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How a 198-year-old New Orleans synagogue became one of America’s fastest-growing Jewish communities
NEW ORLEANS — By the time a trumpet player rose from the pews, candy was already flying through the sanctuary.
Children scrambled across the bimah beneath Touro Synagogue’s green-and-gold dome while the crowd clapped to the music and a 13-year-old boy in orange Nike sneakers stood beside his mom before two open Torah scrolls — one for the bar mitzvah boy, the other for his mother, who was 47, a recent convert celebrating her adult bat mitzvah.
By the end of services, congregants carrying guitars, flutes, and tambourines had transformed the sanctuary into something resembling a Mardi Gras second line.
In most American synagogues, this would have felt unusual. At Touro, located along the famous parade route, it felt nearly routine.
Across the country, congregations are shrinking, aging and consolidating. Denominational loyalty is weakening. Younger Jews are less likely to join synagogues at all. But here in New Orleans, Jewish communal life has experienced an unlikely revival.
New Orleans still carries Katrina in its census numbers. The city still has roughly 25% fewer residents than before the storm. Its Black population, while still the majority, has dropped most significantly. Jewish New Orleans, overwhelmingly white, tells a different story. Community leaders say the Jewish population has rebounded to — and perhaps surpassed — pre-Katrina levels.
The revival was driven partly by generational turnover. After the 2005 hurricane, many older New Orleans Jews decided not to return, choosing instead to spend retirement near children and family in cities like Houston and Atlanta. In their place came a younger generation of post-Katrina newcomers — volunteers, nonprofit workers, Tulane University transplants and young families drawn by the chance to help rebuild the city.
But the resurgence cannot be explained by demographics alone. Across the city, Jews describe a deeply interconnected communal ecosystem shaped by catastrophe, collaboration and a distinctly New Orleans instinct for improvisation.
The city’s Jewish institutions increasingly learned to share resources, blur lines between denominations and accommodate the realities of modern Jewish families. Interfaith couples found a warmer welcome. Synagogues that once occupied separate lanes began collaborating more closely. “Denominational boundaries here are very porous,” said Ilana Horwitz, a Tulane University Jewish Studies professor who is writing a book about how the Jewish community survived and rebuilt after Katrina.
At the center of that revival sits Touro Synagogue, a nearly 200-year-old Reform congregation that is defying institutional decline.
In 2019, Touro hired as its spiritual leader Rabbi Katie Bauman, a New Orleans native. She arrived just months before the pandemic would force synagogues across America to reinvent themselves.
At the time, the shul counted roughly 570 families. Today, it is approaching 750. Its religious school has grown from 131 students to 243 in six years. In 2019, the synagogue hosted eight b’nei mitzvah. Nearly 30 b’nai mitzvahs are already scheduled for the 2027-28 school year — so many that synagogue leaders have begun quietly confronting an unfamiliar problem: Are we growing too much?
“We’re not gonna turn people away,” said Kevin Wilkins, the synagogue’s president and the first convert ever to hold the role. “We’re not gonna have a waitlist.”
Two decades after Katrina nearly drowned New Orleans, Touro has become a kind of laboratory for what Jewish communal life can look like after disaster reshapes it.
The people who came after the storm
A Detroit native, Joshua Lichtman came to New Orleans in 2007 after spending time at a Jewish farming and environmental program in Connecticut. Like many people drawn south after Katrina, he was looking for purpose and a chance to help rebuild.
“It was volunteering and adventure,” Lichtman, 51, recalled one Saturday morning after services at Touro
Entire neighborhoods remained scarred by floodwaters. Lichtman spent those early months gutting homes, working in community gardens and helping with legal aid projects. Then he met Davida Finger, who ran the Katrina Clinic at Loyola University, which provided free legal assistance to residents displaced by the hurricane. They got married.
He came to help rebuild the city. Somewhere along the way, the city rebuilt him, too.
Lichtman stayed, helped launch Avodah New Orleans, a Jewish service corps program, and now works in financial planning. Today, he and his wife are raising two children in the city.
His story reflects a broader demographic shift that transformed Jewish New Orleans after Katrina. The Jewish community dropped from about 10,000 people to around 6,500 following the floods. “The Jewish population has been replenished,” said Horwitz, who moved to New Orleans from the Bay Area in 2021, making her both a scholar of the city’s Jewish revival and a participant in it. “But it’s a different configuration of people than there was before.”
Before Katrina, much of Jewish New Orleans was defined by continuity. Many families traced their roots in the city back four or five generations to German-Jewish immigrants who arrived in the 19th century. They attended the same schools, joined the same congregations and often stayed for life.
Reform Judaism, long the dominant expression of Jewish life here, reflected a distinctly Southern tradition — highly assimilated, deeply rooted in local civic affairs and often more connected to New Orleans than to the broader currents of American Judaism.
The community was tightly knit and deeply rooted. Institutional loyalty ran deep. Many worked in law, medicine or family-owned businesses built over generations. As the city’s economy shifted and younger residents left for bigger cities, the Jewish population had already begun slowly shrinking.
The people who arrived after Katrina brought different backgrounds and different reasons for coming. They were volunteers, nonprofit workers, academics, and entrepreneurs drawn not by inheritance but by opportunity — and by the chance to help rebuild.
The transformation was not entirely accidental. In the years after Katrina, the Jewish Federation of Greater New Orleans launched an incentive program for Jewish newcomers, offering a stipend for moving expenses, discounted tuition at the Jewish day school, and a year of free membership at a synagogue. According to the federation, hundreds of people participated in the program, which ran through 2012, and one in four have stayed.
One of the engines of that growth has been Tulane University, where 25% to 30% of undergraduate students are Jewish, according to local estimates, placing it higher than the University of Pennsylvania (17%), Columbia (16%) and Harvard (10%).
Today, some Jewish families view Tulane as an appealing alternative to more politically polarized campuses. Nicholas Lemann, the New Orleans-born author of Returning: A Search for Home Across Three Centuries, said the university benefits from both New Orleans’ cultural appeal and a campus climate many parents perceive as less contentious than schools on the coasts.
“Kids won’t be exposed to anti-Zionism as at bigger Ivies,” said Lemann, a longtime professor and former dean at Columbia Journalism School. “That’s meaningful to many Jewish parents.”
Tulane functions as a pipeline bringing Jewish students, faculty and young professionals into the city, some of whom ultimately decide to stay.
Yet population alone does not explain the revival. What emerged after Katrina was a different way of organizing Jewish life in New Orleans. The city’s six synagogues and two Chabads routinely promote one another’s programs. Rabbis collaborate across denominational lines. Congregants often belong to more than one synagogue at a time.
Alan Smason, editor of the Crescent City Jewish News — which he founded after the hurricane — said much of that cooperation grew directly out of the storm. “We’ve got a Reform temple that actually lives next door to and partners with an Orthodox synagogue,” he said. “A lot of those traditions came about because of Katrina.”
Smason, a New Orleans native, has spent decades chronicling the city’s Jewish life. The cooperation he sees today would have been harder to imagine before the storm. “Out of the darkness,” he said, “came light.”
A different city
The community that emerged after Katrina was different. The result was a community that became more fluid and, in some ways, more open to experimentation than the one that preceded it. New Orleans has always been a city comfortable with reinvention.
On a humid afternoon, tour guide Roni Bossin led me through the French Quarter, pointing out traces of Jewish history hidden in plain sight.
There was the former factory where Joseph Haspel is credited with inventing the seersucker suit. There was Sam Zemurray — the Jewish immigrant known as “Sam the Banana Man” — who built a fruit empire from New Orleans. There was the Holocaust memorial overlooking the Mississippi River and the legacy of Judah Touro, the philanthropist whose name still adorns a hospital as well as the synagogue.
Jewish history here is less a chapter than a thread — stitched through the city’s commerce, politics, philanthropy and folklore. “Jews were woven into the story of New Orleans from the beginning,” said Bossin, a transplant from Israel.
Isaac Monsanto, the first Jewish settler in New Orleans for whom historical records exist, arrived in 1757. By 1828, local Jews had established a congregation that would eventually become Touro Synagogue.
But if Jewish New Orleans has deep roots, it has also changed dramatically. Lemann said the city he visits today feels markedly different from the one where he grew up. When he was young, many Jewish families had lived in New Orleans for generations. His father was born in the city. His grandfather was born in Donaldsonville, Louisiana. Local identity was often inherited.
Today, he said, the community includes far more newcomers. “The various elements of Jewish New Orleans have come together more,” Lemann said.
That history helps explain why Touro feels distinctly New Orleans. Unlike many American synagogues built on sprawling suburban campuses, the city presses right up against the sanctuary walls. The building sits along St. Charles Avenue with no parking lot separating it from the sidewalk. Streetcars rumble past. Mardi Gras floats pass the front doors. During carnival season, members gather there to watch parades together. The congregation builds viewing stands for children with disabilities. Families tailgate on synagogue grounds.
For Rabbi Lily Kowalski, an associate rabbi who joined the shul last year, one of her first Mardi Gras experiences at Touro came during Shabbat services. The congregation was praying when the parade began rolling past outside.
“There was something both ironic and beautiful,” she recalled.
Eventually, the clergy made a practical decision: They would skip a few songs from the end of the service. “The parade has started,” Kowalski remembered thinking. “We need to go outside and see the parade.”
On JazzFest weekend, Touro hosts a special musical Shabbat service that has become one of the congregation’s signature events for the past three decades. “We do love to party,” said Rabbi Bauman. “But it’s a symbol of how proud we are to be here.”
For generations, New Orleans has thrived by blending traditions rather than policing boundaries. Jazz emerged from that cultural mixing. So did much of the city’s cuisine, language and civic culture. Many congregants see Touro as a Jewish expression of the same instinct — a congregation more interested in bringing people together than sorting them into categories.
The open tent
The weekly pamphlet handed out to worshippers carries a simple message across the top: Touro synagogue welcomes all.
For Abby Gaunt, those words proved more than a slogan.
Raised Catholic in New York City, Gaunt had long felt drawn to Judaism. She married a Jewish man, sent her two children to Jewish schools and immersed herself in Jewish communal life. But she never felt the desire to convert.
Then came the 2018 Tree of Life shooting in Pittsburgh. As she read about the victims, one detail stopped her. Two of the people murdered that day — brothers Cecil and David Rosenthal — had Fragile X syndrome, the same genetic condition as her son, Mack.
The story felt personal. When schools struggled to accommodate Mack’s learning differences, Gaunt said New Orleans’ Jewish community had stepped forward to embrace him. The local Jewish day school accepted him when others would not. Congregants welcomed him. Families rallied around him.
“It just felt like they took you as you are,” Gaunt said of Touro. “There’s no asterisk.”
The experience led her to begin studying for conversion. This spring, she celebrated the culmination of that journey standing beside Mack. Mother and son shared the bimah. They recited prayers together. Each read from a Torah scroll — his for a bar mitzvah, hers for an adult bat mitzvah.
For Touro, it was a fitting image. The congregation’s growth has been fueled by newcomers and young families, and by an expansive understanding of who belongs. Its membership includes interfaith families, former Orthodox Jews, lifelong Reform Jews, converts and a growing number of congregants who arrived from a local Conservative synagogue.
Rather than asking newcomers to conform to a single model of Jewish life, synagogue leaders have increasingly adapted the institution around the people walking through the doors. “We’re not just saying we’re an open tent,” said Beth Shapiro Lavin, Touro’s executive vice president, and the congregation’s next president beginning in 2027. “We mean it.”
In a city rebuilt by people who arrived from somewhere else, belonging has become one of Touro’s defining values.
When Lavin joined Touro’s board in 2022, the congregation was already growing. She now finds herself thinking less about survival than succession. Touro will celebrate its 200th anniversary in 2028, during her presidency. Around the same time, her own daughter will celebrate her bat mitzvah in the sanctuary where Lavin herself grew up.
“It’s a really exciting time,” said Lavin, who moved back home after Katrina.
The questions facing Touro are different from those confronting many American synagogues. The congregation worships beneath a dome completed in 1909. Memorial plaques line the sanctuary walls, some honoring congregants who died in the 1800s. The names on the walls grow older every year. The children running beneath them do not.
Growth has created a new set of questions for synagogue leaders. “What is the right size?” Lavin asked.
Part of the answer, she believes, lies in making participation as easy as possible for young families. More than a decade ago, Touro eliminated mandatory membership dues, replacing them with a voluntary giving model.
The experiment worked. This year, Lavin said, roughly two-thirds of donors increased their contributions. Some quadrupled them. “The model only works when we all give what we can,” she said.
The payoff is visible throughout the building. Parents linger after services. Teenagers tutor younger students in Hebrew school. Congregants volunteer to coach b’nai mitzvah speeches. Children who once sat on the sanctuary floor receiving blessings from clergy eventually return as youth group leaders and religious school teachers.
Beyond denominations
A few years ago, a group of families from Shir Chadash, New Orleans’ Conservative synagogue, found themselves searching for a new spiritual home. Some were drawn by Rabbi Bauman’s charismatic leadership. Others were looking for a congregation in the city rather than the suburbs. Many already had friends at Touro.
What they weren’t looking for was a typical Reform service.
“We really appreciate Touro’s big tent approach,” said Ben Horwitz (no relation to Ilana), who helped found a lay-led group that now meets twice a month — once in a community member’s home and once in Touro’s library. “We should be able to serve this community writ large.”
Known as the Chavurat Or’Leans, it offers a more traditional style prayer experience while remaining fully part of the larger congregation. On some weekends, 30 to 50 people attend when it meets at Touro. The synagogue provides space, children’s programming and logistical support.
“It has been a win-win situation,” Horwitz said.
The arrangement reflects a broader philosophy taking hold at Touro. Rather than asking congregants to fit neatly into denominational categories, the synagogue increasingly tries to meet people where they are.
When Horwitz and his wife, Ellie Streiffer, began planning their son’s bar mitzvah, they wanted a traditional, egalitarian service. Touro not only accommodated the request, but provided rabbinic support to help their son prepare.
Other families have made similar choices. “We’re trying to push boundaries,” Bauman said. “People are looking for community more than a particular movement.”
The same flexibility that led Bauman to accommodate different religious traditions has also helped it navigate other forms of difference. Touro’s political diversity is unusual in an era when many religious communities have become more ideologically homogeneous. New Orleans itself remains a blue enclave in a deeply red state.
Bauman said she has watched congregants repeatedly choose community over agreement. “Especially in the last two years, which have been so challenging and so politically divisive,” she said, “people want to be together more than they want to be right.”
A problem most synagogues would envy
Part of the congregation’s growth coincided with Bauman’s arrival. She became senior rabbi in 2019, just months before the pandemic upended American religious life.
While congregations around the country migrated online, Bauman took much of Touro outdoors. Youth groups met camp-style in parks and courtyards. Families gathered under oak trees. Children who might have disappeared into screens continued seeing one another face-to-face.
“We just never did the Zoom thing,” for youth and teen education programs, Bauman said. Looking back, she believes that decision accelerated the congregation’s growth by strengthening relationships at a moment when many institutions were struggling to maintain them.
The growth has been so pronounced that last year Touro hired a third full-time rabbi for the first time in its history. Rabbi Kowalski arrived in the summer of 2025 from Tulsa, Oklahoma, to serve as associate rabbi and education director.
Sitting in her office one afternoon beneath a hand-painted sign reading “Welcome Rabbi Kowalski,” she described the job as both “inspiring and daunting.”
On Sunday mornings and Wednesday afternoons, the synagogue hums with activity. Religious school classes fill nearly every available room. Parents attend adult education programs while their children study Hebrew. Choir rehearsals meet at the same time.
The building was designed to hold memory. It is now straining to hold momentum. “We’re using every nook of the building,” Kowalski said.
For generations, the challenge facing American synagogues was how to attract young families. At Touro, the question has become something else entirely: How do you keep growing without losing the intimacy that made people want to join in the first place?
The second tablets
For Bauman, the synagogue’s revival begins much earlier than Touro’s recent growth.
At the joint mother-son b’nai mitzvah, Bauman’s sermon focused on one of Judaism’s oldest stories of rupture and repair. In that week’s Torah portion, Moses descends Mount Sinai carrying the Ten Commandments, only to smash the stone tablets after discovering the Israelites worshipping the Golden Calf below. Eventually, God commands him to climb the mountain again and carve a second set.
The first tablets, Bauman told the congregation, belonged to a world that was orderly and unbroken. The second set came afterward. “The first tablets are simple and clear,” she said. “But life is messier than that.”
In post-Katrina New Orleans, the metaphor hardly felt abstract. Rebuilding was never supposed to mean restoration.
Horwitz, the Tulane professor, sees echoes of biblical stories throughout New Orleans’ experience after the hurricane. Her forthcoming book traces the community’s journey through themes of flood, exile, wilderness and return.
Horwitz, whose own family arrived in the United States as Soviet Jewish refugees in the late 1980s, argues that what endured after Katrina was the community itself — not as a collection of buildings, but as a web of relationships that helped people find one another again. “It’s fundamental,” Horwitz said. “Jewish communities are there for you in a moment of crisis.”
The Jewish New Orleans that emerged after Katrina is not identical to the one that existed before the storm. Many of the people are different. So are the ways they have learned to build community.
But perhaps that is what Bauman meant when she spoke about the second tablets. The first version was lost. The second pair, which carried the Jewish people through the wilderness, was the one that endured.
The post How a 198-year-old New Orleans synagogue became one of America’s fastest-growing Jewish communities appeared first on The Forward.
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Troy Jackson wins Maine Democratic Senate nomination, keeps mum on Israel, AIPAC
(JTA) — BANGOR, Maine – Troy Jackson accepted the Democratic nomination for Maine’s U.S. Senate race on Saturday with no mention of Israel, sidestepping an issue that has become a focal point for many Maine Jews as they assess the party’s new standard-bearer.
Jackson secured the nomination in a landslide 566 to 5 vote by delegates at the nominating convention. Saundra Pelletier, the only remaining challenger after the rest of the field dropped out in the days leading up to the gathering, picked up the handful of votes that didn’t go to the winner.
While Jackson took several shots during his acceptance address at Sen. Susan Collins, the incumbent Republican he will now face in the general election, it was Pelletier who used her remarks to specifically malign Collins’ voting record on Israel.
“She voted to increase federal funding in defensive arms for Iran, and did not vote to take moderate measures to hold Netanyahu accountable,” Pelletier said, receiving a chorus from the crowd.
The victory for Jackson came after the state’s former Democratic nominee, Graham Platner, a staunch Israel critic, left the race earlier this month amid a sexual assault allegation, which he has denied. The resulting scramble to replace him upended the Democratic primary and prompted fresh scrutiny from Jewish Mainers of Jackson’s recent evolution on Israel.
Jackson, a former state lawmaker and union advocate, had previously said little publicly about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict during his two-decade career in state legislature. However, during the race to replace Platner, he has embraced the term “genocide” to describe Israel’s war in Gaza and called for an end to U.S. military aid to Israel on his campaign website, both positions championed by Platner before his exit. Jackson also has said he wouldn’t accept any funding from AIPAC.
But on Saturday, as a sea of supporters sporting his campaign’s blue and yellow “Troy Jackson” t-shirts cheered their new nominee, Jackson omitted any mention of Israel from his remarks. Instead, Jackson reaffirmed his commitments to passing Medicare for all, supporting union rights and restoring abortion rights nationwide, among other issues.
During his address following the decisive victory, Jackson also offered a message to Maine voters who remain on the fence:
“Whether you supported me from the beginning, supported another candidate, or are still deciding what you think of this fifth-generation logger from Allagash,” Jackson said. “I’ve always known this, that your trust has to be earned, and so I want you to hear this directly from me. There is a place in this campaign for all of you. There is work for you in this movement, and I will spend every day, now through November, earning that trust because today we turn the page.”
Amy Fried, a professor emerita of political science at the University of Maine who attended Saturday’s conference as an alternate delegate but did not cast a ballot, said that while she believed Jackson had addressed Israel in the lead-up to Saturday because “a lot of people are interested in the topic,” his speech reflected the issues he had been “concerned about his whole political career.”
“Obviously, he’d have to take votes on foreign policy and funding when he’s in the Senate,” Fried said. “But I think that his main interest is always in issues that have to do with housing and healthcare, you know, all of the matters that are sort of more day-to-day kitchen table issues.”
While Jackson avoided revisiting his recent stances on Israel, which have raised concern among some Jewish voters in Maine, about a dozen pro-Palestinian protesters rallied outside the convention hall in support of his candidacy.
“It’s a really positive step that you have nominated Troy Jackson,” one protester shouted through a megaphone. “I think he’s going to be a strong voice for the kind of values that I believe in and the people of Palestine, the children of Iran, and all the other places the U.S. bombed.”
Ronna Lugosch, a 71-year-old Jewish grandmother and delegate from Round Pond, Maine, said that she was “more excited now than I was before” about Jackson’s candidacy.
Lugosch, who supports Jackson’s stances on Israel, said she hadn’t noticed he had left the topic out of his remarks. “Unfortunately, it’s a sensitive topic, so that’s my guess that maybe he didn’t bring that up because it was just too much,” Lugosch said. “You know, he was being careful.”
Still, Lugosch said that she was “really impressed with all his comments about working people and organizing.”
“I’m going to campaign for him because we need to get rid of Susan Collins,” Lugosch said. “Before it was more of a sort of a defensive stance, but now I’m supportive, and so I feel better about going out into the community.”
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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Maine Democratic Senate nominee Troy Jackson raises eyebrows in the Jewish community
(JTA) — BANGOR, Maine – Throughout his two-decade-long career as a state lawmaker in Maine, Troy Jackson built his political brand around labor and economic issues.
But as the former logger and state Senate president now seeks a seat in the U.S. Senate, Jackson has begun staking out positions on something new — Israel.
Facing one of the Democratic Party’s most divisive issues, Jackson has embraced the label “genocide” to describe Israel’s war in Gaza and called for an end to U.S. military aid to Israel.
“This is unconscionable. Anybody with eyes and a heart knows the Israeli government is committing genocide in Gaza. It has to end, and we as Americans have the power to end it,” Jackson wrote in a post on X on July 9, responding to reports of a Palestinian aid worker killed by Israeli strikes. “When I’m in the U.S. Senate, I’ll never vote in favor of US taxpayer-funded military aid to Israel.”
A week later, Jackson also inveighed against AIPAC, the pro-Israel lobby that has become a frequent target of progressives.
“I pledge to lead for Maine voters by rejecting attempts to buy influence through unlimited personal wealth and dark money,” Jackson wrote in a post on X. “That means rejecting all money from corporate PACs, AIPAC, and lobbyists from Big Oil and Big Pharma.”
For some Jews in Maine, Jackson’s emergence has prompted unease. Some worry that his embrace of the term “genocide” reflects a troubling shift in Democratic primaries across the country that many Jews have found alienating. Other Maine Jews, while somewhat hesitant, see the longtime Democrat as a pragmatic choice to represent the state and say they prefer him over Platner.
Jackson’s newfound efforts to speak out forcefully on Israel comes as he is likely to secure the Democratic nomination Saturday to take on Republican Sen. Susan Collins in a high-profile race that could determine control of the Senate.
His policy statements and comments about Israel have mirrored the broader evolution of the race since the collapse of Graham Platner’s campaign earlier this month. Platner, a staunch critic of Israel, bowed out of the race earlier this month following a sexual assault allegation that he has since denied. In the days that followed, some of the Democratic candidates who emerged to replace Platner but then dropped out, including Shenna Bellows and Jordan Wood, also began using the term “genocide” for the first time.
Jackson’s campaign did not respond to a Jewish Telegraphic Agency request for comment about his views on Israel.
For some Jews in Maine, Jackson’s sudden emphasis on Israel has raised questions about whether his positions reflect a deeply held conviction or an effort to win over Platner’s supporters.
“I do think that his rhetoric on Israel has been kind of like a ‘pick me’ appeal to the perception of what the Platner base is feeling about the whole thing,” said Brian Kresge, president of Congregation Beth Israel in Bangor, who said he largely votes for Democrats. “I don’t know whether it’s a closely held position because it’s not something he said much about during the gubernatorial race (Jackson came in third place in the governor’s race). It’s not something I’ve ever heard him talk about in his other forays in politics.”
Rabbi Bill Siemers, the leader of Beth Israel, Maine’s oldest active synagogue, said that he had found “no evidence” in Jackson’s “social media or in his talks that this was an issue for him before very recently, and it’s clear to me and to others that he brought this up so he could be the Senate nominee.”
“Now we know where we are. We know where we stand, that this, at least in the upper levels of the Maine Democratic Party, this is a requirement, and that’s not good,” Siemers said, referring to the label of genocide.
“I don’t think Jews want to have to go to the polls and vote on the basis of that, but they will,” he added.
Jackson’s rhetoric on Gaza earned praise from Our Revolution, the group formed by Vermont Sen. Bernie Sanders to advance the progressive movement. Jackson has won endorsements from both Sanders and Our Revolution, as well as left-wing streamer Hasan Piker, California Rep. Ro Khanna and Maine’s Democratic Socialists of America chapter.
“Troy Jackson doesn’t do word salad. He calls a genocide a genocide and says he’ll never vote for taxpayer-funded military aid to fund it,” the group wrote in a Facebook post earlier this month. “That’s what Maine voters delivered a historic win for on June 9, what other contender in Maine will actually say it?”
Jackson, 58, is a fifth-generation logger from northern Maine and first entered politics in 1998 by leading a logging blockade along the Maine-Canada border to protest corporations hiring low-wage foreign workers. In 2000, he launched an unsuccessful Republican bid for the state House before later winning a seat two years later as an independent.
He ran again for re-election in 2004 as a Democrat and won, kicking off a two-decade long career in state politics where he maintained strong union ties and progressive views. Jackson also once voiced opposition to same-sex marriage and abortion, both positions he has since reversed.
In 2024, at the Maine State Democratic Convention, Jackson, who served as convention chairman, reportedly attempted to quiet down a small group of pro-Palestinian protesters who called Maine Rep. Jared Golden a “war criminal” during a video celebrating the Jewish congressman.
“I believe in the ability of people to demonstrate and protest,” Jackson said amid the outburst. “There is a time for that.”
Earlier this year, Jackson came in third place in the state’s Democratic primary for governor. During his campaign, he pledged not to take “dark money,” but did not specifically reject AIPAC, which typically spends in federal races.
During Platner’s campaign, Jackson campaigned alongside him and endorsed his candidacy until Platner was accused of sexual assault. Following the allegation, he joined other progressive leaders in calling for Platner to drop out.
Going into Saturday’s nominating convention, Kresge said that there was still a “palpable sense of relief” among the local Jewish community that Platner, whose Nazi-linked tattoo had sparked outcry among Jewish Mainers, was out of the race.
“Troy Jackson may sound alike on a lot of these issues, but he’s not burdened by – well, he is burdened by some accusations and stuff —but he’s not burdened by a Reddit history,” Kresge said. “He has an actual political resume to run on.”
While some Jewish Mainers questioned Jackson’s recent rhetoric on Israel, others said his long record in local government offered some assurances.
“I don’t know Troy Jackson, but I think having a resume to fall back on, and having been in the position where he’s had to make compromises and understand the difference between spouting a popular slogan versus getting things done, I think is a small measure of comfort,” said Matt Tzuker, a Jewish resident of Portland.
Maine State Rep. Laurie Osher, who is Jewish and said she was ready to vote for Jackson, said that she hoped that Jackson would be able to “keep up the momentum” that Platner had gained during his campaign.
“He’s got my vote because I have worked with him,” Osher said. “For every moment that I found him doing something I didn’t think was great, he was also open to me telling him why I didn’t think it was great, and I saw him do better.”
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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MAGA influencer Laura Loomer mounts Jewish apology tour in Ukraine, meeting with Zelensky and rabbi
(JTA) — MAGA firebrand Laura Loomer, who is warring with anti-Israel figures on the right, is invoking her Judaism as she pulls an about-face on a former hobbyhorse of hers: Ukraine.
Loomer interviewed Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky on a visit to the country this week, asking him about his Jewish identity and the country’s antisemitism policies. She also sat down with influential rabbi Moshe Azman as Ukraine’s punishing war with Russia drags into its fourth year.
In a series of tweets, she apologized for her past assertions that Ukraine is “full of Nazi sympathizers,” and that Zelensky was “a self-hating Nazi Jew.”
“I admit it, I fell for Russian propaganda,” Loomer, who wields considerable influence with President Donald Trump, wrote Friday after sharing “a lovely Kosher dinner” with Azman’s family. She also visited a historic Kyiv monastery recently shelled by Russian drones and invited Zelensky to make his case for why supporting Ukraine was “America First.”
Loomer’s Jewish Ukraine tour comes as the American right is splintering, largely between pro- and anti-Israel factions — pitting the likes of Loomer and Jewish pundit Ben Shapiro against those aligned with pundit Tucker Carlson.
Military aid to Ukraine has served as a tension point between the hawks and isolationists since Russia’s invasion in 2022. The two issues have become increasingly intertwined, with the right’s loudest anti-Israel voices opposing the U.S.-Israel war against Iran and also projecting weariness around supporting Ukraine.
Vice President JD Vance, whose language on Israel and Jewish issues has alarmed some Jewish leaders, took credit for halting U.S. aid to Ukraine earlier this year. Vance’s associate Carlson, who has recently turned on Trump and broken with the Republican Party, conducted a softball interview with Russian President Vladimir Putin in 2024. The U.S. Senate will vote on a new joint Russia-Iran sanctions bill next week.
Trump himself exhibited closeness with Putin during his first term and, together with Vance, chastised Zelensky during a White House meeting last year. But his administration has indicated a recent willingness to try to end the war on terms sympathetic to Ukraine, and the two leaders are scheduled to meet in the White House next week.
Loomer, too, formerly exhibited pro-Russia tendencies, including writing for the Russian-owned English-language outlet RT. More recently, she has feuded with other right-wing media figures, including Carlson, Candace Owens and Joe Rogan, often citing her pro-Israel views as the reason for the falling-out. Unlike a growing number of pundits on the right, she has also continued to cheer on the war with Iran even as its support has sunk across party lines and other commentators have sought to cast blame onto Israel.
Loomer has also used inflammatory rhetoric toward Muslims, calling on Trump to pass “a Muslim Ban as it was intended to be” after New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani called Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu a “war criminal” earlier this week.
In her Zelensky interview, filmed at the Ukrainian presidential palace and released in full on Friday, Loomer tried to play partisan politics. She unsuccessfully urged him to call Trump the best president in history and told him that his 2024 visit to a Pennsylvania munitions factory alongside Democratic Gov. Josh Shapiro was “one of the reasons why a lot of Americans came to dislike you.” (Shapiro, who is also Jewish, was at the time a prominent campaign surrogate for then-Vice President Kamala Harris, who was running for president.)
Loomer sought a Jewish connection with the president, telling him, “I’m Jewish, you’re Jewish. We share that in common.” Zelensky, who rarely publicly comments on his Jewish heritage, highlighted that Ukraine earlier this year passed a law criminalizing antisemitism.
“It’s illegal, antisemitism. We did it during my presidency,” he said. The new law, a strengthening of a 2021 law, institutes fines and possible prison terms for those found guilty of hatred or discrimination on the basis of Jewish identity.
Zelensky, who has long enjoyed largely unqualified support among Democrats and liberal Americans, praised Loomer’s visit and change of heart. He, Azman and other Ukrainian figures who met with Loomer have sought to cultivate increased favor with Trump during a particularly uncertain phase of the war.
Loomer told the president her main goal was to counter “Russian propaganda” she believed was prominent among American podcasters, including allegations of links between Ukraine’s military and Naziism.
“I really opposed sending my taxpayer dollars to Ukraine because I really believed that you had an army, the Azov Battalion, full of Nazis,” she told Zelensky, referencing an infamous Ukrainian military wing that has continued to attract scrutiny, both before and after the 2022 invasion, for its links to neo-Nazis and other extremists.
“We are not Nazis,” Zelensky told her, later urging her to visit Babyn Yar, the memorial to the “Holocaust by bullets” perpetrated by Nazis on Ukrainian soil with the help of local collaborators in 1941. In 2022, shortly after the invasion, a Russian bombing near the memorial prompted Zelensky to make an appeal to the global Jewish community for support.
Loomer, who is notorious for credulously reporting explosive allegations against her political enemies, said she accepted Ukraine’s claims to now be Nazi-free. One of the deciding factors, she said, was meeting with Azman, the Chabad-affiliated rabbi who holds the disputed title of chief rabbi of Ukraine and whose son was killed in battle with Russia in 2024.
“The Rabbi told me his dead Jewish son didn’t fight alongside Nazis,” Loomer tweeted, adding, “I can assure Amercians [sic] that Jews are safer in Ukraine than they are in Mamdani’s New York City!” (Azman has also praised the Jan. 6, 2021, U.S. Capitol riots by Trump supporters, celebrating them for “protesting mass election fraud” and comparing them to the Maidan, the 2014 Ukrainian protest movement that ousted a pro-Russia president.)
Most diaspora Jews and Jewish organizations have backed Ukraine since the invasion and have decried Putin’s initial assertion that his invasion was intended to “denazify” the country. Loomer has now joined their ranks, hoping to marry that support to her own ideological identity as a Jewish right-winger in an era where the president she has long championed is losing some influence.
“We won’t have Trump forever,” she wrote Tuesday, “and the axis of evil is moving fast.”
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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