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The hora, the hora! How Jewish wedding music got that way
(JTA) — When my wife and I were planning our wedding, we thought it might be cool to hire a klezmer band. This was during the first wave of the klezmer revival, when groups like The Klezmatics and The Klezmer Conservatory Band were rediscovering the genre of Jewish wedding music popular for centuries in Yiddish-speaking Eastern Europe.
Of course we also wanted to dance to rock ‘n’ roll and needed musicians who could handle Sinatra for our parents’ benefit, so we went with a more typical wedding band. Modernity won out over tradition.
Or did it? Musician and musicologist Uri Schreter argues that the music heard at American Jewish weddings since the 1950s has become a tradition all its own, especially in the way Old World traditions coexist with contemporary pop. In a dissertation he is writing about the politics of Jewish music in the early postwar period, Schreter argues that American Jewish musical traditions — especially among secularized Conservative and Reform Jews — reflect events happening outside the wedding hall, including the Holocaust, the creation of Israel and the rapid assimilation of American Jews.
That will be the subject of a talk he’ll be giving Monday for YIVO, titled “Yiddish to the Core: Wedding Music and Jewish Identity in Postwar New York City.”
Because it’s June — and because I’m busy planning a wedding for one of my kids one year from now — I wanted to speak to Schreter about Jewish weddings and how they got that way. Our Zoom conversation Wednesday touched on the indestructibility of the hora, the role of musicians as “secular clergy” and why my Ashkenazi parents danced the cha-cha-cha.
Born in Tel Aviv, Schreter is pursuing his PhD in historical musicology at Harvard University. He is a composer, pianist and film editor.
Our conversation was edited for length and clarity.
I was struck by your research because we’re helping to plan a child’s wedding now. It’s the first wedding we’ve planned since our own, and we’re still asking the same questions, like, you’ve got to make sure the band can handle the hora and the Motown set and, I don’t know, “Uptown Funk.” Your research explores when that began — when American Jewish weddings began to combine the traditional and secular cultures.
In the period that I’m talking about, post-World War II America, this is already a fact of life for musicians. A lot of my work is based on interviews with musicians from that period, folks now in their 80s and 90s. The oldest one I have started playing professionally in 1947 or ’48. Popular American music was played at Jewish weddings as early as the 1930s, but it’s a question of proportion — how much the wedding would feature foxtrots and swing and Lindy Hop and other popular dance tunes of the day, and how much of it is going to be klezmer music.
In the postwar period, most of the [non-Orthodox] American Jewish weddings would have featured American pop. For musicians who wanted to be in what they called the “club date” business, they needed to be able to do all these things. And some “offices” — a term they used for a business that books wedding bands — would have specialists that they could call on to do a Jewish wedding.
You’re writing about a period when the Conservative movement becomes the dominant American Jewish denomination. They have one foot in tradition, and the other in modernity. What does a wedding look like in 1958 when they’re building the big suburban synagogues?
The difference is not so much denominational but between the wide spectrum of Orthodoxy and the diverse spectrum of what I describe as “secular.”
Meaning non-Orthodox — Reform, Conservative, etc.?
Right. Only in the sense that they are broadly speaking more secular than the Orthodox. And if so they are going to have, for the most part, one, maybe two sets of Jewish dance music — basically a medley of a few Jewish tunes. You might have a wedding where it could be a quarter of the music or even half would be Jewish music, but this would be for families that have a much stronger degree of attachment to traditional Jewish culture, and primarily Yiddish culture.
There’s a few interrelated elements that shape this. Class is an important thing. For lower class communities in some areas, and I am talking primarily about New York, you’d have communities that are a little bit more secluded, probably speaking more Yiddish at home and hanging out more with other Jewish people from similar backgrounds. So these kinds of communities might have as much as a third or half of the music be Jewish, even though they consider themselves secular. It’s actually very similar to an Orthodox wedding, where you might also have half and half [Jewish and “American” music].
Jews in the higher socioeconomic class might, in general, be more Americanized, and want to project a more mainstream American identity. They might have as little as five minutes of Jewish music, just to mark it that they did this. Still, it’s very important for almost all of them to have those five minutes — because it’s one of the things that makes the wedding Jewish. I interviewed couples that were getting married in the ’50s, and a lot of them told me, “You need to have Jewish dance music for this to be a Jewish wedding.”
Composer and pianist Uri Schreter is pursuing his PhD in historical musicology at Harvard University. (Nicole Loeb)
When I was growing up in the 1970s at a suburban Reform synagogue on Long Island, klezmer was never spoken about. I don’t know any parents who owned klezmer albums. Then when I got married a decade later, it was in the middle of the klezmer revival. Am I right about that? Were the ’50s and ’60s fallow periods for klezmer?
You’re definitely right. Up until the mid-1920s, you still have waves of immigration coming from Eastern Europe. So you still have new people feeding this desire for the traditional culture. But as immigration stops and people basically tried to become American, the tides shift away from traditional klezmer.
The other important thing that happens in the period that I’m looking at is both a negative rejection of klezmer and a positive attraction to other new things. Klezmer becomes associated with immigrant culture, so people who are trying to be American don’t want to be associated with it. It also becomes associated with the Holocaust, which is very problematic. Anything sounding Yiddish becomes associated for some people with tragedy.
At the same time, and very much related to this, there’s the rise of Israeli popular culture, and especially Israeli folk songs. A really strong symbol of this is in the summer of 1950, when the Weavers record a song called “Tzena, Tzena,” a Hebrew Israeli song written in the 1940s which becomes a massive hit in America — it’s like number two in the Billboard charts for about 10 weeks. Israeli culture becomes this symbol of hope and the future and a new society that’s inspiring. This is all in very stark contrast to what klezmer represents for people. And a lot of the composers of Israeli folk song of its first decades had this very clearly stated ideology that they’re moving away from Ashkenazi musical traditions and Yiddish.
So the Jewish set at a wedding becomes an Israeli set.
At a typical Conservative wedding in the 1950s and ’60s, you might hear 10 minutes of Jewish music. The first one would be “Hava Nagila,” then they went to “Tzena, Tzena,” then they would do a song called “Artza Alinu,” which is today not very well known, and then “Hevenu Shalom Aleichem.” They are songs that are perceived to be Israeli folk songs, even though if you actually look at their origins, it’s a lot murkier than that. Like two of the songs I just mentioned are actually Hasidic songs that received Hebrew words in pre-state Palestine. Another probably comes from some sort of German, non-Jewish composer in 1900, but is in Hebrew and is perceived to be a representation of Israeli culture.
But even when the repertoire already represents a shift towards what’s easier to digest for American Jewry, the arrangements and the instruments and the musical ornamentation are essentially klezmer. The musicians I spoke to said they did this because they felt that this is the only way that it would actually sound Jewish.
That is to say, to be “Jewish” the music had to gesture towards Ashkenazi and Yiddish, even if it were Israeli and Hebrew. As if Jews wanted to distance themselves from Eastern Europe — but only so far.
Someone like Dave Tarras or the Epstein Brothers, musicians who were really at the forefront of klezmer in New York at the time, were really focused on bringing it closer to Ashkenazi traditions. Ashkenazi Jewish weddings in America are not the totality of Jewish weddings in America, and Israeli music itself is made up of all these different traditions — North African, Middle Eastern, Turkish, Greek — but in effect most of the really popular songs of the time were composed by Ashkenazi composers. Even “Hava Nagila” is based on a melody from the Sadigura Hasidic sect in Eastern Europe.
Of course, if you’re a klezmer musician you’re allergic to “Hava Nagila.”
Then-Vice President Joe Biden dances the hora with his daughter Ashley at her wedding to Howard Krein in Wilmington, Delaware on June 2, 2012. (White House/David Lienemann)
You spoke earlier about Latin music, which seemed to become a Jewish thing in the 1950s and ’60s — I know a few scholars have focused on Jews and Latinos and how Latin musical genres like the mambo and cha-cha-cha became popular in the Catskill Mountain resorts and at Jewish weddings.
Latin music is not exclusively a Jewish thing, but it’s part of American popular culture by the late 40s. But Jews are very eagerly adopting it for sure. In the Catskills, you would often have two separate bands that alternated every evening. One is a Latin band, one is a generic American band playing everything else. And part of that is American Jews wanting to become American. And how do you become American? By doing what Americans do: by appropriating “exotic” cultures, in this case Latin. This is a way of being American.
Jews and Chinese food would be another example.
And by the way, in a similar vein, it also becomes very popular to dance to Israeli folk songs. A lot of people are taking lessons. A lot of people are going to their Jewish Y to learn Israeli folk dance.
I’ve been to Jewish weddings where the “Jewish set” feels very perfunctory — you know, dance a hora or two long enough to lift the couple on chairs and then let’s get to the Motown. Or the Black Eyed Peas because they were smart enough to include the words “Mazel Tov!” in the lyrics to “I Gotta Feeling.”
So that’s why we always hear that song! I will say though, even when the Jewish music appears superficial, it does have this deeper layer of meaning. It’s very interesting how, despite all these changes, and despite the secularization process of American Jewish weddings, the music still connects people to their Jewishness. These pieces of music are so meshed with other religious components. Of course, most people see this as secular. But a lot of people connect to their Jewish identity through elements such as Jewish music, Jewish food, certain Jewish customs that are easier to accommodate in your secular lifestyle, and the music specifically has this kind of flexibility, this fluidity between the sacred and the profane.
That’s beautiful. It sort of makes the musicians secular clergy.
It’s interesting that you say that. In his history of klezmer, Walter Zev Feldman refers to the klezmer — the word itself means “musician” — as a kind of a liminal character, an interstitial character between the secular and the mundane. The music is not liturgical, but when the klezmer or the band is playing, it is an interval woven with all these other religious components and things that have ritual meaning.
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Denied arrest power, Mamdani encourages New Yorkers to protest Netanyahu
After conceding that he cannot arrest Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu as a war criminal, Mayor Zohran Mamdani on Tuesday doubled down on assailing the Israeli leader and encouraged New Yorkers to protest his expected visit to the United Nations in September.
“I think one of the bedrocks of our city is protest,” Mamdani said at a press conference in City Hall Wednesday morning. “If anyone feels a level of frustration or opposition, protest is something that we will always respect. I leave it to New Yorkers themselves to make that decision.”
The mayor also faced renewed questions about why it took months to acknowledge that the pledge he made last year to arrest Netanyahu could not legally be carried out, and about his choice to post a formal mayoral address on his official social media accounts to announce the city’s legal conclusion that it has no authority to execute the International Criminal Court arrest warrant against Netanyahu.
“What brings me to my conclusions about Israel and Palestine is a belief in the universality of humanity,” Mamdani said.
Mamdani pointed to a roundtable with faith leaders on Staten Island on Tuesday where he met a young Gaza refugee who had lost an arm, and he recounted stories from Palestinian New Yorkers who shared that their families have been affected by the war.
“I view that as a very serious issue,” Mamdani said. “I think that it is incredibly important that we ensure that we have done all of our due diligence when conducting a review.”
The ICC, based in The Hague, issued arrest warrants in November 2024 for Netanyahu, former Israeli Defense Minister Yoav Gallant and Hamas military commander Mohammed Deif. Hamas confirmed in January 2025 that Deif was killed during an airstrike.
The United States is not a member of the International Criminal Court and the Trump administration imposed sanctions on the ICC months after it issued the warrants.
In his video posted Tuesday night, Mamdani accused Netanyahu of orchestrating a “horrific genocide against the Palestinian people” in the Gaza Strip. He cited reported Palestinian death tolls, wounded children, the destruction of hospitals and clinics and the killing of aid workers and journalists. He did not mention the Oct. 7, 2023, Hamas attack on Israel, which sparked the war. He instead called on the federal government to join the ICC and execute the warrant.
Jewish organizations sharply condemned the mayor’s Tuesday remarks, accusing him of presenting a one-sided narrative of the war.
“Shame on you,” the UJA-Federation of New York said in a statement. “Your video is rife with distortions and disinformation. At a time of rising antisemitism, repeatedly singling out and vilifying the world’s only Jewish state for perceived political benefit is repugnant and puts Jews at greater risk.”
The Orthodox Union said the video “endangers Jewish New Yorkers” and “is a betrayal of his oath of office and his own commitment to protect all New Yorkers.”
Mamdani rejected the criticism.
“We cannot pick and choose which crimes against humanity we oppose,” he said. “We must be in opposition to all of them.” Asked whether he considers the Hamas massacre a genocide, he stopped short of using that term, instead calling the Oct. 7 attacks “a horrific war crime” that should be opposed “with every single fiber of our being.”
Mamdani used the moment to bring his long-held pro-Palestinian advocacy into City Hall, framing Netanyahu’s expected visit as both a moral and political issue. While acknowledging the city lacks legal authority to arrest the Israeli leader, Mamdani shifted the conversation toward the role of the federal government.
In a Truth Social post, President Donald Trump reassured Netanyahu that he “will not be arrested, in any way, shape, or form, while in the United States of America.”
Mamdani also encouraged New Yorkers to take it to the streets to protest Netanyahu during his visit. “That welcome ends with me,” he said. “I will not be welcoming Benjamin Netanyahu or any other war criminals when they come to this city.”
Mamdani’s remarks could resonate well beyond New York as rejection of Israel is increasingly part of national Democratic Party politics. By arguing that Washington should join the International Criminal Court and enforce its warrants, Mamdani is helping define the expectations that progressive activists may place on the 2028 presidential candidates as the party continues to debate its approach to Israel and Gaza.
Despite the backlash, Mamdani insisted his position would not affect how he governs for Jewish New Yorkers.
“I know that there are Jewish New Yorkers who agree with my analysis; there are those who disagree with my analysis,” Mamdani told the Forward. “ And my responsibility to them is to ensure that they are cherished, they are celebrated, and they are safe in their city.”
The post Denied arrest power, Mamdani encourages New Yorkers to protest Netanyahu appeared first on The Forward.
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Innovative Yiddish actor-director Raphael Goldwasser has died
פֿון שׂרה־רחל שעכטער
דער ייִדישער אַקטיאָר, רעזשיסאָר, פּאַנטאָמימיקער און לערער פֿון ייִדישן טעאַטער, רפֿאל גאָלדוואַסער, איז דינסטיק געשטאָרבן אין נאַרבאָן, פֿראַנקרײַך, צוליב קאָמפּליקאַציעס פֿון אַ האַרץ־פֿעלער. ער איז געווען 79 יאָר אַלט.
די לוויה וועט פֿאָרקומען פֿרײַטיק דעם 24סטן יולי, 15.00 אַ זייגער, אויפן ייִדישן חלק פון בית-עולם אין מערבֿ-נאַרבאָן.
גאָלדוואַסער האָט נישט סתּם אינסצענירט פּיעסעס, נאָר זיך באַמיט איבערצוצײַגן דעם צוקוקער זיך אַרײַנצוטראַכטן אינעם אינהאַלט. מע זעט דאָס קלאָר אין זײַן ייִדישער איבערזעצונג פֿון דני האָראָוויצעס העברעיִשער פּיעסע „פֿעטער אַרטור“ (2020ֶ), וואָס מע קען זען אויף יוטוב. דאָ רעדט זיך וועגן אַ דראַמאַטורג, פּיטער סטאָון — אַ לעבן געבליבענער פֿון חורבן — וואָס שרײַבט אַ פּיעסע ווי אַ נקמה זײַן פֿעטער אַרטור, וואָס פֿלעג זאָגן, זיצנדיק אין ניו־יאָרק: „ווי קענען מענטשן זיך לאָזן פֿירן אין קרעמעטאָריע ווי שאָף צו דער שחיטה?“ סטאָון באַמיט זיך שטאַרק צו געפֿינען אַ ישׂראלדיקן טעאַטער וואָס זאָל פּראָדוצירן די פּיעסע, אָבער קיין איין טעאַטער וויל זיך דאָס נישט אונטערנעמען. אין סטאָונס פֿרוסטרירונג קען מען דערפֿילן אויך גאָלדוואַסערס עגמת־נפֿש.
„רפֿי האָט ניט געקאָנט פֿאַרטראָגן מלחמה, ער האָט געמוזט אַנטרינען פֿון איר,“ האָט גלאַי געזאָגט. אַ פּנים דערפֿאַר האָט ער זיך טאַקע אַריבערגעצויגן פֿון ישׂראל קיין פֿראַנקרײַך. „דער מצבֿ אין ישׂראל, אַפֿילו פֿון דער ווײַטנס, האָט אים זיכער אָפּגעשוואַכט.“
אין 2013 האָט גאָלדוואַסער געמאַכט אַ טיפֿן אײַנדרוק שפּילנדיק די ראָלע פֿון לאָקי אין סעמיועל בעקעטס „וואַרטן אויף גאָדאָ“. דער ייִדישער קולטור־טוער דזשאָרדין קוציק זאָגט אַז גאָלדוואַסער האָט אַרײַנגעבראַכט אין דער פּראָדוקציע אַ „סטאַבילן פּסיכאָז“: „דער ריטעם פֿון זײַן מאָנאָלאָג בײַט זיך אין גאַנצן נישט און די עמאָציאָנעלע קוואַליטעט פֿון זײַן פּסעוודאָ־וויסנשאַפֿטלעכע פּלאַפּלערײַ בלײַבט אויך די זעלבע.“
שיין בייקער, דער אַקטיאָר און דירעקטאָר פֿונעם ייִדישן קולטור קאָנגרעס, האָט געזאָגט אַז נאָך גאָלדוואַסערס פּטירה האָט משה יאַסור, דער רעזשיסאָר פֿונעם ייִדיש־שפּראַכיקן „וואַרטן אויף גאָדאָ“, אים געזאָגט פֿאַר וואָס ער האָט אויסגעקליבן גאָלדוואַסערן פֿאַר דער ראָלע. „רפֿי איז געווען דער בעסטער אויסטײַטשער פֿון לאָקי ווײַך ער האָט ממש פֿאַרקערפּערט די ראָלע. זײַן פֿעיִקייט בײַם אויסדריקן זיך איז געווען פֿאַרוואָרצלט אין דער פֿיזישער קונסט פֿון מאַנטאָמימע — סובטיל אָבער בולט.“
קוציק האָט געזאָגט אַז גאָלדוואַסער האָט זיך אַנטקעגנגעשטעלט ווען עמעצער האָט, נאָכן זען די פּיעסע, באַמערקט אַז „לאָקי איז געווען אַ מין קאָמישע אָפּשפּאַנונג (comic relief בלע״ז) אין דער פּיעסע“: „מײַן ראָלע איז נישט געווען קיין קאָמישע אָפּשפּאַנונג, נאָר פֿאַרקערט: איך בין דווקא געווען די טראַגעדיע, און די אַנדערע פּערסאָנאַזשן האָבן געשילדערט די אַבסורדיסטישע קאָמעדיע,“ האָט גאָלדוואַסער געזאָגט.
רפֿאל גאָלדוואַסער איז געבוירן געוואָרן אין אַרגענטינע אין 1947. זײַן טאַטע איז געווען דער אָנגעזעענער אַקטיאָר זישע גאָלדוואַסער, אַ מיטגליד פֿונעם ייִדישן פֿאָלקס־טעאַטער אין בוענאָס־אײַרעס. די מאַמע, לאה (לאָלאַ אויף שפּאַניש), האָט געגעבן אירע דרײַ זין עכטע ייִדישע נעמען — ראובֿן, דניאל און רפֿאל, האָט געזאָגט רפֿאלס עלטערער ברודער דניאל גלאַי — דער פֿאָרזיצער פֿון „בית לייוויק“ אין תּל־אָבֿיבֿ. „די מאַמע איז געווען באַצויבערט פֿון איר מאַנס טאַלאַנט, און איך געדענק נישט אַז מײַנע עלטערן האָבן זיך אַ מאָל געקריגט צווישן זיך.“
ווען רפֿי איז געווען פֿינף יאָר אַלט האָט מען אים שוין געזען אויף דער בינע אין בוענאָס־אײַרעס — אין שלום־עליכמס איינאַקטער, „אַגענטן“. ווען די אַקטיאָרן האָבן געזען ווי שטאַרק דאָס קינד וויל שפּילן טעאַטער האָט מען אים געגעבן אַן איין־שורהדיקע ראָלע: „טאַטע, כ׳וויל עסן!“ כּדי ער זאָל זיך פֿילן גלײַך מיט די אַנדערע אַקטיאָרן.
„כ’בין זיכער אַז שלום עליכם האָט הנאה געהאַט דערפֿון,“ האָט גלאַי געזאָגט.
נאָך דעם ווי די משפּחה האָט עולה געווען קיין ישׂראל האָט רפֿאל שטודירט טעאַטער און געשיכטע בײַם תּל־אָבֿיבֿער אוניווערסיטעט, און שפּעטער באַקומען אַ מאַגיסטער פֿון טעאַטער־געשיכטע בײַם פּאַריזער אוניווערסיטעט.
במשך פֿון זײַן קאַריערע האָט ער זיך קונה־שם געווען ווי אַ נאָוואַטאָרישער אַרטיסט, וואָס האָט צונויפֿגעפֿלאָכטן די טראַדיציעס פֿון ייִדישן טעאַטער, פֿראַנצייזישער פּאַנטאָמימע און דער נײַער אוידיאָ־וויזועלע מעדיאַ, האָט געזאָגט דער פֿאָרזיצער פֿונעם אַרגענטינער ייִוואָ, אַבֿרהם ליכטענבוים. ער האָט אויפֿגעטראָטן איבער דער וועלט, געשאַפֿן טעאַטראַלישע אונטערנעמונגען, אַנסאַמבלען, אינטערנאַציאָנאַלע פֿעסטיוואַלן און, דער עיקר, פֿאַרלייגט און אָנגעפֿירט מיטן „לופֿט־טעאַטער“ אין סטראַסבורג, פֿראַנקרײַך.
ער איז אויך געווען אַן אָנגעזעענער פּעדאַגאָג, געלערנט אין דער ייִדישער טעאַטער־אַקאַדעמיע און געפֿירט אינטערנאַציאָנאַלע סעמינאַרן איבער אייראָפּע. במשך פֿון די לעצטע יאָרן האָט ער, בשותּפֿות מיטן בוענאָס־אײַרעסער ייִוואָ, געהאַלטן בײַם אַנטוויקלען אַ „נײַע פּעדאַגאָגיע פֿאַרן ייִדישן טעאַטער“.
רפֿאל גאָלדוואַסער האָט פֿאַראָבֿלט זײַן ברודער, דניאל גלאַי; זײַן לעבנס־באַגלייטערין דזשוטיט בוכהאַלטער; זײַנע קינדער יאָרדאַן, מאַרין און מאַעל, און דרײַ אייניקלעך.
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What a West Bank visit taught me about the past and present tragedies of Tisha B’Av
As we chant Lamentations on the floor, in the dark, on Wednesday night for Tisha B’Av, we will open with the word “eikha” — “how.”
That same word became the refrain of a recent eight day visit I made to Israel and the West Bank.
I traveled to Jerusalem for a week of immersive learning with 150 rabbis and cantors at the Shalom Hartman Institute’s annual Rabbinic Torah Seminar. But my learning wasn’t restricted to the beit midrash. I spent time with cousins finishing combat service; friends working late into the night in the Knesset before its dissolution; people working to build shared society in Haifa; and families grieving the loss of loved ones. And at every turn, I found myself asking “eikha.”
“Eikha” is more than a question. It is the sound made when the distance between what should be and what is becomes almost impossible to bear. Naming that distance is at the heart of Tisha B’Av — and, for me, at the heart of thinking honestly about Israel today. How will Israel move from this moment of profound moral and political fracture toward the future our prophets imagined?
On a visit to the West Bank with Rabbis for Human Rights, I connected with Israelis from across the country who had come to be a protective presence for Palestinians in Jenata, near the settler outpost of Havat Eitam. The Palestinians there face violence and intimidation in an area formally under Palestinian civil authority. We heard from a man whose brother had recently been killed by settlers, and we learned that their imam was jailed just that morning to prevent Friday prayers from moving forward as planned.
Then we were told to leave. The corner of the village we were visiting was declared a 24-hour closed military zone.
Next we traveled to Umm al-Khair, a Palestinian herding community where the Hathaleen family buried their son Awdah almost a year ago, after he was shot and killed by an Israeli settler who still walks free. Since his death, settlers have built caravans encroaching into the village, with some only a few meters from homes. This encroachment has triggered the declaration of another “closed military zone,” cutting the family off from their own bathroom and animals. They must use a neighbor’s bathroom and can only feed their animals when a soldier comes to allow it.
I asked a soldier standing guard that day whether any of it troubled him.
“Doesn’t Oct. 7 trouble you?” he replied.
I don’t know what that soldier has seen, or what he has lost. But I know his response took two griefs and set them against each other, as though one atrocity could justify another. “Eikha”: How do we nurse our deepest wounds without allowing them to justify our wounding others? How do we stay safe and moral?
This past Shabbat was Shabbat Hazon — the “Sabbath of Vision” — so named for the opening word of the Haftara, which describes Isaiah’s vision of a devastated but ultimately redeemed Jerusalem. That reading, in our current context, must push us — and, God willing, Israel’s next political leaders — to articulate compelling responses to the questions bearing down on Israeli society and on Judaism itself. To ask how we came to a point of such dire trouble, and realize a vision for redemption from it.
I keep thinking about the way slain hostage Hersh Goldberg-Polin would remind his fellow captives, citing Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl’s words, that if they could hold onto a “why,” they could endure any “how.”
Israel and the Jewish people have profound whys. We are meant to be, in the words of “Hatikvah,” “a free people in our own land.” And to be, in the words of the Torah, “a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.”
This Tisha B’Av, as we mourn the destruction that shattered Jewish sovereignty in the land of Israel 2,000 years ago, we must also reckon honestly with the forms of inhumanity that threaten its moral future and physical safety today.
We must understand that our freedom, our holiness and our humanity are bound up in that of the Hathaleen family, and the besieged villagers of Jenata. During my visit, an Israeli cousin of mine acknowledged that everything I had seen in the West Bank was real and terrible — and that he didn’t want Palestinians living so close to Israel, out of fear of an Oct. 7 attack from the West Bank. What I wish all of us could better understand: If Jewish freedom depends upon denying Palestinian freedom, then it is neither the freedom of “Hatikvah” nor the holiness the Torah demands. I also don’t think it will make us safe.
This is, I think, the particular question facing rabbis and Jewish communal leaders like me right now: how do we hold onto our right — our obligation — to name Israel’s failures honestly, as people bound to this place and this story, without having our words weaponized to delegitimize and demonize the entire project? My criticism of what I saw in Jenata and Umm al-Khair comes from love — the same love that makes looking away impossible. Learning how to hold both at once, unflinching criticism and unwavering commitment, may be the most urgent “eikha” of this particular moment.
After Tisha B’Av comes the Shivah d’Nehemta — the Seven Weeks of Consolation that carry us into Rosh Hashanah.
In those weeks, the questions of “eikha” don’t disappear. They deepen. These weeks lead us into Elul, a time of intense heshbon hanefesh — accounting of the soul. The pairing of consolation with accounting suggests that renewal comes not through answering our questions, but through finding the courage to keep asking them.
How do we protect ourselves without surrendering our humanity? How do we acknowledge our own suffering without turning it into permission to inflict suffering on others?
Those are Israel’s questions as they move toward their October elections. They are ours as well, as we navigate being Jews in this moment.
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