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Sicily’s Jews have their first rabbi in 500 years. Italy’s Jewish establishment won’t accept them.
CATANIA, Italy (JTA) — Rabbi Gilberto Ventura believes his synagogue has the most beautiful view in the world. Located in the tower of a century-old castle on the slopes of Mt. Etna in the eastern Sicilian city of Catania, the synagogue is wedged between a snow-capped volcano and the sun-kissed Mediterranean sea.
The 49-year-old Brazil-born rabbi also thinks his congregation is one of the most unique in the world. It’s made up mainly of Bnei Anusim — descendants of Jews forced to hide their religious practice and convert to Catholicism after the Spanish Inquisition of 1492. Before that infamous decree, Sicily was home to tens of thousands of Jews.
The synagogue, which was first inaugurated last fall, is the result of decades of grassroots efforts by those descendants in Catania to find each other and forge a sense of community that had been lacking for centuries.
Hiring a full-time rabbi was the last piece of the puzzle, and Ventura, who has a long history of working with communities of Bnei Anusim in Brazil, was a natural candidate. He arrived in Catania in January.
“I really believe that the future Judaism in the world, especially in some places like Italy and, of course, Brazil, is connected to the Bnei Anusim, and the need to embrace the Bnei Anusim,” Ventura said.
But in an ongoing point of frustration, the formal organization representing Italian Jewry, the Union of Italian Jewish Communities (UCEI), does not recognize them as Jews.
“In the case of Catania, this strange Jewish community hasn’t passed all the steps the law requires,” said Giulio Di Segni, the vice president of UCEI.
He was referring to the fact that the community did not seek UCEI’s permission before establishing themselves under the name “Jewish community of Catania.” Per Italian law, UCEI has a monopoly on acknowledging and establishing Jewish communal life in Italy — including authority over who can use the term “Jewish community of” in formal ways.
“UCEI can’t accept this because it is too easy,” he added. “We are not against their synagogue or their way of prayer, but they cannot use the name ‘Jewish community of Catania.’”
The rooftop of the Castello Leucatia, where the community meets, has a large menorah and a view of the Mediterranean. (David I. Klein)
Catania’s Jewish community members told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency a variety of stories about their Jewish backgrounds. Some came from families that always outwardly identified as Jewish. Others identified the source of family traditions practiced by parents and grandparents who — as descendants of Jews who faced persecution for practicing Judaism — still felt the need to hide aspects of their Jewishness from the public eye.
In the midst of questions about their ancestry, the majority of the Jewish community members have undergone Orthodox conversions. But that hasn’t led to their acceptance.
Benito Triolo, president of the Catania Jewish community, told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency that he first came to Judaism at the age of 40, thanks to the insight of a Jewish friend in Palermo, Sicily’s capital and most populous city. Working together, they established a Charter of Sicilian Jewry, which aimed to identify and highlight the Jewish heritage of neighborhoods across the island.
While working on that project, Triolo came closer to his own Jewish heritage, and after years of study, he completed an Orthodox conversion through a rabbi in Miami 25 years ago.
Another community member, who was born Alessandro Scuderi but today goes by the name of Yoram Nathan, first felt drawn to Judaism as a child watching news of the Six-Day War in 1967. At first, he was laughed at by other members of his family — except his grandmother, who happened to have a tradition of lighting eight candles in early winter and baking flat unleavened bread around Easter time.
Decades of study later, Scuderi also completed a formal conversion to Judaism before an Orthodox rabbinic court, or beit din.
Others had more straightforward backgrounds.
“I was born in a Jewish family,” said David Scibilia, the community’s secretary. “Frankly speaking, we were not hiding or deep in the shadows in this part of the country.”
Scibilia said that his father explained to him that he was a Jew as early as the age of four. Within their own home, they observed holidays and kept Shabbat — no easy task since Italian schools at the time of his childhood in the 1970s had class on Saturdays. He did not eat meat until he was an adult and was able to acquire kosher meat.
He said that his family had maintained their Jewish identity since the days of the Inquisition and married amongst a small group of other similar families.
“I was a Jew, but not part of any community,” Scibilia said. “Just my family was my community.”
An aerial view of the city of Catania shows the Mt. Etna volcano in the background, Jan. 28, 28, 2022. (Fabrizio Villa/Getty Images)
Scibilia explained that once he had a child of his own, he realized he did not want her to have the same lonely Jewish experience. But when he reached out to UCEI, he said he found the proverbial door to organized Jewish life shut. Earning membership in Jewish community organizations across Western Europe involves a strict vetting process, and many groups require applicants to prove their mothers’ Jewishness according to varying standards.
Scibilia’s experience was echoed by Jews outside of the community in Catania and across Italy’s south who talked to JTA — a feeling of neglect or rejection by UCEI for those who fall outside of the norms of Italian Judaism.
UCEI currently recognizes 19 Jewish communities across northern Italy and just one in the south, in Naples, which has jurisdiction over the rest of the southern half of the peninsula and the island of Sicily. The organization recognizes around 28,000 Jews in total across the country.
Scibilia noted that despite his Jewish upbringing, he has multiple certificates of conversion from Orthodox rabbis. The first came from a beit din of American rabbis from who traveled to Syracuse, Sicily, to assess Scibilia and others like him in Sicily. His second comes from the conversion court of the Israeli Chief Rabbinate, which is known for its exacting Orthodox standards.
Both were rejected by Italy’s own Orthodox rabbinate, and he was forced to stand before another rabbinic court in Italy.
“I have at this moment — don’t start to laugh — three documents that prove that I am a Jew, two Ketubah [marriage contracts] for my wedding, and so on, again and again and again,” Scibilia said.
Others’ experiences in the region have been even more fraught, he said.
“The problem in Italy, that if you try to study with any rabbi here, you can study for 20 years, maybe you can die even before you reach the end of the tunnel,” he said. “From my point of view, they are playing with the spirituality of these people.”
In a statement last year, UCEI called the the Catanians “a phantom ‘Jewish community’” and accused them of “misleading the local institutions and deluding believers and sympathizers into adhering to traditional religious rites, never actually recognized or authorized by the Italian rabbinical authority.”
“Between UCEI and the Italian republic is an agreement signed in ‘87,” Di Segni said. “This law means everything about Jewish communities in Italy is through the Union Jewish community in Italy (UCEI).”
Noemi Di Segni, shown in Rome in 2017, is president of the Union of Jewish Communities in Italy. (Stefano Montesi/Corbis via Getty Images)
Triolo said he isn’t too concerned about UCEI’s recognition.
“Ours is a process of refounding old communities that existed as early as 200 and up to 1492,” Triolo said. “Our recognition is already in our history. At that time the UCEI did not exist. We were there and we simply returned!”
No one knows when Jews first arrived in Sicily, but the Talmud tells a story that claims Rabbi Akiva, a well-known early rabbinic sage, visited the island in the early second century and told of a small Jewish community in Syracuse. Some historians believe the Roman writer Caecilius Calactinus — who was born in a town near Messina in the first century B.C.E — to have been of Jewish origin.
All agree that over the course of history, Sicily’s Jews watched as the island was traded between Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Arabs, Normans and half a dozen other empires. The narrative has also long been that Jewish life there ended five centuries ago, under Spanish rule.
The Spanish empire’s Jews suffered the same fate as Jews from the Iberian peninsula, who would become known to the world as Sephardim when they were expelled in 1492.
The descendents of Spain — and Sicily — spread throughout the world, establishing communities in North Africa, throughout the Ottoman empire, in the Netherlands and ultimately the British Isles and North America, as it was believed that Judaism faded away in their homelands.
Catania’s Jews disagree, arguing that many Jews practiced their religion over the centuries, in secret.
Triolo and others in the community formally inaugurated their synagogue in October. It was furnished with Torah scrolls donated by the Ohev Sholom synagogue in Washington, D.C.
The synagogue is situated in the tower of the Castello Luecatia, an early 20th-century structure built by a merchant believed to be of Jewish origin. The building was granted to the community by the city’s municipality.
“So they had the people, they had a synagogue, but they needed somebody to teach,” Ventura said.
The community meets in the Castello Luecatia, an early 20th-century structure built by a merchant believed to be of Jewish origin. (David I. Klein)
Ventura, who is Orthodox, may be the island’s first permanent working rabbi in over 500 years, but it’s not his first time working with Bnei Anusim.
Back in his native Brazil, Ventura was the leader of the Synagogue Without Borders, an organization through which he served 15 communities in Brazil’s north that were made up of descendants of Jews who came with the first Portuguese colonists to South America and who ultimately had to hide their identity as the Inquisition spread to the New World.
His work there put him in conflict with Brazil’s Jewish establishment, too. But Ventura is unfazed.
In Brazil, he founded synagogues and summer camps and built mikvahs and yeshivas across the country’s north. Since 2015, he has facilitated the conversion of hundreds of Bnei Anusim, bringing them back into the fold of mainstream Orthodox Judaism.
“I am a teacher since I was 21 years old,” he said. “Now I am 49, along with my wife. It’s one of the things we love to do, and know how to do. To teach Jewish philosophy, to teach Torah, to teach Tanakh, to teach the story of the Jews in Brazil, and now we are starting to teach the story of the Jews in Italy, the story of the Inquisition etcetera.”
In Castello Leucatia, he leads Shabbat services with the energy of a gospel preacher, pausing between prayers to explain a verse, teach a new tune, welcome latecomers, or simply to allow the congregation to talk.
Catania community members are shown at a recent gathering. (David I. Klein)
“This is what’s most important,” he remarked during one such lull on a recent Friday night. “That they get to talk and be a community.”
Ventura had organized a Shabbat event for other Jews across Italy — from Naples to Turin — who shared his belief that the future of Judaism was in communities like the one in Catania.
“Our point of view of Judaism is that we have to be a part of society, we don’t have to insulate ourselves, we believe that Judaism has a lot to contribute to society,” Ventura said. “In Brazil, we have a lot of connections with people from the periphery, in the favela and other communities, immigrants, Indians, etcetera. So that is something we want to establish here, to teach the people a Judaism that brings good things to the wider society.”
Ventura isn’t the only one working with such communities in southern Italy. Across the Strait of Messina, Jewish life has also been on the rise in Calabria — the toe of Italy’s boot — thanks to an American-born rabbi named Barbara Aiello.
Aiello, though raised in Pittsburgh, is of Calabrian descent. She returned to the land of her ancestors in the early 2000s and began working with the Bnei Anusim there, ultimately establishing a synagogue called Ner Tamid del Sud, meaning “eternal light of the south.”
“Until now, nobody took care of Judaism in the south of Italy,” Scibilia said while looking out at the Mediterranean from the terrace of Castello Leucatia.
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A war-weary Jerusalem marks Purim one day after the rest of the world, a tradition born in what is now Iran
(JTA) — JERUSALEM — As the sun rose over Jerusalem on Wednesday morning, sirens rang out, signaling yet another incoming missile attack from Iran.
This time, it coincided with the morning of Shushan Purim, as thousands of Israelis gathered — despite a prohibition on public gatherings — to read the Megillah and fulfill the mitzvah of hosting a reading after sunrise on the day of Purim.
Purim in Jerusalem, known as Shushan Purim, takes place a day later than in the rest of the world due to its status as a walled city during the time of the holiday’s story, when the Jews in Shushan, also a walled city located in what is now Susa, Iran, fought for their survival a day longer than Jews elsewhere in the kingdom.
Emergency regulations imposed by Home Front Command ban large gatherings, even in shelters, but Israelis have eschewed the restrictions to continue their celebrations. Top rabbis in Israel encouraged Israelis to follow government guidelines but opined that Zoom readings do not fulfill the requirement under Jewish law to hear the Megillah read in a prayer quorum. On Tuesday, Israelis across the country celebrated Purim in bomb shelters and underground parking garages, many of which are rated to withstand bombs dropped from above.
Just a few hours after the air raid alert ended on Wednesday, Jerusalemites could be seen wandering the streets, some intoxicated and others wearing costumes — or both — to celebrate the public holiday.
Two yeshiva students from New Jersey said, while waiting to catch a light rail train into the city, that they “were not worried at all about the missiles. We check our phones and go to the shelter.”
In the haredi neighborhood of Mea Shearim, life continued largely as normal. Children wandered the streets wearing costumes, and families walked into synagogues for Shacharit services, with prayers echoing through the streets.
In more secular neighborhoods, friends gathered to drink and celebrate the holiday, with some describing a “waiting game” to get their drinking in before another missile is launched and they have to head back to the shelter.
An ultra-Orthodox man celebrates in the streets of Mea Shearim, holding wine in one hand and showing a thumbs up with the other. The official commandment from the Torah is to drink until one cannot tell the difference between “cursed is Haman” and “blessed is Mordecai.”
Amber, Maya and Vicky kept their family shop open on Jaffa Street despite the threat of missiles. You Need Coffee has been open at its current location since 2011, and Maya described how “during the last war our business took a really big hit, and it’s something we expected this time, but the community keeps showing up.”
Vicky added, “They need their coffee, and we know our customers, so there’s a sense of we’re all in this together. Plus, we have a shelter in the basement, so it’s safer here than anywhere else.”
This is the second full-scale war with Iran in the last nine months, but all of the workers in the shop said they were willing yet again to deal with the consequences for the “freedom of the Iranian people.”
A family wearing matching costumes waits to catch the light rail into the Jerusalem city center. Public transportation in Israel is operating at limited capacity due to the war. The light rail had been closed since the war’s start but reopened on Wednesday.
A child who lives in Beit Yisrael, a haredi neighborhood in central Jerusalem, poses for a photo to show off his IDF soldier costume.
Children walk down the streets of Mea Shearim with their parents as they shop for goodies to celebrate the holiday. Pashkevils, or public announcements, cover the walls and communicate rabbinical rulings and other public information.
A Beit Yisrael family poses for a photo showing off their Purim costumes.
A man wearing a bunny costume walks in the streets of Mea Shearim, where not everyone was in costume for the holiday. Still, Yiddish techno music could be heard echoing off the brick walls of the neighborhood from the parties taking place there.
On Etz Hayim Street, just outside the Jerusalem shuk, a young Israeli poses to show off his costume — one half Israeli soldier, the other half sporting a suit.
One of the commandments for the Purim holiday is to give tzedakah, or charity to the poor — matanot la’evyonim — which requires giving to at least two people in need on the holiday. A young boy waits on the street, asking passersby for donations.
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Faith heals the Deepest Wounds, Soothes the Greatest Woes
Across centuries, the Jewish people have experienced collective trauma, from the ancient exiles to modern-day tragedies. Despite these painful occurrences, Jewish tradition is a real treasure trove of healing through religious practices and teachings of the Torah. The Torah shows people how to process and move beyond suffering, and how the Bible can be a source of resilience and hope, even when all seems lost.
One of the greatest Jewish principles of practice is the practice of remembrance. The Torah calls the Jewish people to recall past suffering, not to dwell in sorrow, but in order to take the moment to derive lessons and strength from their adversity. This is reflected in such rituals as Passover, which celebrates the Exodus from Egypt and the liberation of the Jewish people from slavery. Likewise, Tisha B’Av is a day of remembrance for the destruction of the First and Second Temples. These rituals are not reminders of sorrow but tools necessary for transmitting the lessons of history to future generations. Through the practice of remembrance, Jewish communities are reminded time and again of the strength they have shown over the ages and the necessity to cultivate hope for the future.
Aside from the remembering process, the Torah also provides organized practices designed to assist an individual in coping with loss and suffering. The mourning practices, like Shiva, the seven-day mourning period, and Yahrzeit, the yearly observance of a loved one’s death, are a supportive mechanism whereby both the individual and society can cope with their loss. The practices are social in nature, reinforcing the idea that healing is as much an individual process as it is a social one. The social aspect of the practices creates solidarity and provides mutual support so that everyone mourns together.
Prayer and fasting are of profound significance in the Jewish healing environment. Yom Kippur and Tisha B’Av are such special days for soul-searching, repentance, and spiritual rebirth. On such days, the individual and collective seek forgiveness, atonement, and healing. These are spiritual exercises aimed at cleansing the soul and reconciling with God, an indication of the faith that, irrespective of the intensity of the agony, a path to spiritual healing always exists.
Community lies at the core of healing trauma within Jewish life. At the center of healing is the idea of Klal Yisrael—the Jewish peoplehood. In times of adversity, Jewish communities unite through acts of interdependence, prayer, and shared ritual. The communal care creates a basis of resilience, reminding individuals that they are not isolated in their suffering. In fact, the community’s strength can become a healing force, repairing the damage of trauma.
Chaya Lerner’s book, Torah of Trauma, explores the spiritual and psychological aspects of healing in the Torah. In her book, Chaya addresses how scriptural lessons can guide individuals and communities through healing from trauma and transforming it into what makes them stronger. Chaya utilizes ancient Jewish sources and modern therapy methods to explain that the Torah offers healing tools. Chaya’s work emphasizes that healing from trauma is not merely an understanding of the past but also the transformation of that understanding into a path forward. The book explores how Jewish heritage offers hope, healing, and a way to heal the spirit after suffering.
In an age where trauma manifests in so many different disguises, affecting so many individuals and communities, the Jewish approach to healing with the Torah is a sage one. Chaya Lerner’s Torah of Trauma is a guide for those willing to discover how scripture can heal emotional and spiritual hurts. By immersion in the Torah, remembering past struggles, and participating in communal rituals, the Jewish faith traces a path to resilience, hope, and spiritual rebirth. Through these sacred rituals, individuals and communities can transform their pain into power, emerging from trauma not just as a whole but more resilient than ever before.
Essentially, Jewish heritage teaches the realization that collective trauma does not characterize the people, but rather completes them. By accepting the teachings of the Torah, individuals and communities can heal, not only for themselves, but for society as a whole as well. The teachings given within the Torah are an eternal reminder of redemption, a reminder that there is always space for renewal and development, even in the darkest of sufferings.
The post Faith heals the Deepest Wounds, Soothes the Greatest Woes appeared first on The Forward.
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Poland returns 91 Jewish objects to Greece, decades after they were stolen by the Nazis
(JTA) — A trove of sacred Jewish objects from Greece that was stolen by the Nazis and displaced for decades in Poland is finally heading back home.
Poland returned 91 religious and ceremonial artifacts to the Greek government at a ceremony in Warsaw on Wednesday. Among them were Torah scrolls, a Torah mantle and silver finials that adorned a scroll’s wooden rollers — fragments of a rich Greek Jewish heritage that was nearly wiped out.
This marks the first time Poland has repatriated cultural property held under its care that was illegally taken from another country.
The Nazis stole the objects from synagogues in Thessaloniki, a port city once known as the “Jerusalem of the Balkans.” Jews made up half of Thessaloniki’s residents in 1919. Some 59,000 Greek Jews, over 83% of the country’s Jewish population, were killed in the Holocaust.
These items were seized by the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg, a Nazi agency dedicated to looting Jewish valuables, as it plundered homes, synagogues, cemeteries and cultural institutions across Greece in 1941. The objects were transferred to Nazi depots in southwestern Poland and rediscovered at a castle in Bożków after the war. In 1951, the Polish Ministry of Culture moved them to the Jewish Historical Institute in Warsaw, where they remained until now.
This return follows years of advocacy and provenance research. The Greek government formally requested the collection’s restitution in 2024, and the World Jewish Restitution Organization coordinated with Greek and Polish authorities to facilitate it. Now, the objects are headed to the Jewish Museum of Greece in Athens.
About 5,000 Jews live in Greece today.
Poland is the only member of the European Union with no comprehensive legislation to address the restitution of property seized by the Nazis and later nationalized by the communist regime. Since the country became a democracy in 1989, several bills have been proposed to return private property to Holocaust survivors and their descendants, but none became law.
In 2021, Poland passed a law that prevented people who sought to claim property from challenging administrative decisions more than 30 years old. This time limit made it virtually impossible for former owners, including Holocaust survivors and their descendants, to recover properties that were appropriated during the communist era.
In a statement, WRJO president Gideon Taylor and COO Mark Weitzman said the return of the Greek Jewish collection represented a milestone in international cooperation for Holocaust-era restitution.
“While Poland has broader restitution issues to address, we hope this historic act marks the beginning of a consistent, systematic approach to historical justice,” they said.
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