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How Judy Blume’s ‘Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret’ broke taboos around interfaith marriage
(JTA) — When Judy Blume’s young adult novel “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret” appeared in 1970, intermarried families were a small segment of the American Jewish population. Perhaps 17% of Jews were married to someone who wasn’t Jewish; today, 42% of married Jews have a spouse who is not Jewish, and in the past decade, 61% of Jews married non-Jewish partners.
Through the 1960s, middle-grade and young adult fiction rarely acknowledged the existence of these families, reflecting and reinforcing their outsider status. Today it is routine for authors to address the reality of inter-religious and culturally mixed families, portraying them with insight and compassion. (See “Not Your All-American Girl” by Wendy Wan-Long Shang and Madelyn Rosenberg, “Becoming Brianna” by Terri Libenson and “The Whole Story of Half a Girl” by Veera Hiranandani.)
This change was made possible partly by Blume’s story of sixth-grader Margaret Simon and her one-sided conversations with God.
Blume’s status as a pioneer in young adult literature is usually associated with her honest approach to the emotional, physical and sexual milestones of growing up, with her works still attracting readers and still finding an honored place on lists of banned books. That legacy is being celebrated in April with a new documentary, Amazon Prime Video’s “Judy Blume Forever,” and a theatrical release by Lionsgate of a feature film version of “Are You There God?”
Yet her treatment of contested identity in intermarried families is as revolutionary as her openness about bras, menstruation and sexual feelings. Actors Lena Dunham and Molly Ringwald, comedian Samantha Bee and many authors, including Raina Telgemeier, Tayari Jones and Gary Shteyngart, have cited Blume’s influence on both their lives and their work. Book lists for intermarried families frequently list the novel as a resource.
Margaret Simon is 11 years old at the start of “Are You There God?” Her Jewish dad and Christian mom have pointedly ignored the possibility that their daughter might have questions about her identity. Along with other issues of teen angst, she feels compelled to decide if she is Jewish, Christian or neither. Without any guidance, the last alternative leaves her in a frightening void. As she pointedly asks God, in her ongoing series of questions for Him, “I can’t go on being nothing forever, can I?”
Margaret’s parents, Barbara Hutchins and Herb Simon, fell in love and defied their respective parents by marrying out of their faiths. They assure Margaret that she has no religion, but can choose one when she is older, oblivious to the fact that this solution seems more of a burden than a promise of future freedom. Their avoidance of any serious engagement with either religion or culture renders any possible choice unlikely.
Blume situates Margaret’s search within the specific landscape of post-World War II America. When the Simons decide to leave their Upper West Side home in New York City and move to suburban New Jersey, their decision suggests a coded reference to their religious status. Long Island is “too social,” an implied euphemism for “too Jewish.” Living there might have made it harder for their relatively unusual situation to be discreetly ignored. On the other hand, the more affluent Westchester and Connecticut are “too expensive” and “too inconvenient.” Farbrook, New Jersey has enough Jews for it to feel right for Herb, but not so many as to make their mixed family stand out.
Margaret also suspects that her parents’ are determined to put distance between the Simons and Sylvia, her paternal grandmother, who lives in New York City. This gregarious woman shows up at their new home unannounced and toting deli foods, making it clear that Margaret’s one unambiguous connection to Judaism is not going to disappear. While Barbara’s parents utterly rejected her when she married a Jew, Sylvia has pragmatically decided to accept what she cannot change. In the postwar era, more Jews began to abandon or minimize religious practice, while still maintaining ethnically distinct customs. Like holiday observance or synagogue attendance, ethnic Jewish culture is also absent from the Simon home. Sylvia’s Jewish food, her frequent trips to Florida, even her combination of sarcasm and smothering warmth, provide Margaret with markers of the tradition her parents have eschewed.
Still, when Sylvia repeatedly asks Margaret if her (nonexistent) boyfriends are Jewish, the young girl is baffled. Given her own lack of consciousness of herself as Jewish, why would Margaret care?
Rachel McAdams and Abby Ryder Fortson in the forthcoming film adaptation of “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.” (Dana Hawley/Lionsgate © 2022)
In the larger world of Farbrook, Margaret’s new friends seem to have more secure identities, conveniently defined by membership either in the “Y” (Young Men’s Christian Association) or the Jewish Community Center. Perfunctory attendance at Hebrew school until after one’s bar mitzvah is the furthest extent of her peers’ Jewishness. Margaret explains that her parents are “nothing” and that, prior to their marriage, they were Jewish and Christian, as if those identities could be cast off like an article of clothing. When Mr. Benedict, her enthusiastic young teacher, distributes a questionnaire, Margaret completes the prompt “I hate” with “religious holidays.” He attempts to draw her out about this troubling answer, and she scornfully observes that her teacher acted as if “he had uncovered some deep, dark mystery.”
On one level, he has. Her mother’s blandly universal definition of God as a “nice idea,” who “belongs to everybody,” is clearly a denial of the fractures in her family members’ lives.
Blume also captures the essence of mid-century non-Orthodox Judaism as comfortably accessible, yet also somewhat empty. On a visit to Grandma Sylvia’s elegant temple, the atmosphere is quietly decorous, the sanctuary filled with well-appointed congregants and beautifully arranged flowers. Sylvia’s rabbi greets Margaret with an enthusiastic “Good Yom Tov,” which he translates as “Happy New Year,” although it is actually a generic holiday greeting.
When Margaret later visits Presbyterian and Methodist churches, she notes the remarkable similarity among all three experiences.
The novel’s one incident of specific religious practice involves Margaret’s brief, unfinished confession in a classmate’s Catholic church. Having participated in bullying, Margaret tries to assuage her guilt through a ritual alien to both her father’s Judaism and her mother’s Protestant Christianity. She even momentarily confuses the priest with the silent God of her conversations. Nothing could be further from her parents’ rejection of religion, or from Grandma Sylvia’s loving assurance to Margaret that “I knew you were a Jewish girl at heart.”
When Margaret’s Christian grandparents decide to resume contact, the suppressed anger in the Simon home finally erupts. Herb is furious, and accuses his in-laws of only wanting to meet Margaret “to make sure she doesn’t have horns!” — a caustic reference to a persistent antisemitic myth. Blume had subtly foreshadowed this disruption of the status quo in a parallel event at school. When a Jewish student, backed by his parents, refuses to sing Christmas carols, the implicit agreement of the town’s Jews to quietly conform is broken. A Christian girl, in what seems an act of retaliation, then refuses to sing Hanukkah songs. These acts of resistance reinforce Margaret’s marginal status. Her intermarried family represents neither conformity with postwar norms nor an assertion of Jewish pride.
Blume appears to tip the scales in her portrayal of Mary and Paul Hutchins, Margaret’s maternal grandparents. Entirely unlikeable, simultaneously pushy and cold, they insist that the granddaughter they had never acknowledged is Christian. After their failed visit, Grandma Sylvia returns, along with her sweet and obviously Jewish new boyfriend, Mr. Binamin (“rhymes with cinnamon”). Readers rooting for the triumph of Margaret’s Jewish roots may breathe a sigh of relief here, but hope for a satisfying ending is illusory. Margaret’s search for a stable sense of self is still unfinished, and will not be satisfied by choosing membership in either the Y or the JCC.
For young readers, the novel’s discussion of religious identity proved as life-changing as its honest portrayal of puberty and menstruation. “I related to that kind of conflict of religion,” the comedian Chelsea Handler, who grew up in a mixed Jewish-Mormon home, told Blume in 2020. “At that time, I just found out my mom was Mormon, on top of thinking she was Jewish, and your books were such a reprieve for me and such a joy.”
More than 50 years ago, Judy Blume tackled a difficult subject, about both changing demographics and the search for authenticity in American Jewish life. Margaret’s conclusion that “twelve is very late to learn” about the essence of who you are still poses a challenge, while her persistent search for a meaningful identity offers a degree of optimism.
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The post How Judy Blume’s ‘Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret’ broke taboos around interfaith marriage appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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Chaim Beer’s new book revolves around J. Opatoshu’s novella ‘A Day in Regensburg’
„לווייתן ברוח“ פֿון חיים באר
פֿאַרלאַג: עם עובד (2026)
303 זײַטן
די טעג איז אַרויס אין ישׂראל אַ נײַ, אייגנאַרטיק בוך, „לווייתן ברוח“ (אַ וואַלפֿיש אין ווינט), פֿונעם אָנגעזעענעם ראָמאַנען־שרײַבער און עסיייִסט חיים באר. דאָס איז דאָס 17סטע בוך זײַנע, וואָס אַלע פֿון זיי ווערן פֿאַררעכנט אין ישׂראל פֿאַר דער „סמעטענע“ פֿון דער העברעיִשער ליטעראַטור. איינער פֿון זײַנע פֿריִערדיקע ביכער האָט מײַסטעריש באַשריבן די באַציִונגען צווישן ח.־נ. ביאַליק, ש.י. עגנון און י.-ח. ברענער.
דאָס נײַע בוך איז אַ ביסל שווער צו דעפֿינירן: מע לייענט עס ווי עס וואָלט געווען אַ שפּאַנענדיקער ראָמאַן, אָבער עס געהערט גיכער צום זשאַנער פֿאַקטפּראָזע (non-fiction בלע״ז). אַלץ וואָס ער דערציילט אינעם בוך האָט טאַקע פּאַסירט. הייסט עס, אַז דער מחבר פֿון בוך איז גלײַכצײַטיק דער נאַראַטאָר: ער דערציילט וועגן פֿיגורן וואָס ער קען, מיט זייערע אמתע נעמען, און וועגן געשעענישן וואָס ער האָט אַליין דורכגעלעבט. און הגם „לווייתן ברוח“ איז געשריבן אין חיים בארס פּרעכטיקן העברעיִש — ער איז דאָך אַ גרויסער קענער פֿון די שפּראַך-אוצרות און דערצו אַ בקי אין די קליינע אותיות — האָט דאָס בוך אויך אַ סך צו טאָן מיט ייִדיש.
קודם-כּל, איז די הויפּטטעמע פֿונעם בוך יוסף אָפּאַטאָשוס נאָוועלע „אַ טאָג אין רעגענסבורג“, וואָס איז אַרויס אין יאָר 1933. און השנית, אין משך פֿונעם בוך באַקענט זיך דער מחבר (און דער נאַראַטאָר) מיט אַ ריי ייִדישע שרײַבערס און פֿאָרשערס — י. ל. פּרץ, ש. אַנ-סקי, מאַקס עריק, דבֿ סדן (שטאָק), חנא שמערוק און נאָך אַ סך אַנדערע ייִדישע פֿיגורן וואָס שטייען אויף תּחיית-המתים.
דער סיפּור-המעשׂה הייבט זיך אָן אין אַ ביכערקראָם אין ירושלים מיט פֿערציק יאָר צוריק. באר קויפֿט אַן עקזעמפּלאַר פֿונעם בוך „ספֿר חסידים“, אַן אַשכּנזיש-העברעיִשן חיבור פֿונעם 12טן יאָרהונדערט, און טרעפֿט צופֿעליק אינעם בוך נאָך אַ ביכל: די העברעיִשע איבערזעצונג פֿון יוסף אָפּאַטאָשוס ראָמאַן „אַ טאָג אין רעגענסבורג“ („יום ברגנספורק“). דער פֿאַרקויפֿער, וואָס איז נישט קיין עם-האָרץ, זאָגט אים: „זאָלסט וויסן אַז דאָס בוך איז אַ ווילדע מציאה!“ (די צוויי לעצטע ווערטער זײַנען אין בוך געשריבן אויף ייִדיש, ווי אַ סך אַנדערע ייִדישע אויסדרוקן וואָס באר ניצט).
אין אויטאָבוס, אויפֿן וועג אַהיים, הייבט באר אָן לייענען אָפּאַטאָשוס נאָוועלע, און תּיכּף ווערט ער אַנטציקט. היות ווי חיים באר איז אַליין אַ רעדאַקטאָר פֿון אַ ביכער-פֿאַרלאַג („עם עובד“), קווענקלט ער זיך, וואָס צו טאָן מיט דער נאָוועלע: זאָל ער אויסאַרבעטן די אַלטפֿרענקישע איבערזעצונג? זאָל ער עס איבערזעצן פֿון דאָס נײַ? צום סוף, קומט צו אים אין זינען גאָר אַ נײַער אײַנפֿאַל: אַנשטאָט איבערזעצן די נאָוועלע וועט ער דערציילן וועגן איר. במילא ווערט „לוויתן ברוח“ אַ דערציילונג וועגן אַ דערציילונג.
אין דער צווישנצײַט באַקענט זיך באר מיט דער געשיכטע פֿון דער אַלטער ייִדישער קהילה פֿון רעגענסבורג. די שטאָט געפֿינט זיך אין דרום־דײַטשלאַנד, צווישן מינכן און נירנבערג, אויפֿן טײַך דונײַ. דאָרטן האָבן אינעם 12טן יאָרהונדערט געלעבט די בעלי-תּוספֿות און די תּלמידים פֿון רבנו תּם. אינעם 13טן יאָרהונדערט, זײַנען דאָרטן באַרימט געוואָרן דער עטישער שרײַבער און קבליסט ר׳ יהודה החסיד מיט זײַנע תּלמידים, באַקאַנט ווי די „חסידי אשכּנז“ (די דאָזיקע „חסידים“ האָבן, אַגבֿ, גאָרנישט צו טאָן מיט די תּלמידים פֿונעם בעל־שם־טובֿ).
נישט געקוקט אויף די בלוטיקע קרײַצצוגן פֿון יענע צײַטן האָבן ר׳ יהודהס תּלמידים אָנגעשריבן „ספֿר חסידים“: אַ וויכטיקע שאַפֿונג פֿון אַ פֿאַנאַטישער און פֿאַנטאַסטישער פֿרומקייט און עס האָט זיך אַנטוויקלט אין רעגענסבורג אַ חשובֿע קהילה און אַ וויכטיקע ישיבֿה, וואָס זענען פֿאַרבליבן ביזן גירוש-רעגענסבורג אין יאָר 1519, ווען אַלע ייִדן זײַנען פֿאַרשיקט געוואָרן פֿון שטאָט. דער בית-עולם איז דעמאָלט פֿאַרשוועכט געוואָרן, און די מצבֿות האָט מען באַנוצט ווי בוי-מאַטעריעל.
אָפּאַטאָשוס „אַ טאָג אין רעגענסבורג“ דערציילט וועגן די לעצטע טעג פֿון דער ייִדישער קהילה דאָרט — אַ חתונה אין שטעטל, מיט כּלי־זמרים און חבֿרה-שוישפּילערס, פֿריילעכע באַנקעטן און באַלן — וואָס שטעלן זיך אָפּ מיט אַ מאָל, ווען די ייִדן באַקומען די בשׂורה פֿונעם גירוש. שטעלט באר אַזאַ קשיא: „צי האָט דער מחבר פֿון בוך באַנוצט אַ ליטעראַרישע טאַקטיק, כּדי די לייענערס זאָלן ווערן אַזוי באַצויבערט פֿונעם קאַרנאַוואַל, אַז זיי וועלן זיך נישט ריכטן אויף דער טראַגעדיע וואָס דערוואַרט זיי?“
במשך פֿונעם בוך לייענט מען ווי באר באַקענט זיך מיט פֿאַרשיידענע ענינים וואָס האָבן אַ שייכות סײַ מיט אָפּאַטאָשוס נאָוועלע און סײַ מיט רעגענסבורג. אָט, למשל, שילדערט אָפּאַטאָשו אינעם בוך אַ קאַרנאַוואַל, וווּ עס באַווײַזט זיך „דער שפּילמאַן“ — אַן אַרכעטיפּ אין דער ייִדישער ליטעראַטור וואָס אַ צאָל ליטעראַטור־פֿאָרשער האָבן באַצייכנט ווי אַ מין ייִדישער טרובאַדאָר, וואָס האָט כּבֿיכול געוואַנדערט פֿון איין קהילה צו דער אַנדערער. דערצו באַקענט זיך באר, און במילא די לייענערס, מיט אליהו בחור; מיט פֿאַרשיידענע ייִדישע אַרויסגעבערס און דרוקערס; מיט ייִדישע רופֿאטעס; מיט דער אויטאָביאָגראַפֿיע פֿון גליקל האַמעל און מיט נאָך אַ סך אַנדערע ווערק אין אַלט-ייִדיש און אין נײַ-ייִדיש, ווי „דער דיבוק“ און „בײַ נאַכט אויפֿן אַלטן מאַרק“.
צוזאַמען מיט בארן באַזוכן מיר געוועזענע ייִדישע אינסטיטוציעס, ווי די ענגע ייִדישע ביכערקראָם אויף ברענער גאַס אין תּל-אָבֿיבֿ. „וואָס ברענגט אײַך צו אונדז, חבֿר ׳בער׳, נאָך אַ שאָק מיט יאָרן?“ (אַזוי רופֿן זיי דעם שרײַבער מיט אַ טיפֿן ייִדישן אַקצענט.) ענטפֿערט ער אַז ער זוכט ביכער פֿון אָפּאַטאָשון. ער ווייסט גאַנץ גוט אַז די צוויי פֿאַרקויפֿערס „פֿילן זיך אַז זיי זײַנען די היטערס פֿון די אוצרות פֿון ייִדיש, און יעדעס מאָל וואָס זיי לאָזן אַרויס אַ בוך פֿון דעם שוץ-קעלער איז אַ פֿאַרברעכן, כּמעט ווי זיי וואָלטן עס מפֿקיר געווען“. צום סוף גיבן זיי אים דאָס בוך, אָבער מיט אַ וואָרענונג אַז אויב ער דאַרף עס נישט מער, זאָל ער עס אין גיכן צוריקגעבן.
אין חיים בארן איז אַ פּנים אַרײַן אַ מין רעגענסבורגער דיבוק: איצט וויל ער שוין אַלץ וויסן וועגן רעגענסבורג. כאָטש נאָך די צוויי גרויסע גירושים (דער פֿון 1519 און דער פֿון די נאַציס) איז גאָרנישט נישט געבליבן פֿון דער רעגנסבורגער קהילה, וויל ער זען יעדעס רעשטל מיט זײַנע אייגענע אויגן. פֿאָרט ער קיין רעגענסבורג זוכנדיק די ברעקלעך פֿון די ייִדישע מצבֿות, וואָס מע קאָן נאָך זען דאָ און דאָרטן אין די מויערן און אין די אַלטע הײַזער. ווײַזט זיך אויס אַז הײַנט צו טאָג קאָן מען אַפֿילו קריגן אין רעגענסבורג אַ מאַפּע, וווּ עס זײַנען מאַרקירט די גענויע ערטער פון די מצבֿות. גייט חיים באר זוכן „די נעכטיקע טעג“, וווּ ער אַנטדעקט, למשל, אַ מצבֿה פֿון אַ פּעסל בת יוסף, וואָס איז געשטאָרבן אין יאָר 1482.
אָבער פֿאַר וואָס איז חיים באר אַזוי פֿאַרכּישופֿט געוואָרן דווקא פֿון „אַ טאָג אין רעגענסבורג“? אַ פּנים פּרוּווט ער מיט דער הילף פֿון דער נאָוועלע פֿאַרשטיין ווי אַזוי מע לעבט אינעם שאָטן פֿון אַ קומענדיקן שטורעם. דאָס בוך „לווייתן ברוח“ איז געשריבן געוואָרן אין דער צײַט פֿון דער קריג וואָס האָט זיך אויסגעבראָכן דעם 7סטן אָקטאָבער 2023, און וואָס האָט, צום באַדויערן, זיך נאָך אַלץ נישט געענדיקט. אין די כּמעט דרײַ יאָר האָבן מיר, ישׂראלים, אַ סך געטראַכט וועגן די טראַגעדיעס וואָס מיר און אונדזערע שכנים האָבן איבערגעלעבט, און וועגן די וואָס קאָנען נאָך קומען, חלילה.
„הגם די נאָוועלע פֿון אָפּאַטאָשו דערציילט וועגן דער ווײַטער פֿאַרגאַנגענהייט — שרײַבט באר — פֿאַרנעמט זי זיך אין דער אמתן מיט אַן אייביקער מענטשלעכער סיטואַציע: ווי מענטשן קען זײַן אַזוי קורצזיכטיק און נישט זען די דראַמאַטישע און קריטישע מאָמענטן וואָס לויערן אויף זיי.“
The post Chaim Beer’s new book revolves around J. Opatoshu’s novella ‘A Day in Regensburg’ appeared first on The Forward.
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The Jewish Brigade fought fascism in Italy. Now its flags spark protests.
(JTA) — When the Jewish Brigade appears today in Italian public debate, it is rarely about the British Army unit, formed largely by Jewish volunteers from Mandatory Palestine, that was sent to fight in Italy in the final months of the Second World War.
The Jewish Brigade has become a screen onto which other conflicts are projected: Zionism and anti-Zionism, antisemitism, Israel and Palestine, the meaning of antifascism and the ownership of public memory.
This is why recent tensions in Milan and Rome during Italy’s Liberation Day commemorations were not simply disputes about flags or parades. They were symptoms of a deeper problem: the difficulty of allowing history to remain history, while also recognising that memory is always political.
On April 25, Italy celebrates its liberation from Nazi occupation and fascist rule. It is the most important civil holiday of the Italian Republic, a foundational moment in the country’s democratic identity. But precisely because it is so symbolic, it has always been a stage on which the political tensions of the present are acted out.
The Jewish Brigade occupies a peculiar place in this story. Militarily, its contribution to the Allied campaign in Italy was limited. The Brigade arrived late at the front, in early 1945, and fought for only a short time. Its soldiers were deployed in Romagna, north of Ravenna, along the Lamone, and later near Riolo Terme and the Senio river. About 50 of its soldiers died.
Yet to measure the Brigade only by military impact is to misunderstand its historical significance. Its importance was symbolic, political and psychological. These were Jews in uniform, fighting under a flag marked by the Star of David, against the army of the regime that had attempted to annihilate European Jewry. For many of the volunteers, especially those who were committed Zionists, service in Italy represented more than participation in the Allied war effort. It was a form of Jewish self-assertion, and a claim to political dignity before the world.
This is one reason the Brigade mattered then. It also helps explain why it matters now.
After the war, the memory of the Jewish Brigade did not immediately become central to Italian public memory. For decades it remained relatively marginal, preserved above all within parts of the Jewish community and in the recollections of veterans. Its later rediscovery, especially from the 1990s and 2000s, coincided with new struggles over the meaning of April 25. Some Italian Jewish communities began to bring the Brigade’s flag into Liberation Day commemorations to remind the public that Jews had not only been victims of fascism and Nazism. They had also been combatants, liberators and political actors.
That reminder was, and remains, historically legitimate. Italian Jews belong fully to the history of the Resistance and to the history of the Republic that emerged from the defeat of fascism. The Jews of Mandatory Palestine who served in the Jewish Brigade also belong to the history of Italy’s liberation, however brief their time at the front. They fought in Italy, against German forces, alongside other Allied soldiers and alongside the reborn Italian army. To deny their place in that history is not a neutral act of historical correction. It is an exclusion.
At the same time, it is clear that the Brigade has become controversial not only because of what it did in 1945, but because of what its flag is understood to mean today. The flag of the Jewish Brigade is virtually identical to the later flag of the State of Israel. For some, this makes it a proud symbol of Jewish resistance to Nazism and of the Jewish contribution to liberation. For others, especially in the context of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, it is read primarily as a symbol of Israel and therefore as a political provocation.
This is the heart of the problem. The dispute is often presented as a debate about history, but it is in fact a debate about the present. People argue about the Brigade because they are really arguing about the legitimacy of Zionism, about whether anti-Zionism can become antisemitism, about whether Israel should be understood as a national project or an imperial one, and about what antifascism should mean today. These questions generate fierce disagreements, and April 25 gives them a highly charged public stage.
There are two competing visions of Liberation Day. One sees April 25 primarily as a historically defined Italian commemoration: the day on which the country remembers those who fought between 1943 and 1945 to free Italy from Nazi-fascism. In this interpretation, the Jewish Brigade clearly has a place, because it took part in that struggle. Palestinian flags, by contrast, are harder to place within that specific historical frame, not because Palestinians were fascists, but because they were not participants in the liberation of Italy.
The other vision is more dynamic and internationalist. It sees April 25 not only as the commemoration of a past event, but as an annual reaffirmation of resistance to oppression in the present. In this interpretation, the presence of Palestinian flags, Ukrainian flags, Iranian dissidents or other contemporary causes can be understood as part of a broader antifascist language. April 25 becomes not only the memory of Italy’s liberation, but a ritual of solidarity with those who resist domination elsewhere.
The Jewish Brigade forces us to confront this tension. It belongs to the historical April 25 because it helped liberate Italy. It also belongs to the broader moral history of antifascism because it embodied Jewish armed resistance to Nazism. But its memory is now inseparable from the unresolved political and psychological impact of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict on Italian, and indeed international, public life.
This does not mean that every criticism of Israel is antisemitic. It is not. Nor does it mean that Jewish history should be used to silence Palestinian suffering. It should not. But it does mean that excluding Jews from an antifascist march, insulting people carrying the symbols of the Jewish Brigade, or treating Jewish participation in Liberation Day as illegitimate is a profound historical and moral failure. Antifascism without Jews is not antifascism. An April 25 in which Jews are tolerated only if they hide the symbols they decide to choose is not a healthy democratic ritual.
The answer is not to turn the Jewish Brigade into a weapon in today’s political battles. Nor is it to erase it in the name of avoiding controversy. The answer is to recover the complexity of its history. The Brigade was a military unit, but also a symbol. Its soldiers were liberators in Italy, survivors or relatives of victims of European catastrophe, Zionists of different kinds and human beings who often carried grief, hope and a desire for revenge. Their story links the Holocaust, the Second World War, the end of empire, the birth of Israel and the politics of memory in postwar Italy.
That is why the Jewish Brigade matters today. It reminds us that history cannot be reduced to slogans, that memory can both illuminate and distort, and that democratic societies must make room for complexity and uncomfortable truths.
The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of JTA or its parent company, 70 Faces Media.
The post The Jewish Brigade fought fascism in Italy. Now its flags spark protests. appeared first on The Forward.
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Jerusalem Pride march turns toward the Knesset as LGBTQ Israelis eye pivotal election
(JTA) — JERUSALEM — The Pride march in Israel’s capital city changed its traditional route on Thursday to end near the Knesset, in a show of force ahead of elections that could have major implications for the status of LGBTQ Israelis.
“If the current government has a problem with LGBTQ+ people, then the current government can go home, because the community is here to stay,” opposition leader Yair Lapid said during the culminating rally.
Jerusalem’s Pride march is always more muted than the raucous celebration that takes place each June in Tel Aviv. But this year, the looming election, which must be held by Oct. 27, galvanized participation.
More than 10,000 Israelis gathered in Sacher Park for the rally, according to Noa Fisher of the Jerusalem Open House, the LGBTQ+ equality organization that organizes the event.
“It’s always more like a protest than anything else. This year, especially,” said Hadas Bloemendal, chair of the Jerusalem Open House, walking alongside the crowd with her baby in a stroller.
“I’m supposed to be on maternity leave,” she said. “But this year, I had to be here.”
The status of LGBTQ Israelis is complex. While the country has a thriving gay culture and the speaker of the Knesset is openly gay, same-sex marriage is prohibited by law and some haredi Orthodox lawmakers have spoken with disdain about LGBTQ people and said they want to see their rights rolled back. The elections this fall will determine whether those lawmakers retain power in the next government.
Michal Rozin, a former lawmaker from the liberal Meretz party, urged rally-goers on Thursday to boo after recounting a 2023 comment by a member of the United Torah Judaism party, a partner in the governing coalition, who said the LGBTQ community is “the most dangerous thing for the State of Israel, more than Islamic State, more than Hezbollah, more than Hamas.” (He was commenting during Pride month, before Hamas’ Oct. 7 attack on Israel.)
Avi Maoz, an anti-LGBTQ politician who was part of the current government until last year, called this year’s march an “abomination” in a post on social media on Thursday.
The rally marked 11 years since 16-year-old Shira Banki was killed when a haredi Orthodox man stabbed six Jerusalem Pride attendees, weeks after being freed from prison after staging a similar attack a decade earlier.
“Some of the friends she walked with are still, today, volunteering. That’s what echoes the most, what she chose to do,” Bloemendal said.
Security was intense Thursday, and the gathering area before the march was completely sealed off. More than 2,000 Israel Police officers and border agents were dispatched to protect the march, according to Israeli police spokesperson Dean Elsdunne.
Behind a wall of tour buses was a counter-demonstration hosted by the extremist group Lehava, which opposes Jewish-Arab coexistence and gay relationships. By the time the march left Sacher Park for the Rose Garden near the Knesset, only a few dozen men remained in the heavily policed and cordoned-off area.
“Those standing outside and protesting against us have forgotten what it means to be Jewish and have forgotten what it means to be human,” Lapid said from the stage.
Despite the counter-protest, spirits were high at the rally, where attendees said they were determined to make their voices heard at a time when they feel their country is closing itself off to LGBTQ+ life.
“The LGBTQ+ community is present everywhere that the fate of this country is being written,” Rozin said in her speech. “But there are those who continue to incite against it.”
Lapid has long made LGBTQ+ equality a central tenet of his platform. His alliance this year with Naftali Bennett (a religious Zionist who historically opposed same-sex marriage) is notable in part because Bennett announced at their April 26 press conference announcing a joint campaign that a government under his leadership would advance same-sex marriage in Israel.
Marriage in Israel is regulated by the Rabbinate, which prohibits LGBTQ+ unions, leaving many couples to wed abroad and petition to have those marriages recognized at home. Lapid promised that “in the first 100 days of the next government, we will bring legislation that says the rights of every couple in Israel will be equal. Mom and dad, dad and dad, mom and mom — everyone the same rights.”
The nearly 10,000 attendees gathered beneath different banners and identities, some flying the flags of their youth movements, from socialist to LGBTQ+ organizations, to different political factions, including the Democrats, which made a significant showing at the event.
Drummers from the Pink Front led the rally toward the Rose Garden near the Knesset, passing through a tunnel, with chants echoing off the stone walls.
Shira Zagury, CEO of Shira Banki’s Way, founded by Banki’s parents the year after her murder to build coexistence and pluralism in Israeli society, said the march “continues to mark a moment of inclusion and positivity.”
Before the march set off for the Rose Garden near the Knesset, Rabbi Tamar Elad-Appelbaum recited the Traveler’s Prayer, praying for the marchers’ safety and alluding to Banki’s death nearly 11 years before.
“In the face of violence, hatred, and attempts to send us back into the closet, we will march this year and every year and say, ‘We are here to stay,’” she said.
The post Jerusalem Pride march turns toward the Knesset as LGBTQ Israelis eye pivotal election appeared first on The Forward.