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For many Jewish teens, COVID broke the synagogue habit
This article was produced as part of JTA’s Teen Journalism Fellowship, a program that works with Jewish teens around the world to report on issues that affect their lives.
(JTA) — Jordy Levy, 18, remembers sitting at the table with his family, enjoying a relaxed Shabbat dinner at his Atlanta home during the pandemic. There was no hassle of getting dressed up, no schlep to synagogue, just hanging out and spending time with his family. In the background, a Facebook livestream of his congregation’s Friday night services played.
This is a scene that has become largely familiar over the course of the pandemic. COVID-19 forced many synagogues to close their doors and move their services and programs to virtual platforms. Many synagogues saw overall engagement grow as a result of this shift.
And yet for many Jewish teens, Levy’s experience was the exception. The technology, which in some ways made connecting with synagogues more convenient, caused a loss of connection among teens that has lingered even now that most congregations are back in person.
“I know a lot of kids just stopped going to synagogue outright because with COVID-19 they were so used to not going,” said Jill Mankosky, 18, a member of the Conservative Agudas Achim Congregation in Alexandria, Virginia. “This year when the High Holiday services were in person again, I noticed a lot of my classmates who would have been there previously pre-COVID-19 were just not there anymore.”
Congregations are now at a crossroads, determining which direction they want to move in next as the world slowly transitions away from the pandemic.
“Return back to normal is a bad way to phrase it because there is really no normal,” said Maya Kamenske, 16, a member of Agudas Achim.
Especially for Conservative congregations like Kamenske’s, the switch to online prayer was a significant one. In 2001, the Conservative movement’s Jewish law committee prohibited counting someone participating in an online manner towards the prayer quorum, or minyan needed for communal prayer. Virtual services initially breached this decision, although the ruling was soon amended to allow virtual Shabbat services during the pandemic.
Teens Jaqui Drobnis, left, and Max Gordon, right, lead a Tu Bishvat seder with a group of first graders at Agudas Achim Congregation in Alexandria, Virginia. (Courtesy of Chaya Silver)
Virtual services increased accessibility by making it simpler for people who would otherwise struggle to be at the congregation to still participate. For example, Jonah Golbus, 17, said that there were times when he was unable to find a ride to his synagogue, Rodef Sholom in San Rafael, California. Now, he does not have to worry about that. Virtual services allow people more flexibility for participation, and can be squeezed more easily into schedules.
“Having [online] High Holiday services as an option for those who [either] can’t or don’t feel up to coming in person is a really good addition that I’m glad we’ve kept,” said Mankosky. “I’m hoping it continues because, for example, when I’m in college, I can’t come back for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services, but I’d still like to attend the services of [my] synagogue. Having an option to do them on Zoom from my dorm or something would be really helpful.”
Many synagogues saw a definite spike in participation and engagement of their members overall after implementing virtual services made participation simpler. This was not the case for teen programs, though. Many teens interviewed for this article reported that engagement dropped when it went digital.
Kira Rodriguez, a senior in high school and member of the Rodef Sholom congregation, tried to stay involved after Rodef Sholom went virtual, and attended a number of virtual activities for the first few months. Eventually, it just became too much.
“I was just so mentally exhausted from always being on Zoom,” said Rodriguez. “I couldn’t take another two hours of it [for the teen activities].”
Golbus, who struggled to find rides to Rodef Sholom, said that he was never really engaged on Zoom, so he did not attend any of the virtual programming during the pandemic. Now that he has friends who are in-person again, he has become more active in his congregation. Still, the events look different than they used to.
“It’s not as crowded as it used to be,” said Golbus. “There’s less people I know, so there’s less of an incentive on my end to go to these [activities].” He said that it is just less of a habit to go to temple now than it used to be before the pandemic, even if people are slowly reverting back to how it was.
The pandemic-related loss of in-person interactions damaged teens’ social connections within their congregations. While some teens returned to their congregations as they began to open back up, others never did.
Mankosky also blames the decline in participation to her and her peers starting high school and becoming increasingly busy. What is normally a period fraught with change for teens became, in many instances, even more challenging as COVID-19 took its toll. She is not alone in feeling more disconnected from her peers.
Teens from Congregation Rodef Sholom in San Rafael, California enjoyed a kayaking trip as a way to spend time together outdoors. (Courtesy of Rudy Brandt)
“I remember there was a really communal aspect to the congregation before. My religious school class [and I] were really really close. We often invited each other to our birthday parties outside of religious school, even though most of us didn’t even go to class together,“ said Jacob Bensen, 15, about Agudas Achim. ”It was almost like having a second family.” Now, he says, this has fallen to the wayside as the class has mostly lost touch since COVID-19. Most people haven’t put in the effort to reconnect since returning in-person.
Mila Einspruch, 16, had a different experience with Zoom during the pandemic. Prior to COVID-19, she said that she was on the track towards dropping all involvement with her congregation, Temple Sinai, in Oakland, California. With virtual school, Einspruch was unable to hang out with people as she had before. Her Reform congregation had a monthly Zoom club for eighth graders aimed at engaging and conversing. It was such an enjoyable experience that she became more involved in her congregation after it opened back up.
Yet even for those like Einspruch who returned, the community still feels different than it used to.
“Now, everything’s a little bit more fragmented,” said Einspruch. “The biggest thing that’s blocking people from coming [to temple] is just [that] those [social] connections are gone.”
Despite all of this, Rodriguez saw a spike in attendance following COVID-19 at her Reform congregation, Rodef Shalom, as there was a lot of initial excitement to be back in the building together. She said that faded within a couple of months as the initial novelty wore off. Now, there are odd gaps in ages between the teens. There are few freshmen and sophomores that show up, whereas the upperclassmen, like herself, are more likely to participate in activities. A few teens weighed in on why this is happening.
“It feels like there’s this gap of time where I would have started to get more involved after eighth grade into freshman year where there’s this transition of becoming older and going to those activities [beyond religious school], but then that’s when COVID-19 hit for me,” said Adina Golbus, 17, belongs to Rodef Sholom with her brother Jonah. “COVID-19 I think had a part in [me not going to as many activities] because it kind of prevented that transition period.”
All of the trips and activities planned to ease this transition were canceled, exacerbating the rate at which teens stopped being active members in their congregations. Einspruch had a similar experience with the lack of structure.
“Straight out of our bar and bat mitzvahs, there would have been some scaffolding and structure [to motivate teens] to join the teen program,” Einspruch said. COVID-19 dismantled that.
However, Rodriguez said that the number of middle schoolers, particularly seventh graders, has shot up. Einspruch saw the same at Temple Sinai. Neither could point to a reason for the engagement.
Rudy Brandt, the director of youth engagement at Congregation Rodef Sholom, said that the pandemic was particularly tough for teens, so her goal was to design a no-pressure model of youth engagement where teens were able to engage when and how they wanted. To do this, she offered activities across the spectrum, from Get Out the Vote efforts on Zoom to movie conversations to cooking. Much of this is still the case even in-person.
Rodriguez, who also belongs to the Rodef Sholom congregation, said that these programs were particularly successful with the younger teens, and could be a part of why there were so many of them. Despite this, the revamped programming has not seen the same effects with the older kids. In an attempt to communicate and connect more with teens, Brandt and her colleagues have grown their social media footprints.
“[It’s] just kind of meeting teens where they are, trying to put, you know, what’s happening in our spaces in their faces via social media,” Brandt said.
This greater presence has been somewhat successful at encouraging teens to participate in their various youth programs.
“There have been some events that I didn’t go to when I saw [the posts on social media] it was like, I kind of wish I went to that. Maybe I’ll go to the next one,” said Golbus.
Rodef Sholom is not the only congregation that has changed their youth programs to see more engagement. Chaya Silver, the youth director at Agudas Achim Congregation in Alexandria, Va., is currently working on developing a hybrid program for the religious school at her congregation, with the goal of making it more inclusive and flexible for students and their families.
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The post For many Jewish teens, COVID broke the synagogue habit appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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Swiss broadcaster removes footage of host criticizing Israeli bobsled team during its first Milan runs
(JTA) — A Swiss sportscaster spent the 57 seconds of the Israeli bobsled team’s first run in Milan denouncing Israel and the team’s captain, drawing criticism from U.S. Ambassador to Israel Mike Huckabee and casting a shadow over the historic outing.
The team came in last in its first efforts in the Winter Olympics, finishing 26th of 26 teams in two two-men heats on Monday. A third heat is scheduled for Monday afternoon, while the four-man event takes place next weekend.
It has been a disappointing showing so far for the team, which is making its first appearance in the Olympics following a years-long journey propelled by A.J. Edelman, an American observant Jew who has sought to do for Israel’s winter sports profile what the unlikely Cool Runnings bobsled team did for Jamaica in the 1990s.
The Swiss sportscaster, Sebastian Renna, used the run to detail allegations against Edelman, whom he referred to as “a first-time Olympian and self-described ‘Zionist to the core’ who has posted several messages on social media in support of the genocide in Gaza.” He listed comments allegedly made by Edelman and questioned why he should be allowed to compete given the International Olympic Committee’s rules barring athletes from making political statements.
Commentator Stefan Renna on Swiss public broadcaster RTS sparked controversy during Israeli captain AJ Edelman’s second bobsleigh run at the 2026 Winter Olympics in Milan-Cortina, bringing up Edelman’s past social media posts supporting Israel’s genocide in Gaza, including one… pic.twitter.com/TenlLtbRiw
— Drop Site (@DropSiteNews) February 17, 2026
The Swiss national broadcaster, RTS, issued a statement about the footage, which it removed from its website, on Tuesday. “Our journalist wanted to question the IOC’s policy regarding the athlete’s statements,” it said. “However, such information, while factual, is inappropriate for sports commentary due to its length. Therefore, we removed the segment from our website last night.”
The clip had drawn praise from critics of Israel and excoriating comments from its defenders. “Beyond disgusting that the Jew-hating Swiss ‘sportscaster’ spewed bigotry & bile at @Israel Olympic Bobsled team & its captain @realajedelman as they competed,” Huckabee tweeted.
Edelman, who posts frequently on social media in support of Israel and against antisemitism, did not dispute any of Renna’s allegations but rejected their thrust.
“I am aware of the diatribe the commentator directed towards the Israeli Bobsled Team on the Swiss Olympics broadcast today,” he tweeted on Monday. “I can’t help but notice the contrast: Shul Runnings is a team of 6 proud Israelis who’ve made it to the Olympic stage. No coach with us. No big program. Just a dream, grit, and unyielding pride in who we represent. Working together towards an incredible goal and crushing it. Because that’s what Israelis do. I don’t think it’s possible to witness that and give any credence to the commentary.”
On Tuesday morning, Edelman was sanguine as he prepared to take the ice again.
“Today I take the final 2man run of my career, with the Shul Runnings team that is making history,” he tweeted on Tuesday morning from Milan. “What an honor it is to wear this flag. What a blessing to be one of our people. Anyone can say anything about us, but you know what? They can only say it because we’re here. Because Israel makes the impossible possible. Victors, never victims.”
The post Swiss broadcaster removes footage of host criticizing Israeli bobsled team during its first Milan runs appeared first on The Forward.
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Was playwright Avrom Goldfaden a Zionist?
זינט די סאַמע ערשטע יאָרן פֿון דער ציוניסטישער באַװעגונג איז דער טעאַטער געװען אַ װיכטיקער מיטל פֿאַרן פֿאַרשפּרײטן אירע אידעען. מען האָט פֿאָרגעשטעלט אױף דער בינע סײַ די ייִדישע פּראָבלעמען — אַזעלכע װי אַנטיסעמיטיזם, דלות, שלעכטע מידות — סײַ די לײזונג: אַ ייִדישע מדינה. צװישן די דראַמאַטורגן זײַנען געװען די אָבֿות פֿונעם פּאָליטישן ציוניזם, אַזעלכע װי טעאָדאָר הערצל און מאַקס נאָרדױ.
אַבֿרהם גאָלדפֿאַדן (1840־1908), דער „פֿאָטער פֿונעם ייִדישן טעאַטער“, איז ניט געװען קײן פּאָליטישער דענקער. בײַ אים איז דער טעאַטער געװען אַן אָרט, װוּ אַ ייִד „זאָל האָבן װוּהין צו אַנטלױפֿן אױף עטלעכע שטונדן פֿון זײַנע ביטערע דאגות, װאָס פֿאַרפֿאָלגן אים אַ גאַנצן טאָג.“ דערפֿאַר, זאָגט ער װײַטער, „איז געװען שטענדיק מײַן פּלאַן צו פֿאַרפֿאַסן נאָר קאָמישעס מיט געזאַנג און טאַנץ, װאָס ס׳הײסט אָפּערעטע.“
אָבער אין דער אמתן זײַנען װײַט ניט אַלע פּיעסעס זײַנע געװען קאָמיש און לײַכטזיניק. װי עס באַװײַזט די דײַטשישע פֿאָרשערין מעלאַניע דאָריס ליקאַס (אוניװערסיטעט פֿון געטינגען) אין איר בוך „דער ייִדישער טעאַטער צװישן ציוניזם און ייִדישער אַסימילאַציע אַרום 1900“, איז דער ייִדישער טעאַטער געװען „אַ שפּיגל פֿון יענער צײַט“. אין זײַנע דראַמאַטישע װערק האָט גאָלדפֿאַדן באַהאַנדלט די װיכטיקסטע סאָציאַלע און פּאָליטישע פּראָבלעמען פֿון ייִדישן קיום אױפֿן שװעל פֿונעם צװאַנציקסטן יאָרהונדערט.
כּדי צו אַנטפּלעקן געזעלשאַפֿטלעכע און פּאָליטישע טענדענצן אין גאָלדפֿאַדנס שאַפֿונג מאַכט לוקאַס אַ פּרטימדיקן אַנאַליז פֿון די טעקסטן. זי באַטראַכט ניט נאָר די באַקאַנטע װערק װי „שולמית“, „בר־כּוכבא“ און „משיחס צײַטן“, נאָר אױך דאָס לעצטע װערק זײַנס, „בן עמי“ (1906), װאָס איז אױפֿגעפֿירט געװאָרן אין ניו־יאָרק. דער טעקסט איז קײן מאָל ניט געדרוקט געװאָרן אָבער אַ כּתבֿ־יד האָט זיך אָפּגעהיט אין ייִװאָ.
גאָלדפֿאַדן האָט באַשריבן „בן עמי“ װי אַ „נאַציאָנאַל־פּאַטריאָטישע מוזיקאַלישע דראַמע“, װאָס איז „ספּעציעל געשריבן געװאָרן פֿאַר מײַן ייִדישן פֿאָלק“. די פּיעסע ברענגט צונױף די פּראָבלעמען פֿון יענער צײַט: רעװאָלוציע און פּאָגראָמען אין רוסלאַנד, אַסימילאַציע, שמד, עקאָנאָמישע סתּירות. זײ װערן פֿאָרגעשטעלט דורך ליבע־באַציִונגען, משפּחה־קאָנפֿליקטן און פּאָליטישע װיכּוחים.
װי עס איז טיפּיש פֿאַר גאָלדפֿאַדן, װערן רעאַליסטישע געשעענישן געמישט מיט ראָמאַנטישע פֿאַנטאַזיעס: אַ גוטהאַרציקער קריסטלעכער באַראָן, װאָס האָט געראַטעװעט אַ ייִדיש מײדל רחלע פֿון אַ פּאָגראָם, האָט זיך אַנטפּלעקט װי אַ געהײמער ייִד. דער סוף איז גוט, דער באַראָן האָט חתונה מיט רחלען, און די אַסימילירטע העלדן טוען תּשובֿה.
דער תּמצית פֿון דער פּיעסע װערט אױסגעדריקט אַלעגאָריש אין אַ ליד אינעם פּראָלאָג. אַן אַלמנה זיצט „בײַ דער כּותל־מערבֿי אין גאַנץ טיפֿן טרױער“ װעגן דעם ביטערן מצבֿ פֿונעם ייִדישן פֿאָלק. זי װערט געטרײסט דורכן כאָר, װאָס זאָגט צו, אַז אָט־אָט, וועלן די קינדער אירע „אַלע צוזאַמען /קומען צו דער מאַמען / זי זען אין אַמאָלעדיקער פּראַכט.“ אַזױ, האַלט לוקאַס, מאַכט גאָלדפֿאַדן קלאָר די אידעע פֿון זײַן דראַמע: ייִדן װעלן זיך אומקערן קײן ארץ־ישׂראל און אױפֿבױען דעם נײַעם בית־המקדש.
די געשטאַלט פֿון דער אַלמנה בת ציון, װאָס זיצט „אין דעם בית־המקדש / אין אַ װינקל חדר“ געפֿינט מען שױן אין „שולמית“ אינעם באַרימטן ליד „ראָזשינקעס מיט מאַנדלען“. דאָרט איז דאָס אַן אַלעגאָריע פֿונעם ייִדישן פֿאָלק װאָס בענקט נאָך זײער הײמלאַנד. אין „בן עמי“ איז דאָס פֿאָלק שױן גרײט אַראָפּצוברענגען די גאולה.
עס איז טשיקאַװע צו לײענען װי גאָלדפֿאַדנס אַ פּערסאָנאַזש אין דער פּיעסע האָט זיך פֿאָרגעשטעלט דאָס אומקערן פֿון ייִדן אין ארץ־ישׂראל. דאָס װעט פֿאָרקומען „דורך רעװאָלוציאָן אין אַ גינסטיקער צײַט און געלעגנהײט“. די דאָזיקע רעװאָלוציע דאַרף זיך אָנהײבן אין דער טערקישער אימפּעריע, „װען די טערקישע געבילדעטע יוגנט װעלן זיך רעװאָלטירן אַראָפּצוּװאַרפֿן פֿון זיך דעם דעספּאָטישן יאָך“.
דעמאָלט װעט די ייִדישע יוגנט אין ארץ־ישׂראל „אױך קענען אױפֿהײבן די פֿרײַהײט־פֿאָן און מיט װאָפֿן אין די הענט אַרױספֿאָדערן זײער גערעכטלעכע הײמאַט [היימלאַנד].“ די ייִדן אין אַנדערע לענדער דאַרפֿן דערבײַ „בלײַבן טרױ זײערע רעגירונגען“, אָבער „שטײן פֿאַרטיק בײַם ערשטן סיגנאַל פֿון דאָרטן זיך אָפּרופֿן מיט מאַטעריעלער און פֿיזישער הילף, זײ צו שיקן געלט און אײגענע סטראַטעגיקער, װאָס האָבן גענאָסן זײער בילדונג אין ציװיליזירטע לענדער און דאַן — איז דער זיג געװוּנען.“ װי אין אַנדערע ציוניסטישע פּראָיעקטן פֿון יענער צײַט, װערט די אַראַבישע באַפֿעלקערונג ניט דערמאָנט.
להיפּוך צו גאָלדפֿאַדן, האָבן די דײַטשיש־שפּראַכיקע ציוניסטישע מחברים טעאָדאָר הערצל און מאַקס נאָרדױ ניט קײן אינטערעס צו ארץ־ישׂראל. זײער דאגה איז דער אַנטיסעמיטיזם, װאָס לאָזט ייִדן ניט אינטעגרירן זיך אין דער מאָדערנער געזעלשאַפֿט אין דײַטשלאַנד און עסטרײַך. דער קאָנפֿליקט צװישן ייִדן און קריסטן אין הערצלס דראַמע „דאָס נײַע געטאָ“ (1895) שפּילט זיך אַרום עקאָנאָמישע און סאָציאַלע ענינים.
הערצל װײַזט, אַז אַפֿילו װען ייִדישע געשעפֿטסלײַט באַמיִען זיך צו פֿאַרבעסערן די עקאָנאָמישע לאַגע פֿון קריסטלעכע אַרבעטער, װערן זײ סײַ װי ניט באַהאַנדלט װי גלײַכע מיט די קריסטן. ניט געקוקט אױף דער קולטורעלע אַסימילאַציע און דעם עקאָנאָמישן דערפֿאָלג געפֿינט זיך די ייִדישע בורזשואַזיע אין אַ נײַעם געטאָ מחוץ דער קריסטלעכער געזעלשאַפֿט. סימבאָליש װערט דאָס פֿאָרגעשטעלט דורך אַ דועל, אין װעלכן אַ ייִד װערט פֿאַרװוּנדעט דורך אַ קריסט.
אַן ענלעכע פּראָבלעם װערט פֿאָרגעשטעלט אין נאָרדױס דראַמע „דאָקטער קאָן“ (1899). דער העלד איז אַ באַגאַבטער מאַטעמאַטיקער, װאָס װיל באַקומען אַ פּראָפֿעסאָר־שטעלע כּדי צו מעגן חתונה האָבן מיט אַ פֿרױ פֿון אַ פֿאַרמעגלעכער קריסטלעכער משפּחה.
אָבער די אַנטיסעמיטישע אַדמיניסטראַציע פֿונעם אוניװערסיטעט גיט אים ניט קײן שטעלע, און די משפּחה װיל אים ניט האָבן פֿאַר אַן אײדעם. װי אין הערצלס פּיעסע פֿירט דער קאָנפֿליקט צו אַ דועל, דאָס מאָל צװישן קאָן און דער פֿרױס ברודער. קאָן װערט שװער פֿאַרװוּנדעט און שטאַרבט.
הערצל און נאָרדױ זײַנען בײדע געװען די פֿירנדיקע ציוניסטישע פּאָליטיקער פֿון יענער צײַט, אָבער אין זײערע דראַמאַטישע װערק איז ניטאָ קײן שפּור פֿון אַ פּלאַן צו האָבן אַ ייִדישע מלוכה, שױן אָפּגערעדט פֿון װידער אױפֿבױען דעם בית־המקדש. אין זײערע פּיעסעס האָבן די מאָראַלישע קאָנפֿליקט און סאָציאַלע פּראָבלעמען פֿון ייִדן אין דער קריסטלעכער געזעלשאַפֿט ניט קײן לײזונג.
לוקאַסעס פּרטימדיקער פֿאַרגלײַכיקער אַנאַליז אַנטפּלעקט דעם װיכטיקסטן חילוק צװישן גאָלדפֿאַדן און די דײַטשיש־שפּראַכיקע מחברים. גאָלדפֿאַדן האָט זיך געװענדט צו דעם ייִדישן עולם און געקענט קונציק צופּאַסן ערנסטע פּאָליטישע טעמעס צום לײַכטן סטיל פֿון זײַן באַליבטן זשאַנער פֿון אָפּערעטע. הערצל און נאָרדױ האָבן געשריבן פֿאַרן ברײטערן דײַטשישן עולם, װאָס האָט ניט געהאַט קײן אינטערעס צו דער ציוניסטישער פּאָליטיק. די פּראָבלעם פֿון זײערע העלדן איז געװען אַנטיסעמיטיזם, ניט דאָס אױפֿבױען אַ ייִדישע מלוכה.
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Forever curious, never daunted, Frederick Wiseman sought to repair the world through film
Frederick Wiseman, whose 60-year project of quietly asking America to look at itself — without sermon or embellishment, yet wielding the camera with an ethical ferocity‚ has died at the age of 96. Wiseman was a documentarian par excellence, but — as his year-long 2010 MOMA retrospective and his winter-long 2025 Lincoln Center appreciation show — he was more than a filmmaker and more dynamic than the institutions he critiqued. The 45 films he made between 1967 and 2023 embody the very process of American self-reflection.
Born Jan. 1, 1930, in Boston, Mass., Wiseman grew up in a Jewish household that never made a big show of its Jewishness, yet never let it slip from mind. His father, Jacob Leo Wiseman, was an accomplished lawyer; his mother, Gertrude Leah Kotzen, had a number of jobs but Wiseman once told the Forward that “not being able to study acting was her life’s regret.” In countless interviews, Wiseman described his upbringing as secular but culturally Jewish — one with plenty of Yiddish and the Forverts on the kitchen table. It was a childhood that inculcated a moral restlessness that he would spend his entire creative life channeling through film.
Before the camera, there was the classroom: Williams College, then Yale Law School. Law was his first chosen arena, and there is something telling in that. To make a good lawyer, you need curiosity, patience and the stamina to sit with contradiction. Wiseman found the law constricting and he turned, gradually and then completely, to filmmaking, where the rules were up for grabs but the moral stakes were never abstract.
After helping to produce Cool World, a 1965 feature about drug addiction, violence and economic hardship set in Harlem, Wiseman bought a 16mm camera and went to Bridgewater State Hospital to film Titicut Follies. His first film remains one of his most notorious, not least for influencing Miloš Forman’s 1975 One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. The state hospital for the criminally insane becomes, through Wiseman’s lens, both theater and trial. The patients are on display for us as are the guards but we, the audience, are on trial too: How do we treat the weakest among us? How do we look away?
Although the film represents an early example of his unobtrusive style, it was so uncomfortably honest that the Massachusetts government succeeded in banning it from general American distribution for 20 years. It was the first known film to be censored for reasons other than obscenity, immorality or national security. This is where his Jewishness lived — in the refusal to flinch from the unspeakable. Wiseman spent six decades getting us to see what we really mean by the places we build, the rules we enforce, and sometimes the people we push to the margins.
His “reality fictions,” as he preferred to call them, are quiet but not passive. They have no narration — no voice-of-God explanations or neat moral conclusions. The camera simply sits, bearing witness to public housing in Chicago, an inner-city high school in Philadelphia, Boston city government, a Dallas department store, a welfare office, a library in Queens, smalltown Indiana, and two views of domestic violence in Florida. What emerges is an archive of American power and American fragility.
Even more than his contemporaries D.A. Pennebaker and the Maysles brothers, Wiseman avoided tying his stories into a single ideological bow. But, just like his friend and follower Errol Morris, he never stopped asking questions. He once said he disliked the word “documentary” because it suggested a neatness and authority that reality refuses to offer. Like a scribe working on a Torah scroll, Wiseman would spend a year or more in his editing room shaping hundreds of hours of footage into a final cut.
Every editing choice was an act of interpretation, and every interpretation was a kind of moral accounting. To watch a Wiseman film is to practice a secular version of cheshbon nefesh — an accounting of the soul. We see the small humiliations of bureaucracy, the quiet heroism of nurses, the petty tyrannies of principals, the warmth and indifference that coexist inside every institution. His films remind us that institutions, including marriage, are made up of people, and people are both better and worse than the systems they create.
Though Wiseman never foregrounded his Jewishness in public, it filtered through his choice of subjects — and his abiding belief in the dignity of ordinary lives. He loved the messy, pluralistic, contradictory spaces where authority and people meet, like a library, a community center, a city council meeting. He loved making films and was annoyed not to be able to film or edit after his 2023 feature, Menus-Plaisirs – Les Troisgros, about a Michelin three star-restaurant and the family that runs it.
He once called his films “epic poems,” but they are also commentaries, in the rabbinic sense: teasing out what is hidden in plain sight, turning it over and over until it yields something that might help us live with ourselves. Wiseman was excited in 2025 when a group of archivists finished the process of restoring and digitizing 33 of his films so that his entire oeuvre can be more easily examined for years to come.
Wiseman’s focus was mainly on the United States, though he did film elsewhere — especially in Paris where he filmed at a strip club and a dance rehearsal at the Paris Opera Ballet. In later years, when asked how he chose what to film, he said simply: “Curiosity.” But curiosity, for Wiseman, was never passive. It was a demand to see. In this, he practiced a form of tikkun olam — repair of the world — that was all the more radical for being so understated. He didn’t shout. He didn’t score cheap points. He invited us to do the hard work ourselves.
He was honored, eventually, by the very institutions he made his life’s work dissecting. A MacArthur “Genius Grant,” a Guggenheim Fellowship, an honorary Academy Award, the Golden Lion for Lifetime Achievement in Venice. Yet he remained — in temperament and in practice — the same outsider who first brought his camera to that state hospital in 1967, sure only that the camera should watch and listen, and that we should, too.
Wiseman’s wife Zipporah Batshaw passed away in 2021 but he is survived by his two children and a generation of filmmakers who learned from him that moral clarity need not come at the expense of complexity. They carry forward the project of asking the unasked questions, of looking at what we’d rather ignore. In that way, his legacy is not a monument but a living tradition — an ever-expanding conversation about what it means to be human, to be responsible for each other, and to stand, clear-eyed, in the face of the world as it is.
May his memory be a blessing, and may we, like him, never stop seeing.
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