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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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Denied arrest power, Mamdani encourages New Yorkers to protest Netanyahu
After conceding that he cannot arrest Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu as a war criminal, Mayor Zohran Mamdani on Tuesday doubled down on assailing the Israeli leader and encouraged New Yorkers to protest his expected visit to the United Nations in September.
“I think one of the bedrocks of our city is protest,” Mamdani said at a press conference in City Hall Wednesday morning. “If anyone feels a level of frustration or opposition, protest is something that we will always respect. I leave it to New Yorkers themselves to make that decision.”
The mayor also faced renewed questions about why it took months to acknowledge that the pledge he made last year to arrest Netanyahu could not legally be carried out, and about his choice to post a formal mayoral address on his official social media accounts to announce the city’s legal conclusion that it has no authority to execute the International Criminal Court arrest warrant against Netanyahu.
“What brings me to my conclusions about Israel and Palestine is a belief in the universality of humanity,” Mamdani said.
Mamdani pointed to a roundtable with faith leaders on Staten Island on Tuesday where he met a young Gaza refugee who had lost an arm, and he recounted stories from Palestinian New Yorkers who shared that their families have been affected by the war.
“I view that as a very serious issue,” Mamdani said. “I think that it is incredibly important that we ensure that we have done all of our due diligence when conducting a review.”
The ICC, based in The Hague, issued arrest warrants in November 2024 for Netanyahu, former Israeli Defense Minister Yoav Gallant and Hamas military commander Mohammed Deif. Hamas confirmed in January 2025 that Deif was killed during an airstrike.
The United States is not a member of the International Criminal Court and the Trump administration imposed sanctions on the ICC months after it issued the warrants.
In his video posted Tuesday night, Mamdani accused Netanyahu of orchestrating a “horrific genocide against the Palestinian people” in the Gaza Strip. He cited reported Palestinian death tolls, wounded children, the destruction of hospitals and clinics and the killing of aid workers and journalists. He did not mention the Oct. 7, 2023, Hamas attack on Israel, which sparked the war. He instead called on the federal government to join the ICC and execute the warrant.
Jewish organizations sharply condemned the mayor’s Tuesday remarks, accusing him of presenting a one-sided narrative of the war.
“Shame on you,” the UJA-Federation of New York said in a statement. “Your video is rife with distortions and disinformation. At a time of rising antisemitism, repeatedly singling out and vilifying the world’s only Jewish state for perceived political benefit is repugnant and puts Jews at greater risk.”
The Orthodox Union said the video “endangers Jewish New Yorkers” and “is a betrayal of his oath of office and his own commitment to protect all New Yorkers.”
Mamdani rejected the criticism.
“We cannot pick and choose which crimes against humanity we oppose,” he said. “We must be in opposition to all of them.” Asked whether he considers the Hamas massacre a genocide, he stopped short of using that term, instead calling the Oct. 7 attacks “a horrific war crime” that should be opposed “with every single fiber of our being.”
Mamdani used the moment to bring his long-held pro-Palestinian advocacy into City Hall, framing Netanyahu’s expected visit as both a moral and political issue. While acknowledging the city lacks legal authority to arrest the Israeli leader, Mamdani shifted the conversation toward the role of the federal government.
In a Truth Social post, President Donald Trump reassured Netanyahu that he “will not be arrested, in any way, shape, or form, while in the United States of America.”
Mamdani also encouraged New Yorkers to take it to the streets to protest Netanyahu during his visit. “That welcome ends with me,” he said. “I will not be welcoming Benjamin Netanyahu or any other war criminals when they come to this city.”
Mamdani’s remarks could resonate well beyond New York as rejection of Israel is increasingly part of national Democratic Party politics. By arguing that Washington should join the International Criminal Court and enforce its warrants, Mamdani is helping define the expectations that progressive activists may place on the 2028 presidential candidates as the party continues to debate its approach to Israel and Gaza.
Despite the backlash, Mamdani insisted his position would not affect how he governs for Jewish New Yorkers.
“I know that there are Jewish New Yorkers who agree with my analysis; there are those who disagree with my analysis,” Mamdani told the Forward. “ And my responsibility to them is to ensure that they are cherished, they are celebrated, and they are safe in their city.”
The post Denied arrest power, Mamdani encourages New Yorkers to protest Netanyahu appeared first on The Forward.
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Innovative Yiddish actor-director Raphael Goldwasser has died
פֿון שׂרה־רחל שעכטער
דער ייִדישער אַקטיאָר, רעזשיסאָר, פּאַנטאָמימיקער און לערער פֿון ייִדישן טעאַטער, רפֿאל גאָלדוואַסער, איז דינסטיק געשטאָרבן אין נאַרבאָן, פֿראַנקרײַך, צוליב קאָמפּליקאַציעס פֿון אַ האַרץ־פֿעלער. ער איז געווען 79 יאָר אַלט.
די לוויה וועט פֿאָרקומען פֿרײַטיק דעם 24סטן יולי, 15.00 אַ זייגער, אויפן ייִדישן חלק פון בית-עולם אין מערבֿ-נאַרבאָן.
גאָלדוואַסער האָט נישט סתּם אינסצענירט פּיעסעס, נאָר זיך באַמיט איבערצוצײַגן דעם צוקוקער זיך אַרײַנצוטראַכטן אינעם אינהאַלט. מע זעט דאָס קלאָר אין זײַן ייִדישער איבערזעצונג פֿון דני האָראָוויצעס העברעיִשער פּיעסע „פֿעטער אַרטור“ (2020ֶ), וואָס מע קען זען אויף יוטוב. דאָ רעדט זיך וועגן אַ דראַמאַטורג, פּיטער סטאָון — אַ לעבן געבליבענער פֿון חורבן — וואָס שרײַבט אַ פּיעסע ווי אַ נקמה זײַן פֿעטער אַרטור, וואָס פֿלעג זאָגן, זיצנדיק אין ניו־יאָרק: „ווי קענען מענטשן זיך לאָזן פֿירן אין קרעמעטאָריע ווי שאָף צו דער שחיטה?“ סטאָון באַמיט זיך שטאַרק צו געפֿינען אַ ישׂראלדיקן טעאַטער וואָס זאָל פּראָדוצירן די פּיעסע, אָבער קיין איין טעאַטער וויל זיך דאָס נישט אונטערנעמען. אין סטאָונס פֿרוסטרירונג קען מען דערפֿילן אויך גאָלדוואַסערס עגמת־נפֿש.
„רפֿי האָט ניט געקאָנט פֿאַרטראָגן מלחמה, ער האָט געמוזט אַנטרינען פֿון איר,“ האָט גלאַי געזאָגט. אַ פּנים דערפֿאַר האָט ער זיך טאַקע אַריבערגעצויגן פֿון ישׂראל קיין פֿראַנקרײַך. „דער מצבֿ אין ישׂראל, אַפֿילו פֿון דער ווײַטנס, האָט אים זיכער אָפּגעשוואַכט.“
אין 2013 האָט גאָלדוואַסער געמאַכט אַ טיפֿן אײַנדרוק שפּילנדיק די ראָלע פֿון לאָקי אין סעמיועל בעקעטס „וואַרטן אויף גאָדאָ“. דער ייִדישער קולטור־טוער דזשאָרדין קוציק זאָגט אַז גאָלדוואַסער האָט אַרײַנגעבראַכט אין דער פּראָדוקציע אַ „סטאַבילן פּסיכאָז“: „דער ריטעם פֿון זײַן מאָנאָלאָג בײַט זיך אין גאַנצן נישט און די עמאָציאָנעלע קוואַליטעט פֿון זײַן פּסעוודאָ־וויסנשאַפֿטלעכע פּלאַפּלערײַ בלײַבט אויך די זעלבע.“
שיין בייקער, דער אַקטיאָר און דירעקטאָר פֿונעם ייִדישן קולטור קאָנגרעס, האָט געזאָגט אַז נאָך גאָלדוואַסערס פּטירה האָט משה יאַסור, דער רעזשיסאָר פֿונעם ייִדיש־שפּראַכיקן „וואַרטן אויף גאָדאָ“, אים געזאָגט פֿאַר וואָס ער האָט אויסגעקליבן גאָלדוואַסערן פֿאַר דער ראָלע. „רפֿי איז געווען דער בעסטער אויסטײַטשער פֿון לאָקי ווײַך ער האָט ממש פֿאַרקערפּערט די ראָלע. זײַן פֿעיִקייט בײַם אויסדריקן זיך איז געווען פֿאַרוואָרצלט אין דער פֿיזישער קונסט פֿון מאַנטאָמימע — סובטיל אָבער בולט.“
קוציק האָט געזאָגט אַז גאָלדוואַסער האָט זיך אַנטקעגנגעשטעלט ווען עמעצער האָט, נאָכן זען די פּיעסע, באַמערקט אַז „לאָקי איז געווען אַ מין קאָמישע אָפּשפּאַנונג (comic relief בלע״ז) אין דער פּיעסע“: „מײַן ראָלע איז נישט געווען קיין קאָמישע אָפּשפּאַנונג, נאָר פֿאַרקערט: איך בין דווקא געווען די טראַגעדיע, און די אַנדערע פּערסאָנאַזשן האָבן געשילדערט די אַבסורדיסטישע קאָמעדיע,“ האָט גאָלדוואַסער געזאָגט.
רפֿאל גאָלדוואַסער איז געבוירן געוואָרן אין אַרגענטינע אין 1947. זײַן טאַטע איז געווען דער אָנגעזעענער אַקטיאָר זישע גאָלדוואַסער, אַ מיטגליד פֿונעם ייִדישן פֿאָלקס־טעאַטער אין בוענאָס־אײַרעס. די מאַמע, לאה (לאָלאַ אויף שפּאַניש), האָט געגעבן אירע דרײַ זין עכטע ייִדישע נעמען — ראובֿן, דניאל און רפֿאל, האָט געזאָגט רפֿאלס עלטערער ברודער דניאל גלאַי — דער פֿאָרזיצער פֿון „בית לייוויק“ אין תּל־אָבֿיבֿ. „די מאַמע איז געווען באַצויבערט פֿון איר מאַנס טאַלאַנט, און איך געדענק נישט אַז מײַנע עלטערן האָבן זיך אַ מאָל געקריגט צווישן זיך.“
ווען רפֿי איז געווען פֿינף יאָר אַלט האָט מען אים שוין געזען אויף דער בינע אין בוענאָס־אײַרעס — אין שלום־עליכמס איינאַקטער, „אַגענטן“. ווען די אַקטיאָרן האָבן געזען ווי שטאַרק דאָס קינד וויל שפּילן טעאַטער האָט מען אים געגעבן אַן איין־שורהדיקע ראָלע: „טאַטע, כ׳וויל עסן!“ כּדי ער זאָל זיך פֿילן גלײַך מיט די אַנדערע אַקטיאָרן.
„כ’בין זיכער אַז שלום עליכם האָט הנאה געהאַט דערפֿון,“ האָט גלאַי געזאָגט.
נאָך דעם ווי די משפּחה האָט עולה געווען קיין ישׂראל האָט רפֿאל שטודירט טעאַטער און געשיכטע בײַם תּל־אָבֿיבֿער אוניווערסיטעט, און שפּעטער באַקומען אַ מאַגיסטער פֿון טעאַטער־געשיכטע בײַם פּאַריזער אוניווערסיטעט.
במשך פֿון זײַן קאַריערע האָט ער זיך קונה־שם געווען ווי אַ נאָוואַטאָרישער אַרטיסט, וואָס האָט צונויפֿגעפֿלאָכטן די טראַדיציעס פֿון ייִדישן טעאַטער, פֿראַנצייזישער פּאַנטאָמימע און דער נײַער אוידיאָ־וויזועלע מעדיאַ, האָט געזאָגט דער פֿאָרזיצער פֿונעם אַרגענטינער ייִוואָ, אַבֿרהם ליכטענבוים. ער האָט אויפֿגעטראָטן איבער דער וועלט, געשאַפֿן טעאַטראַלישע אונטערנעמונגען, אַנסאַמבלען, אינטערנאַציאָנאַלע פֿעסטיוואַלן און, דער עיקר, פֿאַרלייגט און אָנגעפֿירט מיטן „לופֿט־טעאַטער“ אין סטראַסבורג, פֿראַנקרײַך.
ער איז אויך געווען אַן אָנגעזעענער פּעדאַגאָג, געלערנט אין דער ייִדישער טעאַטער־אַקאַדעמיע און געפֿירט אינטערנאַציאָנאַלע סעמינאַרן איבער אייראָפּע. במשך פֿון די לעצטע יאָרן האָט ער, בשותּפֿות מיטן בוענאָס־אײַרעסער ייִוואָ, געהאַלטן בײַם אַנטוויקלען אַ „נײַע פּעדאַגאָגיע פֿאַרן ייִדישן טעאַטער“.
רפֿאל גאָלדוואַסער האָט פֿאַראָבֿלט זײַן ברודער, דניאל גלאַי; זײַן לעבנס־באַגלייטערין דזשוטיט בוכהאַלטער; זײַנע קינדער יאָרדאַן, מאַרין און מאַעל, און דרײַ אייניקלעך.
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What a West Bank visit taught me about the past and present tragedies of Tisha B’Av
As we chant Lamentations on the floor, in the dark, on Wednesday night for Tisha B’Av, we will open with the word “eikha” — “how.”
That same word became the refrain of a recent eight day visit I made to Israel and the West Bank.
I traveled to Jerusalem for a week of immersive learning with 150 rabbis and cantors at the Shalom Hartman Institute’s annual Rabbinic Torah Seminar. But my learning wasn’t restricted to the beit midrash. I spent time with cousins finishing combat service; friends working late into the night in the Knesset before its dissolution; people working to build shared society in Haifa; and families grieving the loss of loved ones. And at every turn, I found myself asking “eikha.”
“Eikha” is more than a question. It is the sound made when the distance between what should be and what is becomes almost impossible to bear. Naming that distance is at the heart of Tisha B’Av — and, for me, at the heart of thinking honestly about Israel today. How will Israel move from this moment of profound moral and political fracture toward the future our prophets imagined?
On a visit to the West Bank with Rabbis for Human Rights, I connected with Israelis from across the country who had come to be a protective presence for Palestinians in Jenata, near the settler outpost of Havat Eitam. The Palestinians there face violence and intimidation in an area formally under Palestinian civil authority. We heard from a man whose brother had recently been killed by settlers, and we learned that their imam was jailed just that morning to prevent Friday prayers from moving forward as planned.
Then we were told to leave. The corner of the village we were visiting was declared a 24-hour closed military zone.
Next we traveled to Umm al-Khair, a Palestinian herding community where the Hathaleen family buried their son Awdah almost a year ago, after he was shot and killed by an Israeli settler who still walks free. Since his death, settlers have built caravans encroaching into the village, with some only a few meters from homes. This encroachment has triggered the declaration of another “closed military zone,” cutting the family off from their own bathroom and animals. They must use a neighbor’s bathroom and can only feed their animals when a soldier comes to allow it.
I asked a soldier standing guard that day whether any of it troubled him.
“Doesn’t Oct. 7 trouble you?” he replied.
I don’t know what that soldier has seen, or what he has lost. But I know his response took two griefs and set them against each other, as though one atrocity could justify another. “Eikha”: How do we nurse our deepest wounds without allowing them to justify our wounding others? How do we stay safe and moral?
This past Shabbat was Shabbat Hazon — the “Sabbath of Vision” — so named for the opening word of the Haftara, which describes Isaiah’s vision of a devastated but ultimately redeemed Jerusalem. That reading, in our current context, must push us — and, God willing, Israel’s next political leaders — to articulate compelling responses to the questions bearing down on Israeli society and on Judaism itself. To ask how we came to a point of such dire trouble, and realize a vision for redemption from it.
I keep thinking about the way slain hostage Hersh Goldberg-Polin would remind his fellow captives, citing Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl’s words, that if they could hold onto a “why,” they could endure any “how.”
Israel and the Jewish people have profound whys. We are meant to be, in the words of “Hatikvah,” “a free people in our own land.” And to be, in the words of the Torah, “a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.”
This Tisha B’Av, as we mourn the destruction that shattered Jewish sovereignty in the land of Israel 2,000 years ago, we must also reckon honestly with the forms of inhumanity that threaten its moral future and physical safety today.
We must understand that our freedom, our holiness and our humanity are bound up in that of the Hathaleen family, and the besieged villagers of Jenata. During my visit, an Israeli cousin of mine acknowledged that everything I had seen in the West Bank was real and terrible — and that he didn’t want Palestinians living so close to Israel, out of fear of an Oct. 7 attack from the West Bank. What I wish all of us could better understand: If Jewish freedom depends upon denying Palestinian freedom, then it is neither the freedom of “Hatikvah” nor the holiness the Torah demands. I also don’t think it will make us safe.
This is, I think, the particular question facing rabbis and Jewish communal leaders like me right now: how do we hold onto our right — our obligation — to name Israel’s failures honestly, as people bound to this place and this story, without having our words weaponized to delegitimize and demonize the entire project? My criticism of what I saw in Jenata and Umm al-Khair comes from love — the same love that makes looking away impossible. Learning how to hold both at once, unflinching criticism and unwavering commitment, may be the most urgent “eikha” of this particular moment.
After Tisha B’Av comes the Shivah d’Nehemta — the Seven Weeks of Consolation that carry us into Rosh Hashanah.
In those weeks, the questions of “eikha” don’t disappear. They deepen. These weeks lead us into Elul, a time of intense heshbon hanefesh — accounting of the soul. The pairing of consolation with accounting suggests that renewal comes not through answering our questions, but through finding the courage to keep asking them.
How do we protect ourselves without surrendering our humanity? How do we acknowledge our own suffering without turning it into permission to inflict suffering on others?
Those are Israel’s questions as they move toward their October elections. They are ours as well, as we navigate being Jews in this moment.
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