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One of America’s first Jewish farms was nearly lost to history. Now these Brooklyn parents are risking everything to keep their family’s legacy alive.
The 350-square-foot Brooklyn apartment where Malya and William Levin live with their four children is barely big enough for their family, much less their ambitions. From this compressed space, they’re reaching for something vast — the revival of one of America’s first Jewish farms, built by William’s ancestors in rural South Jersey.
Their quixotic quest is larger than acreage; it’s continuity, in a time and place where nothing stays rooted for long. It’s a tight staging ground for an unusually wide dream.
“We aren’t just trying to save land,” Malya said, their toddler Julius perched on her lap. “We are trying to save the story.”
The story she’s referring to reaches back to 1882, when 43 Jewish families fled pogroms in Russia and the Pale of Settlement. They carried what they could — and what they couldn’t bear to leave behind.
Backed by Baron de Hirsch and other Jewish benefactors who believed farming could offer both refuge and respectability, they were sent not to the teeming tenements of Manhattan but to a thousand acres of pine forest and sandy soil.
It was a bold wager: Eastern European Jews, often caricatured in their home countries as “unproductive,” could instead be seen growing their own food as capable, contributing citizens. Those same Jewish immigrants — tailors, peddlers, clerks — could become farmers, rooted and self-reliant, all trying to prove that Jews could stand on American land and make it yield.
“It’s almost a completely different story than we’re used to hearing,” said Adrienne Krone, a religious studies professor at Allegheny College and the author of Free-Range Religion. “We’re used to the Lower East Side and factories and crowded apartments, and what was happening in these farming communities was almost the exact opposite.”
Around the same time, dozens of such Jewish agricultural colonies were established across the United States, including in Louisiana, Utah, and both Dakotas. Yiddish-speaking socialists established a similar settlement, Happyville, in South Carolina.
In New Jersey, they called their 1,000-acre settlement the Alliance Colony.
What began as tents and barracks grew into a rural Jewish community of hundreds of families: homes, vineyards, chicken farms, a school, three synagogues, and a mikvah. The colonists built a tobacco factory that failed, and a button factory that didn’t. Reinvention wasn’t strategy so much as muscle memory.
Among the colony’s early leaders was William’s great-great-grandfather, Moses Bayuk. His generation carved Alliance out of wild ground: clearing land, organizing the community, building the institutions that held it together.
After World War II, a second wave of immigrants arrived in the region — Holocaust survivors who settled in nearby Vineland and Pittsgrove and built successful chicken farms. For decades they sustained a thriving Jewish agricultural center across South Jersey.
But by the 1970s, most families had moved into city jobs. The Jewish presence waned. The land quieted.
What led them back to the farm
For William and Malya, the draw toward Alliance was never just historical. It was personal.
Malya, 41, grew up in New Jersey steeped in Jewish text and memory. She is the daughter of Rabbi Arthur Kurzweil, the noted author whose career has long focused on Jewish continuity. Her childhood was Orthodox, threaded with rituals that made the past feel close enough to touch.
William, 54, arrived at Jewish life differently. He didn’t grow up religious. His first real brush with Judaism came through, of all things, animation: In the early 2000s, before the days of YouTube and social media, he was making viral Jewish videos that somehow found their way across the internet. Several, including a cartoon in which a robot meets 50 Cent and raps about the Ten Plagues, reached millions.
“I didn’t even know what the word frum meant until Frumster hired me,” he said of the Orthodox dating site. “They paid me in a Frumster.com membership.”
It worked.
He met Malya at a Jewish singles event in 2009. They married the next summer, on Tu B’Av, known as the Jewish festival of love.
“We both had a penchant for offbeat stuff,” Malya said. “Neither of us wanted to be accountants and move to the suburbs on Long Island.”
That sensibility carried them to Sukkahfest 2014 at the Isabella Freedman Jewish Retreat Center in Connecticut, where they witnessed a modern Jewish farming movement that wove land, ritual, ecology and community into a single experience.
“It was beautiful and intoxicating,” William said.
“All these young Jews were so into farming,” Malya added. “And we were like: Wait, we have the first Jewish farm.”
Their cramped apartment in Brooklyn feels like the furthest thing from this expansive ideal. A desk presses into a couch, the couch brushes against the mattress where William and Malya sleep. In the lone bedroom, their four children climb into a handmade Jenga-tower of bunk beds.
William opens a cigar box filled with brittle letters from Alliance’s earliest families — the kind of fragile paper that survives only because someone keeps choosing to protect it. For the couple, preserving the land has always meant preserving the story stitched through it.
The idea gained force. The place that kept resurfacing was the 85 acres William’s extended family still owned in the old Alliance Colony, land that had never fully slipped from their hands.
So the couple, an animator and an elder justice attorney, did something audacious: They spent their life savings to buy it back.
When the vision met reality
Their vision was expansive. They imagined retreats, Shabbatons, Jewish holidays at the farm, a hybrid life where city and country sat side by side. But figuring out what the land could actually do required trying almost everything.
They planted organic vegetables and heirloom crops. Built raised beds. Experimented with fruit trees. Started a micro-vineyard. (“Who doesn’t want wine tasting on a kosher vineyard in a historic Jewish farm?” Malya asked.) They considered raising geese, then heritage chicken breeds with old-sounding names. Partnered with local growers. Applied for grants. Taught programs on Jewish agricultural history.
Some ideas lived a season. Some never made it out of the notebook. They tried all these things because not trying felt like betrayal.
They fielded proposals — some compelling, some outlandish. A solar company wanted to cover their fields with panels. A hemp grower pitched them on the green rush. One man wanted to install cryptocurrency servers in the barn, a futuristic-sounding plan that fizzled when William learned the man was tied to a dubious investment scheme.
The Levins were not just fighting weeds and property taxes. They were fighting the economics that hollowed out rural America; the cultural drift that carried Jews away from small towns; the logistical strain of raising four children while holding two demanding jobs.
“We weren’t trying to be homesteaders,” Malya said. “We were trying to find something sustainable that didn’t require uprooting our whole life in Brooklyn.”
Their approach — try, fail, adjust, try again — echoed the original colonists. “Honestly, it’s what we’re doing,” Malya said. “Throwing these things against the wall and seeing what sticks, just like they did.” Reinvention has always been part of Jewish life here, as it is for many small communities trying to stay alive.
Some things they tried did stick.
Descendants began returning for regular Alliance reunions, gatherings that grew each year. Young Jews from the city arrived curious about Jewish farming. And as activity grew, the synagogue — which has hosted High Holiday services continuously since 1889 — flickered back to life, hosting monthly Shabbat services.
A visit to the farm
Driving to the site of the Alliance Colony 60 miles west of Atlantic City, the landscape dissolves into fields of corn, hay and soybeans. The road straightens, the sky widens, and then the white wooden synagogue appears. Tall, narrow, arched windows, still standing after 136 years.
Howard Jaffe is waiting on the steps.
He is 70, with a long white beard, a ponytail, and a gold hoop earring. He looks like a Jewish Santa Claus who once sold jewelry at Grateful Dead concerts — which, as it happens, he did.
His grandfather prayed in this sanctuary. Howard has made it his mission to maintain it. “This place raised me,” he says, and swings the door open. “I guess now I raise it.”
The building is neither grand nor fragile. It simply persists. Inside, the sanctuary offers the cool hush of old buildings: sunlight slanting across pews, floorboards worn to a soft gloss by generations of feet from farmers, factory workers, and families.
He walks upstairs to the women’s gallery, a reminder of the building’s Orthodox roots. From here, the sanctuary stretches below like a diorama. Then Howard opens a small doorway into the attic, a low, sloping space where traveling rabbis once slept, the rafters forming a rib cage of wood.
The Alliance Cemetery, 20 acres across the road, tells the story more plainly than any archive. The early graves belong to the colonists who cleared the land; the later ones to the survivors who arrived after the war and tried to build something new.
Howard stops to brush leaves from one stone. Names repeat across the rows: Gershal, Shiff, Brotman — the same names that mark the roads nearby. Some headstones tilt like old teeth; others sink into the earth as if tired of holding their stories upright. A few mark children. Many bear Hebrew inscriptions weathered thin by rain and time.
Deeper in, on a small rise, stands the cemetery’s most arresting structure: a large Holocaust memorial carved with the names of camps: Auschwitz. Buchenwald. Dachau. Treblinka.
It was built in the 1990s, by Irving and Esther Raab, who met in Auschwitz and immigrated to the area after the war. It’s where they built a successful kosher poultry business, at one point employing 12 butchers. Howard worked for them for a stretch, managing the killing room.
Its heavy stone rises among wooden farmhouses built by immigrants who had fled an earlier era of violence. It’s a reminder that the colony, like so much of American Jewish life, was shaped both by those who fled Europe in the 1880s and those who survived it in the 1940s.
Today, thanks to the Levins’ efforts and a new documentary about Alliance, Howard finds himself giving more tours than he has in years — to school groups, descendants, even curious Mennonites.
The work of reanimation
To the left of the cemetery stands a bright mural, painted last summer, which retells the colony’s story in bold colors. A shtetl burning. A steamship crowded with families. A wide field waiting for them. The present looking back at the past, asking what it still requires.
The last panel centers on William’s own lineage. In vivid purples stands Moses Bayuk holding a cluster of grapes from the Alliance vineyards — grapes that Welch’s once bought from this very farm.
The mural is not decoration. It is instruction: a reminder of how the story began, painted so it cannot be forgotten by whoever comes next.
Past the mural stands William’s grandparents’ home, which had long sat empty. But the bones were good: the clean lines of midcentury design, a peaceful view of fields, the kind of quiet that city families crave.
So the Levins renovated it.
They’ve now opened it as a kosher Airbnb, a place where Jewish families could spend Shabbat, celebrate holidays, or simply breathe outside the city without worrying about kitchen logistics. It wasn’t the centerpiece of their vision, but it became a steady foothold — a way to bring people onto the land, reconnect them with Alliance, and slowly rebuild around the place.
When the Levins go down to Alliance, they line up events — a tour, a talk, a small gathering — that fold into their monthly visits. The point isn’t profit. It’s presence.
For Krone, the professor who studies Jewish agricultural communities, what the Levins are doing at Alliance is not a resurrection. It’s a reanimation.
“Alliance is unique in that they have this historic connection,” she said. “They’re part of a contemporary movement of Jews reconnecting to agriculture, but they’re doing it in a place where there has been that connection before, and they’re very intentional about that.”
In her view, the Levins have already begun shifting the trajectory.
“I think they’ve reinvigorated it,” she said. “They’re growing food through collaborations, hosting events, drawing descendants back at regular reunions, keeping the synagogue active. The community that’s forming around them — that’s already the project.”
In a world where Jewish stories often end with what was lost, Alliance is a rare one still asking what might yet be found.
When William and Malya talk about Alliance now, they sound like hopeful realists with a mortgage. The early, expansive dream has settled into something steadier — less about rebuilding a vanished colony and more about tending what remains so it can keep growing.
“We really like our life in Brooklyn, but we also really like having this other place that is meaningful,” Malya said. “It’s rare for Jewish kids in America to have a place where their family has six generations of history.”
Alliance has always been an exercise in reinvention: first by the colonists, then by the survivors, and now by a family trying to reconcile two very different forms of Jewish life. The Levins move between the noise of one life and the quiet persistence of another.
They are not trying to rebuild the past. They’re trying to keep it from disappearing. And in doing so, they’ve carved out a place where Jewish life, in all its improvisation and resilience, can still take root.
The post One of America’s first Jewish farms was nearly lost to history. Now these Brooklyn parents are risking everything to keep their family’s legacy alive. appeared first on The Forward.
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Mamdani Remains Silent on Pro-Hamas Synagogue Protest, Other NYC Lawmakers Issue Condemnations
New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani delivers a speech during his inauguration ceremony in New York City, US, Jan. 1, 2026. Photo: REUTERS/Kylie Cooper
Newly inaugurated New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani has remained silent regarding an anti-Israel protest outside a Queens synagogue on Thursday evening that featured chants supporting Hamas and prompted nearby Jewish institutions to shut down out of safety concerns.
The demonstration took place outside Young Israel of Kew Gardens Hills, where an event promoting Israeli real estate investments was scheduled. Dozens of protesters chanted slogans including “Globalize the intifada” and “Say it loud, say it clear, we support Hamas here,” according to video footage shared online. Hamas is designated a terrorist organization by the United States and the architect behind the Oct. 7 massacres in Israel which killed roughly 1200 and resulted in the abduction of 250 others.
The protest also unfolded near the Yeshiva of Central Queens, leading synagogue leaders to cancel evening prayer services and local schools to dismiss students early. While the New York Police Department maintained a buffer zone and no major violence was reported, residents described the atmosphere as tense and intimidating.
A chorus of condemnation has come from city and state lawmakers since the protest.
State Assemblyman Sam Berger, whose district includes the synagogue, said the mayor’s failure to speak out was “deeply concerning,” arguing that city leadership has a responsibility to draw clear lines when protests target houses of worship.
“This wasn’t an abstract political rally,” Berger said. “It was outside a synagogue, in a residential Jewish neighborhood, with chants that glorify violence. The mayor should be unequivocal.”
Governor Kathy Hochul, by contrast, swiftly condemned the protest, calling the chants “disgusting” and emphasizing that support for Hamas has no place in New York.
“No matter your political beliefs, this type of rhetoric is disgusting, it’s dangerous, and it has no place in New York,” Hochul wrote.
NYC Council Speaker Julie Menin wrote that “openly and proudly sympathizing with Hamas, especially while standing in the largely Jewish community of Kew Gardens Hills, stokes fear and division.”
Mark Levine, NYC Comptroller, repudiated the demonstrations, saying they “cannot be normalized or excused.”
Rep. Ritchie Torres, a Bronx Democrat, also denounced the demonstration, saying rhetoric that praises terrorist organizations amounts to hate, not legitimate political speech.
Meanwhile, as criticism mounted from state and federal officials, Mamdani, who took office just days earlier, did not issue a direct statement condemning the protest or the rhetoric used by demonstrators.
The protest was organized by groups affiliated with the Palestinian Assembly for Liberation (PAL-Awda) NY/NJ, which has previously promoted demonstrations targeting Israel-related events. Organizers framed the rally as opposition to Israeli land sales, but Jewish leaders say the location and language crossed a line.
The episode echoes earlier controversies surrounding Mamdani, who has faced criticism in the past for what opponents describe as equivocation when anti-Israel protests occur near Jewish religious spaces. In a previous incident outside an Upper East Side synagogue, Mamdani criticized language used by the protesters while simultaneously condemning the synagogue for hosting real estate events.
The protest comes amid an alarming surge in antisemitic hate crimes across New York City.
Jews were targeted in the majority (54 percent) of all hate crimes perpetrated in New York City in 2024, according to data issued by the New York City Police Department (NYPD). A new report released on Wednesday by the New York City Mayor’s Office to Combat Antisemitism, which was established in May, noted that figure rose to a staggering 62 percent in the first quarter of this year, despite Jewish New Yorkers comprising just 11 percent of the city’s population.
After securing the election, Mamdani has repeatedly stressed a commitment to forcefully combatting antisemitism while in office. However, a recent report released by the Anti-Defamation League (ADL) revealed that at least 20 percent of Mamdani’s transition and administrative appointees have either a “documented history of making anti-Israel statements” or ties to radical anti-Zionist organizations that “openly promote terror and harass Jewish people.”
Mamdani, a far-left democratic socialist and avowed anti-Zionist, is an avid supporter of boycotting all Israeli-tied entities who has made anti-Israel activism a cornerstone of his political career and been widely accused of promoting antisemitic rhetoric. He has repeatedly accused Israel of “apartheid” and “genocide”; refused to recognize the country’s right to exist as a Jewish state; and refused to explicitly condemn the phrase “globalize the intifada,” which has been associated with calls for violence against Jews and Israelis worldwide.
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Argentine Jews Renew Calls for Justice 11 Years After AMIA Bombing Prosecutor Nisman’s Death
People hold images of the victims of the 1994 bombing attack on the Argentine Israeli Mutual Association (AMIA) community center, marking the 30th anniversary of the attack, in Buenos Aires, Argentina, July 18, 2024. Photo: REUTERS/Irina Dambrauskas
After more than a decade without justice, Argentine Jews are renewing calls for action on the 11th anniversary of the death of the prosecutor who investigated the 1994 bombing of the Argentine Israelite Mutual Association (AMIA) Jewish community center in Buenos Aires.
“Eleven years after the assassination of prosecutor Alberto Nisman, we reaffirm our steadfast demand for justice,” the Delegation of Argentine Israelite Associations (DAIA), the country’s Jewish umbrella organization, wrote in a post on X.
A 11 años del asesinato del fiscal Alberto Nisman, renovamos nuestro pedido inclaudicable de Justicia. pic.twitter.com/UyHUmirEGX
— DAIA (@DAIAArgentina) January 9, 2026
Next week, Argentina will commemorate the death of Nisman, who died on Jan. 18, 2015, while investigating the 1994 AMIA bombing — the deadliest terrorist attack in Argentine history, which killed 85 people and wounded more than 300.
Last year, prosecutors handling the case released a report as part of the ongoing, still unresolved trial, confirming that Nisman was killed for trying to expose the Argentine government’s role in covering up the 1994 AMIA bombing.
“The federal prosecutor Natalio Alberto Nisman was the victim of a homicide,” the 56-page report said. “His death was motivated by his work in the AMIA Special Investigation Unit and, specifically, by his actions related to the Memorandum of Understanding with the Islamic Republic of Iran.”
In 2006, Nisman formally charged Iran for orchestrating the attack and its Lebanese terrorist proxy Hezbollah for carrying it out. Nine years later, he accused former Argentine President Cristina Fernández de Kirchner of attempting to cover up the crime and block efforts to extradite the suspects behind the AMIA atrocity in return for Iranian oil.
The alleged cover-up was reportedly formalized through the memorandum of understanding signed in 2013 between Kirchner’s government and Iranian authorities, with the stated goal of cooperating to investigate the AMIA bombing.
One day before Nisman was set to appear before the Argentine Congress to present evidence supporting his allegations against Kirchner and several of her colleagues, he was found dead in his apartment, with a gunshot wound to the head and a pistol at his side.
An official investigation into his death initially concluded that the prosecutor took his own life. However, a federal judge later reversed this decision, stating that Nisman’s gunshot wound could not have been self-inflicted.
Investigations are still underway to identify both those who carried out the act and those who ordered it.
Kirchner is set to stand trial for the allegations against her, though there is no set date.
As for the AMIA investigation, an Argentine federal judge ordered last year the trial in absentia of Iranian and Lebanese nationals suspected of orchestrating the 1994 bombing.
The 10 suspects set to stand trial include former Iranian and Lebanese ministers and diplomats, all of whom are subject to international arrest warrants issued by Argentina for their alleged roles in the terrorist attack.
Lead prosecutor Sebastián Basso — who took over the case after the murder of his predecessor, Nisman — also requested that federal Judge Daniel Rafecas issue national and international arrest warrants for Iran’s Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei over his alleged involvement in the attack.
This legal action marks a significant departure from Argentina’s previous stance in the case, under which the Iranian leader was regarded as having diplomatic immunity.
Since 2006, Argentine authorities have sought the arrest of eight Iranians — including former president Ali Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani, who died in 2017 — yet more than three decades after the deadly bombing, all suspects remain still at large.
Despite Argentina’s longstanding belief that Lebanon’s Shiite Hezbollah terrorist group carried out the devastating attack at Iran’s request, the 1994 bombing has never been claimed or officially solved.
In 2024, Argentina’s second-highest court ruled that the attack was “organized, planned, financed, and executed under the direction of the authorities of the Islamic State of Iran, within the framework of Islamic Jihad.” The court also said that the bombing was carried out by Hezbollah terrorists responding to “a political and strategic design” by Iranian authorities.
The court additionally ruled that Iran had been responsible for the 1992 truck bombing of the Israeli embassy in Buenos Aires, which killed 29 people.
However, Tehran has consistently denied any involvement in any of these attacks and has refused to arrest or extradite any suspects.
To this day, the decades-long investigation into the terrorist attack has been plagued by allegations of witness tampering, evidence manipulation, cover-ups, and annulled trials.
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Israel to Maintain Troops in Syria, Defense Chief Says, as US-Backed Talks Resume
An Israeli tank crosses the ceasefire line between Syria and the Israeli Golan Heights, Dec. 11, 2024. Photo: REUTERS/Avi Ohayon
Israeli Defense Minister Israel Katz has warned that Israel’s military forces will remain in Syria even as US-backed negotiations between the two countries move forward, saying the deployment of troops is essential to prevent the Syrian border from becoming a launchpad for infiltration or invasion against the Jewish state.
“Israel’s security policy in Syria … is based on the country’s new defense concept following the events of Oct. 7,” the Israeli defense chief said in a statement Friday, referring to the Hamas-led invasion of and massacre across southern Israel in 2023.
“Under this approach, the Israel Defense Forces [IDF] will actively prevent jihadist organizations and forces from reaching the Israeli border and settlements,” Katz continued.
Following the fall of long-time Syrian President Bashar al-Assad in December 2024, Israel deployed troops into a buffer zone along the Syrian border to establish a military position aimed at preventing terrorists from launching attacks against the Jewish state.
Since then, the IDF has taken control of the northern part of Mount Hermon and established a security zone in the Golan Heights to protect Israeli communities in the region and in the Galilee from potential terrorist attacks.
“Israel is also committed to protecting the Druze community in Syria and will not allow them to be harmed. We maintain a true fraternal bond with our Druze brothers in Israel, and this policy will apply across all conflict borders and remain in effect,” Katz said in his statement.
Earlier this week, Israeli and Syrian officials revived US-mediated talks, resuming months-long stalled negotiations as Damascus once again calls for the withdrawal of Israeli troops from Syrian territory.
The previously demilitarized zone in the Golan Heights was established under the 1974 Disengagement of Forces Agreement between Damascus and Jerusalem that ended the Yom Kippur War. However, Israel considered the agreement void after the collapse of Assad’s regime.
According to Syria’s state news agency SANA, the high-level talks focused on reviving the 1974 agreement, with Syrian officials seeking an Israeli withdrawal to pre-Assad positions and the establishment of a security framework to safeguard the country’s sovereignty and bar any interference in its internal affairs
The Syrian government has repeatedly accused Israel of fueling instability with its ongoing strikes, which Israeli officials say are intended as a warning to the country’s new leadership in response to threats against the Druze — an Arab minority whose faith is rooted in Islam and with communities in Syria, Lebanon, and Israel.
Jerusalem has pledged to defend the Druze community in Syria with military force if they come under threat.
For years, Israel has also conducted strikes in Syria as part of a covert campaign to undermine Iran and its proxies, which expanded their influence after intervening in the country’s civil war in support of Assad.
Since the fall of Assad’s regime in 2024, Israel has ramped up its military operations in southern Syria, with officials asserting that the strikes are aimed at targeting Islamist militant groups.
The Israeli government has previously said it would only agree to a new deal if it safeguarded the country’s security interests, including the demilitarization of parts of southwestern Syria and protections for minority communities.
Last year, Ahmed al-Sharaa became Syria’s official president after leading the rebel campaign that ousted Assad — whose Iran-backed rule had strained ties with the Arab world during the nearly 14-year Syrian war — in an offensive spearheaded by al-Sharaa’s Islamist group, Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS), a former al-Qaeda affiliate.
Although al-Sharaa has repeatedly pledged to unify Syria’s armed forces and restore stability after years of civil war, the new leadership continues to face major hurdles in convincing the international community of its commitment to peace.
Incidents of sectarian violence — including the mass killing of pro-Assad Alawites — have deepened fears among minority groups about the rise of Islamist factions and drawn condemnation from global powers currently engaged in discussions on sanctions relief and humanitarian aid.
The US has moved to lift an array of sanctions previously imposed on Syria under Assad.
Meanwhile, European Commission President Ursula von der Leyen said on Friday that the European Union will grant Syria around 620 million euros ($722 million) this year and next for post-war recovery, bilateral support, and humanitarian aid.
Many experts have urged caution in approaching Syria given the new government’s extensive ties to jihadist groups, including al Qaeda.