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The cast of Broadway’s ‘Parade’ says Kaddish before each show, says star Micaela Diamond

(JTA) — Eight times a week, audiences at Broadway’s “Parade” see the curtain rise on a retelling of an act of antisemitism. What they don’t see is the Jewish ritual that comes first.

In an essay for The New York Times, 23-year-old star Micaela Diamond writes that before almost every performance, the cast members stand in a circle and say the Mourner’s Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead.

“It is an expression of community as we tell this hard story,” writes Diamond, who plays Lucille Frank, the wife of Jewish lynching victim Leo Frank.

It’s not the only prayer recited every night: Ben Platt, playing Leo Frank, recites the Shema just before he is killed by a lynch mob, in the final moments of a musical dramatizing his 1913 arrest and 1915 murder. The historical consensus is that Frank was innocent of the rape and murder charges against him.

In her essay, Diamond shares what she has learned from playing Lucille Frank, to whom she feels connected.

“I can relate to Lucille — her Jewishness, her lack of Jewishness, her insistence on assimilation,” Diamond writes. “There are so many parts of my identity that feel more at the forefront than my Jewishness, like being an actor, being queer, being a good cook. … Yet our identities are as nuanced as our roots are indelible.”

People like Lucille Frank considered themselves “Southern first, American second, Jewish later,” according to Alfred Uhry, the writer of “Parade.” But in her essay, Diamond notes that order doesn’t matter to antisemites — and she had seen it for herself.

On the opening preview night of the “Parade” revival in February, neo-Nazis rallied outside the Bernard Jacobs Theatre.

“A play that was meant to be a revival of a century-old story suddenly had contemporary implications,” Diamond writes, echoing Platt’s take offered on Instagram that night. “It was a haunting reminder of this story’s immediacy.”

Diamond also notes the connections between antisemitism and anti-Black racism in the story of Leo Frank and today. “Parade” offers a condemnation of a criminal justice system that “fails to protect all of those without power” by pitting Black people and Jews against each other, she writes, pointing to how the Frank family’s Black housekeeper is urged to testify against Leo Frank with evidence fabricated by the prosecution.

“If we refuse to embrace our inherent otherness — the parts that make us definitively Jewish Americans — we forget our common struggle with other marginalized people,” Diamond writes.

“Parade,” which is set to run until at least early August, is up for six Tony Awards this weekend, including best actor for Platt and best actress for Diamond.


The post The cast of Broadway’s ‘Parade’ says Kaddish before each show, says star Micaela Diamond appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.

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Conflict over Mamdani is a reminder: We still can’t agree on the line between anti-Zionism and antisemitism

With antisemitism on the rise while Israeli-Palestinian relations remain at an historic low, one question that continues to dog public discourse is whether anti-Zionism is a form of antisemitism.

The stakes within the Jewish community have recently increased, with the issuing of a letter signed by more than 1,000 American rabbis and cantors opposing New York City mayoral frontrunner Zohran Mamdani due to his opposition to Zionism. The letter argues that anti-Zionism “encourage[s] and exacerbate[s] hostility toward Judaism and Jews.”

Why does the distinction matter?

If anti-Zionism is understood to be antisemitism, then those protesting or otherwise articulating deep opposition to the governing ideology of the state of Israel could find themselves on the receiving end of public opprobrium — harsh criticism and disgrace.

A global debate with deep roots

People in Canada and the United States have lost employment offers and jobs for seeming anti-Zionist.

This debate is not new, however. In 2022, Jonathan Greenblatt, head of the Anti-Defamation League, stated that “anti-Zionism is antisemitism” and that anti-Zionism is “an ideology rooted in rage.” A year later, the U.S. House of Representatives passed a resolution stating that “anti-Zionism is antisemitism.”

In 2017, French President Emmanuel Macron called anti-Zionism a “reinvented form of antisemitism.” And perhaps most importantly, against this backdrop is the definition of antisemitism adopted by many countries, including the U.S. and Canada, which brings the two concepts very close together, if not outright equating them.

Specifically, the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance defines antisemitism, among other things, as “denying the Jewish people their right to self-determination (e.g., by claiming that the existence of a State of Israel is a racist endeavour).”

What data reveals about Zionism

But is anti-Zionism really antisemitism?

To determine whether anti-Zionism is antisemitic, we first need to think about how we define Zionism. As a Canadian Jewish political scientist, my own research has found that the term Zionism is understood in wildly different ways.

In 2022, I surveyed American Jews with a weighted sample to account for various demographics. I found that while 58% identified as Zionist, 70% identified as such when I defined Zionism as “a feeling of attachment to Israel.” When I defined Zionism as a “belief in a Jewish and democratic state,” the number rose slightly, to 72 per cent.

But a very different picture emerged when I presented a vastly alternate definition of Zionism. If Zionism, I offered, “means the belief in privileging Jewish rights over non-Jewish rights in Israel, are you a Zionist?” Here, respondents’ support for the kind of Zionism experienced by Palestinians plummeted: only 10 per cent of respondents said they were “definitely” (three per cent) or “probably” (seven per cent) Zionist, according to this definition, with a full 69 per cent saying they were “probably not” or “definitely not.”

A lifetime of analysis of Zionism, and adopting various labels at different phases of life for myself — I have at times identified as progressive Zionist, liberal Zionist, anti-Zionist, non-Zionist and none of the above — leads me to conclude that anti-Zionism and antisemitism should be considered distinct concepts.

Identity, nationalism and belonging

Those who see anti-Zionism as antisemitic deploy various arguments.

One is that self-determination is a right, and denying that right to Jews — and sometimes seemingly only to Jews — is discriminatory and prejudicial. But while everyone has the right to self-determination, no one has the right to determine themselves by denying the rights of others to do the same.

Another is that given that the majority of Jews by most accounts embrace some form of Zionism, denying a part of their identity is hateful. But unlike most other markers and symbols of ethnic or religious identity, Zionism has historically, and continues to, directly affect another ethnic group: namely, Palestinians.

Contrast this kind of identity with dietary laws, clothing restrictions, modes of prayer and one’s relationship to sacred texts: none of these aspects of identity necessarily affect another group. By contrast, the historical record of how Zionism has affected Palestinians is vast.

A third argument concerns antisemitism in general — that every other group gets to define the terminology around their own oppression, and therefore so should Jews. But again, when a state — which by definition interacts with others within and outside its borders — is brought into the equation, the debate about antisemitism ceases to be about only Jews.

At its core, Zionism is a political ideology. A cornerstone of liberal society is political debate, including subjecting ideologies to the stress test of critique. These ideologies include capitalism, socialism, social democracy, communism, ethno-nationalism, settler colonialism, theocracy, Islamism, Hindu nationalism and so on.

In the right of others to support, oppose, analyze or criticize it, Zionism is — or at least should be — be no different.

The personal and the political

I understand why many Jews feel that anti-Zionist actions or statements are hateful to their identity. Most Jews have grown up believing that to be Jewish is to feel a deep connection to the state of Israel.

I grew up singing Hatikvah, Israel’s national anthem, every evening at Hebrew summer camp in Manitoba as we lowered the two flags hanging from the flagpole: one the flag of Canada, the other, of course, of Israel.

And in many synagogues across Canada, it is typical to hear the Prayer for Israel recited, and it is not uncommon for the Israeli flag to be displayed prominently. At one synagogue I attended last year for a family celebration, there were even depictions of Israel Defense Forces soldiers etched into the stained-glass windows above the sanctuary.

But to feel connected to Israel — the land, the people, the safe refuge it has served for Jews in crisis, especially but not only after the Holocaust — one doesn’t necessarily need to embrace its governing ideology.

One can seek to understand the harm Zionism has caused to Palestinians. One can try to consider alternative framings, ideologies or governing structures that would enable Israelis to thrive along with Palestinians.

As Zionist founder Theodor Herzl famously said, “If you will it, it is no dream.”The Conversation

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The post Conflict over Mamdani is a reminder: We still can’t agree on the line between anti-Zionism and antisemitism appeared first on The Forward.

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A second rabbinic letter, arguing against Jewish rejections of Mamdani, enters the NYC mayor’s race

(JTA) — A second rabbinic letter about the New York City mayor’s race repudiating the first has drawn hundreds of signatures in the day since its launch.

Titled “Jews for a Shared Future,” the new letter rejects the argument that the frontrunner in the race is unacceptable because of his opposition to Israel and contends that Jews should see their safety in New York City and beyond as entwined with that of others.

“In response to Jewish concerns about the New York mayoral race, we recognize that candidate Zohran Mamdani’s support for Palestinian self-determination stems not from hate, but from his deep moral convictions,” the letter says. “Even though there are areas where we may disagree, we affirm that only genuine solidarity and relationship-building can create lasting security. That work has sustained us for generations wherever Jews have lived, and remains our only path forward.”

It also responds to attacks on Mamdani’s Muslim identity, saying, “Jewish safety cannot be built on Muslim vulnerability, nor can we combat hate against our community while turning away from hate against our neighbors.”

In the day since its launch, the letter has been signed by 740 Jews. Of them, 230 are rabbis, 40 located in or near New York City.

Some of the signatories have previously offered their public support for Mamdani, including Sharon Kleinbaum, who spoke at his rally in Queens on Sunday, but others have not. Although some do not work in traditional pulpits, many others do. Some are well known for their own anti-Zionist activism that puts their outlook on Israel in line with Mamdani’s, but others openly identify as Zionists.

In a sign of how complex the current political discourse is for politically liberal Jews, at least one retired rabbi signed both the “Shared Future” letter and the broadside it follows.

The first letter, denouncing Mamdani and the “normalization of anti-Zionism,” began circulating a week ago and has now topped 1,150 signatures, with hundreds of signatories in New York City. It has roiled Jewish communities across the country as congregants look for their rabbis on the list.

The new letter was written by Rabbi Shoshana Leis, a graduate of the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College who helms Pleasantville Community Synagogue in New York City’s northern suburbs. In a post on Facebook, she said she had begun drafting the letter on Sunday after observing the “painful divisiveness” that the first letter was creating and that she had “struggled” to formulate a response that would not run the risk of “further reinforcing the divisions.”

A breakthrough came, she said, after consulting with other rabbis and drawing on the work of Israeli and Palestinian shared-society activist organizations.

“What happens in NYC often resonates throughout the country. While I do not endorse any candidates and do not have a vote in the NYC election, I do endorse a particular way for Jews to show up in America,” she wrote. “Our safety is interconnected with the safety of our neighbors, and the path to friendship is through the difficult but rewarding work of building relationships, one at a time, even across significant and vital differences.”

The dueling letters underscore a pitched divide around politics in the pulpit, exacerbated this year by the Trump administration’s decision to stop enforcing a rule that barred clergy from making political endorsements. Some rabbis have said that they have refrained from signing letters related to the New York City election, even when they may agree with the contents, because they see such direct political advocacy as inappropriate and divisive.

The post A second rabbinic letter, arguing against Jewish rejections of Mamdani, enters the NYC mayor’s race appeared first on The Forward.

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New York Synagogues Speak of Courage — But Then Retreat in Fear in New York Mayoral Race

Zohran Mamdani Ron Adar / SOPA Images via Reuters Connect

Zohran Mamdani. Photo: Ron Adar / SOPA Images via Reuters Connect

Rabbi Angela Buchdahl’s recent message to members of Central Synagogue in New York City struck a nerve. She affirmed her commitment to Israel and condemned antisemitism in heartfelt, eloquent terms. Then, in the next breath, she insisted that Central would remain “neutral” in New York’s mayoral election.

It’s a familiar move from American Jewish institutions: speak of courage, then retreat behind the language of neutrality. But neutrality is not virtue when Jewish security, dignity, and self-determination are under attack. It is moral negligence.

I understand the impulse. A synagogue should not be campaign headquarters. Communities must be open to those who disagree politically. Yet there is a difference between partisan engagement and moral abdication. When a candidate tolerates anti-Zionist rhetoric, minimizes antisemitic harassment, or treats Jewish self-determination as debatable, refusing to speak clearly is not an act of pluralism — it is an evasion of responsibility.

This is not an abstract question.

Since October 7, Jewish institutions in New York have been defaced, Jewish students have been harassed, and Jewish events have been shouted down by mobs invoking “anti-Zionism” as cover for bigotry. The city that once symbolized Jewish belonging is again a place where Jews think twice before showing their identity.

Walk past almost any synagogue or day school in Manhattan and you’ll see the cost of silence: armed guards, security barriers, and parents who wonder whether their children are safe walking home in a kippah.

In moments like these, Jewish leaders cannot hide behind process. We don’t need moral neutrality. We need moral leadership.

The First Amendment’s separation of church and state was never designed to muzzle faith communities. It was designed to protect their freedom of conscience. For centuries, American Jews have exercised that freedom: organizing for civil rights, fighting for Soviet Jewry, and defending the rights of others to live without fear. Our civic engagement was never about partisan politics. It was about moral responsibility.

To suggest that synagogues must be silent in the face of threats to Jewish life or the Jewish State is a distortion of that heritage. A synagogue that cannot speak to the moral character of public life is not protecting pluralism; it is hollowing it out.

In my recent essay for the American Enterprise Institute, “Solidarity Requires Self-Respect,” I argued that genuine solidarity begins with a clear sense of self. You cannot build coalitions by erasing your identity or apologizing for it. A people that hides its convictions for the sake of belonging will ultimately lose both its dignity and its allies. True solidarity grows out of self-respect and self-respect requires clarity.

For Jews today, that means speaking plainly: Israel is not a “foreign issue.” It is part of who we are historically, spiritually, and existentially. A candidate who traffics in anti-Zionist rhetoric is not simply taking a policy position; they are questioning the moral legitimacy of Jewish belonging. To remain neutral in the face of that is to tell Jews that their identity is conditional.

Jewish tradition rejects that posture.

Jeremiah commands us to “seek the peace of the city,” and Hillel warns, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?” Those are not polite suggestions. They are calls to moral and civic engagement.

Judaism commands not silence but tochacha — the duty to offer moral rebuke when wrongs threaten the community. To be for ourselves means to defend Jewish life without apology. To seek the peace of the city means to do so publicly as Jews, as citizens, and as moral agents.

I do not believe rabbis should generally tell their congregants how to vote. But I do believe they must tell them what is at stake — and in New York, the stakes are high, even existential. Political clarity is not optional; it is a moral duty. When one candidate flirts with ideologies that deny Jewish legitimacy, while another defends Jewish safety and inclusion, pretending the two positions are equally valid is not fairness. It is confusion.

Central Synagogue is one of the most visible Jewish institutions in America. Its history is a proud one: a congregation that has embodied confidence, civic engagement, and faith in both Judaism and America. That legacy deserves to be carried forward not through silence, but through conviction.

The rabbi is right to fear the politicization of religion. But there is a far greater danger in the depoliticization of morality — in the idea that religious institutions can opt out of public life at precisely the moment their voices are needed most.

We can cherish diversity without dissolving our identity. We can respect pluralism without surrendering our principles. Pluralism doesn’t survive through avoidance; it survives through citizens and communities willing to name truth and stand for it in public.

Our community needs leaders willing to say, without hesitation, that some truths are non-negotiable: that Israel’s legitimacy is not up for debate; that Jewish safety is not contingent on political fashion; and that being a Jew in public life means standing, visibly and unapologetically, for our people and our future.

The next mayor will shape whether Jewish life in New York remains vibrant or fearful. Neutrality will not safeguard that future. Conviction will.

If our institutions cannot summon the courage to say what is true, they risk becoming sanctuaries of comfort rather than centers of conscience. Jewish life has never thrived in silence. It thrives in clarity, confidence, and courage.

Samuel J. Abrams is a professor of politics at Sarah Lawrence College and a senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute.

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