Uncategorized
How yizkor books bring the sights, sounds, and even smells and tastes of lost Jewish shtetls back to life
Rye bread, sour milk, and maybe some herring — for a poor Jew, these were the makings of a meal. The Jews I have in mind were residents of the small market towns, or shtetls, once strewn across Eastern Europe. Shtetls had their token elites, the grain and lumber brokers who ate white bread with butter. For the vast majority, however, the bread was black and there was no butter.
I’ve spent the last few years reading about these towns for Once There Was a Town, a book I’ve written about yizkor books and the world they portray. But my interest is more than academic; my father was born in one of these towns, and I’ve been hearing its stories since I was a kid.
The word yizkor is a form of the Hebrew verb “to remember.” Literally translated, it means “may he remember.” A yizkor book is a book of remembrance.
While the yizkor book tradition goes back to medieval times, those I’ve been studying were written after the Holocaust as a way to memorialize the communities destroyed by the Nazis and their facilitators. Anthologies of a sort, these books were written by both Holocaust survivors and emigrés from before the war, all from the same shtetl, working together to document the ways of life characteristic of their fallen hometowns.
Key players in their production were organizations that had formed decades before the Holocaust. Starting in the late 19th century, in immigrant cities like New York, Jews from the same town had banded together to create self-help societies which you could turn to in times of crisis. If a family member was sick and couldn’t work, these societies provided financial support. When a townsperson died, they ensured a plot in a Jewish cemetery. After the war, they assumed responsibility for writing the town yizkor book.
Erased from the physical world, those towns are conjured back into existence in these yizkor books. Working with the theory that whatever was left out would be forgotten, yizkor book writers sought to cast a wide net and record everything. Caught in that net were the foods people ate.
Left to right: Chaya Liba Peltz, Aaron Ziegelman, Luba Ziegelman.
In front, Tova Peltz Courtesy of Jane Ziegelman
The books speak eloquently to the sparsity of the weekday diet, which for many consisted primarily of potatoes, porridge and coarse, rye bread. Six days of austerity, however, were followed by the Sabbath, when Jews are commanded to partake “of fruits and delicacies and to inhale sweet odors.” Sabbath foods shared certain characteristics. Challah and gefilte fish were sweet and delicate, and so was compote (stewed fruit) and tsimmes, (carrots sweetened with prunes.) It was fat, however, that people hankered for most. Chicken soup with golden rings of fat dancing across the surface, chopped liver enriched with onions fried in goose fat (shmaltz), stuffed derma (cow intestine stuffed with flour and schmaltz) and a schmaltz-laden kugel.
Our modern-day food groups — protein, fat, carbohydrates — held no meaning for a poor Jew who saw food in just two categories. Like heaven and earth, like men and women, like time itself, food was divided into the holy and the mundane.
A qualification: All food comes from God so all food is holy. Certain foods, however, are fortified with an extra dose of holiness. In some cases, it was obvious which was which — between rye bread and challah, for example, there was no confusion. With some foods, however, it all depended on preparation. During the week, dried beans were combined with kasha or barley for a meal that was both cheap and filling. Saturday’s cholent was also made with beans, but these beans had been braising all night with a fatty bone. A potato soup “whitened” with a splash of milk was among the mundane foods Jews subsisted on Sunday through Friday. But a potato kugel, glistening with schmaltz and redolent of onion, was a dish worthy of the Sabbath Queen!
And then there were zoyers, the fermented foods that defied classification. Cucumbers, beets, mushrooms, radishes, cabbage, apples and even berries were some of the foods that homemakers turned into zoyers, what we call pickles. For people who relied so heavily on bread and potatoes, the tang of a zoyer provided a welcome counterpoint to all that starchiness. And when the pickles were gone, you could dip your potato into the sour and salty brine.
Zoyers also came in liquid form, the most popular of which was a drink called kvass. A fermented drink made from stale bread, kvass was produced both at home and by the local kvassnik or kvass maker. Jews loved their kvass for its fizzy tartness. More than that, however, they saw it as a kind of culinary metaphor. In the sourness of kvass, they saw their own lives. Here, a former resident of Rakishok, a shtetl in Lithuania,, remembers his weekly visits to the kvass maker:
I remember how my father would send me with a kopek on Shabbos night to buy kvass for Havdalah. The kvass, alas, was made from the crusts of black bread, and was very sour, like the sourness of the mood of the coming gray week and its worries.
Zoyers were also at home on the Sabbath table; in fact, meals were considered incomplete without them. Or to put it another way, zoyers offered a kind of culinary satisfaction that no other food could deliver.
“A young man sat down to a holiday meal of chicken, kreplach and tsimmes,” one yizkor book author wrote. “After the meal, his wife asked if he was satisfied with the food. ‘Of course,’ he answered, ‘but unless I have eaten even a little bit of zoyers, I am not a person.’”
I take comfort knowing that this is a feeling I have experienced too.
The post How yizkor books bring the sights, sounds, and even smells and tastes of lost Jewish shtetls back to life appeared first on The Forward.
Uncategorized
Board of Peace Members Have Pledged More Than $5 billion for Gaza, Trump Says
A drone view shows the destruction in a residential neighborhood, after the withdrawal of the Israeli forces from the area, amid a ceasefire between Israel and Hamas in Gaza, in Gaza City, October 21, 2025. Photo: REUTERS/Dawoud Abu Alkas/File Photo
US President Donald Trump said Board of Peace member states will announce at an upcoming meeting on Thursday a pledge of more than $5 billion for reconstruction and humanitarian efforts in Gaza.
In a post on Truth Social on Sunday, Trump wrote that member states have also committed thousands of personnel toward a U.N.-authorized stabilization force and local police in the Palestinian enclave.
The US president said Thursday’s gathering, the first official meeting of the group, will take place at the Donald J. Trump Institute of Peace, which the State Department recently renamed after the president. Delegations from more than 20 countries, including heads of state, are expected to attend.
The board’s creation was endorsed by a United Nations Security Council resolution as part of the Trump administration’s plan to end the war between Israel and Palestinian Islamist group Hamas in Gaza.
Israel and Hamas agreed to the plan last year with a ceasefire officially taking effect in October, although both sides have accused each other repeatedly of violating the ceasefire. According to Gaza’s Health Ministry, more than 590 Palestinians have been killed by Israeli troops in the territory since the ceasefire began. Israel has said four of its soldiers have been killed by Palestinian militants in the same period.
While regional Middle East powers including Turkey, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Qatar and Israel – as well as emerging nations such as Indonesia – have joined the board, global powers and traditional Western US allies have been more cautious.
Uncategorized
Why a forgotten teacher’s grave became a Jewish pilgrimage site
Along Britton Road in Rochester, New York, a brick gatehouse sits across from ordinary homes. Beyond it lies Britton Road Cemetery, its grounds divided into family plots and sections claimed over time by Orthodox congregations and fraternal associations, past and present. Names like Anshe Polen, Beth Hakneses Hachodosh, B’nai Israel, and various Jewish fraternal organizations are found here.
On the east side of the cemetery, a modest gray headstone draws visitors who do not personally know the man buried there, who were never taught his name in school, and who claim no personal connection to his life. Some leave notes. Some light candles in a small metal box set nearby. Others whisper prayers and stand for a moment before going. They come because they believe holiness can be found here.
The grave belongs to Rabbi Yechiel Meir Burgeman, a Polish-born teacher who died in 1938. He did not lead a major congregation or leave behind an institution that bears his name. And yet, nearly a century after his death, people still visit.
Over time, Burgeman has come to be remembered as a tzaddik nistar, a hidden righteous person, whose holiness is known through their teaching and daily life rather than through any title or position. His grave has become a place of intercession. People come to pray for healing, for help in times of uncertainty, and for the hope of marriage. What endures here is not an individual’s biography so much as a practice: the belief that a life lived with integrity can continue to shape devotion, even after the body has been laid to rest.
In life, Burgeman was not known as a miracle worker or a public figure. He was a melamed, a teacher of children, living plainly among other Jewish immigrants in Rochester’s Jewish center in the early decades of the 20th century. At one point, he was dismissed from a teaching post for refusing to soften his instruction. He later opened his own cheder, or schoolroom. There was no congregation to inherit his name, no institution to archive his papers. When he died, he was buried in an ordinary way at Britton Road Cemetery, one grave among many.
What followed was not immediate.
Remembered in return
The meaning attached to Burgeman’s resting place accumulated slowly. Stories began to circulate. People spoke of his kindness, his discipline, his integrity. Over time, visitors came. The grave became a place not of answers, but of belief. For generations, this turning toward the dead has taken this same form. It is not worship. It is proximity. A way of standing near those believed to have lived rightly, and asking that their merit might still matter.
In Jewish tradition, prayer at a grave is a reflection on those believed to have lived with righteousness, asking that their merit accompany the living in moments of need. Psalms are traditionally recited. Words are often spoken quietly.
I have done something similar too. Years ago, before I converted to Judaism and before I had the means to travel, I sent a written prayer through a Chabad service that delivers letters to the grave of the Lubavitcher Rebbe in New York. Someone else carried it. I cannot say with absolute certainty what happened because of it. Only that the practice itself made space for hope that I was seen, and that a prayer was later answered in ways that shaped my life and deepened my understanding of Judaism.
Burgeman’s grave functions in a similar register, though without any institutional frame. People come not because his name is widely known, but because the story has endured. Over time, that story gathered details. The most persistent involves a dog said to have escorted Jewish children to Burgeman’s cheder so they would not be harassed along the way by other youths. The dog then stood watch until they were ready to return home. The versions differ. Some are reverent. Some are playful. Some verge on the miraculous. The story endures because it names something children needed: care, in a world that could be frightening.
In recent decades, Burgeman’s afterlife has taken on a digital form. His name surfaces in comment threads and genealogical forums, passed along by people who never met him and are not always sure how they are connected. Spellings are debated. Dates are corrected. A descendant appears. A former student’s grandchild adds a fragment. Someone asks whether this is the same man their grandmother spoke of. No single account settles the matter. Instead, memory gathers. What once traveled by word of mouth now moves through hyperlinks.
The internet allows fragments to remain visible. Burgeman’s story survives not because it was officially recorded, but because enough people cared to remember it. In this way, his legacy resembles the man himself: quiet, unadorned, sustained by actions rather than declaration.
This story does not offer certainty. It is about remembering a life and asking if we might still learn from it and if, perhaps, it can bring us closer to faith. Burgeman left no grand monument. He left descendants. A grave. A life of Jewish values that continues to teach.
Burgeman did not seek recognition in life. After death, he became something else: a teacher still teaching, not through words, but through the way people continue to act on his memory. That is the lesson. Not any miracle. Not any legend. The quiet insistence that a life lived with integrity does not end when the casket is placed into the earth.
Some graves are instructions.
This one still asks something of us.
The post Why a forgotten teacher’s grave became a Jewish pilgrimage site appeared first on The Forward.
Uncategorized
Turkey Sends Drilling Ship to Somalia in Major Push for Energy Independence
Turkish President Tayyip Erdogan speaks during a ceremony for the handover of new vehicles to the gendarmerie and police forces in Istanbul, Turkey, Nov. 28, 2025. Photo: REUTERS/Murad Sezer
i24 News – Turkey has dispatched a drilling vessel to Somalia to begin offshore oil exploration, marking what officials describe as a historic step in Ankara’s drive to strengthen energy security and reduce reliance on imports.
Turkish Minister of Energy and Natural Resources Alparslan Bayraktar announced that the drilling ship Çagri Bey is set to sail from the port of Taşucu in southern Turkey, heading toward Somali territorial waters.
The vessel will pass through the Strait of Gibraltar and around the coast of southern Africa before reaching its destination, with drilling operations expected to begin in April or May.
Bayraktar described the mission as a “historic” milestone, saying it reflects Turkey’s long-term strategy to enhance national energy security and move closer to self-sufficiency.
The operation will be protected by the Turkish Naval Forces, which will deploy several naval units to secure both the vessel’s route and the drilling area in the Gulf of Aden and the Arabian Sea. The security arrangements fall under existing cooperation agreements between Ankara and Somalia.
The move aligns with a broader vision promoted by President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, aimed at reducing Turkey’s dependence on foreign energy supplies, boosting domestic production, and shielding the economy from external pressures.
Bayraktar said Turkey is also working to double its natural gas output in the Black Sea this year, while continuing offshore exploration along its northern coastline. In parallel, Ankara is preparing to bring its first nuclear reactor online at the Akkuyu Nuclear Power Plant, which is expected to begin generating electricity soon and eventually supply about 10% of the country’s energy needs.
The current drilling effort is based on survey data collected last year and forms part of Ankara’s wider plan to expand its energy exploration activities both regionally and internationally.