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Bosnian Jews mourn Moris Albahari, one of Sarajevo’s last Ladino speakers

(JTA) — Moris Albahari, a Holocaust survivor, former partisan fighter and one of the last Ladino speakers in Bosnia and Herzegovina’s dwindling Jewish community, passed away at the age of 93 last month.

It is believed that he was one of four native Ladino speakers remaining in a country where the Judeo-Spanish language once flourished and was spoken by  luminaries like Flory Jagoda, the grande dame of Ladino song, and Laura Bohoretta, the founder of a uniquely Sephardic feminist movement in Bosnia.  

Bosnia’s small Jewish community — with barely 900 members throughout the country, 500 of whom live in Sarajevo — are mourning the loss of a living link to communal memory as well as a dear friend. 

From you, uncle Moco, I learned a lot about Judaism, about life, about nature and especially about people. About both the good and the evil,” Igor Kožemjakin, the cantor of the Sarajevo Jewish community, wrote in a memorial post on Facebook, referring to Moris as “Čika,” or uncle, a term of endearment in Bosnian. 

“It is a terrible loss, especially for Sarajevo. Our community is very small, especially after the Holocaust,” Eliezer Papo, a Sarajevo-born Jew and scholar of Ladino language and literature at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency. “We’re not speaking just in terms of prominent members of the community, we’re speaking in terms of family members. Everyone is like a family member.”

When Albahari was growing up in the 1930s, the Jewish community of his native Sarajevo numbered over 12,000. Jews made up more than a fifth of the city and it was one of the most important centers of Jewish life in the western Balkans.

In his youth, the city was part of what was then the Kingdom of Yugoslavia. Formed out of the borderlands between the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian empires, it was a multiethnic state composed of Croats, Serbs, Bosniaks, Slovenians, Macedonians, Hungarians, Albanians and more. Among them were many Jewish communities both Ashkenazi and Sephardic.

The unique mix of of Muslim, Jewish, Catholic and Orthodox Christian communities, with their mosques, synagogues and churches defining Sarajevo’s skyline, earned the city the nickname “Little Jerusalem.”

Speaking in a 2015 documentary made by American researchers, “Saved by Language,” Albahari explained that his family traced their roots back to Cordoba before the Spanish Inquisition, and through Venice, before settling in what would become Bosnia when it was part of the Ottoman Empire.

We didn’t want to ‘just’ write an article about Moris or Sarajevo; we wanted [the audience] to see what we saw and hear what we heard,” Brian Kirschen, professor of Ladino at Binghamton University, who worked on the documentary with author Susanna Zaraysky, told JTA. “This resulted in a grassroots initiative to create the documentary.” 

In the film, Albahari takes the researchers and their viewers on a tour through what was Jewish Sarajevo, giving glimpses of the thriving Ladino speaking community in which he was raised and explaining how ithe language would save him many times, when the Nazis and their Croat allies, the Ustaša, came to shatter it. 

In sharing your story of survival during the Holocaust, you opened doors that remained closed for decades,” Kirschen said in a memorial post on Facebook. “Some of your stories were even new to members of your family, but each survivor has their own timeline. While you experienced great pain during your life, from your story, we also learn about moments of kindness and heroism. Through your story, you also taught us about the power of language.” 

Albahari wasn’t yet a teenager when, in 1941, Nazi Germany and Mussolini’s Italy invaded Yugoslavia. The Nazis occupied the eastern portion of the country, including what is now Serbia, while they raised up a Croat fascist party, known as the Ustaša, to administer the newly formed “Independent State of Croatia” — often known by its Serbo-Croatian initials, NDH — in the western regions that included the modern-day Bosnia and Herzegovina. 

The Ustaša collaborated in the Nazis’ genocidal plans for Europe’s Jewish and Roma comunities, and they had genocidal designs of their own for the Orthodox Serb communities living in the NDH.

To that end they established the Jasenovac concentration camp, which would become known as the Auschwitz of the Balkans. By the war’s end it had become the third largest concentration camp in Europe, and behind its walls the overwhelming majority of Sarajevo’s Jews — at least 10,000 — were massacred. Including Serbs, Jews, Roma and political dissidents of Croat or Muslim Bosniak background, as many as 100,000 people were killed in Jasenovac. 

Albahari was 11 years old when the Ustaša came to deport him and his large family to Jasenovac. A former teacher working as an Ustaša guard in the town of Drvar, where the train stopped, warned Albahari’s father, David, about their destination, and he was able to help his son escape from the train. 

The teacher helped guide the young Moris to an Italian soldier named Lino Marchione who was secretly helping Jews.

This was the first case when Albahari’s Ladino came in handy. Ladino is largely based on medieval Spanish, with a mixture of Hebrew, Aramaic, Turkish and other languages mixed in. For speakers of Serbo-Croatian, a Slavic language, it’s entirely incomprehensible. But for a speaker of another Romance language such as Italian, it’s not such a stretch to understand, and Moris was able to converse with his Italian savior.

With his family gone, he was taken in by a Serb family, and changed his name to Milan Adamovic to hide his Jewish identity. Still, by 1942, it became clear that neither as Adamovic nor Albahari would he be safe in the town. So he fled to the mountains. 

“If there was [a battle] I took clothes from a dead soldier to wear, I lived like a wolf in the mountains, you know. Visiting villages [asking for something] to give me for eating, it was a terrible time,” Albahari recalled in “Saved By Language.” 

He would only feel safe in villages under the control of partisan forces. Yugoslavia was the only country in Europe to be liberated from Nazi rule by its own grassroots resistance. 

During his time in the mountains, Albahari joined up with a partisan unit aligned with the movement of Josip Broz Tito, who would lead Communist Yugoslavia after the war. By the war’s end, Tito’s partisans numbered over 80,000 and included more than 6,000 Jews, many in prominent positions, such as Moša Pijade, who would go on to serve as vice president of the Yugoslav parliament after the war. 

Moris was out on patrol as a partisan when he came upon a group of American and British paratroopers. They raised their weapons at him, thinking he was an enemy. Moris tried to communicate, but he spoke no English. 

When he asked the soldiers if they spoke German or Italian, they shook their heads. When he asked about Spanish, one perked up: a Hispanic-American soldier by the name of David Garijo. 

In Ladino, Alabahari was able to explain that he was not an enemy but could lead them to a nearby partisan camp where they would be safe. 

“Ladino saved my life in the war,” Albahari recalled in the documentary. 

At the partisan camp, Morris received even bigger news: The family that he had assumed had all perished after he left the train were in fact alive. The former school teacher and Ustaša guard who had warned his father had met them at the next train junction to help them escape. Furthermore, around half of the Jews in the train car were able to escape using the same hole Moris used during his initial escape. 

Ultimately the family all survived the war, unlike so many other Jews of Sarajevo. 

“Where is Samuel, where is Dudo, where is Gedala? They never came back,” Albahari lamented, listing missing neighbors while walking through Sarajevo’s old Jewish neighborhood in the documentary. “Maybe we are happy because we are alive after the Second World War, but also unlikely because every day we must cry for these dead people.”

When Moris returned to Sarajevo, it was an entirely different place from the bustling Jewish community he had once known. 

Gone was the sound of Ladino in the streets and alleyways of Bascarsija, the market district where so many of Sarajevo’s Jews had once lived. Gone were the synagogues — only one of the many synagogues that had existed before WWII still functions. Gone was the robust Jewish life that was once a central part of Sarajevo

Moris was still only 14 by the war’s end, so he returned to school and ultimately graduated at the top of his class. He became a pilot and later director of the Sarajevo Airport. 

In this new world, Ladino was spoken, if at all, only in the home.

“Always, when I hear Spanish, I hear my father and mother, and all the synagogues, prayers in Ladino and rabbis who spoke Ladino. But that is in the past,” Albahari says in “Saved by Language.” 

Eliezer Papo, who is a generation younger than Albahari, recalled that in his youth Ladino had long been reduced to a language of secrets. 

“Mostly, Ladino was used when the elders didn’t want youngsters to understand,” Papo said.

Only later, in the 1980s, did community members realize what was being lost and begin to gather to maintain their language, recount what Jewish Sarajevo had been like and share their wartime stories of survival. 

“He never took his story to the places of revenge, but he took it and his life experience to a place of ‘Never again,’ not just ‘Never again for Jews’, but never again for anybody,” said Papo.

Like many Sarajevans, World War II would not be the last major conflict Albahari would see. Less than 40 years later, war would once again come to Sarajevo with the break-up of Yugoslavia. 

From 1992-1995 the city remained under constant siege by Bosnian Serb forces looking to break away from what would become Bosnia and Herzegovina. Moris joined with other Jews of Sarajevo in working to provide aid to their fellow Sarajevans during the harsh period.

Sarajevo’s synagogue was turned into a shelter and a soup kitchen. The community ran a network of underground pharmacies and a message service allowing Sarajevans to get word to family and friends outside of the city during what became the longest siege of a capital city in the history of modern warfare.

“Moris was an inspirational persona to many members of Jewish community and La Benevolencija,” Vlado Anderle, the current president of that local Jewish humanitarian organization told JTA. “He was a man with such inviting spirit and energy.”

When the dust settled on the breakup of Yugoslavia, and the new Bosnian state rose from its ashes, Moris found himself once again in a new role. 

During the communist era in Yugoslavia, religious activity was discouraged. Sarajevo’s Jews emphasized the ethnic character of Jewish culture rather than the religious one. In the new Bosnia and Herzegovina, that was no longer true. So the community worked to reconnect with their religious identity as well. 

“Everybody looked up to the people who had Jewish upbringing before the Second World War,” Papo recalled. “This doesn’t mean that they were rabbis. Just that they knew it better than anyone else.”

Moris, whose formal Jewish education ended in his preteen years, was appointed president of the community’s religious committee.

As such it often fell on him to represent Judaism to the Bosnian society at large, often in a very creative way, according to Papo, who in addition to being a scholar of Ladino is ordained as a rabbi and serves the Sarajevo community as a rabbi-at-large from Israel. 

In one case, while being interviewed on a major Bosnian television station, Moris was asked why Jews cover their head with a kippah or other hat during prayer. Moris’ response, or rather creative interpretation, as Papo called it, was made up on the spot. 

Moris’ interpretation began with the ancient temple in Jerusalem where Jews once had to fully immerse in a ritual bath before entering.

“Since the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed it was reduced to washing the uncovered parts of the body only, before entering a synagogue, similarly to Muslims: the feet, the head, the hands…” Papo recalled him saying. But in Europe, as Moris’ answer went, they began to cover more and more of their body. “In Europe they started wearing shoes, so the feet were not uncovered anymore, and then they started wearing a hat, not to have to wash their head… you know it’s Europe, one could catch a cold if going out with wet hair…”

“A few months later, I came to Sarajevo, and found that everyone has heard this explanation and is talking about it, not just people in the community, but in the street,” Papo said. “And you know, I let it pass, I couldn’t correct them, it was just so beautiful. That was his genius.”

“Identity is all about telling stories. And Moris was one of the great storytellers of the community,” Papo added. And through his stories he expressed an identity which was “made of the same contradictions that Sephardic Judaism is made of, that Sarajevo is made of, that Bosnia and Herzegovina is made and that Yugoslavia was and is made of and that the Balkans are made of.”

Albahari is survived by his wife and a son.


The post Bosnian Jews mourn Moris Albahari, one of Sarajevo’s last Ladino speakers appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.

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Despite Rule Changes, Israel Proved the Haters Wrong at Eurovision

Noam Bettan, representing Israel, performs “Michelle” during the Grand Final of the 2026 Eurovision Song Contest in Vienna, Austria, May 16, 2026. REUTERS/Lisa Leutner

The crowd in Austria booed when it was announced that Israel was in the lead, with only several countries remaining to receive audience votes, in this year’s Eurovision competition.

Noam Bettan’s song “Michelle” — in Hebrew, French, and English — was without a doubt the best song in the competition. But The New York Times had written a disgusting hit piece about how Israel spends a lot of money on its Eurovision entry, while not mentioning anything about the efforts and spending of other countries in the competition. Spain, Slovenia, Iceland, Ireland, and the Netherlands boycotted the competition.

It also made Jew-haters nervous that traditionally, the country that wins hosts Eurovision the next year — meaning that if Israel won, the competition could have come to Jerusalem or Tel Aviv.

Ultimately, Bulgaria was the surprise winner with the nonsense song “Bangaranga!” performed in English by Dara. It’s fun in a campy way, but seems more like a sketch song from a comedy show than a song that should win Eurovision.

Bettan’s “Michelle” showed off his powerful voice, and the song got bigger and better as it went on.

I thought that Finland had the second best song after Israel, with “Liekinheitin” performed by Pete Parkkonen with Linda Lampenius on violin. The country finished sixth. Australia’s Delta Goodrem impressed with “Eclipse,” in what was the third best song of the competition, though the country was awarded fourth place.

Countries in the grand finale were awarded a jury vote (by a panel of professionals) and the televote-countries got 12 votes if they were the top vote getter from another country, with other points if they were in a country’s top 10.

Those voting on their phone or online could not vote for someone from their own country. The rules changed from last year so that each person could vote 10 times, as opposed to last year’s 20. Some critics of Israel online hoped this rule change might limit Israel’s ability to have a strong finish. There was also a “Rest of The World Vote” factored in.

Israel was in the lead with a total of 343 points, 220 from the public and 123 from the jury. With Bulgaria getting 204 jury points, the announcer noted that Bulgaria would need 140 points from the public to be the winner. It received an inexplicable 312 public votes. The jury gave France 144 points, Poland 133 points, Denmark 165 points, and Italy 134 points — which some saw as possible bias against Israel, though Australia’s 165 points and Finland’s 141 points, may have been due to the actual merit of the songs.

With rumors flying that Bulgaria can’t afford to have the Eurovision show in their country, there was speculation online asking if Israel would host it next year — but that sadly will never happen.

Even though Bettan finished second, it was a clear victory, as the song was great, and Israel thrived despite the new rule changes that were put in place because the public complained about last year’s pro-Israel results.

Will Bettan’s strong finish change anyone’s mind about Israel? One never knows exactly, but it doesn’t hurt to have a handsome amazing singer shine on the global stage.

This marks the third consecutive year that Israel has had a great song and performer, and finished in the top 5. Last year, Israel came in second with Yuval Raphael’s “New Day Will Rise.” She received 297 public votes, the most of any competitor, but only 60 jury points, the fewest of any in the top seven. In 2024, Israel finished fifth with Eden Golan’s “Hurricane.” She received 323 points from public votes, the second most in the competition, but only 50 from the jury, the lowest number of any in the top 10.

Israel finishing second for the second consecutive year once again shows a country that beats the odds and shows greatness.

The author is a writer based in New York.

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Even After a Terrorist Attack and Royal Commission, Australia Doesn’t Take Antisemitism Seriously

Demonstrators gather outside Flinders Street Station during a protest against Israeli President Isaac Herzog’s state visit to Australia, following a deadly mass shooting at a Hanukkah celebration at Bondi Beach on Dec. 14, 2025, in Melbourne, Australia, Feb.12, 2026. Photo: REUTERS/Tracey Nearmy

This is not only an Australian story. Jewish communities across the diaspora are living through the same reality. People have been murdered. Jews have been attacked in the streets. Jewish institutions have been threatened and forced to operate under continuously heightened security. Students have been targeted on campus. Families have been made to think twice before being visibly Jewish in public.

The details differ, but the pattern is painfully familiar. Australia is part of a broader failure across the world to confront antisemitism with the seriousness it demands.

For more than two years, Jewish Australians have been told that antisemitism has no place here. We have heard statements of concern and promises that hatred will not be tolerated. But it is being tolerated.

This is no longer theoretical. Jewish children are continuing to hide who they are. Students continue to be intimidated. Synagogues, schools, and community institutions are operating under continuously heightened security. Families are asking whether Australia is still a place where Jews can live openly and safely.

Antisemitism has moved into ordinary life. It appears on campuses, in workplaces, online, in public spaces, and in the constant expectation that Jews explain themselves, apologize for themselves or remain silent.

Australia’s Royal Commission into Antisemitism and Social Cohesion was established to examine the rise of antisemitism and its impact on Jewish Australians. A Royal Commission is one of Australia’s most serious public inquiries, with the power to hear evidence and make recommendations that should shape national policy.

That is why this moment matters. Jewish Australians are asking to be heard through the very process Australia has created. They are asking to be protected, and to see existing laws, standards and institutional policies enforced. They are asking for proof that the country understands what is being exposed, including when antisemitism makes Jewish life smaller, more guarded, and less secure. 

But the Royal Commission is revealing something deeply uncomfortable. Even as Jewish Australians give evidence, much of the broader community is not paying attention. Worse, the process itself has drawn more antisemitism online and in person. When Jews speak about hatred and the response is more hatred, the problem is being demonstrated in real time.

This should alarm every Australian. When Jews describe antisemitism, they are accused of inventing it. When they report intimidation, they are told they are exaggerating. When they ask for protection, they are accused of seeking special treatment. When they call out hatred disguised as politics, they are told they are trying to silence debate.

Australia now faces a clear choice. It can keep speaking about antisemitism as a regrettable social issue, or treat it as the serious threat to public safety, social cohesion, and democratic values that it has become. 

Universities remain one of the clearest examples of institutional failure. Too many Jewish students have had to walk past slogans that glorify violence, sit in classes where Israel is demonized beyond any reasonable academic standard, and navigate complaint systems designed to exhaust them rather than protect them.

The same applies beyond campus. Councils, schools, workplaces, sporting bodies, cultural institutions, and public venues all have a responsibility to ensure antisemitism is not normalized under the banner of politics.

Anti-Zionism, when it denies Jewish people the same right to self-determination afforded to others, or holds Jews collectively responsible for Israel, is not legitimate criticism. Israel can be criticized. But when that criticism becomes a demand that the Jewish state alone should not exist, uses Nazi comparisons, justifies terrorism, or treats every Jew as a proxy for Israel, it crosses a line too often ignored. 

The test is whether Australia can stop enabling antisemitism. That means policing hate speech and intimidation, online accountability, proper security support for vulnerable Jewish institutions, and consequences for institutions that fail to protect Jewish Australians.

For too long, Jewish communities across the diaspora have been asked to explain the problem while others debate whether it is real. It is real. It is not only a Jewish problem. It is a warning sign for every democratic society.

Because in Australia, as across the diaspora, the question is no longer whether antisemitism exists. Jewish communities know it does. A Royal Commission now exists because the problem has become impossible to ignore. The question is whether our leaders, institutions and society have the courage to act before even more damage is done.

Michael Gencher is Executive Director of StandWithUs Australia, an international nonpartisan education organization that supports Israel and fights antisemitism.

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Amid Conspiracy Theories, Eurovision Proves Ordinary People Are Still Willing to Treat Israel Fairly

Noam Bettan, representing Israel, performs “Michelle” during the dress rehearsal 2 of the Grand Final of the 2026 Eurovision Song Contest, in Vienna, Austria, May 15, 2026. Photo: REUTERS/Lisa Leutner

For many Americans, Eurovision requires a brief explanation. It is a massive annual international music competition involving dozens of countries across Europe and nearby regions, watched by hundreds of millions of people. And because much of the Arab world boycotted Israel culturally and politically after 1948 — excluding it from most regional sporting and cultural frameworks — Israel was integrated into European competitions instead.

Much like the situation where Israeli soccer teams must qualify for the World Cup through Europe rather than through the Middle East, Israel competes in Eurovision through the European broadcasting system.

For years now, Eurovision has followed the same ritualized choreography when it comes to Israel.

There are protests outside the arena. Activists demand Israel’s exclusion. Broadcasters openly question whether Israel should even participate. Some performers posture about morality and “complicity.” Social media floods with denunciations. Major media outlets, like The New York Times, publish innuendo-filled pieces implying Israel is somehow manipulating the contest through “soft power,” aggressive promotion, or shadowy mobilization campaigns.

And then the public votes for Israel at — or near — the top anyway.

The pressure campaign against Israel exploded after October 7, 2023, but the politicization predates October 7 by years.

Israel historically performed extremely well at Eurovision, winning in 1978, 1979, 1998, and again in 2018 with Netta Barzilai’s “Toy.” For decades, Israel was treated largely as a normal — if occasionally controversial — participant.

That changed during the 2010s, alongside the rise of intersectional activist politics, the normalization of BDS rhetoric in cultural spaces, and the growing effort to frame Israel as not merely controversial, but as uniquely illegitimate.

Netta’s 2018 victory was an early warning sign. The backlash quickly escalated from criticism of the song itself to claims that Israel should not host Eurovision (as all winners do) because the contest was supposedly “laundering apartheid.”

After October 7, the situation became impossible to ignore.

Israel increasingly received weak jury scores while performing dramatically better with the public vote. Ordinary viewers and elite opinion were diverging sharply.

That pattern repeated this year with Israel’s multilingual ballad “Michelle,” performed by Noam Bettan.

Last year, Israel’s “New Day Will Rise,” performed by Yuval Raphael — herself a survivor of the Nova massacre — triggered a frenzy of insinuations about “manipulated” voting after she finished second despite ranking only 15th with the professional juries.

This year, “Michelle” briefly surged into the overall lead during the public vote reveal but ultimately finished second as Bulgaria secured the win with far stronger professional jury support.

And once again, the reaction was not: “perhaps the public genuinely liked the song.”

Instead, Israel’s success is cast as both suspect and suspicious.

Apparently, Israel promoting its Eurovision entry is now evidence of sinister “soft power” — despite Eurovision itself being essentially one giant soft-power competition.

Countries spend heavily promoting themselves through Eurovision. The contest has always been part music competition, part tourism campaign, part national branding exercise, and part geopolitical theater in sequins.

Host countries market tourism and national identity through the contest. Governments support contestants. National broadcasters campaign aggressively. Diaspora and regional voting blocs have existed for decades and are openly joked about every year.

None of this becomes scandalous unless Israel succeeds.

Because increasingly, Israel is not treated as a normal country participating in international cultural life, but as a uniquely illegitimate presence whose success must always be explained away as manipulation, coercion, propaganda, or hidden influence — an impulse that mirrors classic antisemitic patterns.

In fact, many journalists now deploy this double standard so reflexively they no longer even recognize it.

But the deeper issue here is not really the Eurovision itself. It is the widening divide between institutional opinion and public sentiment.

The Eurovision voting system makes this unusually visible. Countries award separate “professional jury” votes and public televotes. Under Eurovision rules, countries cannot televote for themselves. Meanwhile, countries like Britain, France, Ukraine, Poland, and Romania possess diaspora populations vastly larger than the global Jewish population.

Yet when Israel performs strongly with the public vote, conspiracy theories immediately emerge.

The global Jewish population is roughly 15 million people — about half living in Israel, with much of the diaspora concentrated in the United States, where Eurovision remains relatively niche in mainstream culture. The notion that diaspora Jews are secretly overpowering Europe’s vastly larger voting populations through coordinated televoting campaigns collapses under minimal scrutiny.

The problem for many activists is not Israel’s Eurovision strategy. It is that the public itself keeps refusing to behave correctly.

The public keeps voting for the Israelis anyway — likely because Israeli entries are often among the competition’s strongest. And because many ordinary viewers probably recoil from the increasingly hysterical effort to turn Israeli artists into untouchables.

That effort has increasingly backfired.

Several left-wing European broadcasters and political actors spent years trying to pressure Eurovision organizers to ban Israel entirely. When that failed, some shifted toward symbolic boycotts and public distancing campaigns.

Yet despite the protests, the media pressure, the activist intimidation, and despite professional juries that increasingly appear politically or socially pressured not to reward Israel too generously, Israel still finished second again this year — propelled overwhelmingly by ordinary viewers.

That is the real story.

This does not mean European publics are uniformly pro-Israel. They are not. But many appear to recognize that the obsession with Israel is wildly disproportionate and often reflects something deeper than policy disagreement: hostility toward Jewish national legitimacy itself.

That distinction mattered even more after October 7.

Because while large segments of the Western media rapidly attempted to reframe Israelis from massacre victims into primary villains almost immediately after the largest single-day slaughter of Jews since the Holocaust, millions of ordinary people watched what actually happened.

They saw civilians butchered in homes. Families burned alive. Young people massacred at a music festival. Women dragged into Gaza. Babies kidnapped. Holocaust survivors taken hostage.

And despite relentless efforts afterward to flatten chronology, causation, and moral categories, many people never fully accepted the demand that Israelis immediately cede to an assigned role as uniquely illegitimate global pariahs. That, for parts of Europe’s activist and media class, is the real scandal.

Micha Danzig is an attorney, former IDF soldier, and former NYPD officer. He writes widely on Israel, Zionism, antisemitism, and Jewish history. He serves on the board of Herut North America.

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