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In Turkey, a festival revives a jewel of the Sephardic world and aims to break stereotypes
IZMIR, Turkey (JTA) — Prague has the dubious honor of being chosen by Adolf Hitler to be a record of what he hoped would be the vanquished Jews of Europe. The Nazis left many of the city’s synagogues and Jewish sites relatively intact, intending to showcase them as the remnants of an extinct culture.
That has made Prague a popular tourist destination for both Jewish travelers and others interested in Jewish history since the fall of the Iron Curtain: the city provides an uncommon look into the pre-war infrastructure of Ashkenazi Europe.
Could Izmir, Turkey’s third largest city, become a Sephardic version, in terms of history and tourism? That’s the goal for Nesim Bencoya, director of the Izmir Jewish Heritage project.
The city, once known in Greek as Smyrna, has had a Jewish presence since antiquity, with early church documents mentioning Jews as far back as the second century AD. Like elsewhere in the Ottoman Empire, though, its community grew exponentially with the influx of Sephardic Jews who came after their expulsion from Spain.
At its peak, the city was home to around 30,000 Jews and was the hometown of Jewish artists, writers and rabbis — from the esteemed Pallache and Algazii rabbinical families, to the musician Dario Marino, to the famously false messiah, Shabbetai Zevi, whose childhood home still stands in Izmir today.
Today, fewer than 1,300 remain. The establishment of the state of Israel, coupled with a century of economic and political upheaval, led to the immigration of the majority of Turkish Jewry.
“From the 17th century, Izmir was a center for Sephardic Jewry,” Bencoya told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency. “We can’t recreate that, but we cannot forget that either.”
Izmir is located on Turkey’s Aegean coast. (David I. Klein)
Celebrating in the former Jewish quarter
Bencoya, who is in his late 60s, was born in Izmir but spent most of his adult life in Israel, where he led the Haifa Cinematheque, but he returned to Izmir 13 years ago to helm the heritage project, which has worked to highlight the the culture and history of Izmir’s Jewish community.
Over nine days in December that included the week of Hanukkah, thousands attended the annual Sephardic culture festival that he has organized since 2018. The festival included concerts of Jewish and Ladino music, traditional food tastings, lectures on Izmir’s Jewish community, and — since it coincided with Hanukkah and also a Shabbat — both a menorah lighting ceremony and havdalah ceremony were conducted with explanations from Izmir’s leading cantor, Nesim Beruchiel.
This year’s festival marked a turning point: it was the first in which organizers were able to show off several of the centuries-old synagogues that the project — with funding from the European Union and the local municipality — has been restoring.
The synagogues, most of which are clustered around a street still called Havra Sokak (havra being the Turkish spelling of the Hebrew word chevra, or congregation) represent a unique piece of cultural heritage.
Nesim Bencoya speaks from his office next to the restored Sinyora Synagogue in Izmir. (David I. Klein)
Once upon a time, the street was the heart of the Jewish quarter or “Juderia,” but today it is right in the middle of Izmir’s Kemeralti Bazaar, a bustling market district stretching over 150 acres where almost anything can be bought and sold. On Havra Sokak, the merchants hock fresh fruits, and hopefully fresher fish. One street to the south one can find all manner of leather goods; one to the north has markets for gold, silver and other precious metals; one to the west has coffee shops. In between them all are other shops selling everything from crafts to tchotchkes to kitchenware to lingerie.
Several mosques and a handful of churches dot the area, but the synagogues revive a unique character of the district that had been all but lost.
“The synagogues here were built under the light of Spain. But in Spain today, there are only two major historic synagogues, Toledo and Cordoba, and they are big ones. You don’t have smaller ones. Here we have six on one block, built with the memory of what was there by those who left Spain,” Bencoya said.
Those synagogues have been home to major events in Jewish history — such as when Shabbetei Zvi broke into Izmir’s Portuguese Synagogue one Sabbath morning, drove out his opponents and declared himself the messiah (he cultivated a large following but was later imprisoned and forced to convert to Islam). The synagogue, known in Turkish as Portekez, was among those restored by the project.
Today, only two of Izmir’s synagogues are in regular use by its Jewish community, but the others that were restored are now available as exhibition and event spaces.
Educating non-Jews
Hosting the festival within Izmir’s unique synagogues has an additional purpose, since the overwhelming majority of the attendees were not Jewish.
“Most of the people who come to the festival have never been to a synagogue, maybe a small percentage of them have met a Jew once in their lives,” Bencoya said.
That’s particularly important in a country where antisemitic beliefs are far from uncommon. In a 2015 study by the Anti-Defamation League, 71% of respondents from Turkey believe in some antisemitic stereotypes.
The festival included concerts of Jewish and Ladino music, traditional food tastings and lectures on Izmir’s Jewish community.(David I. Klein)
“This festival is not for Jewish people to know us, but for non-Jews,” Bencoya said. Now, “Hundreds of Turkish Muslim people have come to see us, to listen to our holidays and taste what we do.”
Kayra Ergen, a native of Izmir who attended a Ladino concert and menorah lighting event at the end of the festival, told JTA that until a year ago, he had no idea how Jewish Izmir once was.
“I know that Anatolia is a multicultural land, and also Turkey is, but this religion, by which I mean Jewish people, left this place a long time ago because of many bad events. But it’s good to remember these people, and their roots in Izmir,” Ergen said. “This is so sad and lame to say out loud, but I didn’t know about this — that only 70 years ago, 60% of this area here in Konak [the district around Kemeralti] was Jewish. Today I believe only 1,300 remain. This is not good. But we must do whatever we can and this festival is a good example of showing the love between cultures.”
“I think it’s good that we’re respecting each other in here,” said Zeynep Uslu, another native of Izmir. “A lot of different cultures and a lot of different people. It’s good that we’re together here celebrating something so special.”
Izmir’s history as a home for minorities has not been all rosy. At the end of the Ottoman period, the city was around half Greek, a tenth Jewish and a tenth Armenian, while the remainder were Turkish Muslims and an assortment of foreigners. In the Greco-Turkish war of 1919-1922 — remembered in Turkey as the Turkish War of Independence — the Greek and Armenian quarters of Izmir were burned to the ground after the Turkish army retook the city from the Greek forces, killing tens of thousands. A mass exodus of the survivors followed, but the Jewish and Muslim portions of the city were largely unharmed.
Izmir is not the only city in Turkey which has seen its synagogues restored in recent years. Notable projects are being completed in Edirne, a city on the Turkish western border near Bulgaria, and Kilis, on its southeastern border near Syria. Unlike Izmir, though, no Jews remain in either of those cities today, and many have accused the project of being a tool for President Recep Tayyip Erdogan’s government to assuage accusations of antisemitism, without actually dealing with living Jews.
Losing Ladino and a ‘quiet’ mindset
Bencoya lamented that he is among the last generation for whom Ladino — the Judeo-Spanish language traditionally spoken by Sephardic Jews, but only spoken by tens of thousands today — was at least a part of his childhood.
“When you lose language, it’s not only technical, it’s not only vocabulary, it’s a whole world and a way of thinking,” Bencoya said.
The project is challenging a local Jewish mentality as well. Minority groups in Izmir, especially Jews, “have for a long time preferred not to be seen, not to be felt,” according to Bencoya.
That mindset has been codified in the Turkish Jewish community’s collective psyche in the form of a Ladino word, “kayedes,” which means something along the lines of “shhh,” “be quiet,” or “keep your head down.”
“This is the exact opposite that I want to do with this festival — to be felt, to raise awareness of my being,” Bencoya said.
The Bikur Holim Synagogue is one of the few still functioning in Izmir. (David I. Klein)
One way of doing that, he added, was having the festival refer to the community’s identity “as Yahudi and not Musevi!” Both are Turkish words that refer to Jews: the former having the same root as the English word Jew — the Hebrew word Yehuda or Judea — while the latter means “follower of Moses.”
“Yahudi, Musevi, Ibrani [meaning Hebrew, in Turkish] — they all mean the same thing, but in Turkey, they say Musevi because it sounds nicer,” Bencoya said. “To Yahudi there are a lot of negative superlatives — dirty Yahudi, filthy Yahudi, and this and that. So I insist on saying that I am Yahudi, because people have a lot of pre-judgements about the name Yahudi. So if you have prejudgements about me, let’s open them and talk about them.”
“I am not so romantic that I can eliminate all antisemitism, but if I can eliminate some of the prejudgements, then I can live a little more at peace,” he added.
So far, he feels the festival is a successful first step.
“The non-Jewish community of Izmir is fascinated,” Bencoya said. “If you look on Facebook and Instagram, they are talking about it, they are fighting over tickets, which sell out almost immediately.”
Now, he is only wondering how next year he will be able to fit more people into the small and aged synagogues.
“For Turkey, [the festival] is very important because Turkey can be among the enlightened nations of the world, only by being aware of the differences between groups of people, such as Jews, Christians, others, and Muslims,” he said.
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Who needs a Reichstag fire when you can just pretend Portland’s burning?
Here in Portland, this supposed city of darkness, happy kids splash around in a fountain next to the sparkling Willamette River, senior citizens practice tai chi in a park, bald eagles and ospreys soar past office building windows, chefs and bakers win national awards, world-class jazz musicians draw locals into clubs, and hiking trails course through the largest urban forest in the country, with glacier-draped Mount Hood as a backdrop.
It’s hardly the hellscape depicted by Donald Trump. What the city is, however, is a primary target in Trump’s scheming to militarize American cities — at least progressive ones like Portland, my home for the past 25 years.
Demonstrations have continued outside an ICE facility in Portland since the summer. The protests have been small, overall peaceful, occasionally tense, but often cheery — such as the time when a group of elderly Portlanders sang “This Land Is Your Land.” But Trump is using the protests as an excuse to launch what local officials and residents fear could be a major military intervention in the city, turning Portland, in essence, into a domestic battleground.
Trump is employing a playbook that’s eerily similar to ones that have been used by despots, including Adolf Hitler, who consolidated his control over Germany by deploying Sturmabteilung shock troops to spread fear across the populace.
Trump has effectively weaponized ICE as his own personal police force, and is using it to bait protestors into clashes and create a pretext for exerting military-style control over cities led by Democrats. From the very beginning of Trump’s second term, federal agents’ pursuit of undocumented immigrants has been marked by the spread of fear and terror. Trump says ICE’s heavy-handed tactics are necessary to fulfill his promise that undocumented immigrants “will not be tolerated.” But the scale and spectacle of ICE actions suggest another motive: to manufacture war-like images that justify crackdowns on leftists, whom Trump routinely portrays as domestic terrorists.
So far, no ICE raid has been more chilling than its assault last week on a five-story apartment building in Chicago. In the dead of night, armed federal agents rappelled from Black Hawk helicopters onto the roof. Others stormed the building from the ground, kicking down doors, throwing flash-bang grenades, and zip-tying screaming children and elderly residents. The target of the raid was a Venezuelan gang. But Illinois Gov. JB Pritzker said many of those who were arrested were U.S. citizens with no criminal record — which has been disputed by the Trump administration.
Two weeks earlier, a pastor praying outside a Chicago ICE processing center was struck in the head by a pepper ball fired from a roof and then sprayed with tear gas as he lay on the ground. He has since sued ICE, alleging violations of religious freedom and free speech.
After weeks of threats, Trump has federalized 300 Illinois National Guard troops and ordered hundreds more to deploy from Texas — using protests against immigrant detention as a pretext for putting soldiers on the streets. The move defies the spirit of the 1878 Posse Comitatus Act, which bars the use of federal military forces to enforce civilian law without explicit congressional authorization.
At a press conference, Pritzker voiced angry defiance toward what he called “Trump’s invasion.”
“The state of Illinois is going to use every lever at our disposal to resist this power grab and get (Homeland Security Secretary Kristi) Noem’s thugs the hell out of Chicago,” Pritzker said.
Portland might well be next.
Over the weekend, a federal judge in Oregon, appointed by Trump in 2019, issued two rulings temporarily blocking his attempts to deploy National Guard troops to Portland. In a blistering decision Saturday, U.S. District Judge Karin Immergut wrote that Trump’s claims of a “war zone” were “simply untethered to the facts.” She added: “This is a nation of Constitutional law, not martial law.”
When Trump tried to circumvent her ruling by ordering California National Guard troops into Oregon, Immergut blocked that maneuver too, writing: “The executive cannot invoke emergency powers based on manufactured chaos.”
Trump responded by claiming that “Portland is on fire,” and threatened to invoke the Insurrection Act, which legal experts note would effectively amount to imposing martial law.
Trump’s description of the situation in Portland is grossly exaggerated, and intentionally so. The protests have occurred in a very small area around the ICE detention center. There have been clashes involving pepper spray, but no ongoing battles. The scene is actually more like an episode of the TV show Portlandia. During Kristi Noem’s visit to the facility on Tuesday she was mocked by activists wearing inflatable animal costumes, including a dinosaur, a raccoon and a chicken. An activist in a giant toad costume has become a social media sensation, especially after an ICE agent shot pepper spray into the air vent on the costume’s back side. Another image making the social media rounds shows protestors using donuts dangling from fishing poles to taunt ICE agents — “ICE fishing,” as they call it.
Portland wears its progressivism on its sleeve, which does not always work in the city’s favor. During the 2020 Black Lives Matter protests downtown, city officials faced accusations of being too lenient on leftist agitators. Riots during those protests, coupled with COVID, led to the closure of numerous downtown stores. Leftists who relish confrontation with right-wing counter-protesters have posed another challenge. During one protest in late August 2020, Trump supporters rode their pickup trucks into downtown Portland and picked a fight with leftist demonstrators. That night, a right-wing counter-protester was shot and killed by a self-described anti-fascist activist, who was later tracked down and fatally shot by federal agents in neighboring Washington state. Before fleeing, the shooter said he was defending himself.
Even before Trump, Portland has had a rocky relationship with federal authority. The city was the site of massive protests against President George W. Bush’s 2003 invasion of Iraq. In 2019, Portland became the second U.S. city — after San Francisco — to withdraw its police officers from the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force, citing concerns over civil liberties and lack of transparency. In the 1990s, staffers for the first President Bush dubbed Portland “Little Beirut” in response to raucous anti-war protests that greeted his visits.
During his visit to Quantico Marine Base, Trump told top military commanders, “We should use some of these dangerous cities as training grounds for our military.” He singled out Chicago, Portland, Seattle, and Washington, D.C. For now, Portland’s resistance may resemble a surreal episode of protest theater—complete with inflatable dinosaurs and the viral “anti-fascist” frog. But there will be no cause for chuckling if the city becomes a proving ground for martial law, with federal troops rehearsing the suppression of dissent.
The post Who needs a Reichstag fire when you can just pretend Portland’s burning? appeared first on The Forward.
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Jewish women struggling with early menopause due to cancer treatment find new help

Beverly was 41, had two children and was contemplating a third when her first mammogram revealed a lump. Diagnosed with breast cancer, Beverly, who lives in Portland, Oregon, opted for chemotherapy, immunotherapy and a double mastectomy.
She knew the chemo would affect her fertility. What she didn’t know was that the type of cancer she had would necessitate hormone suppression drugs that would lead to severe menopausal symptoms.
For Beverly, now 46, that meant hot flashes, vaginal atrophy, zero libido, thick curly hair that turned straight, sparse and wispy, and what she describes as “old lady bones.”
“If I’m lucky enough to live to 95, am I just going to crumble into a pile of chalk?” she said.
Beverly, who asked that her last name be withheld for privacy reasons, is not alone in experiencing severe menopausal symptoms following breast cancer or ovarian cancer treatment or prophylactic surgery, which entails breast and/or ovary removal, sometimes along with removal of the uterine and fallopian tubes.
Risk-reducing surgery is often recommended for women who carry a BRCA1 or BRCA2 gene mutation, which significantly increases the risk of breast and ovarian cancer. These mutations are found in Ashkenazi Jews — in both women and men — at rates about 10 times higher than in the general population.
For women who test positive, surgery can reduce the risk of developing ovarian cancer by over 75%. There may also be reduced risk of breast cancer, though research findings are mixed.
While hormones gradually decline as older women approach menopause, younger women who undergo surgery-induced menopause may experience a sudden and dramatic hormonal crash.
“Natural menopause is gradual; surgical or medically induced menopause is intense,” said Elana Silber, CEO of Sharsheret, a Jewish nonprofit organization that provides support, counseling, patient navigation, financial assistance and education in the United States and Israel for those facing breast cancer and ovarian cancer.
“Doctors focus on immediate cancer treatment plans; Sharsheret helps support and educate women about what comes next,” Silber said. “We highlight these critical issues so that women know to raise them with their healthcare providers, and we make sure they don’t face those questions alone.”
As public discussions about menopause have become more common, Sharsheret has fielded a growing number of inquiries from young women seeking information on the subject and ways to connect with peers. Many are navigating an abrupt and frightening transition for which they never prepared, and they sometimes describe it as even more traumatic than their breast surgeries.
“Menopause brought on by breast cancer surgery or treatment doesn’t follow a normal, natural progression,” said Adina Fleischmann, Sharsheret’s chief services officer.
Sharsheret has responded by connecting women with social workers and genetic counselors to help them understand both the medical and emotional impact of treatment-induced menopause.
Through peer-to-peer connections, survivors are matched with others who have gone through the same surgeries and drug regimens. They get real-world perspectives that many women say they don’t receive from their physicians.
The organization also provides survivorship kits, medical webinars, and tailored educational materials on sexual health, bone strength, fertility preservation, and non-hormonal strategies for coping with hot flashes, sleep disruption, and vaginal dryness.
Beyond the physical symptoms, it’s not uncommon for women undergoing early menopause to experience depression, according to Dr. Gila Leiter, an Ob/Gyn affiliated with New York’s Mount Sinai Hospital and a member of Sharsheret’s medical advisory board.
“Knowing what symptoms to expect — and expect pretty suddenly — is very important,” Leiter said.
Liora Tannenbaum, Sharsheret’s Israel regional director, underwent risk reducing surgeries as a result of being a BRCA carrier. She said she was less fearful of the physical recovery from having her ovaries and uterus removed than when she did her double mastectomy, but she was terrified of the emotional and mental recovery.
“As much as I looked for people to talk to for support who had been through this, I found that so many women were suffering in silence,” Tannenbaum said. “The lowered tones and discomfort around the entire conversation caught me by surprise.”
One woman, M., 44, recalled symptoms “hitting like pile of rocks” after surgery five years ago to remove her ovaries, fallopian tubes and uterus. (She asked to use only an initial to preserve her privacy.)
Just 23 when she lost her mother to ovarian cancer, M. was 28 when she learned she carried the BRCA1 mutation. She spent several years considering her options before ultimately choosing to remove her ovaries and uterus.
“It took me a long time,” M. said. “The biggest concern is you want to have kids, and when you have these surgeries you can’t have kids.”
Most doctors, including M.’s, recommend such surgery by age 40. By 39, after two children, a third miscarriage, and ongoing exams, a suspicious finding — which proved to be nothing — made her doctor insist on risk-reducing surgery if she wanted to live to see her kids’ bar mitzvahs.
“I was already considering surgery, and that scare pushed me to do it,” M. said. “I’m glad I did.’”
But the sudden loss of hormones – not just estrogen, but also progesterone and testosterone – left her with vaginal dryness, loss of muscle mass, dry skin, diminished libido and a return of asthma. M., now a nurse who volunteers for Sharsheret’s peer network, noted that she wasn’t told during her medical appointments what to expect.
“The message was: ‘Don’t worry about it. We’ll give you a low-dose hormonal patch and everything will be fine,’” she recalled.
Menopausal symptoms aren’t severe for all women, and sometime they’re only temporary.
Farrah Zweig was 31 when she was diagnosed with hormone-positive, HER2-negative breast cancer. She had a lumpectomy, radiation and chemotherapy. She also took Lupron, a hormone suppression drug, which put her in menopause.
“My medical team did not discuss menopause with me,” said Zweig, now 42. “My only source of information was from people who had gone through it due to age, not as a result of a medical treatment like mine.”
She experienced the hot flashes and difficulty sleeping, which she expected, and also had a tough time losing weight she’d gained during chemo.
Leiter said physicians often don’t inform patients about treatments that might help their symptoms — even those that don’t involve hormones. She noted that antidepressants can reduce hot flashes and mitigate some of the irritability or emotional fluctuations. Meditation, cognitive behavioral therapy for insomnia, and laser treatments for vaginal dryness also can be effective.
“Knowing what you may feel and how you’re going to handle it, what medications are available, what support systems you’re going to have and maybe lining up your therapist or acupuncturist in advance makes all the difference,” Leiter said.
To speak with a social worker or someone at Sharsheret, visit www.sharsheret.org or call 866.474.2774.
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László Krasznahorkai, grim Hungarian author with hidden Jewish roots, wins literature Nobel

This year’s Nobel Prize for literature was awarded to a Hungarian writer whose work offers bleak visions of existence, and whose father hid his Jewish ancestry from him for much of his childhood.
László Krasznahorkai, the 71-year-old novelist and screenwriter, achieved international acclaim for formally daring books like “Satantango” and “The Melancholy of Resistance,” as well as a series of collaborations with the filmmaker Bela Tarr. He is often compared to master Russian novelists like Dostoyevsky and Gogol.
The Swedish Nobel jury called him “a great epic writer in the Central European tradition that extends through Kafka to Thomas Bernhard, and is characterized by absurdism and grotesque excess.” Another prominent champion of Krasznahorkai’s: the Jewish culture critic Susan Sontag, who praised the infamous 7.5-hour film adaptation of “Satantango” and deemed him a “master of the apocalypse.”
Krasznahorkai was born in 1954 in the small town of Gyula, near the Romanian border. As a child, he has said in interviews, he had no idea his father hailed from a Hungarian Jewish family. In 1931, as antisemitism was on the rise in Hungary but before the passage of formal anti-Jewish laws in the country, the author’s grandfather had changed their family name from Korin to the more native Hungarian-sounding Krasznahorkai.
“Our original name was Korin, a Jewish name. With this name, he would never have survived,” Krasznahorkai told a Greek interviewer in 2018. “My grandfather was very wise.”
When the author turned 11, he learned about his Jewish heritage for the first time. “In the socialist era, it was forbidden to mention it,” Krasznahorkai has said about his Jewish ancestry. “Korin” would later serve as the name of the protagonist, a suicidal Hungarian archivist, in Krasznahorkai’s acclaimed 1999 novel “War and War.”
Many of the author’s books, written in challenging postmodern style, are concerned with the effects of political turmoil and national upheaval on everyday citizens, from provincial farm workers to intellectuals. Some of his novels, including “Hersch 07769” and “Baron Wenckheim’s Homecoming,” have plots that deal directly with neo-Nazis.
In that 2018 interview, the author, an outspoken opponent of Hungary’s authoritarian prime minister Viktor Orban, also addressed his relationship to Judaism in characteristically pessimistic fashion.
“I am half Jewish,” he said, “but if things carry on in Hungary as they seem likely to do, I’ll soon be entirely Jewish.”
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