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‘From a shtetl to a diaspora’: How a Palisades synagogue exiled by fire forged through
Jewish tradition carves grief into discrete periods of time. Shiva lasts a week. Shloshim — the post-funeral period when one does not receive a haircut — is 30 days. For the death of a parent, one says kaddish for 11 months. After a year, mourning officially concludes.
But what of the destruction of a home — or a whole neighborhood? At Kehillat Israel, some 250 families lost theirs in the Palisades fire that ignited last Jan. 7, including three members of the synagogue’s clergy team. Another 250 or so families were displaced. And as the first anniversary of the fire arrives, the vast majority remain dispersed across Los Angeles County and beyond, unsure if or when they will return to the place they call home.
“The pace of healing is different in a situation in which we haven’t been able to fully move on,” Rabbi Daniel Sher, Kehillat Israel’s associate rabbi, said in an interview. “When you add infrastructure and city conditions and all the different nuances and circumstances, a year becomes very short.”
One of the few Pacific Palisades institutions spared by the flames was the synagogue, a fixture of the seaside community since the 1950s. But that, too, has been inaccessible to the congregation; with the building closed anyway for smoke damage remediation, Kehillat Israel — formerly Reconstructionist, now unaffiliated — broke ground on a planned interior renovation that is expected to be complete in March.
So for the last year, as hundreds of congregants wrangle with insurance companies and homeowner associations, await construction permits or weigh rebuilding, they have met in smaller, often makeshift settings. Weekly services are held in a children’s museum in nearby Santa Monica; a synagogue close by has been hosting KI’s religious school. Sher and senior rabbi Amy Bernstein, both of whom are still living with their families in temporary housing, have traveled around town to serve — and preserve — their community.
“We went from a shtetl to a diaspora,” Sher said. “So our members are still members, but our gathering points feel different.”
An unimaginable disaster
The blaze, one of the largest in the history of L.A., killed 12, destroyed nearly 7,000 structures and left the Pacific Palisades, an upscale town known for its coziness and exclusivity, virtually unrecognizable. Whole neighborhoods were wiped out, with countless iconic local landmarks badly damaged or reduced to rubble. KI members who lost their homes will never recover the ketubahs, menorahs and kiddush cups that infused their Jewish lives with meaning.
Yet the people whose homes were damaged, but not destroyed, have struggled as well. Thousands of Palisades residents had their insurance policies canceled months before the fire after the California insurance commissioner blocked an attempted rate hike; In lieu of private insurance, those homes were covered under the California FAIR Plan, the state’s last-resort insurer, which covers physical damage but not smoke damage, debris removal or alternative living expenses.
“Almost everybody was underinsured,” said Matt Ross, the president of KI’s board of trustees. “It’s a much more expensive process to rebuild than I think almost anybody realized.”
In the first days following the fire, the synagogue was able to help cover incidentals for congregants who were struggling to get money from their insurers. And with the support of members and the local Jewish federation, KI covered membership dues this year for everyone displaced by the fire.
Still, the months that followed have been an ongoing nightmare for many congregants. People described fighting with their insurance adjusters, navigating inscrutable municipal bureaucracy and being at the mercy of their neighbors — who hold the power to block new construction in some HOAs.
While Kehillat Israel escaped the flames, it did not dodge insurance trouble. Ross said that last summer, with remediation ongoing — and with the synagogue’s claim still open — the building’s insurer informed KI that it would not renew its policy. When they finally found replacement coverage, it was many times more expensive — taking a five-figure annual premium well into the six figures.
“It’s absolutely outrageous. It is really stunning,” said Ross, who also lost his home in the fire. “These are the kinds of challenges that not only individuals, but a synagogue or other house of worship faces.”
Community in exile
With congregants spread out across the Southland, the synagogue’s programming has moved to meet them, often in far-flung or esoteric locations.
A congregant hosted a Sukkot gathering in Hermosa Beach — nearly 20 miles away (and a lifetime in traffic) from KI’s main sanctuary — and other events as far east as Hollywood and north in the San Fernando Valley. The synagogue threw a Purim party at a bowling alley and celebrated Hanukkah at a brewery. It didn’t hide from joy.
“There are moments where you’re laughing,” Bernstein said, “and actually for a second forget that you’ve been through this horrible, horrible ordeal.”
The most emotionally fraught Jewish event on the calendar was Passover. “I think for a lot of our folks, they had hosted Seder in the past, and they weren’t quite ready to figure out how to host not in their home,” Sher said. The synagogue hosted a Seder at a Bel Air hotel, where 300 people ate matzo and maror and shared the story of Jewish redemption.
And while no family heirloom can ever be replaced, new ones were being created. A national Judaica drive allowed L.A. wildfire victims to pick out ritual items from a veritable trove of donated candlesticks, prayer shawls and mezuzahs. Separately, KI organized a ketubah-and-vow-renewal ceremony, in which around 20 couples who had lost their Jewish marriage contracts in the fire signed new ones — and bore witness to each other’s marital vows.
That event was hosted at Leo Baeck Temple, one of countless local synagogues that have lent support to KI and other affected congregations in the past year. Sher said he and Bernstein had helped lead bar and bat mitzvah ceremonies in more than a dozen different sanctuaries in the last year.
“Anyone who’s going to pretend that this year hasn’t been weird, they’re being inauthentic,” Sher said. “But the fact that I still get to see that same bar and bat mitzvah family — just a different location, in a different venue, at a different moment — shows that we’re not going to be held back from these limitations. We’re still going to find ways to be together.”
Grieving alone, together
For the rabbis of Kehillat Israel, the scale of the tragedy could be hard to wrap one’s head around. On the one hand, no congregants perished in the fire — a clear blessing, or even a miracle. But there were well over a thousand who needed comforting — as did the rabbis themselves, who had been rendered homeless.
Bernstein, the synagogue’s senior rabbi, said that at first, she was just happy there was something she could do.
But days turned to weeks turned to months and she had barely been able to grieve her own losses: generations of family photos and correspondence; a lifetime of fine art collected from all over the world; a pair of shoes for every occasion and mood; and, of course, the home where she had raised her daughter.
When she finally took time off last August — seven months after the fire — she realized she had waited too long.
“When we’re being of service, that alleviates some anxieties and sense of vulnerability,” Bernstein said, “but it masks other ways that you’re exhausting what few resources you have left.”
For the last year, Bernstein, her daughter and their German shepherd have been living in Santa Monica, in the home of a generous congregant. The insurance money for her former home went to her HOA, which is approaching a vote on whether to rebuild it; Bernstein said even she wasn’t sure it made financial sense.
Like many congregants in the Palisades diaspora, she’s stuck in a holding pattern, wanting to buy new things but having nowhere to put them, as the rest of the world has seemingly moved on. The only people who get it are going through it themselves.
“There is this sense of belonging to a club no one wants to belong to,” she said. “But also it’s a real sense that we’ve been through something together, and we feel a little different than others who have no clue about what’s happened to us.”
Sher’s family, which has been living in Brentwood for the past year, is currently debating whether to rebuild on the lot that previously held their home, or find a different one.
He wasn’t sure how he’d be feeling on Wednesday, the first anniversary of the day he, Bernstein and so many others lost their homes.
Sher planned to take the day off work — attending a community gathering in the morning and spending the afternoon with his wife and three children.
“I’m going to give myself space for the fact that I’m not entirely sure where my head’s gonna be,” he said. “Again, this is a slow process, and it’s not over yet, but being gracious and kind to yourself along the way has been one of the main messages that we’ve really leaned on in order to have the wherewithal to do all of this.”
Plotting a comeback
Even as efforts to rebuild homes drag on, there is excitement about the future. Turnout at events has been strong all year, with more than 1,000 joining their High Holiday livestream, in addition to the hundreds who attended in person. In late May, Kehillat Israel will be marching their Torah scrolls back into the main sanctuary for the first time, honoring Cantor Chayim Frenkel’s 40th year at the synagogue.
No synagogue wants to be displaced from its sanctuary. But silver linings abound if you know where to look. The renovation was long overdue, and congregants who enter Kehillat Israel this spring will find a larger Torah ark and an entryway that, according to Sher, “really says you’re stepping into something special.”
Reopening their building will also afford KI another privilege — that of welcoming in Palisades faith communities whose buildings did not survive the fire.
To this day, it remains unclear how much of the congregation will eventually return to the Palisades. One longtime member estimated 80% would be back — another guessed closer to three-fifths. Considering the members who had moved away but wanted to remain part of KI, Bernstein said satellite events and Zoom offerings would likely become a fixture.
Having endured this trauma together, the congregation will benefit from a perspective they could not have gained otherwise. Bernstein and Sher both brought up the resilience they had seen develop in their children over the past year. And the community, pressed into action by their circumstance, had been brought closer to each other and, maybe, to something holy.
Sher joked that he used to see more congregants in line at the farmer’s market than in prayer services. Now, he said, “We’ve had people come to our big events more excited than ever before, because they want to spend that time together and because we understand each other’s hardship. And that is really profound.”
The post ‘From a shtetl to a diaspora’: How a Palisades synagogue exiled by fire forged through appeared first on The Forward.
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Oct. 7 changed Howard Jacobson. But his new novel is as defiant as ever.
Howard Jacobson is a rarity in British public life: vocally, unabashedly Jewish.
Jews have made fine contributions to British society, of course, but typically they haven’t done so with their Jewishness front and center, preferring to stow it away in the service of a vaguely-defined Britishness that still sees outward expressions of ethnic or religious identity as verging on indecorous.
For British Jews remain a tiny minority, just 400,000 or so in total. With nothing like the profile of, say, American Jewry, most Brits continue to view the British-Jewish community as little more than a small, faith-based group.
Yet Jacobson’s funny and discursive fiction has probed the relationship between Britain and its Jews so successfully that it’s earned him the nickname the ‘British Philip Roth’. (Jacobson has said he’d rather be known as the ‘Jewish Jane Austen’.) Often, he’s been the lone British representative of a kind of Jewishness organized not around superstition and routine, but humor and creativity — in short, the secular, cultural model. In 2010, his novel The Finkler Question, about, loosely, a non-Jew so fed up of being mistaken for a Jew that he decides to carry out a sweeping survey of Jewish identity, won the Man Booker prize.
Since Oct. 7, Jacobson has made no secret of both his anguish at the Hamas-led Oct. 7 attacks and his anger at what he sees as the excesses of the pro-Palestinian coalition. He has come out especially forcefully against some of the rhetoric at the London demonstrations that have been the centerpiece of the UK’s anti-Zionist movement. (A couple of his op-eds and interviews were perhaps more controversial than he had intended; in one piece for the Guardian, for example, Jacobson suggested that continued coverage of dead Palestinian children was a new form of ‘blood libel’ against Jews.)
His latest novel, Howl, gives vent to these same frustrations while adding the usual Jacobsonian literary flourishes: a prickly and well-read male Jewish protagonist; a long-suffering, non-Jewish spouse; frequent references to Jewish history; fizzing dialogue; and a darkly comic tone.
Howl — the title is a nod to the Allen Ginsberg poem — charts the descent into madness of Ferdinand Draxler, a Jewish headmaster at a primary school in leafy, diverse north London, who quickly unravels in the face of growing anti-Israel sentiment after Oct. 7. Though Ferdinand is certain that anti-Zionism is antisemitism repackaged, most everyone around him disagrees, including his colleagues, his wife and his brother, who after decades living in Israel as an Orthodox Jew has returned to England newly secular and left-wing. Most galling of all is the conduct of Ferdinand’s Oxford-educated daughter, Zoe: she’s become a regular attendee at pro-Palestinian demonstrations, and is on one occasion caught on live TV tearing down posters featuring photos of Israeli hostages.
As Ferdinand casts about for explanations — is it the universities? Identity politics? A lack of Holocaust education? Plain old Jew-hatred? — his behavior grows ever more erratic, and his ordered, rather British existence crumbles.
I spoke with Jacobson about the re-emergence, to his mind, of an ancient hatred after Oct. 7; the importance of Zionism as an idea; whether he and Ferdinand Draxler are kindred spirits; and why British Jews are typically happy with what he described as “self-abridgment.” The following conversation has been edited for length and clarity.
You said in an interview with The New Yorker last year, and I’m paraphrasing slightly, that when people denied that children were killed and women were raped on Oct. 7, that made you a different kind of person. So in what ways does this altered person, so to speak, show up in Ferdinand?
I certainly was a different person. The world changed the day after, and in many ways, it’s remained that different world now. A world in which people rejoiced in the pain and the suffering and the murder and the rape of other people, was not one I knew. I knew people didn’t like Jews much, but the degree to which they didn’t like Jews, the degree of it I only learned that day. Call me naive, but I didn’t know it was as bad as that. So that day was the new day.
I knew I had to write about it, because otherwise I would have gone mad. But I was in such a rage that the novel I started to write was a kind of madness. So I had to find a character who was a bit more lost, a bit less angry, a bit more confused, even more surprised than I was, and sweeter than me — a kinder, nicer me. One that still had to be astonished by what had happened, maybe even more astonished than me, but somehow or other in the way one could write about him, funnier about it, or gentler about it. That was how I felt I had to go.
Ferdinand repeatedly criticizes the reductive-ness, to his mind, of the protests. Their lack of nuance baffles him. At the same time, his beliefs are rigid and unbending. What would acceptable protest against the war look like for Ferdinand? And is the reader supposed to conclude that there are two, almost competing kinds of madness, Ferdinand on the one hand, the protests on the other, and that something more middle-of-the-road is impossible today?
The protests are madder. That has to be said. The protests are more mad because they are not perturbed or changed at all by any glimmer of light or any glimmer of argument with themselves. Ferdinand is. He’s battered as the novel goes on.
But he’s not happy with himself. And maybe the marchers aren’t happy with themselves. I tried very hard, the more I wrote this book, and the more time goes by, not to argue about the rights and the wrongs of war, because the rights and wrongs of war are, more often than not, evenly spread. And the minute you start defending one side, you look pretty foolish, because in a war the other side is rarely kind, the other side is rarely magnanimous. I don’t think there are any heroes in this war.
Still, why does Ferdinand never so much as attempt to get to grips with his daughter’s beliefs, much less those of the protest movement at large?
Let’s put that down as a failure of his, if you like, and it is a novel, and the character is allowed to have failings. It might be that I, as the novelist, have a greater failing than him in that I didn’t nudge him enough. I nudged him a bit: I had his wife try to encourage him to think about Zoe more, and she [his wife] introduces him to an Italian academic at one point, who says, ‘Never mind the rights and wrongs of it, you’re not making it any better calling them antisemites all the time, that’s going to do no good.’
But he can’t do anything about that because all he hears from their mouths is antisemitic gibberish. This is the problem for my kind of educated hero. Once you hear the gibberish, you can’t get past it. I found sympathy very hard to find for the protesters, and I’m afraid my hero suffers for being so close to me at that moment. So I’ll give you that.
‘Mutti,’ Ferdinand’s Holocaust-survivor mother, has, it turns out, embellished some of her experiences as a prisoner at Bergen-Belsen — notably in her best-selling memoir. What informed how you decided to depict Mutti?
I’ve met one or two female survivors, and they’re who I thought about when I was writing Mutti. Because whenever I’ve met a Holocaust survivor, I’ve wanted to fall in love with them. To feel swallowed up in pity for them. But bad experiences don’t necessarily make a good person. I didn’t want to make a bad person, but I wanted to make somebody who was not just a quivering heap, who does what real people do, and that is she embellishes a bit, lies a bit, she forgets a bit. I wanted a little bit of murkiness around it. I didn’t want anybody to be just a hero or a heroine of anything — on any side.
One of Howl’s more interesting contrasts is Ferdinand’s impassioned defense of Israel on the one hand, and his never having set foot there on the other. What was the rationale for creating a passionate defender of the Jewish State who’d never been there?
I wanted the idea. I wanted him to sort of be naive. I wanted his Zionism to be inexperienced, because I wanted it to be a love of the idea. So much of Zionism is an idea, and it’s very cruel when an idea has to be tested against actuality, because actuality is a swine like that.
Actuality will kill many of an idea, and I wanted him to have a kind of purity about it, an innocence about it, which doesn’t mean he’s right about it. And that’s what his brother laughs at and destroys. So I think I would have ruined it had Ferdinand gone to Israel. But I was very pleased when I came up with the idea, quite late in the novel, to have the brother come back.
Midway through the novel, there’s the following summary of British Jewry: “There’s an air of self-abridgement about them, as though being Jewish were a serious accident that had befallen them and about which they would rather not talk.” Why has Britain produced this kind of Jewishness?
The way we were brought up, we were few in number, and though we did not go around in terror we did go around with the consciousness of keeping a low profile. My father, who actually was not capable of keeping a low profile, because he was an old-fashioned Ukrainian, he was out of Dostoevsky, but he always said to the family, ‘schtum, you stay schtum.’
That was how we were brought up. Don’t make a noise. Don’t run around the streets waving flags. Keep it quiet. I think Philip Roth came over at one point and kind of looked around at English Jews and said, ‘This is the worst, most undistinguished, least forceful bunch of Jews I’ve ever met.’ [It’s worth noting that Roth had a long and often tumultuous relationship with English, Jewish actress Claire Bloom.]
We are still very, very quiet, and even, dare I say it, compared to the American Jews, I think quite Philistine. Because to make art, however quiet the art, is to put yourself forward. It’s to color yourself on the canvas. It’s to announce yourself on the page. “Look, we are here.” You can’t write a Jewish novel and not announce yourself on the page.
And it wasn’t just my dad who thought, schtum, schtum, it’s still British Jews today. Most of the Jews I went to school with went on to become doctors, went on to become lawyers. And they chose those safe careers not just because they were lucrative — and you can make the usual jokes — but because they didn’t need to declare themselves as Jewish within them. Very few went where I went. Almost nobody.
Ferdinand is fairly pessimistic about British Jewry’s future. Do you share this view? How will the current tumult, for lack of a better word, shape us?
I think it will make us less quiescent. I think it will make us realize we really do have to stand on our own feet. A lot of Jews I know have gone to Israel. But I have a feeling that, in the long-term, just as Trump has taught the Europeans that NATO has to defend itself, that Jews will feel they’ve got to defend themselves, and maybe Israel can’t help them. Israel never offered to come over with tanks. But maybe the idea of Israel as a bolt hole, that’s gone.
And how do you want this novel to be remembered?
I hope that my own contribution is the laughter. My contribution in this novel is not the truth I tell about Zionism and the rest of it. That’s not it. It’s the comedy. And I think I can say that some people have loved, or are loving, the book, and it’s the jokes. It’s that strength of mind that says even the worst things that are visited upon us, we will find a way of making funny.
Funny is a big and complex thing, a little word for a very complex thing. Comedy is understanding, it’s grasping, it’s an intellectual act as well as everything else. And that’s what we’ll do. We’ll become even better intellectuals, and let them do their worst.
The post Oct. 7 changed Howard Jacobson. But his new novel is as defiant as ever. appeared first on The Forward.
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Hamas Wants Guarantees of Israeli Troop Withdrawal Before Disarmament talks, sources say
The damaged Al-Shifa Hospital during the war in Gaza City, March 31, 2026. Photo: REUTERS/Dawoud Abu Alkas
Palestinian terrorist group Hamas has told mediators it will not discuss giving up arms without guarantees that Israel will fully quit Gaza as laid out in a disarmament plan from US President Donald Trump’s “Board of Peace,” three sources told Reuters.
Hamas’ disarmament is a sticking point in talks to implement Trump’s plan for the Palestinian enclave and cement an October ceasefire that halted two years of full-blown war.
A Hamas delegation met with Egyptian, Qatari and Turkish mediators in Cairo on Wednesday and Thursday to give their initial response to a disarmament proposal presented to the group last month, two Egyptian sources and a Palestinian official said.
Hamas conveyed several demands and amendments to the board’s plan, including an end to Israeli violations, implementation of all provisions and Israel’s withdrawal from Gaza, the two Egyptian sources told Reuters.
Hamas accuses Israel of breaking the ceasefire with attacks that have killed hundreds in Gaza. Israel says its strikes are aimed at thwarting imminent attacks by militants.
The sources said Hamas also sought clarification about what it described as Israel’s continued expansion of areas under its control. Israel retained control of well over half of Gaza after the ceasefire.
The sources said Hamas does not want to discuss disarmament before those issues are addressed.
Two Hamas officials declined to comment on the content of the meetings. Israel’s government did not immediately respond to a request for comment. Representatives for the Board of Peace did not immediately respond to requests for comment.
BREAKTHROUGH UNLIKELY
Another source with direct knowledge of the Board of Peace’s thinking said that Hamas’ response meant that talks over the group laying down its arms were unlikely to immediately lead to a breakthrough. The source said Hamas was supposed to meet with mediators again next week.
The US may move forward with reconstruction absent Hamas disarmament, but only in areas under complete Israeli military control, the source said. Funding pledges important for reconstruction, many of which were from Gulf Arab states, were being held up during the Iran war, the source added.
The Palestinian official close to the talks said Hamas was unlikely to reject the plan out of hand but “it will not say yes until the remarks and demands of Palestinian factions are addressed.”
Israel says it will not agree to withdraw from Gaza unless Hamas is fully disarmed first.
Trump’s top Board of Peace envoy in the Middle East, Nickolay Mladenov, said in a social media post on Wednesday that all mediating parties had endorsed the plan.
“(The) international community has supported it, now is the time to agree to the framework for its implementation. For the sake of both Palestinians and Israelis, there is not time to lose,” Mladenov said in a post on X.
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Leo, the First US Pope, Emerges as Pointed Trump Critic
FILE PHOTO: Pope Leo XIV speaks to the media as he leaves the papal residence to head back to the Vatican, in Castel Gandolfo, Italy, March 31, 2026. REUTERS/Remo Casilli/File Photo
Pope Leo last May became the first US leader of the global Catholic Church, but for the initial 10 months of his tenure he mostly avoided comment about his home country and never once mentioned President Donald Trump publicly.
That era has come to an end.
In recent weeks the pope has emerged as a sharp critic of the Iran war. He named Trump, for the first time publicly, on Tuesday in a direct appeal urging the president to end the expanding conflict.
It is a significant shift in tone and approach that experts said indicated that the pope wanted to serve as a counterweight on the world stage to Trump and his foreign policy aims.
“I don’t think he wants the Vatican to be accused of being soft on Trumpism because he’s an American,” said Massimo Faggioli, an Italian academic who follows the Vatican closely.
Leo, known for choosing his words carefully, urged Trump to find an “off-ramp” to end the war, using an American colloquialism the president and administration officials would understand.
“When (Leo) speaks, he’s always careful,” said Faggioli, a professor at Trinity College Dublin. “I don’t think that was an accident.”
Chicago Cardinal Blase Cupich, a close ally of Leo, told Reuters the pope was taking up the mantle of a long line of pontiffs who have urged world leaders to turn away from war.
“What is different… is the voice of the messenger, for now Americans and the entire English-speaking world are hearing the message in an idiom familiar to them,” said the cardinal.
POPE SAYS GOD REJECTS PRAYERS OF WAR LEADERS
Two days before appealing to Trump directly, Leo said God rejected the prayers of leaders who start wars and have “hands full of blood,” in unusually forceful remarks for a Catholic pontiff.
Those comments were interpreted by conservative Catholic commentators as aimed at US Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth, who has invoked Christian language to justify the joint US-Israeli strikes on Iran that initiated the war.
They also led to one of the Trump administration’s first direct responses to a comment by Leo.
“I don’t think there is anything wrong with our military leaders or with the president calling on the American people to pray for our service members,” White House spokesperson Karoline Leavitt said, when asked about the pope’s remarks.
Marie Dennis, a former leader of the international Catholic peace movement Pax Christi, said Leo’s most recent comments and his direct appeal to Trump “reflect a heart broken by unrelenting violence.
“He is reaching out to all who are exhausted by this unrelenting violence and are hungry for courageous leadership,” she said.
POPE RAMPING UP CRITICISM FOR WEEKS
Leo had previously taken aim at Trump’s hardline immigration policies, questioning whether they were in line with the Church’s pro-life teachings. In those comments, which drew backlash from conservative Catholics, he refrained from naming Trump or any administration official directly.
The pope also carried out a major shake-up of US Catholic leadership in December, removing Cardinal Timothy Dolan as archbishop of New York. Dolan, seen as a leading conservative among the US bishops, was replaced by a relatively unknown cleric from Illinois, Archbishop Ronald Hicks.
Leo has been ramping up his criticism of the Iran war for weeks.
He said on March 13 that Christian political leaders who start wars should go to confession and assess whether they are following the teachings of Jesus. On March 23, Leo said military airstrikes were indiscriminate and should be banned.
Cardinal Michael Czerny, a senior Vatican official, said the pope’s voice would carry weight globally because “everyone can perceive that he speaks… for the common good, for all people and especially the vulnerable.”
“Pope Leo’s moral voice is credible, and the world wants desperately to believe that peace is possible,” said the cardinal.
Leo on Thursday began four days of Vatican events leading up to Easter Sunday when he will deliver a special blessing and message from the balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica.
One of the most closely watched appointments on the Vatican’s calendar, the Easter speech is usually a time when the pope makes a major international appeal.