Uncategorized
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.
Uncategorized
NELLA MARGRITHE ESKIN NOVEMBER 14, 1946 – AUGUST 27, 2025
It is with great sorrow that the Eskin family reports the passing of Nella Margrithe Eskin, beloved wife and devoted partner of Michael Eskin, on August 27, 2025.
Nella, the only child of the late Kasiel and Rosa Kessler, Holocaust survivors, was born in a displaced persons camp in Fohrenwald, Germany, in 1946. The family first moved to Baltimore as refugees in 1949 before settling in Chicago, where Nella graduated from Roosevelt University with Bachelor of Science degree.
In 1969, she met Michael, and three months later they were married in Chicago in March 1970. They shared a wonderful marriage of over 55 years, during which they raised a family of four boys and created a home that was always full of song, food, guests and Yiddishkeit. Sadly, their eldest son, Katriel, passed away in 2015. Nella is survived by her other three sons, Josh, Ezra and Daniel, and their families as well as Katriel’s wife and family. She was a devoted wife, mother, and grandmother to her husband, sons, and ten grandchildren, and a loving daughter to her mother, Rosa, who passed away in 2020.
A lifelong scholar, she earned an MBA from the University of Manitoba in 1995. Nella was a very pious and learned woman who was also a wonderful artist, music lover, gardener and cook. She passed her love of music, art, storytelling and learning to her children, teaching each of them piano and instilling in them an enduring appreciation for the arts that continues to this day. She was an incredibly warm woman and made every gathering feel special, every guest feel valued, and every meal feel like a celebration of love and friendship.
She will be sorely missed by her husband, children, grandchildren, relatives in the UK, USA, Australia, and Israel, and many dear friends. Her kindness, curiosity, and love will live on in the many lives she touched. May her memory be
a blessing.
Uncategorized
VIDEO: Moishele Alfonso on the new book of I. L. Peretz stories for students
לכּבֿוד דער פּובליקאַציע פֿונעם ביכל „אויפֿן װעג: זיבן דערציילונגען פֿון י.־ל. פּרץ“ — אַ זאַמלונג ספּעציעל געמאַכט פֿאַר סטודענטן — קען מען איצט זען אַן אינטערוויו מיטן ייִדיש־לערער משהלע אַלפֿאָנסאָ, וואָס האָט פֿאַרקירצט און באַאַרבעט די דערציילונגען.
אין דעם אינטערוויו דערציילט אַלפֿאָנסאָ וועגן דעם פּראָצעס פֿון שאַפֿן דאָס ביכל, און לייענט געקליבענע אויסצוגן דערפֿון. דער אינטערוויו, געפֿירט פֿון אלי בענעדיקט, איז געשטיצט געוואָרן פֿון דער ייִדיש־ליגע, וואָס האָט אויך אַרויסגעגעבן דאָס לייענביכל.
דאָס נאָוואַטאָרישע ביכל גיט דעם לייענער אַ צוטריט צו קלאַסישע ייִדיש־דערציילונגען דורך אַ זײַט־בײַ־זײַטיקן גלאָסאַר, שמועס־פֿראַגעס און קלאַנג־רעקאָרדירונגען פֿון די מעשׂיות.
משהלע אַלפֿאָנסאָ איז אַ ייִדיש־לערער בײַם ייִדישן ביכער־צענטער זינט 2019. אין 2022 האָט ער, דורכן פֿאַרלאַג „אָלניאַנסקי־טעקסט“, טראַנסקריבירט און אַרויסגעגעבן יצחק באַשעוויסעס בוך „שׂונאים: די געשיכטע פֿון אַ ליבע“. דער ראָמאַן איז אַרויס אין המשכים אינעם פֿאָרווערטס אין 1966, און ס’איז דאָס ערשטע מאָל וואָס שׂונאים איז אַרויס אין בוכפֿאָרעם אויף ייִדיש.
דאָס ביכל קען מען באַשטעלן דאָ.
The post VIDEO: Moishele Alfonso on the new book of I. L. Peretz stories for students appeared first on The Forward.
Uncategorized
VIDEO: Peter, Paul and Mary’s “Light One Candle” — in Yiddish
If, like me, you enjoy listening to old recordings of the iconic folk group Peter, Paul and Mary, you may want to check this out: a new Yiddish version of their Hanukkah song “Light One Candle,” sung by another talented trio — Rabbi Avram, Elisha and Sarah Mlotek. (A transliteration of the lyrics appears beneath the video below.)
The three siblings are the grown children of Zalmen Mlotek, musician and director of the Yiddish National Theater Folksbiene, and his wife, Debbie Mlotek. Rabbi Avram is a writer, Elisha is a filmmaker and Sarah is studying music at a conservatory in Israel — and just became a mom.
Their singing is backed up by C. Joseph Lanzbom on guitar and Elisha on percussion.
The original song, which was written by Peter Yarrow, became an anthem for the Soviet Jewry movement in the 1980s, symbolizing their struggle for freedom. It was translated into Yiddish by the theater producer Moishe Rosenfeld and Avram Mlotek.
“‘Light One Candle’ was one of our Bubbe’s favorite songs every time we got together for a Hanukkah sing-along,” Avram said. Their Bubbe was the renowned scholar of Yiddish song, Chana Mlotek. For many years, she and her husband, the Yiddish cultural activist Yosl Mlotek, ran a column about Yiddish songs and poetry in the Forward.
Although Hanukkah is still a month away, Bubby Chana’s grandchildren had a meaningful reason for publishing it now: This week marks her yortzeit.
TRANSLITERATION
Eyn likht shaynt far di heldishe kinder
A dank vos dos likht geyt nit oys
Eyn likht shaynt far di payn un di laydn
Di sakone’z geven azoy groys
Eyn likht flakert far korbones un laydn
Az yoysher un frayhayt zol zayn
Eyn likhtl flakert far khokhme un visn
Far frayhayt un sholem zol zayn.
Lesht nit di likhtlekh oys!
Zey flakern shoyn doyres-lang
Lesht nit di likhtlekh oys!
Balaykhtn durkh undzer gezang!
Eyn likht flakert tsu gebn undz koyekh
Az eybik mir’n blaybn getray
Eyn likht flakert far mentshn vos laydn
Oykh mir zenen nisht geven fray
Eyn likhtl flakert far zise khaloymes
Tseteyln zol undz nisht der kas
Un eyn likhtl flakert tsu haltn tsuzamen
Mit sholem un mer nisht kayn has
Lesht nit di likhtlekh oys!
Zey flakern shoyn doyres-lang
Lesht nit di likhtlekh oys!
Balaykhtn durkh undzer gezang!
Vos iz di mayse vos iz azoy tayer
Vos lebt eybik in undzer flam?
Vos iz di shvue tsu fargangene doyres
Az es lebt undzer folk, undzer am?
Mir kumen, mir geyen, mir hofn, mir gloybn
Az yoysher vet vern der klal
Dos iz der viln, dos iz di shvue
A shenere velt iberal!
Lesht nit di likhtlekh oys!
Zey flakern shoyn doyres-lang
Lesht nit di likhtlekh oys!
Balaykhtn durkh undzer gezang!
The post VIDEO: Peter, Paul and Mary’s “Light One Candle” — in Yiddish appeared first on The Forward.