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Judaism doesn’t want you to wander and live just anywhere — or does it?

(JTA) — I was a remote worker long before the pandemic made it a thing, but it was only last month that I really took advantage of it. Early on the morning of New Year’s Day, I boarded a plane from Connecticut bound for Mexico, where I spent a full month sleeping in thatch-roofed palapas, eating more tacos than was probably wise and bathing every day in the Pacific. I’ll spare you the glorious details, but suffice it to say, it wasn’t a bad way to spend a January.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, I found myself again and again coming into contact with expats who had traded in their urban lives in northern climes for a more laid-back life in the tropics. There was the recently divorced motorcycle enthusiast slowly wending his way southward by bike as he continued to work a design job for a major American bank. There was the yoga instructor born not far from where I live in Massachusetts who owned an open-air rooftop studio just steps from the waves. There were the countless couples who had chosen to spend their days running beachfront bars or small hotels on the sand. And then there were the seemingly endless number and variety of middle-aged northerners rebooting their lives in perpetual sunshine.

Such people have long mystified me. It’s not hard to understand the lure of beachside living, and part of me envies the freedom to design your own life from the ground up. But there’s also something scary about it. Arriving in middle age in a country where you know nobody, whose language is not your own, whose laws and cultural mores, seasons and flora, are all unfamiliar — it feels like the essence of shallow-rootedness, like a life devoid of all the things that give one (or at least me) a sense of comfort and security and place. The thought of exercising the right to live literally anywhere and any way I choose opens up a space so vast and limitless it provokes an almost vertiginous fear of disconnection and a life adrift.

Clearly, this feeling isn’t universally shared. And the fact that I have it probably owes a lot to my upbringing. I grew up in an Orthodox family, which by necessity meant life was lived in a fairly small bubble. Our house was within walking distance of our synagogue, as it had to be since walking was the only way to get there on Shabbat and holidays. I attended a small Jewish day school, where virtually all of my friends came from families with similar religious commitments. Keeping kosher and the other constraints of a religious life had a similarly narrowing effect on the horizons of my world and thus my sense of life’s possibilities. Or at least that’s how it often felt.

What must it be like — pardon the non-kosher expression — to feel as if the world is your oyster? That you could live anywhere, love anyone, eat anything and make your life whatever you want it to be? Thrilling, yes — but also frightening. The sense of boundless possibility I could feel emanating from those sun-baked Mexicans-by-choice was seductive, but tempered by aversion to a life so unmoored.

The tension between freedom and obligation is baked into Jewish life. The twin poles of our national narrative are the Exodus from Egypt and the revelation at Sinai, each commemorated by festivals separated by exactly seven weeks in the calendar, starting with Passover. The conventional understanding is that this juxtaposition isn’t accidental. God didn’t liberate the Israelites from slavery so they could live free of encumbrances on the Mayan Riviera. Freedom had a purpose, expressed in the giving of the Torah at Sinai, with all its attendant rules and restrictions and obligations. Freedom is a central value of Jewish life — Jews are commanded to remember the Exodus every day. But Jewish freedom doesn’t mean the right to live however you want.

Except it might mean the right to live any place you want. In the 25th chapter of Leviticus, God gives the Israelites the commandment of the Jubilee year, known as yovel in Hebrew. Observed every 50 years in biblical times, the Jubilee has many similarities to the shmita (sabbatical) year, but with some additional rituals. The text instructs: “And you shall hallow the 50th year. You shall proclaim liberty throughout the land for all its inhabitants. It shall be a jubilee for you: each of you shall return to your holding and each of you shall return to your family.”

Among the requirements of the Jubilee was that ancestral lands be returned to their original owners. Yet the word for liberty is a curious one: “d’ror.” The Talmud explains its etymology this way: “It is like a man who dwells [medayer] in any dwelling and moves merchandise around the entire country” (Rosh Hashanah 9b).

The liberty of the Jubilee year could thus be said to have two contrary meanings — individuals had the right to return to their ancestral lands, but they were also free not to. They could live in any dwelling they chose. The sense of liberty connoted by the biblical text is a specifically residential one: the freedom to live where one chooses. Which pretty well describes the world we live in today. Jewish ancestral lands are freely available to any Jew who wants to live there. And roughly half the Jews of the world choose not to.

Clearly, I’m among them. And while I technically could live anywhere, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to. I like where I live — not because of any particular qualities of this place, though I do love its seasons and its smells and its proximity to the people I care about and the few weeks every fall when the trees become a riotous kaleidoscope. But mostly because it’s mine.

A version of this essay appeared in My Jewish Learning’s Recharge Shabbat newsletter. Subscribe here.


The post Judaism doesn’t want you to wander and live just anywhere — or does it? appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.

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US ambassador demands that Belgium drop ‘ridiculous and anti semitic’ investigation of mohels

(JTA) — The U.S. ambassador to Belgium is demanding that Belgium end an investigation into mohels who may have been using unsafe practices while circumcising Jewish babies.

Bill White made the demand, an unusual intervention into another country’s domestic affairs, in a post on X on Monday directed toward Belgium’s minister of health.

“To the (very rude) Belgian Minister of Health FRANK VANENBROUCKE; You must make a legal provision to allow Jewish religious MOHELS to perform their duties here in Belgium. It’s done in all civilized counties as legal procedure,” White tweeted. “BELGIUM is a civilized country. Stop this unacceptable harassment of the Jewish community here in Antwerp and in Belgium. It’s 2026, you need to get into the 21st century and allow our brethren Jewish families in Belgium to legally execute their religious freedoms!”

White is a longtime advocate for veterans who became a Republican after Donald Trump was first elected president in 2016. He was confirmed as the ambassador to Belgium last fall despite criticism that he had amplified social media posts by Dries Van Langenhove, a far-right Belgian political activist had recently been sentenced to prison after being convicted of racism and Holocaust denial.

White’s post comes nearly a year after Belgian authorities raided multiple sites, including two in Antwerp’s Jewish Quarter, at the outset of an investigation into illegal circumcisions.

In Belgium, the law requires all circumcisions to be performed by licensed medical professionals. The country has a track record of limiting religious exemptions in laws: In 2024, Europe’s top court upheld a ban in most of the country against kosher slaughter, which its critics contend is inhumane to animals.

Belgian media reported that the Antwerp raids stemmed from a complaint made by a member of the Jewish community. In 2024, Moshe Friedman, a local rabbi, filed a police complaint against six mohels who practice metzitzah b’peh, a custom in which the circumciser cleans the circumcision wound with oral suction.

The custom, which can risk infecting infants with dangerous diseases, is practiced only in haredi Orthodox communities such as the substantial one in Antwerp. Several years ago, a number of babies in New York City were infected with herpes via metzitzah b’peh.

White’s X post, which he said was on behalf of Trump and a slew of administration officials, said three mohels were facing “RIDICULOUS AND ANTI SEMITIC ‘PROSECUTION,’” which he said must be dropped immediately to preserve the U.S.-Belgian relationship.

White alleged that Vanenbroucke had told him that he intended to avoid intervening in the case, calling it a “sneaky tactic.” Vanenbroucke and other Belgian officials did not immediately respond publicly to White’s post.

White said he would be traveling to Antwerp to meet with the mohels next week. “Frank you and Conner Rousseau should come with me!” White tweeted, referring to a Flemish politician with no public connection to the investigation. “It’s disgusting what’s happened to these fine men and their families because of your inaction. Thank you for your immediate attention to this matter!”

The mohel raids in Antwerp follow the arrest in 2024 in Ireland of a British rabbi suspected of performing circumcisions illegally. There, the law requiring a medical license to perform circumcisions includes an exemption for circumcisions performed for religious reasons — but the rabbi was alleged to have circumcised babies who were not Jewish. The prosecution in that case is reportedly ongoing.

The Trump administration says it aims to defend religious freedom around the world, and its ambassador to Israel, Mike Huckabee, has called attention to what he alleges is poor treatment of Christians there. Meanwhile, a Catholic member of Trump’s new domestic Religious Liberty Commission was removed last week after using a public hearing to attack Israel and press the case that opposition to Israel is not antisemitic.

The post US ambassador demands that Belgium drop ‘ridiculous and anti semitic’ investigation of mohels appeared first on The Forward.

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Spike Lee, Kyrie Irving wear pro-Palestinian outfits to NBA All-Star Game featuring first Israeli player

(JTA) — Deni Avdija scored five points and made four assists and one dunk in his first NBA All-Star Game — the first All-Star appearance ever for an Israeli player.

But while Avdija’s Team World squad fell short against the league’s top American players, his appearance continued to generate excitement for Israelis, who have viewed his success on the court as a matter of national pride.

Avdija’s jersey featured an Israeli flag on the back, in keeping with the uniform for Team World.

“I feel like when I come to play, I come with the entire nation, and it’s fun to show that it’s possible, even for a small country like us,” he said during a postgame press conference, in which most questions were asked and answered in Hebrew.

Lebron James, too, was asked by an Israeli reporter about Avdija’s performance and about Israel during his own postgame availability.

“I hope I inspire people over there not only to be great in sports, but to be better in general in life,” James said. “Hopefully, someday I could make it over there. Like I said, I’ve never been over there, but I’ve heard nothing but great things. I appreciate the question.”

Some cultural events featuring prominent Israelis since the start of the war in Gaza have been subject to anti-Israel demonstrations. There were no disruptions at the All-Star Game, but two prominent fans wore outfits designed to show pro-Palestinian solidarity.

The filmmaker Spike Lee wore a Palestinian flag-inspired outfit, with a keffiyeh-patterned sweater and flag badges on his bag strap.

The basketball player Kyrie Irving, meanwhile, wore a T-shirt that said “PRESS” on the front. The shirt, produced by the company Wear the Peace, says inside that it is “dedicated to our beloved journalists in Gaza showing the world the truth.” Irving had previously worn the shirt to another NBA game.

Irving, who was not playing in the All-Star Game, was traded to the Dallas Mavericks from the Brooklyn Nets in 2023 shortly after promoting an antisemitic film on his Twitter account and at first refusing to apologize for the tweet.

The post Spike Lee, Kyrie Irving wear pro-Palestinian outfits to NBA All-Star Game featuring first Israeli player appeared first on The Forward.

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As the last generation of Holocaust survivors die, is AI the future of Holocaust education?

At a Brooklyn synagogue on a recent Monday afternoon, a video of Holocaust survivor Sonia Warshawski played on a two-foot-tall box. Seated in a leopard-print chair, her hands folded in her lap, Warshawski blinked and nodded her head expectantly on a continuous loop.

“Did anyone else from your family survive?” a Hebrew school student asked the AI-powered avatar.

The video cut to a separate clip. Warshawski said she and her sister had survived. Her brother, mother and father did not.

Warshawski, who survived three concentration camps and ran a tailoring shop in Kansas City until 2023, had made it part of her life’s mission to tell her story wherever she could. She spoke with students, filmed the 2016 documentary Big Sonia about her life, and was even a guest speaker at a local prison.

But Warshawski knew she wouldn’t live forever. So in 2021, with the help of the interactive media company StoryFile and her granddaughter’s production company, Inflatable Film, Warshawski recorded answers to hundreds of questions about her life, from “What do you remember about the death march?,” to “Why do you like leopard print so much?” Those answers were loaded into an AI-powered avatar of Warshawski that can converse through a video screen, which debuted as an exhibit at the Museum of Kansas City last year.

The technology also caught the attention of the Blue Card, a nonprofit that provides financial assistance to Holocaust survivors in need. The organization adapted it into a portable format and brought the virtual Warshawski to 20 schools and community centers across the New York area over the past year, with plans to expand nationwide. A parallel effort from the USC Shoah Foundation, called “Dimensions in Testimony,” also enables students to have conversations with virtual versions of Holocaust survivors.

The initiative reflects recognition that as survivors age, a model of Holocaust education built on firsthand testimony will be increasingly difficult to sustain. No lesson plan can match the impact of hearing directly from survivors, many of whom dedicate their golden years to speaking tours retelling their traumatic stories. But 90% of the world’s roughly 200,000 living Holocaust survivors are projected to die in the next 15 years. And for aging survivors — who have already lost so much of their lives to violence and deprivation — the weight of transmitting Holocaust memories to the next generation is a burden they cannot shoulder alone.

“It’s absolutely the future of Holocaust education,” said Masha Pearl, the Blue Card’s executive director. “It actually is as close as possible to hearing a live survivor speak.”

Warshawski’s story

Warshawski grew up in Międzyrzec, Poland, and was 17 years old when she and her family were forced into a ghetto. Sonia and her mother were deported to the Majdanek death camp, where she watched Nazis march her mother to her death via gas chamber. Warshawski was then sent to Auschwitz-Birkenau, where she was forced to spread her fellow prisoners’ ashes as fertilizer, and then to the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, where she was shot in the chest on liberation day.

A student at City College asks the virtual Warshawski a question. Courtesy of The Blue Card

She recovered and met her husband, John, at the Bergen-Belsen displaced persons camp. The couple moved to Kansas City in 1948.

Using AI technology, students can ask the virtual Warshawski about all of those harrowing moments — with the added benefit that the real-life Warshawski only had to recall them once.

Many survivors “suffer from depression and PTSD, and it’s very difficult for them to recount these extremely painful experiences,” Pearl said. “This actually bypasses that in a way.”

The interactive element is also engaging for kids, Pearl said. At the Conservative synagogue Temple Sholom, after watching Big Sonia, nearly all 25 students ages 10 to 13 — half from the parochial school at the church across the street — raised their hands to ask the virtual Warshawski a question. A few students stayed after the programming had formally ended to ask more.

“It’s the same thing I heard from my uncle’s great grandpa,” said fifth-grader Noah Stein, who attends Hebrew school at Temple Sholom. “It’s amazing — I’ve never seen something like that.”

An imperfect technology

Warshawski, now 100 years old and still going strong, celebrated her birthday in November at a party with more than 1,000 people. But she doesn’t have as much energy as she used to and was unavailable to interview for this piece. So I interviewed her avatar instead.

My question — how she felt about her memory being preserved through AI — triggered an unrelated response.

“After we left [Majdanek], there were still people there, and I must tell you, one day when I was…”

“Can we pause this?” said Rechan Meshulam, special projects director at the Blue Card, who operated the technology at Temple Sholom.

Meshulam said the system had not matched my question to the correct response. She then manually selected the closest question, “Are you glad that you recorded this with StoryFile?”

“I feel this is a very important thing for the people in the world, not to forget and [to] read more about it. Read more history,” Warshawski said. “I’m very grateful that I had a chance to do it. I am thanking the Almighty for it, to give me the strength still to go on.”

The initial mismatched response illustrated the technology’s limits: Warshawski can only answer questions that StoryFile asked her during the original interview in 2021. If a question is similar enough, the AI is designed to redirect Warshawski to the appropriate answer. But this didn’t seem to work in practice. Whenever a student asked a question outside the suggested question bank, operators had to ask the student to rephrase — or pause Warshawski and jump in with their own knowledge about her story.

But according to Pearl, the limited scope of questions is a feature, not a bug. Limiting Warshawski to questions she actually answered prevents her words from being taken out of context or misconstrued, Pearl said.

“Sonia cannot tell you what the weather is today, what her thoughts are on politics — anything that’s really current,” Pearl said. “She can only speak to her experience.”

Not everyone draws the same line. Last year, a Utah-based tech startup called SchoolAI drew controversy for its AI-generated version of Anne Frank, which spits out responses that Frank never wrote herself. Henrik Schönemann, a German historian who tested the chatbot, found AI-Frank avoided holding Nazis responsible for her death and spun her story in an overly positive light.

“How anyone thinks this is even remotely appropriate is beyond me,” Schönemann posted to social media, adding that the technology “violates every premise of Holocaust-education” and amounted to “a kind of grave-robbbing.”

SchoolAI, which also offers the ability to chat with historical figures such as Alexander Graham Bell and Frederick Douglass, said it was implementing additional safeguards to help characters more directly address difficult questions.

I asked SchoolAI’s Anne Frank chatbot about how Frank feels about comparisons between ICE agents and the Gestapo. She didn’t take the bait.

“That’s a difficult question. When I lived in hiding, the Gestapo and police searched for people like us because of who we were, not because we had done anything wrong. I was always afraid,” AI-Frank wrote. “I believe it’s important to treat people with humanity and fairness, no matter their situation. What matters most is how we treat one another, especially those who are vulnerable.”

Yet even with careful control over the accuracy of testimony, some educators are uncomfortable with the idea of immortalizing Holocaust survivors in an interactive form.

In a research paper titled “Creating the ‘virtual’ witness: the limits of empathy,” Corey Kai Nelson Schultz argues that digital versions of Holocaust survivors can have the effect of undermining empathy. Viewers may treat the avatars more like virtual assistants than people, he wrote, and could be tempted to gamify the experience or test the technology’s limits.

Schultz told the Forward he prefers more traditional forms of Holocaust education — seeing artifacts like survivors’ shoes or toys, or watching video testimonies — mediums he believes better capture survivors’ humanity.

But the technology’s novelty was part of the appeal for Warshawski’s granddaughter, Leah, who directed Big Sonia — and said the AI component is just one more way to ensure her grandmother’s story lives on.

Warshawski “does authentically, passionately believe that everybody needs more education, and specifically, Holocaust education. And if this is the way to do it in the future, then so be it,” Leah told the Forward. “You know, ideally, everybody would be able to read more books.”

Pearl said the survivors she works with also have a different set of worries.

“We actually didn’t hear any ethical issues or concerns,” Pearl said. “The concerns that we heard were, Who will tell my story after I’m no longer here?”

The post As the last generation of Holocaust survivors die, is AI the future of Holocaust education? appeared first on The Forward.

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