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Aruba’s new rabbi comes out of retirement to lead a congregation in ‘paradise’
ORANJESTAD, Aruba (JTA) — One of Alberto Zeilicovich’s first duties as a Conservative rabbi was to officiate the funeral of a 20-year-old congregant, murdered by a drug cartel while enjoying a night out with his friends at a disco.
It was the late 1980s in Medellin, Colombia, and Zeilicovich had entered the pulpit at the height of the Colombian drug wars and the reign of notorious kingpin Pablo Escobar. Two years later, he would bury another member of the congregation murdered by the cartel.
“We felt fear,” Zeilicovich, who goes by Baruch, said about his six years in Medellin. “The president of the congregation told me you cannot walk on Shabbos to the synagogue. ‘You should come with a car.’ I asked, ‘Are you afraid someone is going to kidnap me?’ He said, ‘No, I am afraid somebody will kill you.’”
To give him a break, a congregant sent Zeilicovich on a trip to Aruba and Curacao, islands where, he recalled, he could “unplug a little bit from a situation that was very dangerous.”
That 1990 trip would ultimately result in the other bookend of his career: Zeilicovich recently came out of retirement to begin a three-year contract as the rabbi of Beth Israel Synagogue, a small synagogue on the Dutch island of Aruba in the southern Caribbean Sea. He had visited the island at least once a year for the past 32 years.
Temple Beth Israel, a Conservative-style synagogue in Oranjestad, Aruba, was consecrated in 1962. (Dan Fellner)
“First, the people are very friendly,” he says of Aruba, which has a population of about 100,000 and is officially called a “constituent country” of the Kingdom of the Netherlands. “Second, it’s a very safe place. And third, the island is a paradise. Everything is so beautiful.”
The synagogue, located in the island’s capital city of Oranjestad, is not affiliated with any movement of Judaism but operates in the style of the egalitarian Conservative movement. It is just a block from one of Aruba’s signature white-sand beaches and a five-minute drive to Eagle Beach, perhaps its most famous.
While Zeilicovich no longer needs armed security guards to accompany him to synagogue as he did in Medellin, he still brings to the pulpit the difficult life lessons he learned during those tumultuous years in Colombia.
“Being in Medellin made me realize how a rabbi should teach the congregation about what are the most important things in life,” he says. “That shaped me in understanding what the role of a rabbi should be — a facilitator for everybody to be a better Jew, a better person.”
Zeilicovich, who speaks five languages, was born and raised in Buenos Aires, Argentina, where he experienced antisemitism and life under an oppressive military regime. He studied at a rabbinical seminary in Buenos Aires before completing his ordination at the Schechter Institute of Jewish Studies in Jerusalem.
Following his six years in Medellin, Zeilicovich moved to a synagogue in Bogota, the capital city of Colombia, before rabbinical stints in Puerto Rico, Texas and most recently New Jersey, where he announced his retirement from Temple Beth Sholom in Fair Lawn in late 2020.
Zeilicovich and his wife Graciela had moved to Israel when he got a phone call from Daniel Kripper, a friend and fellow Argentine who was retiring as the rabbi of Aruba’s Beth Israel.
“He called me and said, ‘Baruch, what are you doing in Israel?’ I said I’m going to the beach. He said, ‘Why don’t you come to the beach in Aruba where you can have a congregation again?’ And I said, ‘Why not?’”
According to Richenella Wever, a member of the Beth Israel board, Zeilicovich has been a good fit with the synagogue’s diverse congregation. “His way of thinking, teaching and his ability to connect the Torah with daily life is amazing,” she said.
Jewish life in Aruba dates back to the 16th century, when immigrants arrived from the Netherlands and Portugal. In 1754, Moses Solomon Levie Maduro, who came from a prominent Portuguese Jewish family in Curacao, settled in Aruba, where he founded the Aruba branch of the Dutch West Indies Company. Maduro paved the way for more immigrants but the island’s Jewish population has always remained small. It’s now about 100.
In 1956, the Dutch Kingdom officially recognized the Jewish community of Aruba; Beth Israel was consecrated six years later. The synagogue calls itself a “Conservative egalitarian temple keeping Sephardic and Ashkenazic traditions.” In addition to Beth Israel, there is a Chabad chapter on the island that opened in 2013.
With a membership of just 50 local families and a few dozen overseas residents, Beth Israel has limited resources. A Dutch law stipulating that the salaries of clergy in Holland’s overseas territories be paid by the government helps the synagogue remain solvent.
“This is really unique,” says Zeilicovich. “You can be a minister of an evangelical church, a Roman Catholic priest, an imam from a mosque or a rabbi from a synagogue — the government pays the salary.
“When I want to brag about myself, I say I am an employee of the Crown of Holland,” he added with a laugh.
Zeilicovich says the Aruban government has been highly supportive of the Jewish community, even erecting a life-sized bronze statue in 2010 of Anne Frank in Queen Wilhelmina Park in downtown Oranjestad.
A bronze statue of Anne Frank stands in the Queen Wilhelmina Park in downtown Oranjestad, Aruba, at left; at right, a T-shirt for sale in the Beth Israel gift shop in Aruba reads “Bon Bini,” meaning “welcome” in Papiamento, the local language. (Dan Fellner)
“That means they have respect for the Jewish community,” he says. “And they are very sympathetic with us about the Holocaust.”
Zeilicovich says a typical Friday night Shabbat service attracts about 20 people, about one-third of whom are tourists. Some arrive on the many cruise ships that dock just a mile away from the synagogue; others stay at condos or at one of Aruba’s posh resorts.
If there aren’t enough worshippers for a prayer quorum of 10 on Saturday mornings, a Torah study group meets instead. The synagogue’s small sanctuary can hold 60 worshippers, and is normally full for the High Holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur each fall.
“We are a friendly, welcoming congregation,” Zeilicovich says. “We are family — mishpocha. When you come here, we try to make you feel that way.”
Indeed, a popular item in the synagogue’s small gift shop is a T-shirt imprinted with the words “Bon Bini Shalom.” Bon Bini means “welcome” in Papiamento, the Portuguese-based Creole language spoken in the Dutch Caribbean.
Zeilicovich says one of his priorities as the new rabbi is to improve the synagogue’s marketing efforts and revamp its website. He adds that Aruba’s Jewish community often is overshadowed by Curacao, its Dutch neighbor to the east that is home to the oldest synagogue in continuous use in the Americas.
“We are behind in marketing,” he said. “And we understand we are missing a huge opportunity.”
For now, Zeilicovich is enjoying his time in Aruba and can’t help but marvel at how his life has changed since his days as a rabbi in Medellin when just getting from his home to the synagogue was a dangerous ordeal.
“I think about that and look to heaven and say, ‘God, thank you.’”
—
The post Aruba’s new rabbi comes out of retirement to lead a congregation in ‘paradise’ appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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People accusing El-Sayed of Muslim Brotherhood ties will accuse Jews of dual loyalty too
Abdul El-Sayed, Democratic candidate for Senate in Michigan, has said that he has no ties to, and disavows, the Muslim Brotherhood. It does not matter how many times he is asked about this, or how many times he answers, because there will be those who insist that it is a real concern. Their position relies not on reality, but on a deep-rooted idea Jews should recognize: that people who are “other” hold dual loyalties, and that those dual loyalties are a danger to America.
El-Sayed has had ample reason and opportunity to assert his distance from the group, as he has been asked about it over and over again. (The connection to the Muslim Brotherhood specifically seems to be a tweet from El-Sayed’s half-sister saying their mother was once involved with the organization.) He was asked at a town hall earlier this month to disavow the Muslim Brotherhood; he was asked about the Muslim Brotherhood earlier this month on Meet the Press; he was asked about it by Fox News; and he was accused without evidence by his opponent, Republican Mike Rogers, of being “bought” by the Muslim Brotherhood and of being a national security risk in their debate last week. Other Democrats were also asked to weigh in: CNN, for example, asked Sen. Chris Murphy if Democrats were “concerned about this with El-Sayed.”
American Jews should object to this cynical, baseless fearmongering because it is wrong and destructive in and of itself to charge that a person who is Muslim is a threat to national security. American Jews should also recognize it for what it is: a charge of dual loyalty, and one they should speak up against if they do not want similar charges leveled against Jewish politicians. This is true even if they disagree with El-Sayed or do not want to see him win in next week’s midterm elections.
For American Jews, dual loyalty is an old and familiar antisemitic trope. It’s a suspicion and accusation that has followed us around the globe and across decades and says that we can never really be loyal to the country or society in which we find ourselves because we are secretly loyal only to each other or, more recently, to Israel.
American Jews — understandably, given the history of this trope — are attuned to politics that smack of dual loyalty. For example, Pennsylvania Governor Josh Shapiro wrote in his book that, when he was being vetted as a potential running mate for Kamala Harris in the 2024 presidential election, he was asked if he had ever been an Israeli agent and felt that that was inappropriate. In fact, being asked about loyalty to other countries is a regular occurrence in obtaining a security clearance.
Nevertheless, Shapiro’s alertness to it speaks to the sensitivity American Jews, and particularly politicians, feel around being accused of dual loyalty, especially as Israel becomes a “litmus test” in Democratic party politics. For example, was congressional candidate Scott Weiner chased from a rally for trans rights solely because he had declined to say that Israel committed a genocide in Gaza (before he said they did days later), or was it because he’s Jewish?
And this past weekend, a RebellionPac ad in which a couple can’t buy eggs because, they say, the United States sends money to Israel, concludes with “Mike Rogers is for they/them” — cutting to photos of Israeli politicians — “Abdul El-Sayed is for you,” suggesting that being supportive of Israel is at odds with being supportive of Michigan, which some Jews feel creates a permission structure for antisemitism and suspicion toward Jews.
U.S. President Donald Trump, meanwhile, once again put forth his specific version of the dual loyalty trope, in which to be a true American Jew is to vote for him because he supports Israel, by saying American Jews should be “ashamed of themselves” if they voted for El-Sayed.
It is not enough for American Jews to be against dual loyalty when it is leveled against us. We just need to be against it. Because if you do not want it to be acceptable to cast aspersions regarding a candidate’s race, religion, or ethnicity, and if you do not want there to be different, special, higher bars that candidates need to meet because of their culture or where they pray, then you need to be against that for anyone. Otherwise, you’re accepting it for everyone.
I am not equating Israel with the Muslim Brotherhood, nor am I defending the Muslim Brotherhood. What I am saying is this: If you are offended by the idea that Jews need to prove that we are not first and foremost loyal to Israel, or by the notion that Jews should be punished for perceived connections to Israel, then you should also be offended by what politicians and pundits are demanding of El-Sayed. You should do this not only because not doing so is hypocritical (though we, as a nation, seem long past the point of hypocrisy mattering), but because the more comfortable we are having charges of dual loyalty in our politics, the more comfortable we are having charges of dual loyalty in our politics for everyone, including Jewish candidates.
I made a similar point last week on X (formerly Twitter) and was promptly accused of hating myself and Jews, loving the Muslim Brotherhood, and having my priorities wrong. In one response to my post, which read, “You don’t get a more tolerant, accepting, pluralistic, liberal country by accusing people of another religion of inherently hating and being disloyal to it and you, it is simply not going to work,” someone wrote, “I don’t want a more tolerant society you stupid twat, I want my kids to be safe at Jewish day school and I don’t want 24/7 security at shul.”
What I found most fascinating about this person’s reply was the idea that Jewish institutions could be safe in the United States, where we are a small minority, without ours being a tolerant society. That struck me as almost as fanciful as thinking that we could allow charges of dual loyalty for Muslim candidates and then turn around and ask that Jewish candidates not have to face dual loyalty accusations or special extra litmus tests.
Much as a society in which antisemitic conspiracy theories are allowed to flourish is ultimately a more conspiratorial, paranoid, and less trusting place for everyone, a polity where candidates are regularly charged with dual loyalty or disloyalty on the basis of their religion or ethnicity is just that — a political discourse where charges of dual loyalty are leveled against ethnic and religious minorities. We don’t get to choose against whom dual loyalty cards are played. We only get to choose whether we think it’s acceptable to play them at all.
The post People accusing El-Sayed of Muslim Brotherhood ties will accuse Jews of dual loyalty too appeared first on The Forward.
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Eight years after Tree of Life shooting, a Jewish burial society’s ranks have nearly doubled
After preparing five victims of the Tree of Life synagogue massacre for burial, members of Pittsburgh’s New Community Chevra Kadisha stood in a circle and held hands.
They had gathered like this before, taking a moment after their work to process what they had done. This time, they were caring for people murdered in their own community.
Volunteers from outside Pittsburgh had come to help. David Zimmer, a longtime member, remembered one visitor bringing a custom from another chevra kadisha.
“He passed around a piece of chocolate,” Zimmer recalled, “so that there should be something sweet.”
Eight years later, NCCK has nearly doubled in size. Before the attack, it had about 38 members, according to records reviewed by Patricia Cluss, one of its founders. Within four months, 11 people had joined. Today, it has 70.
The growth has brought more volunteers into some of the least visible work in Jewish communal life. A chevra kadisha, traditionally translated as a “holy society,” washes and prepares the dead for burial, dresses them in plain white shrouds and helps ensure they are treated with dignity. The work is considered a chesed shel emet, or true kindness, because the dead cannot repay those who care for them.
For NCCK, the aftermath of the attack also revealed another dimension of that care: The people accustomed to supporting others through loss needed support themselves.
Caring for their own
Pittsburgh’s NCCK was founded in 2004 to encourage greater participation in the Jewish tradition of caring for the dead. An Orthodox chevra kadisha already existed, and NCCK’s founders hoped to involve more Jews in the practice, regardless of their level of religious observance.
Cluss was among them. She had encountered an article about Reform Jews reviving Jewish burial practices that had fallen away in some communities. Until then, she had never heard of a chevra kadisha.
“I gotta do that,” she remembered thinking.
Deane Root joined early, too, drawn by an idea: What if Pittsburgh had a chevra kadisha open to anyone in the Jewish community? Root remembered a small group gathering, often in a member’s living room, to figure out the logistics of working with funeral homes and training volunteers.
Then came Oct. 27, 2018.
Root and his wife, Rabbi Doris Dyen, were approaching the Tree of Life synagogue building that Saturday morning when they heard a series of loud noises. They pulled into the parking lot and saw shattered glass.
Two NCCK members had been inside the synagogue, and the dead and wounded included people its members knew. At the Jewish Community Center of Greater Pittsburgh after the shooting, where families and friends gathered and waited for news, Root recalled that “not everybody knew for sure” what had happened to their loved ones.
When the victims were released for burial, NCCK began the work for which it had trained. Members also kept shmira, remaining with the dead and reciting Psalms until burial.
Allen Baum, who coordinates the NCCK men’s members, remembered that by the end, nearly every man in the group had participated in shifts. After the final tahara, the ritual preparation of a body for Jewish burial, they stood in a large circle, joined by women from NCCK as well.
Later, members gathered in a home, bringing food, reading poems and speaking about the people they had lost.Root was carrying the trauma of what he experienced that morning. He described a “video playing in my head constantly.”
Being together helped. “Let the community carry some of that burden,” Root remembered, “rather than keeping it all inside our own emotions and our own minds.”
A growing circle
Following the attack, younger Jews contacted NCCK after reading about its work. Some described joining as something they felt they needed to do as Jews. Others spoke of it as a form of social action.
Elana Glick, who joined NCCK around 2014 after her grandfather died, remembered that the group sometimes struggled to find enough volunteers before the massacre. Afterward, she said, the work became more public, even as members sought to preserve the privacy of the rituals.
At its annual dinner, Glick has watched the group grow. There have been “more and more tables added year after year because of people who have found this and wanted to be a part of this work,” she said.
“Being part of the chevra is one of the ways I feel most attached to my Judaism,” Glick said.
Sarit Wishnevski, executive director of Kavod v’Nichum, a national organization supporting chevrot kadisha and Jewish burial practices, has watched the movement become increasingly multigenerational. At the organization’s November 2025 gathering in Ojai, California, participants ranged from their 20s to their 80s, with one in their 90s.
The Jewish phrase l’dor v’dor is usually understood as passing something “from generation to generation.” Wishnevski suggested it can also mean practicing a tradition with generations alongside one another.
NCCK has also become a resource for other communities. Wishnevski called it a “really strong model,” citing materials its members have shared and their help with questions ranging from starting a group to making the work more inclusive of gender diversity.
The possibility of mass-casualty events has prompted other questions, too. “How will we be prepared?” Wishnevski said. “How will we show up if God forbid this happens here?”
Kavod v’Nichum is developing an emergency preparedness pilot effort. Wishnevski said the goal is not for a chevra kadisha to respond “in a silo,” but to build relationships with first responders, government agencies and other Jewish organizations.
Earlier this month, three NCCK members traveled to Chicago to teach other volunteers about something none would ever want to need: developing tahara liturgy for young children.
But most of the chevra kadisha’s work remains unseen, and the calls come without warning. “The only predictable thing is the unpredictability,” Baum said.
One summer, the men’s group went 11 weeks without a tahara. More recently, Cluss said, the women’s group performed 11 in two weeks. Sometimes volunteers arrive at a funeral home for one person and are asked whether they can stay for another. In recent years, NCCK has performed roughly 90 taharot annually.
For Cluss, the work had long been meaningful. After Tree of Life, she struggled to explain how that meaning had changed. Her daughter noticed something she hadn’t.
“Mom, do you ever notice when you’re talking about the chevra you always put your hand on your heart?”
Cluss hadn’t noticed.
The post Eight years after Tree of Life shooting, a Jewish burial society’s ranks have nearly doubled appeared first on The Forward.
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When a black hat and a toothbrush take on deeper meanings
דניאל גלאַיס באַנד „דער פֿאָיע און אַנדערע פּיעסעס“ (ה. לײוויק־פֿאַרלאַג, תּל־אָבֿיבֿ, 2026), נעמט אַרײַן צוועלף דראַמאַטישע ווערק אין פֿאַרשײדענע זשאַנערס: מעלאָדראַמעס, מאָנאָדראַמעס, משפּחה־דראַמעס און פּאָליטישע סאַטירעס.
די ווערק זײַנען פֿאַרשיידענע, אָבער זײ װערן צונױפֿגעקניפּט דורך אַ בשותּפֿותדיקן מאָטיװ פֿון זכּרון און זײַן כּוח פֿון תּיקון.
גלאַי איז געבוירן געוואָרן אין 1945 אין בוענאָס־אײַרעס, בײַ אַ משפּחה פֿון ייִדישע אימיגראַנטן. אין שטוב, אויף משפּחה־שׂימחות און אױף דער גאַס האָט ער געהערט ייִדיש, העברעיִש און שפּאַניש, װי אױך די קלאַסישע מוזיק, כּלי־זמר און טאַנגאָ.
זײַן טאַטע, זישע גאָלדוואַסער, איז געווען אַ שנײַדער און אַן אַמאַטאָרישער ייִדישער אַקטיאָר. דורך אים האָט דער יונגער דניאל אײַנגעזאַפּט די קלאַנגען, עמאָציעס און אינטאָנאַציעס פֿונעם ייִדישן טעאַטער.
צו פֿינף יאָר האָט גלאַי אָנגעהויבן זיך לערנען מוזיק, לכתּחילה אין בוענאָס־אײַרעס און דערנאָך אין תּל־אָבֿיבֿ. שפּעטער האָט ער באַקומען אַ מאַגיסטער אין קאָמפּאָזיציע פֿונעם שיקאַגע־אוניווערסיטעט.
דער ביאָגראַפֿישער הינטערגרונט העלפֿט פֿאַרשטיין די טיטל־פּיעסע „דער פֿאָיע“. דעם הױפּטהעלד פֿישעלעס פֿאָטער איז — ווי גלאַיס אייגענער טאַטע איז געווען — אַ שנײַדער, װאָס איז פֿאַרליבט אינעם טעאַטער.
דער טעאַטער, און בפֿרט דער פֿאָיע, װערט פֿאַרװאַנדלט אין אַ זכּרון־קאַמער, װוּ עס װערט אױסגעשפּילט די דראַמאַטישע ליבע־געשיכטע פֿון פֿישעלע און זײַן געליבטער רײזעלע. זײ באַװײַזן זיך אױף דער בינע אין דרײַ געשטאַלטן — װי קינדער, יונגע לײַט און דערװאַקסענע.
דער פֿאָיע איז מער ווי אַ טייל פֿונעם טעאַטער־בנין. דאָס אין אַ פּונקט װוּ דער זכּרון טרעפֿט זיך מיט דער ווירקלעכקייט. דער דערוואַקסענער פֿישל עקשטיין שטייט דאָ ווי אַ רואה ואינו נראה, אַן אומזעעוודיקער אָבסערוואַטאָר װאָס פּרוּווט צו פֿאַרבינדן „צוויי פּונקטן אין דער צײַט“.
בײַ גלאַין איז די קינדהײט ניט קײן אַלטע מעשׂה־שהיה, נאָר זי פֿאַרמאָגט אַ שליסל צום הײַנט: „דער סוד פֿון וואָס איך בין הײַנט, מײַנע טרוימען, ליבע און פּײַן, שטעקט אין אָט די נאָענטע קינדעריאָרן“, זאָגט פֿישל אינעם פֿאָיע.
ווען דער קליינער פֿישעלע קען ניט ענטפֿערן אויף אַ פֿראַגע פֿונעם כּפֿל־טאַבעלע, שרײַט ער אויס: „דרײַצן טויזנט מיליאַרד!“ דער קלאַס לאַכט אים אױס, אָבער פֿאַר אים שטעקט אין דער דאָזיקער צאָל אַ סוד, אַן „עניגמע“.
שפּעטער ווערט ער אַ באַרימטער פֿיזיקער. עס גײט דאָ ניט סתּם וועגן אַ שלעכטן תּלמיד, וואָס איז געקומען צום שׂכל. די עניגמאַטישע ריזיקע צאָל איז אַ סימן פֿון אַ שטאַרקן כּוח־הדמיון. די שול קען ניט דערקענען זײַן טאַלאַנט, אָבער דװקא אָט דער כּוח דערמעגלעכט זײַן אױפֿטו אין װיסנשאַפֿט.
אַן ענלעכע דינאַמיק שטעקט הינטער רייזעלעס דערפֿאָלג װי אַ טעאַטער־שטערן. פֿישעלע טרעפֿט זי אױפֿן מאַרק װוּ זי זינגט שטײענדיק אויף אַ פֿרוכטן־קעסטל. זי זאָגט צו אים: „זאָלסט װיסן…קונסט שטייט העכער פֿון אַלץ!“
דאָס קעסטל איז איינער פֿון גלאַיס בינע־חפֿצים מיט אַ סימבאָלישן באַטײַט. אַ פּשוטער טאָגטעגלעכער אָביעקט איז אַ מין זכּרון־פּושקע װאָס פֿאַרבאַהאַלט דעם חלום פֿון די קינדעריאָרן. דאָס קעסטל באַװײַזט זיך װידער אינעם פֿאָיע, װען די דערװאַקסענע רײזל זעצט זיך אַנידער כּדי אָפּצוגעבן זיך אַ דין־וחשבון פֿון איר לעבן.
אַזאַ מין פֿונקציע האָבן די בינע־חפֿצים אויך אין אַנדערע פּיעסעס. אין „באַכס פּאַרטיטע אין רע מאַזשאָר“ איז דאָס דער שוואַרצער הוט, װאָס די מאַמע טראָגט װען זי קומט צו איר טאָכטערס פּיאַנע־קאָנצערט.
אײן בליק אױף דעם הוט ברענגט די טאָכטער פֿון די כּלים אַרױס און מאַכט קאַליע דעם קאָנצערט. דער הוט איז דאָ אַ סימן פֿון דער מוטערס קאָנטראָל איבער דער טאָכטערס פּערזענלעכקײט — אַ פּראָבלעם, װאָס זײ בײדע מוזן לײזן.
אַ פּשוטער חפֿץ איז אָפֿט מאָל חשובֿער אײדער אַ בכּבֿודיקער. „דאָס ציינבערשטל און די כּתובֿה“ איז אַ פּיעסע װעגן אַ משפּחה־ברוגז. דער מאַן װאַרפֿט מיט כּעס זײַן טעלעפֿאָן אין דער װאַנט אַרײַן און צעברעכט על־פּי־צופֿאַל די כּתובֿה. דאָס צעבראָכענע גלאָז איז אַן אָנזאָגער פֿונעם משפּחה־קריזיס.
דער מאַן ציט זיך אַריבער אין אַן אַנדער דירה, אָבער קען ניט געפֿינען זײַן ציינבערשטל. אין צװישן געפֿינט די פֿרױ אָט דעם צײנבערשטל און דאָס גיט איר אַ תּירוץ צו טעלעפֿאָנירן דעם מאַן. דער סוף איז גוט; שלום־בית װערט אױפֿגעשטעלט.
גלאַי האָט געשריבן מוזיק צו די לידער פֿון פֿאַרשײדענע ייִדישע און העברעיִשע דיכטער. אין זײַן טעאַטער איז מוזיק ניט קיין באַפּוצונג, נאָר אַן אייגנאַרטיקע בינע־שפּראַך. אױך טאַנץ איז פֿאַר גלאַי, ווי ער האָט געזאָגט אין אַן אינטערוויו, „די שפּראַך פֿונעם גוף“, װאָס איז וויזועל, דינאַמיש און פֿאַרשטענדלעך פֿאַר אַלעמען.
אַ סינטעז צװישן װאָרט, קלאַנג און באַװעגונג קומט פֿאָר אין „אַ פֿריילעכס פֿאַר איסאַ“. אין דער פּיעסע, װאָס איז געװידמעט דער באַרימטער זינגערין איסאַ קרעמער, װערן איבערגעפֿלאָכטן לידער, טענץ, ביאָגראַפֿישע פּרטים, אַרכיוואַלע דאָקומענטן און חלומות.
אַ װיכטיקער זשאַנער אין גלאַיס דראַמאַטורגיע איז די גראָטעסקע סאַטירע. „ווי מאַכט מען חרובֿ אַ פֿאָלק“ איז אַ בינע־עקספּערימענט: חיים װיל װײַזן זײַן חבֿר יאַנקל װי אַזױ צו „צערײַסן אױף שטיקער“ גוטע אָרנטלעכע מענטשן דורך דעמאַגאָגיע און געװאַלט.
חיימס װערטער „מען האָט אַ מאָל גרינטלעך מתקן געװען דאָס פֿאָלק. איצט קומט די ריכטיקע שעה מאַכן פֿון אים אַש און פּאָרעך“ קלינגען ספּעציעל אַקטועל אין דער הײַנטיקער געשפּאַנטער פּאָליטישער אַטמאָספֿער סײַ אין אַמעריקע סײַ אין ישׂראל.
אין אַן אינטערוויו האָט גלאַי געזאָגט, אַז אַ קינסטלער דאַרף ניט בלויז שילדערן די װירקלעכקײט, נאָר אויך אָנווײַזן אויף אַ בעסערער וועלט מיט מער יושר און ליבע. זײַנע פּיעסעס זאָגן אָבער ניט צו, אַז קונסט קען ברענגען אַ תּיקון־עולם. צװישן זײַנע פּערסאָנאַזשן זײַנען ניטאָ קײן אידעאַלע העלדן. זײַן טעאַטער איז אַ פֿאָיע, װוּ מען טרעפֿט זיך פּנים־אל־פּנים מיט זיך אַלײן, מיט אַלע זײַנע שװאַכקײטן און חסרונות.
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