jews are increasingly asking themselves is, is this a model that they still want? So you may have seen that the Jewish Education Project published a report recently on supplemental schools, which saw that enrollment has really, really declined.
Sunday schools are based on a vision of Judaism as a set of a religious commitments that American Jews actualize through belonging to a synagogue and sending their children to a synagogue or a religious school, where they will learn primarily a set of religious skills: the ability to read from the Torah, the ability to decode Hebrew, the ability to navigate the siddur.
Is that still the vision that most American Jews have for what Judaism means to them? I think increasingly the answer seems to be no.
How else did experience in a Hebrew school classroom influence you? Did you access anything else when you were writing the book?
I think about the number of college kids and graduate students and empty nesters who are either volunteering or earning minimum wage, working at Hebrew schools, all over the country. That’s the labor force of American Judaism. These people also bring so much to the table. There are a lot of skills, dispositions and knowledge that don’t tend to get taken very seriously because this is a workforce that just gets kind of put into the category of “oh, they’re part time.” That made me look really closely in the historical archives to see if I could find anything out about the women who are volunteering to teach in Sunday schools. And what I found out was that [many] were public school teachers. And they brought a lot to the table. It was women in fact who were really pushing to make the Sunday school curriculum more experiential and to move away from rote memorization.
As a historian formed by feminist methods, I find it really important to recognize that these women were giving over what they had, as opposed to critiquing them for not teaching in a more traditional way. I think we need to pay attention when women are being scapegoated for problems that are described as problems of Jewish continuity. It blinds us to the role that women’s volunteerism has played in American Jewish life. This whole Sunday school movement was possible only because these women volunteered their time and largely were not paid.
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Mozambique’s only synagogue has been keeping Judaism alive in the country for a century
Inside the Honen Dalim synagogue in Maputo, Mozambique, a security team of men in suits wearing colorful kippot swept the inside of the small chapel, while members and visitors milled about on the lawn outside. Security had to be thorough; the president was coming.
For the rest of the city, it was a normal day. The sidewalks near the synagogue were crowded with vendors selling clothes, fruit and candy. Across the street, students hung out in the courtyard of the technical college the Instituto Comercial de Maputo. But for the city’s small Jewish community, it was a momentous occasion.
On June 11, Honen Dalim celebrated the centenary of the synagogue, which was officially inaugurated on Aug. 29, 1926. Congregation leaders and government officials gave speeches. Camera crews from three different TV stations — including the Mozambican state news channel — crowded in the small chapel to capture every moment.
Lay leader Marcos Vaena told me that celebrating the synagogue is not just about the building, but what it represents for Mozambique’s Jewish community, which consists of only a couple dozen families.
“It’s a sense of pride and historical heritage,” he said, adding that the synagogue has endured “profound changes in society — the liberation struggle that the country went through, the independence movement — and it still remains.”
It hasn’t been easy to keep the synagogue alive for a century, but Honen Dalim’s small congregation has persisted without a permanent rabbi or any local Jewish institutions to rely on.
Maputo is a multicultural city with a history of religious partnership, and the celebration’s 100 attendees were a diverse mix of government officials and community members. Among them were the country’s Christian president, Daniel Chapo, whose election in 2024 was marred by accusations of corruption and fatal clashes between security forces and protesters. Across the aisle, sat the German ambassador to Mozambique Ronald Münch and Sheik Aminudin, the President of the Islamic Council of Mozambique. Manuela Soeiro, Honen Dalim’s longest member and “the mother of Mozambican theater,” spoke about being involved with the synagogue since in the 1940s.
Longtime lay leader Samuel Levy gave an opening speech in Portuguese on the spirit of religious tolerance in Mozambique. Rabbi Moshe Silberhaft, chief rabbi of the African Jewish Congress, which supports Jewish communities in Sub-Saharan Africa, and AJC president Nahum Gorelick recited from Psalm 92 — which describes the fruitful life granted to those who are devoted to God — in Hebrew and English. The crowd sang “Hosi Katekisa Afrika,” a Tsonga version of a hymn meaning “God Bless Africa.” Around 50 more people watched on Zoom.
“This date is much more than a chronological milestone,” Chapo said in his speech. “We recognize, with appreciation and admiration, the enduring presence of the Jewish community in the religious, historical, and cultural fabric of our country, Mozambique.”
A long Jewish history
Although the synagogue is 100 years old, the presence of Jews in Mozambique dates back even further. Levy, a New York-born lawyer who has been part of the congregation since the ‘90s, told me the oldest grave in Maputo’s Jewish cemetery, located a few blocks from the synagogue, dates back to 1899.
Global events have always shaped Honen Dalim’s story. Levy said some of the earliest Jews migrated to Maputo due to the Witwatersrand Gold Rush that began in 1886 and helped develop Johannesburg, South Africa. Maputo — known then as Lourenço Marques, after the Portuguese explorer — was critical in the export process due to its coastal location, making it an ideal location for Jewish merchants.
Early Jewish arrivals came from around the world — including Morocco, Lithuania, the United Kingdom, and Portugal, which ruled Mozambique from 1505 to 1975 — often by way of South Africa. In 1906, they established themselves as a community under the name Honen Dalim — meaning “He who is charitable to the poor” — and prayed in each other’s homes.
During the Second Boer War in South Africa, which lasted from 1899 to 1902, the chief rabbi of Johannesburg, Joseph Herman Hertz, was expelled for his pro-British leanings and opposition to the government’s restrictions on Jews and Roman Catholics. During his years-long expulsion — the next time he came to South Africa, it was as the Chief Rabbi of the United Kingdom in 1920 — he spent a few days in Lourenço Marques and encouraged the Jews there to finally build a synagogue.
Levy said the “community waxes and wanes” but that many hundreds were there during the Second World War. Because Portugal was a neutral country, Mozambique was a place where European Jews could find refuge, although they didn’t have full economic freedom and suffered from religious segregation.
Manuela Soeiro, who founded the first Mozambican theater troupe Mutumbela Gogo in 1986, told me at the centenary celebration about her experiences being a Jew at a Salesian Catholic boarding school in the ‘40s and ‘50s. When the nuns saw her hug her Jewish grandfather, they made her and her two sisters sleep in a cold bathtub as punishment for engaging with “the devil.”
After World War II, many Jews immigrated from Mozambique to South Africa, which was experiencing an economic boom.
The Jewish community took another hit when, in 1975, Mozambique gained independence from Portugal due to the Front for the Liberation of Mozambique’s (FRELIMO) successful guerilla campaign. A communist government led by President Samora Machel took over and restricted religious practice.
“All of the religious buildings, not only the synagogue — mosques, churches, everything — was expropriated by the government,” Levy told me.
The majority of the Portuguese in Mozambique left, some by force and some by choice, and many Jews were among those who emigrated. The country was hit hard by economic destabilization. Concrete shells of building projects abandoned by Portuguese builders after independence dot the city skyline.
Only two years after independence, the country’s socialist and anti-communist factions waged a civil war that ravaged the country for 15 years. Honen Dalim’s synagogue fell into disrepair and became a warehouse for the Red Cross.
The synagogue’s address ties the building both to the country’s colonial and post-independence eras. Avenida 24 de Julho — July 24th Street — was named after the date in 1875 when Portugal took full possession of Maputo. Exactly 100 years later, on July 24, Machel nationalized almost every sector of Mozambican society.
Revitalizing the community
Nuno Soeiro remembers his mom Manula continuing to look after the synagogue, along with his uncles, even though they weren’t allowed to practice religion there in the communist era.
“Some people from the American embassy, they used to do some lessons,” Nuno Soeiro told me, saying they went to embassy officials’ houses to observe Jewish holidays.
In 1989, the synagogue had an unexpected savior: Alkis Macropolous, a Greek, and not Jewish, businessman. His Jewish colleagues in Johannesburg encouraged him to help preserve the building. He ensured that the dilapidated structure was not torn down and arranged for an ad to be placed in the paper asking for any remaining Jews to claim the synagogue — and they did. The defeat of the communist government in 1990 — which was replaced by a presidential republic — allowed religious communities to be active again.
When Samuel Levy arrived in 1993, the synagogue didn’t have enough people for a minyan and wasn’t having official services, but on Saturday afternoons, Jewish and non-Jewish members gathered together to sing folk songs. Although it wasn’t a traditional service, Levy found it spiritually fulfilling.
“Those songs were maybe the most simplest prayers I’ve ever heard,” Levy told me. “But also the deepest.”
For Larry and Diane Herman, Conservative Jews from Detroit who arrived in Maputo in 1999, practicing Judaism without a large community was nothing new. Larry’s work as an economist took them around the globe, including to Burkina Faso, Chad, Niger and Uganda.
“We were the center of the Jewish community in Ouagadougou from 1975 to 1977, which simply means the three or four or five other Jewish Peace Corps volunteers,” Larry told me.
The Hermans took on leadership roles and Diane put together a spiral-bound siddur for services that includes prayers in Hebrew, English and Portuguese. They wrote a prayer for Mozambique based on the prayer for the country found in many U.S. prayer books. Levy also led services, even while away.
Natalie Tenzer-Silva, who moved from South Africa to Mozambique with her family in 1993, told me Levy would send cassette recordings of Kol Nidre when he couldn’t be there to lead High Holiday services himself.
“He would blow the shofar over a cell phone or send a recording of it,” Tenzer-Silva said. “He really is the pillar, making sure that we have all the writings and the readings and all of that ready for the holidays and for the Friday nights.”
The Hermans were the only Shabbat-observant and kosher members of the synagogue at the time. To buy kosher food, they went to Johannesburg, often bringing things back for the congregation. These imports were critical around Passover, when the Hermans hosted seders at their home, sometimes for as many as 50 people.
Not big enough to have a full executive board or leadership team, the synagogue members had to set their own guidelines.
“We sat for like four hours trying to hash out the rules,” Diane Herman said.
“When you already don’t have a minyan of Jews, let alone males, and you’ve got all these intermarried couples, what do you do about the spouse? And what do you do about these people who aren’t Jewish at all, but want to participate?” said Diane. “We hashed out how to create a community there. It was fascinating.”
“When Jews come there from other places, they realize if they’re going to give any expression to their Jewish identity, they need to work on it,” Levy said. “If you want your kids to know something, well, you’re going to have to start a Sunday school or really participate in it. If you want the holidays to happen, you’re going to have to organize to import matzo and kosher wine for Passover because we can’t make it.”
Rebuilding the synagogue
Considered one of the poorest countries in the world, Mozambique attracts many people from abroad who work in diplomacy, aid, or international development. As more Jews arrived to work in these sectors, it became clear the synagogue needed physical improvements.
“When I arrived, there were poles supporting the roof,” Tenzer-Silva told me. “And every time we would go to services, if the wind blew, my children would think the roof was going to fall in.”
Larry Herman remembered one Shabbat where a corner did fall in — and another where a rat fell from the rafters.
In 2009, congregant Juliana Becker decided she wanted a bat mitzvah — the first to happen in the country — and turned to Larry for tutoring. A Torah was brought in from South Africa, since the synagogue lacked its own, and 125 people attended from Maputo and from abroad. The event prompted Honen Dalim’s leaders to successfully file for official recognition from the government in 2010, making them the legal owners of the synagogue.
Five years later, in preparation for the bar mitzvah of Tenzer-Silva’s older son, Jordan, the congregation decided to replace the roof. But this could not be done safely without updating the walls and flooring. Tenzer-Silve said what was originally supposed to be a $25,000 bill became more than $120,000.
With help from the local community, and friends and family abroad, Honen Dalim managed to raise the money — just in the nick of time for Jordan.
“The Friday of his bar mitzvah, they had finished painting the walls,” Tenzer-Silva said.
In 2013, Honen Dalim held a rededication ceremony celebrating the rebuild. Ann Harris, then-President of the African Jewish Congress, and Rabbi Moshe Silberhaft gave the congregation a kosher Sefer Torah — something they had lacked before. Other faith leaders and government representatives attended, including then-Minister of Justice Maria Benvinda Levi, who now serves as the country’s Prime Minister and has Jewish ancestry.
Multiple members of Honen Dalim described the environment of Maputo as extremely tolerant and supportive of the Jewish community.
“The entire time I lived in Mozambique, I wore a kippah on the streets and never had any problems,” Larry Herman told me.
Many attribute this respect for religion to the role faith leaders played in dissuading violence during the civil war. A wing of the city’s central church is dedicated to Pope John Paull II, who made a famed visit in 1988 advocating for peace. Ultimately, the Catholic lay movement, the Community of Sant’Egisio, brokered peace. Tenzer-Silva and others remarked that the civil war made people tired of conflict.
Honen Dalim is part of the COREM — the Council of Religions in Mozambique. Its President, Moisés Chiziane, spoke at the centenary event, urging continued coexistence.
“Peace is not built only by the absence of conflicts,” he said. “Peace is built by respect, listening, acceptance of diversity and recognition of the dignity of every human being.”
Levy told me Honen Dalim has hosted a Muslim adult study group at the synagogue to learn about Jewish practices, such as putting on tefillin.
“The people who run the different faith organizations,” Levy said, “they make it an article of faith that they need to actively get along — not tolerate, but learn about the faith of other people.”
In recent years, a branch of ISIS has established itself in the northern part of Mozambique, displacing local residents and leaving other religious groups — and non-affiliated Muslims — fearful of being attacked. But Natalie Tenzer-Silva said that type of extremism has not been seen in Maputo.
“It won’t come down south,” she told me confidently. “People wouldn’t tolerate it.”
A tenuous position
Although the community is still active, members described Honen Dalim as “fragile.” Tenzer-Silva said there could be anywhere “between three and 12 people” at a Friday service — the turnout isn’t big or consistent. They also lack the type of programming that bigger synagogues offer.
“I would like to take my kids to synagogue to learn Hebrew,” Nuno Soeiro said. “We don’t have that.”
Individuals like Levy can help organize lessons for kids like Soeiro’s daughter to be on track to become bar or bat mitzvahs. But the number of people with that type of knowledge is limited.
According to Levy, COVID was “a big blow to the Jewish community.”
“At that point we had Sunday school with eight kids,” he said. “After that, things kind of became a little more tenuous and they’re a little more tenuous today, but we try to keep going.”
The congregation’s reliance on expats also puts it in a delicate position. Synagogue leaders say only around a third of congregants are permanent residents. While some expats find a permanent home in Maputo, others leave due to work or family. After 16 years in Maputo, the Hermans left and now live in Los Angeles. Levy divides his time between Maputo and Dubai, although all three help manage things from a distance.
The recent cuts to USAID programs to Mozambique will likely diminish the number of American Jews who have jobs that require them to move there. And a hidden debt scandal in the mid-2010s that cost the country nearly $2.2 billion broke the trust of investors from around the world who may have sent Jewish employees to Mozambique.
“A lot of the international community withdrew support for many years,” Marcos Vaena said. “It was 10 years of economic crisis.”
Vaena, who grew up in Brazil in a Sephardic family with Turkish roots, first moved to Maputo in 2006 as a UN volunteer for a development program. He left in 2010 to work in other developing countries, but returned in 2024. He told me he saw “a diminished community” compared to the Honen Dalim he’d left behind. He decided to start leading Shabbat services a couple times a month.
“I wanted to make sure that my kids have continued exposure to a Jewish tradition and education,” he said.
It’s not just expats, however, who want a more formal way to be involved in Judaism.
“There’s a regular interest from Mozambicans that are seeking spiritual connection through Judaism,” Vaena said. “But then you need, I think, a more structured process and support for those who are there.”
“There were a lot of people who had been happy to convert, and that just wasn’t possible,” Diane Herman added. “There was no rabbi around.”
“We have a lot of people who were, I call, ‘lovers of Zion’ as opposed to Jews,” Larry Herman told me. “They were some of the biggest supporters.” He recounted what happened when he and Diane lost their fathers. ”Both of us went to the funerals in the United States and came back, and we were in our period of mourning — it was the non-Jews who supported us by coming to every service.”
There is also no mikveh, the ritual bath needed for conversions. Diane said some people go to South Africa for the rite, but they tend to be those with money. In a country where half of all workers earn less than 60,000 Metical a year — less than $1,000 — it’s not a viable option for the vast majority of Mozambicans.
Rabbi Moshe Silberhaft, chief rabbi for the AJC, occasionally helps the congregation with critical events, but Silberhaft serves nine different countries and cannot be everywhere at once. Tenzer-Silva told me that bringing in a permanent rabbi for such a small congregation would be difficult, especially with the lack of kosher food options. Vaena said he himself has considered seminary training.
“That experience leading the services and being more engaged on a daily basis has really brought me a lot of joy,” he said.
Perseverance
Despite the struggles the community faces, the 100th anniversary ceremony did not feel like a pity party for a dying congregation. Kids ran around the lawn during the reception, which was stocked with bagels and cakes from a kosher caterer in South Africa. Tenzer-Silva’s son Jordan, who’s in his late twenties now, helped usher people at the event and recited “Tzadik Katamar” alongside other synagogue leaders. The younger generation of the synagogue is small, but present.
And those who have moved away don’t really leave Honen Dalim behind. From Los Angeles, Larry Herman serves as the president of the Friends of the Jewish Community of Mozambique, helping garner international support for Honen Dalim. Although he and his wife haven’t lived in Maputo in 10 years, they spoke of it with great reverence.
“It’s a wonderful community,” Larry said. “I’m very proud of it.”
Honen Dalim continues to welcome new members and serve as a place where Jewish visitors can have a home. Members told me that travelers have come from America, Paris, Israel and other parts of the world. For Jews who end up in Maputo — whether for a few days, a few years, or the rest of their lives — Honen Dalim serves as a vital source of community. Several people said they had never been more Jewish than they had been in Mozambique.
“May the next hundred years be of peace, prosperity, and abundant blessings for all,” Chapo said toward the end of his speech. Although his words were practically all in Portuguese, he closed with a message Jews around the world could understand: “Shalom. Shalom. Shalom.”
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More US Jews feel ‘politically homeless’ than ever. What are we to do?
The news that most Jewish adults don’t feel comfortable in either major political party is not a death knell for American Jewish political participation. It’s a rallying cry.
Most American Jews feel politically unrepresented by both parties, an Associated Press-NORC Center for Public Research poll released this week found. That survey only confirms what every conversation I’ve had with Jewish friends lately gets around to: a new sense of political homelessness, combined with fears of increasing antisemitism.
Only 15% of respondents say the Democratic Party supports Jewish people in the United States “extremely” or “very” well, and 41% say it supports them “not very well” or “not at all.” Views of the Republicans are slightly worse — about half say the party doesn’t really support Jews.
What the poll shows is an undeniable slide in both parties on an issue many Jews still care deeply about, Israel, as well as the feeling that too much anti-Israel sentiment bleeds into antisemitism.
The poll found 63% of Jewish adults consider antisemitism an extremely or very serious problem, and 77% say prejudice has increased since the Hamas attack of Oct. 7, 2023. Only 38% of Americans overall share that level of concern. The gap between how seriously Jews perceive the threat and how seriously the broader public does only compounds our sense that we’ve been abandoned by civic institutions, and no longer fit neatly within the party system.
At first glance, the fact that American Jews feel less attached to either political party isn’t unusual. A growing number of all Americans are turned off by the two major parties, according to a May New York Times poll, which found that 43% of voters were dissatisfied with both parties.
But a major source of party dissatisfaction, the Times poll found, was, yep, America’s relationship with Israel. Among dissatisfied voters, 80% opposed economic and military aid to Israel. That includes 38% of Republicans and Republican-leaning independents who said they wanted the party to distance itself from Israel. That’s what Vice President JD Vance meant when he recently said — warned? — that, “Israel’s opinions matter, but fundamentally they are separate.”
So a shrinking share of Americans in both parties supports Israel — while roughly six in 10 American Jews say Israel is central to who they are. That’s the squeeze. No wonder we feel unsupported.
It’s tempting to litigate why this gap exists. You could argue that it’s not fair. You could argue a dozen other countries behave worse than Israel, or that Qatari and Chinese money have poisoned American minds and infected the algorithms, or that the antipathy toward Israel and Zionism has always been and will always be about Jew-hatred.
Still: this is where we are in 2026, and we can’t will the facts away. So where, politically, do Jews turn? How do we pick a lane when they all seem to lead to dead ends?
One option is to leave. In the past, the somewhat glib answer to “where should we go?” if Jews wanted to run away — or were kicked out — was, of course, Israel. American Jews who kept one bag packed by the door — even if figuratively — saw the Jewish state as a refuge.
But our relationship with Israel as it is now is complicated. Putting aside the fact that a country that has weathered years of war and terror is hardly a refuge, American Jews are deeply unhappy with the current Israeli government. The AP poll found that 4 in 10 Jewish adults think the U.S. is too supportive of Israel, and that among American Jews, New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani is more popular than Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu.
If there is no flight, there is only fight.
That’s what former Chicago Mayor Rahm Emanuel was doing in Tel Aviv this week with a speech in which he called for a “fundamentally new and different approach” to U.S.-Israel relations. He was not fighting against Israel, but fighting for his party — the Democrats — to demand more of it. He talked about his emotional ties to Israel — something the majority of American Jews share — as well as his critiques.
And it’s why sharp criticism of his speech came from both sides of the aisle. On the right, Jonathan Tobin at JNS called the speech a recycling of “the persistent delusion of failed policies,” and Peter Savodnik at The Free Press wrote that Emanuel “bows to the left.” Meanwhile, the left accused Emanuel of placing too much blame on the Palestinians for corruption and intransigence, and for trying to stake out a pro-Israel position within the Democratic Party.
Emanuel didn’t pick a lane, which is why people who hold such disparate ideologies are all upset with him. Instead, he carved a new one. He embraced a politics so critical of Israel that it would have been anathema in mainstream Democratic circles until very recently. That’s not a bad thing. His idea — which is really an idea promoted by the progressive pro-Israel lobbying group J Street — is that the U.S. should push Israel, the Palestinians and the Arab nations toward a “23 state solution” that recognizes Palestinian rights and integrates Israel fully into the Middle East. As far-fetched as it seems now, it is also more pragmatic and optimistic than anything the far left or right have to offer.
Emanuel showed one option for how to decouple support for a strong, secure Israel from support for the disastrous direction in which the country’s leaders are taking it. He showed how to love Israel as an American Jew, warts and all. His position is highly critical of the country’s current leadership and direction — as are the majority of Israelis, by the way — but out of concern for its security and democracy, not out of objection to its existence. It’s a position that recognizes the rights of all peoples between the river and the sea to security and self-determination. It moves beyond blame to solutions.
The right response to American Jews’ sense of political abandonment is for candidates who care about our community — and despite our dismay, there are many — to pivot, like Emanuel, to making creative cases for the future. Come with a vision, come with a plan, come with a path that offers the chance of a better life for the millions of Jews and Arabs who live there and aren’t going anywhere. Come with a pitch that shows American Jews that the full complexity of our concerns matters, and that your parties are capable of adapting to meet this moment.
That’s the fight that has to happen. Don’t wait for a lane to open. Pick a party, and start opening one.
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UK Jewish groups express concern as the likely next PM criticizes Israel over Gaza
(JTA) — Andy Burnham, who is on track to become Britain’s next prime minister following Keir Starmer’s resignation last month, apologized for his party’s handling of the aftermath of the Oct. 7, 2023, Hamas mass killings in Israel, saying that it should have done more to push for a ceasefire and called for exerting greater pressure on the Jewish state today.
His comments prompted a joint response from the Board of Deputies of British Jews and the Jewish Leadership Council, which said they had contacted his team to express “significant concerns” about his remarks.
Burnham made his comments in a video statement on Thursday in response to questions from the public. Burnham is likely to become the next prime minister after gaining the overwhelming support of sitting Labour members of Parliament. To date no one has challenged him for the party’s leadership ahead of a July 17 deadline.
“I know many people feel that at the start of Israel’s military action in Gaza, my party didn’t get it right, and I am sorry about that,” he said. He added that he supported further sanctions on Israelis involved in the violence in Gaza, measures to ban trade with Israeli settlements and restrictions on arms licenses to Israel, saying there was “increasing evidence that war crimes appear to have been committed.”
He also condemned increased antisemitism in Britain, and said that tackling antisemitism did not contradict holding Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s government to account.
His comments came as lawmakers across the political spectrum have pushed for increased condemnation of Israel and sanctions on the country.
“The unbearable suffering in Gaza is a scar on our collective conscience,” Burnham said. “The killing of innocent Palestinians, including children,” was “completely unacceptable,” he added, declaring that Britain had to do more to “put pressure on the Israeli government.”
He described the country as “too slow to call for a ceasefire” and that “we must now do more to strengthen our approach” as “Israel continues to violate the ceasefire agreement killing innocent Palestinians.”
In their response, the Board and JLC said they shared “concern for the humanitarian situation in the Gaza Strip” but stated that the conflict “cannot be understood without reference to the role of Hamas not only in launching the conflict but in perpetuating the war through the holding of hostages, war-fighting entirely from within the civilian population, and [their] ongoing refusal to cede power and disarm, in line with the 20 point peace plan.”
They added that the conflict also could not be understood without reference to Hamas’ regional backers and allies, including Iran and Hezbollah. Burnham addressed none of this in his comments.
Burnham did, however, reiterate his condemnation of Hamas, describing the Oct. 7 attacks as “monstrous,” stressing that he denounced them “as strongly today as I did in the immediate aftermath.”
He said that he also condemned “the increase in appalling antisemitic attacks here in the U.K. and those who seek to divide our communities by targeting Jewish people.”
“I felt first-hand the anxiety in our Jewish community and the very real threat they face,” the former mayor of Greater Manchester said, referring to the Yom Kippur 2025 attack on the city’s Heaton Park synagogue in which two people were killed.
The Board and JLC welcomed Burnham’s “zero tolerance approach to antisemitism” and affirmed his assertion that “there is no contradiction between fighting antisemitism and disagreeing with actions of the Israeli government.”
However, they said, “Antisemitism cannot be confronted without addressing all its drivers,” arguing that in Britain that includes “Islamist, far left and far right extremists who go beyond criticism of the Israeli government to a place of hatred directed at Jews and Israelis.”
Their joint statement pointed out that Burnham knew “first hand the links between hatred of Israel, antisemitic extremism and deadly violence against British Jews,” adding that, “in a country in which antisemitism has become more normalized, more extreme and more violent, we call on our leaders to show the utmost care in their rhetoric in relation to the conflict.”
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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