This article was produced as part of the New York Jewish Week’s Teen Journalism Fellowship, a program that works with Jewish teens around New York City to report on issues that affect their lives.

As a high school senior, the stress of college applications, homework and the looming end of childhood leaves me constantly waiting for Sundays. That’s the day I get to put on my khaki Tzofim, or Israeli Scouts, uniform — covered with pins, patches and signatures — and head to Manhattan’s East Side. 

There, in a rented room in a Catholic school, is where I feel most grounded. There, I’m surrounded by people that understand the duality of being both American and Israeli, something that my born-and-raised American friends simply couldn’t understand. When I’m at a Tzofim meeting, surrounded by Israeli-American teens from across the city, the complexity of that dual identity doesn’t seem so complex.

Tzofim has been my refuge since shortly after the horrific events of Oct. 7, 2023. One bright November morning, just a few weeks after the attack, I was in my AP World History class, discussing nationalities and the role they play in history. My teacher decided to pick me as an example, pointing out to the class that my nationality is Israeli.

My classmates glared at me with newfound judgment. Suddenly, the labels I had always cherished — Israeli, Zionist, Jew — were no longer affirmations of pride. Instead, they felt like accusations, heavy with opinions and suspicion.

For the first time in my seven years of living in New York, I felt completely alone. 

Two weeks later, I attended my first Tzofim activity. The meeting took place in a modest community space near Union Square, the room was filled with chatter, music and rows of teens in uniforms just like mine. Surrounded by peers who had similar fears about being judged for their Jewish and Israeli identities, I felt understood. I didn’t have to explain or defend who I was. 

Founded in Israel in 1919 and brought to the United States more than 25 years ago, the Tzofim is a youth-led movement modeled loosely on the World Scouting Movement, but with a focus on Israeli culture and Jewish identity. It serves kids and teens ages 7 through 18 and emphasizes leadership, service and community. 

Our New York chapter, Shevet Tapuach, meets weekly for programs that mix cultural education, team-building activities and discussions about Jewish identity and current events. Teens take on leadership roles: guiding younger scouts, organizing events and shaping the direction of the chapter.

After Oct. 7, participation in Shevet Tapuach surged — membership grew from 180 to more than 330 participants, according to our chapter head, Michal Poran. The teen division alone nearly doubled, from 54 to 95. What was once one of the smallest chapters in the U.S. became a thriving hub of Jewish teen life in New York.

This growth reflected a larger shift in post-Oct. 7 Jewish life: Many teens who had once felt only loosely connected to their Jewish or Israeli identity began seeking out safe spaces where they could feel seen and supported. In response, our chapter opened its doors more widely. What had previously been an Israeli-centered environment became a place where Jewish teens of all backgrounds could find belonging.

Poran called this shift a “rebranding,” sparked by the war in Israel. “We wanted to make this a community and a home for all Jews, a place to feel included, even if you’re not Israeli,” she told me. 

Emma Navoth, an 18-year-old leader who has been in Tzofim since second grade, told me she’s watched the chapter transform. “So many teens who never thought about joining before are coming now,” she said. “People want a place where they feel safe and supported. For me, Tzofim has always been that, now it’s that for even more people.”

Another member, Liya Blinderman, explained that after Oct. 7, she realized that comfort couldn’t be found in the routines of school or casual hangouts with friends. What she needed was a community that understood what it felt like to wake up to news from Israel every morning, or to have family conversations constantly circle back to the war. “It became a meaningful outlet for me,” she told me. “A place where I could grow, connect, and give back. The support here isn’t just organizational, it’s deeply human.”

For these Jewish and Israeli teens in New York — myself included — the Scouts have become more than just an extracurricular activity. They’re an entry point into a longstanding tradition of leadership and resilience. Weekly meetings teach us not only about Israeli history and Jewish culture, but about standing strong in times of adversity. 

As the new school year begins, I’m excited to see our group continue to grow — welcoming new members, planning community events, and finding new ways to speak up and support one another. For me, Tzofim isn’t just a reminder of who I am; it’s a way to shape who I want to become.

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In Jonathan Safran Foer’s novel Everything is Illuminated, a little girl named Brod is so familiar with grief and loss that Foer gives her a title: “Genius of sadness.” Brod sees melancholy everywhere, in the usual places — “the sadness of physical pain” — and in unlikely ones (“The sadness of domesticated birds”).

There is something of Brod in the Worst Club Ever, the group Rabbi Jackson Mercer founded this summer in Cambridge, Massachusetts, dedicated to helping young Jewish adults process the many — and often unexpected — ways that grief interrupts everyday life.

Mercer, 31, established the club because he believed young Jewish adults needed better — or any — bereavement services. It’s an absence he first noticed six years ago, when two close family friends lost loved ones on the eve of his wedding. One was due to give a Sheva Bracha, a wedding blessing, but she was also “like, actively in Shiva,” as Mercer put it. She didn’t know whether she could even attend a celebration, let alone participate.

“It was clear people needed guidance in the practical pieces,” said Mercer, who, when we met for coffee on a cold and bright morning, had on a flat-brimmed baseball cap and a hiking jacket — which in Cambridge/Somerville, a hub for both young adult Jews and progressive politics, is kind of the rabbinical uniform du jour.

Mercer realized that bereavement was more common among young adults than he’d thought. In his community alone — he’s a rabbi at BASE Boston, a nonprofit that puts on events for Jews in their 20s and 30s — “every person knew somebody” grieving, he said. And Boston’s existing support groups plainly could not meet the needs of younger, grieving Jews. If they wanted a Jewish experience, “it was mostly with people in their 60s mourning the loss of their life partners,” he said. But the younger crowd was little better: “Usually very Christian-focused — above all, on eschatology.”

Mercer talked with at least ten people in his Cambridge community who had felt misunderstood in other grief groups on account of their Jewishness or their age. An idea crystallized in his mind: a space to grieve that was both young and Jewish.

He was hesitant, however, to lead the group himself. For one thing, he was more comfortable discussing very recent loss than longer-term bereavement. “There’s rituals for it at first,” he said. But his initiative appealed to a different constituency. It was “people one to three years after a loss,” he told me. “So I needed to pivot.”

A therapist family friend joined the project. She and Mercer decided to lead the group together. “We met for a really long time,” Mercer said, “going back and forth about what would be helpful through a therapeutic lens — of how grief shows up for some people — and then taking those experiences and looking for those in Jewish texts.” In short, a group that blended Jewish textual analysis with clinical expertise.

The Worst Club Ever’s inaugural cohort, 12 members in all, met this summer for six weeks. Participants shared a culture and perhaps a generation, but often little else. One of them, Mercer said, knocking on the coffee table between us for emphasis,“really was not interested in studying Talmud.” Two others, meanwhile, were the children of Orthodox rabbis and had only recently returned from studying at yeshivas in the occupied West Bank. Yet such differences, insurmountable in other Jewish contexts, hardly mattered.

Meetings typically went like this: an opening ritual; a group analysis of a Jewish text — almost always a rabbi riffing on grief or death or mourning; and, last, a guided discussion about a non-scriptural topic. Secular and religious concerns mingled freely. One week, the group tackled how to approach Jewish holidays; the next, a participant’s recent wedding. Mercer was careful not to overdo the exegesis, and avoided prescribing specific mourning rituals.

“They were coming from such different backgrounds, different timelines and relationships,” he said. “None of that stuff would make sense to talk about all the time.” Occasionally discussions were little more than a collective lament. “All we could say, sometimes, was, ‘Man, this fucking sucks,” Mercer said.

The Jewish texts he did use helped participants make sense of their discomfort in other young adult bereavement groups — especially in ones dominated by Christians, for whom death is sometimes seen as a prelude to more permanent bliss. Mercer recalled introducing one text about a grieving rabbi who carried in his pocket his dead son’s tooth. When Mercer explained that this rendered the rabbi “ritually impure,” one of the group suggested this was, surely, an act of willful defiance — that for the rabbi anguish was his chosen companion. “I didn’t think of that,” Mercer replied.

Insights like this happened from time to time: moments when the distance between Mercer — yet to be seriously bereaved, mercifully — and his participants seemed impassable. He embraced the feeling. “I didn’t always know how I fit into this,” he said. “And it was okay for them not to be clear about how I fit into it, too.”

Mercer hopes to bring together another cohort within the next year while offering monthly drop-in spaces in the meantime. As far as he knows, there’s no other resource like it in Boston for Jews in their 20s and 30s. He suspects this is in large part because institutional American Jewish life is built on metrics: on bums-in-seats and kippot-on-heads. By comparison, the Worst Club Ever “is not a sexy program,” said Mercer. In fact, it’s the club you never want to belong to. But Mercer believes this summer’s program gives the lie to the “perception that people in their 20s and 30s don’t experience grief,” he said. “They just don’t know what to do.”

The post There wasn’t a Jewish grief group in Boston for young adults, so this rabbi started one appeared first on The Forward.

A group of Jewish leaders are fed up with right-wing efforts to combat antisemitism. So they created their own strategy.

The Shofar Report, released this week by the liberal-leaning Jewish group Nexus Project, is a new guide to fighting antisemitism that its authors say is intended to curb the strategies of the Trump administration. The new report was written explicitly as a rebuttal to Project Esther, a 2024 blueprint against antisemitism written by the conservative Heritage Foundation that outlined many policies now undertaken by the Trump administration, particularly on campuses.

“Project Esther was not a strategy for fighting antisemitism,” Jonathan Jacoby, the Nexus Project’s president, told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency in an interview. “Project Esther is the Heritage Foundation’s tool for implementing Project 2025” — referring to a now-infamous policy blueprint for a second Trump term.

What Trump and his supporters are actually doing, Jacoby said, is “weaponizing antisemitism.” Conversely, he said, that is bad for the Jews: “Weaponizing antisemitism breeds antisemitism. Weaponizing antisemitism undermines efforts to confront antisemitism.”

In response, the Shofar Report — released during the High Holidays in an effort to mimic a shofar blast as a wake-up call to Jews — calls for policymakers to wind back the clock. Many of its own recommendations for fighting antisemitism involve undoing Trump’s handiwork, along with some new proposals. Slashing university funding, arresting and deporting student protesters, blocking student visas and tying synagogue security funding to immigration enforcement are all steps the new report says must be reversed to properly fight antisemitism.

Its central message: that fighting antisemitism requires fighting for democratic institutions and embracing traditional liberal coalition-building. Universities, civil rights law, and immigration rights all must be protected in order to safeguard Jews within a liberal democracy, the authors argue.

That could prove a challenge, as many Jews have felt scorned by a lack of allyship from such coalitions and institutions after Oct. 7. Some of the more combative Jewish groups, such as Betar US and Canary Mission, not only support Trump’s policies but are actively aiding them by naming pro-Palestinian protesters for the administration to target.

Jacoby acknowledged that Jewish appetites for coalition-building are lower now. But, he insisted, “Those coalitions are what we need to be strong in order to fight antisemitism.”

“Jewish safety is of utmost importance and must be protected,” he said. “There’s no substitute for that. We need to build on that, and understand how we can create an infrastructure, a civil and community infrastructure, that supports that, and that complements that. And that’s where coalitions come in, and that’s where institutions come in, and that’s where education comes in.” 

The report’s authors speak highly of the Biden administration’s own, now-abandoned plan for countering antisemitism after Oct. 7, which had identified the problem in terms of civil rights. They seek a return to what Jacoby called a “precedent for listening to Jewish voices about this” after Project Esther, the majority of whose contributors were not Jewish.

Contributors to the Shofar Report include Amy Spitalnick, head of the Jewish Council for Public Affairs; J Street CEO Jeremy Ben-Ami and UCLA professor Dov Waxman; New Israel Fund president David N. Myers; prominent Jewish academic Lila Corwin Berman; Hannah Rosenthal, a former U.S. envoy for combatting antisemitism under the Obama administration; and author Emily Tamkin. 

Among other recommendations are a push for rollbacks on Trump’s antisemitism policies. The report calls for education funding, student visas and civil rights enforcement to be restored; for the administration to stop accusing nonprofits and NGOs of supporting terror; and for nonprofit security grants, which fund synagogue security plans, to not be “beholden to an administration’s ideological whims on issues like diversity or immigration.” 

In this respect, the Shofar Report is following what appears to be the majority of American Jewish opinion. According to recent polling by Ipsos, the University of California, Berkeley and the University of Rochester, 72% of American Jews believe Trump is using antisemitism as an “excuse” to punish universities, and two-thirds don’t believe antisemitism justifies cutting university funding.

“As Jewish Americans struggle with hatred, even alienation from the Israeli state, they discover a slippery president who exploits a true danger,” that study’s authors, James Druckman and Bruce Fuller, wrote in an op-ed this week for the Chicago Tribune. “Trump erodes the very institutions that have long provided safety, learning and upward mobility for Jewish families — all the while claiming that he’s protecting Jews.”

Not all of the Shofar recommendations are critical of Trump. An essay by Waxman and Ben-Ami backs the president’s 20-point plan to secure Gaza, dismantle Hamas and extend its ceasefire with Israel (while also urging the administration to end “blank-check” funding for Israel and to stop supporting far-right parties around the world). That, too, is in keeping with what some Jewish leaders who are critical of Trump have said about his Gaza plan in recent days.

The report’s authors also push for ideas such as media literacy programs, Holocaust and Jewish history education, “off-ramp” programs to help people leave extremist movements, and combatting disinformation with the aid of social media companies (the QAnon and Great Replacement conspiracy theories in particular).

Though light on specifics, Jacoby said the report would ideally lead to a broader effort from Jewish groups and institutions to articulate new visions for fighting antisemitism while upholding liberal democracies. He was encouraged, he said, by recent signs of Jewish pushback to Trump, including Jewish presidents of top universities rejecting a federal funding “compact” that critics said would have compromised academic freedom in order to restore grants pulled over purported antisemitism concerns. 

He further predicted that the FBI’s recent severing of longstanding ties with the Anti-Defamation League would also galvanize the Jewish community: “I think that American Jews see the danger in these kinds of policies.”

There remains the question of how much influence such a report can have. As long as Trump and Republicans remain in power, the Shofar Report’s recommendations and persuasions will be swimming directly against today’s political currents. Jacoby lamented that properly dealing with antisemitism was not “a bipartisan issue,” but remains optimistic “that it will become one.” 

“I would say there’s more work to be done,” he said. “Each of these recommendations needs to be translated into more concrete and more specific ideas for action, and our hope is that they will be over the coming year, and actually over the coming years as the political landscape shifts.”

He added, “I think this is the beginning. I think we need to take more steps to make this more concrete. And we will, and so will other organizations. … I think we are a guiding force.”

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The post Project Esther has shaped Trump’s antisemitism strategy. The Shofar Report is a liberal Jewish response. appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.