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Henry Rosovsky, refugee from the Nazis who shaped Harvard University, dies at 95
BOSTON (JTA) — When Harvard University’s rabbi first pushed to relocate the Hillel from the outskirts of campus to its center, Henry Rosovsky was initially skeptical.
“He was absolutely right. I was wrong,” Rosovsky told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency in 2017, at a 25th anniversary party for the Hillel building that bears his name: Rosovsky Hall.
The event was also a 90th birthday party for Rosovsky, an economist who almost all of his career at Harvard, spanning decades in which he influenced the school’s curriculum, led a committee charged with improving conditions for Black students and shepherded the flourishing of Jewish life on campus.
Rosovsky died Nov. 11 at his home in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where he lived and worked since joining the Harvard faculty in 1965. He was 95.
“His legacy continues to influence the experience of every person on our campus today,” Harvard President Lawrence Bacow, who is Jewish, told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency. “With his passing, Harvard has lost one of its greatest champions and its finest citizens.”
At his funeral at Temple Israel of Boston, Rosovsky was remembered by family, colleagues and friends for his brilliance, witty humor, love of tennis and jazz, and his sage advice and mentorship.
His daughter, Leah Rosovsky, said her father took his greatest satisfaction in the role he played in establishing what is now Harvard’s African and African American Studies Program and recruiting its longtime chair, historian Henry Louis Gates Jr., who attended the funeral.
Born in a Jewish family on Sept. 1, 1927 in what is now Gdansk, Poland, Rosovsky immigrated to the United States with his parents and brother in 1940, after escaping the Nazis through France, Portugal, Spain and Belgium. He volunteered for the U.S. Army in World War II and also served in the Korean War, according to an obituary published by Harvard. After graduating from the College of William and Mary, he arrived at Harvard for the first time in 1949 to pursue a doctorate in economics.
In 1965, he returned as a professor of economics, with a specialty in Japanese and Asian economic development. He would stay at the university for the rest of his career, shaping not only the Ivy League college but Boston’s Jewish community.
As dean of Harvard’s College of Arts and Sciences from 1973 to 1991, Rosovsky led implementation of the school’s groundbreaking core curriculum. He also served two terms as Harvard’s acting president; was appointed a member of the Harvard Corporation, where he was the first Jew on the school’s governing body; and oversaw the establishment of Harvard’s Center for Jewish Studies.
In 1969, with student unrest spurring changes at many universities, Rosovsky led a committee to study the experience of Black students at Harvard. The resulting “Rosovsky report” urged the creation of a standalone department for African and African American studies and other steps to integrate and empower Black students. Rosovsky quit the committee after students were given equal say, a move that he said should have taken place only after careful study. He resumed his involvement shortly before his retirement in the 1990s, recruiting high-profile scholars including Gates to transform the department into an academic powerhouse.
Rosovsky’s 1990 book “The University: An Owner’s Manual,” exposed outsiders to the complex operations of a research university. But the former dean was equally helpful to university insiders, Bacow said, noting the time Rosovsky devoted to doling out advice to college presidents. Several of Harvard’s presidents, including Drew Gilpin Faust, Lawrence H. Summers and Neil Rudenstine, echoed that sentiment in published remarks at the celebration of his 90th birthday.
His reach extended beyond Harvard, too. As chair of the Boston Jewish federation’s strategic planning committee in the 1990s, Rosovsky shared his analytical expertise and his ability to bring people together to help chart a course for Boston’s Jewish community, according to Barry Shrage, who for decades led the Combined Jewish Philanthropies of Greater Boston.
“It was a turning point in terms of Jewish learning, adult Jewish education, building community at the grassroots and engaging synagogues,” Shrage told JTA in a conversation at the funeral. “It all emerged in the strategic plan.”
Shrage added, “He was a secular Jew but his Jewish identity deeply influenced his vision of the world.”
Rosovsky is survived by Nitza, his wife of 66 years and a former longtime curator of the Semitic Museum at Harvard; his children, Leah, Judy and Michael and their spouses; four grandchildren; and one great-granddaughter.
“He didn’t set out to trumpet his own Jewish identity,” Rabbi Jonah Steinberg, Harvard Hillel’s executive director, told JTA in 2017 about Rosovsky. “By being very honestly who they are, they were an example to others.”
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The post Henry Rosovsky, refugee from the Nazis who shaped Harvard University, dies at 95 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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