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‘There was no time to sleep’: 4 Jews reflect on a year of helping Ukrainians at war
(JTA) — In the months after Russian tanks rolled into her country last February, the music largely stopped for Elizaveta Sherstuk.
The founder of a Jewish choral ensemble called Aviv in her hometown of Sumy, in the northeastern flank of Ukraine, Sherstuk had to put singing aside in favor of her day job and personal mission: delivering aid to Jews in Sumy.
“There was no time to sleep,” Sherstuk recalled to the Jewish Telegraphic Agency recently. “All my team members worked the same, 24/7.”
A year later, Sherstuk is still hustling as the Sumy director of Hesed, a network of welfare centers serving needy Jews in the former Soviet bloc. But she has also begun teaching music classes again, too — with performances sometimes held in bomb shelters.
Catch up on all of JTA’s Ukraine war coverage from the last year here.
Sherstuk’s story reflects the ways that Russia’s war on Ukraine has affected Jews in Ukraine and beyond. The conflict has killed hundreds of thousands, left even more in peril and fundamentally altered the landscape and population of Ukraine, forcing millions to flee as refugees.
But the war has also mobilized the networks of Jewish aid and welfare groups across Europe, leading to a Jewish organizational response on a massive scale not seen in decades. And Ukrainian Jews who have remained in the country have recalibrated their lives and communities for wartime.
Here are four stories about Jews who stepped in and stepped up to help, and a taste of the on-the-ground situations they found themselves in.
‘I was needed there’
Enrique Ginzburg, second from right, is shown with Ukrainian doctors in Lviv. (Courtesy of Ginzburg)
Since nearly drowning at 23, Dr. Enrique Ginzburg has felt he “had to pay back” for the extra years of life he was granted.
Now 65, the professor of surgery at the University of Miami’s Miller School of Medicine and its trauma division has lent his critical care expertise in Haiti, Argentina, Kurdistan and Iraq, in various emergency situations. But until last year, he had never been to a war zone.
The Cuba native felt drawn to Ukraine because his grandfather is from Kyiv, while his grandmother is from nearby eastern Poland. So early on in the conflict, he called Dr. Aaron Epstein, an old friend and the founder of the nonprofit Global Surgical and Medical Supply Group.
“Get yourself a flak jacket, a helmet, a gas mask and come on over,” Ginzburg said Epstein told him.
He has been to Ukraine twice under the nonprofit’s auspices, last April and July. Ginzburg’s explanation for why he flew across the world to put himself in danger: “I was needed,” he said.
His base was an emergency hospital in Lviv, a city located west enough that it became a major refugee hub. He consulted with front-line Ukrainian physicians, many of them young and inexperienced, and hospital administrators, watching the doctors in action. He also visited patients in hospital wards and helped to treat gunshot wounds and assorted combat injuries.
Ginzburg’s bags were packed with meaningful supplies. Some had been requested by his Ukrainian colleagues for medical use, mostly specialized catheters. But he also brought tefillin, the phylacteries used by Jews in their morning prayers. Ginzburg, who studied in a yeshiva while young but no longer considers himself Orthodox, wrapped them every day while in Ukraine.
Even though Lviv was far from the fighting, he could hear air raid sirens and the explosion of the Russian missiles, sometimes feeling the earth shake. When intelligence reports warned Ginzburg’s medical team of impending missile attacks, they sought refuge in safe houses.
“Today,” he told the Miami Herald last June, “I was calling my life insurance [company] because I have young sons and my wife, so I’m trying to make sure I have good coverage.”
By the end of his trips, Ginzburg lost count of the number of doctors he helped train and the number of patients he saw. “I’m sure it’s hundreds.” He plans to make a third trip sometime this year.
‘This is our new reality’
Karina Sokolowska is the director of the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee’s activities in Poland. (Courtesy of the JDC)
As the director of the JDC, or the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, in Poland, Karina Sokolowska has heard countless harrowing stories over the past year. But one sticks out in her memory.
It involved an elderly Ukrainian couple she met at the Poland-Ukraine border in late spring. The husband was in a wheelchair, and Sokolowska helped push him — back towards Ukraine. They had spent three months in a shelter in Poland but eventually “realized we cannot go looking for jobs, we cannot restart our lives. We are too old,” the woman said.
“If they are to die, they’d rather die back home,” Sokolowska said. “It’s a story of hopelessness. They are so vulnerable.”
Last year, about 8 million Ukrainian refugees made their way to Poland, the bordering country that accepted the most refugees. Early on in the conflict, Sokolowska contacted and visited Jewish communities throughout Poland, investigating the availability of places where the soon-to-be-homeless refugees could be housed. She also traveled to some of the border crossings where the Ukrainians entered, to arrange transportation to venues in Poland and to oversee the conditions in which the refugees would begin their new lives.
Later she would help with, among other things: arranging legal advice for the people who arrived with few identification documents; lining up medical care and drugs; finding them short- and long-term housing; connecting them to psychological counseling; providing kosher meals; and even caring for the refugees’ pets (“dogs and cats with no documents”).
According to JDC statistics, the organization “provided essential supplies and care” to 43,000 Jews in Ukraine and “aided 22,000+ people” there with “winter survival needs … more than double the amount served in previous years.” The welfare organization also claimed to provide “life-saving services” to more than 40,000 refugees in Poland, Moldova, Romania, Hungary, Bulgaria and other European locations. It also helped evacuate about 13,000 Jews from Ukraine. (Israeli Foreign Minister Eli Cohen recently said 15,000 Ukrainian Jews in total have immigrated to Israel since the start of the war.)
Karina Sokolowska, JDC director for Poland and Scandinavia sits in her office down the hall from a hotline room, in early March 2022. (Toby Axelrod)
At the height of the refugee flood, Sokolowska said her monthly JDC budget ballooned to more than what she previously spent in an entire year. Her office went from having a few employees to over 20. The amount of sleep she got decreased in tandem; she started taking sleeping pills to get rest when she could.
“This is our new reality” in Poland, she says of the JDC work with Ukrainian refugees. “This is our life now.”
Sokolowska, the granddaughter of Yiddish-speaking Holocaust survivors, became active in Jewish life during college, when a classmate heard her pronouncing some German words with a Yiddish accent and persuaded her to lead the Polish Union of Jewish Students. As JDC director for Scandinavian countries in addition to Poland, she typically organizes educational conferences and helps Jewish families learn about traditions they had not learned while growing up in the communist era.
Today, her sense of optimism has been ground down.
“Everything changed when war came to Ukraine — there is less hope,” Sokolowska said. “It’s a totally new everything. Every aspect of our life changed. Our hope for this to be over soon is going down, down, down. Nothing will change.”
‘It could [have been] me’
Tom and Darlynn Fellman volunteered in Krakow in October 2022. (Courtesy of Tom Fellman)
Sometime in the late 1890s, Harry Fellman, about 20 years old, left his home in Ukraine. According to family legend, he was a sharpshooter in the Ukrainian army and was about to be sent into active combat. Instead, he emigrated to the United States and settled in Omaha, Nebraska, where he became a peddler.
His grandson Tom Fellman — whose middle name is Harry — doesn’t know all the 120-year-old details, but he knows that he is grateful that Harry Fellman decided to leave Ukraine when he did.
“It could [have been] me, if my grandparents had not left when they did,” said Fellman, a successful real estate developer and philanthropist in Omaha.
In October, at 78 years old, Fellman made the reverse trip across the Atlantic to pitch in to the relief effort. He also wanted to pay what he sees as a debt to the memory of his late grandfather and to help the current generation of Ukrainian Jews.
He and his wife Darlynn served as volunteers for a week at the Krakow Jewish community center, joining hundreds (possibly thousands) of volunteers from overseas who have gone to Poland and the other nations in the region over the last year to participate in humanitarian programs on behalf of the millions of Ukrainian refugees. Fellman worked nine hours a day with a half-dozen fellow foreign volunteers in the basement of the community center, transferring the contents of “big, big” sacks of items like potatoes and sugar into small containers to be distributed to refugees in the building’s first-floor food pantry. His wife spent her time in an art therapy program that was set up for the refugee mothers and children to raise their spirits.
Fellman is “not particularly religious” but supports “anything Jewish.” In 1986, he accompanied a rescue mission plane of Soviet Jews headed to Israel. “It was the most rewarding experience of my life,” he recalled.
Fellman says he plans to return to Poland, in June, for the JCC’s annual fundraising bike ride from Auschwitz to Krakow.
What did his friends think of his septuagenarian volunteer stint? “They thought it was cool,” he said. “But none of them are going too.”
‘Everything was a risk’
Elizaveta Sherstuk runs a branch of Hesed, a network of welfare centers, in Sumy, Ukraine. (Courtesy of Sherstuk)
Sherstuk’s parents would have sent their daughter to a Jewish school in her early years if they had had the option. But Jewish education was not permitted In Sumy during the final years of communist rule in the Soviet republic. Sherstuk was exposed to Jewish life only at home.
Her parents infused her with a Jewish identity, she said, and her grandparents used to talk and sing songs in Yiddish. That inspired Sherstuk’s first career as a singer and a music teacher, during which she founded Aviv and took it on tour throughout the region singing traditional Jewish songs. Later, she became the director of Sumy’s branch of the JDC-funded Hesed network.
Sumy, an industrial city with a population of 300,000 before the war situated only 30 miles from the Russian border, was one of Russia’s first targets. In the days before the pending invasion, Sherstuk stockpiled food, which was certain to become scarce in case of war, and arranged bus transportation to safer parts of the country for hundreds of vulnerable civilians, mostly the elderly and disabled. The bus plan fell through for safety issues.
As the bombing started, it became dangerous for members of the local 1,000-member Jewish community, many of them elderly, to venture outside of their apartments. Sherstuk, working out of a bomb shelter, assisted by a Hesed network of volunteers, coordinated food and medicine deliveries.
The situation grew more dire, and she coordinated the Jewish community’s participation in a brief humanitarian corridor evacuation of vulnerable civilians that the Russians permitted. She communicated with Sumy residents mostly by smartphones provided by the JDC — the Russian attacks had cut the landlines — and accompanied the busloads of Sumy Jews to western Ukraine. Some of them eventually moved on to Israel, Germany, or other nearby countries, she said.
Sherstuk stayed in western Ukraine for a while (“The humanitarian corridors are only for one-way trips,” she noted), moving from place to place, keeping in touch with the Jews of Sumy and waiting for Ukraine’s army to make the trip back safe. But Sumy, like many Ukrainian cities, has come under frequent Russian rocket attack.
“Everything was a risk,” she said. “We were following whatever our hearts told us to do. We had to save people. I was the one who had to do it.”
Last May, Sherstuk was among 12 men and women (and the sole one from the Diaspora) who lit a torch at the start of Israel’s Independence Day in a government ceremony on Mount Herzl. During two weeks in Israel, she spent some time with members of her family, and held a series of meetings with JDC officials, government ministers and donors. “It was not a vacation,” she said.
After going back to Sumy, at the suggestions of her choral group members and fellow Sumy residents, she organized concerts in Hebrew, Yiddish, Ukrainian and Russian — some in person, some in a bomb shelter in the city’s central square, some online. She has now resumed her music classes, too, and it has all boosted morale. “I [teach] all the time,” she said.
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The post ‘There was no time to sleep’: 4 Jews reflect on a year of helping Ukrainians at war appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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Antisemitism speech sparks pushback from Jewish conservatives
(JTA) — When Orit Arfa read political theorist Yoram Hazony’s recent comments on antisemitism on the American right, she decided that her past admiration for him no longer justified staying silent about what she sees as a moral failure.
Arfa, who served until last month as a spokesperson for Hazony, responded Thursday with a deeply personal essay in Tablet magazine titled “Yoram Hazony’s 15 Minutes.” She wrote about her departure after four years from the Edmund Burke Foundation, the organization Hazony founded that is an institutional hub of the national conservatism movement. In her essay, she accused Hazony of erasing work she and others did under his leadership and of publicly faulting Jewish institutions for failures she says he knowingly helped create.
“I have known and admired Yoram for many years,” Arfa wrote, praising his scholarship and describing his 2015 book on the Book of Esther as one of the most influential works in her intellectual life. “It’s with a heavy heart, then, that I feel compelled to set the record straight.”
An Israeli conservative intellectual, Hazony is one of the architects of national conservatism, arguing for a politics grounded in nationalism, religion and tradition. His ideas have gained influence among Republican politicians, donors and movement strategists, particularly within the wing of the party associated with figures like Vice President JD Vance.
Hazony’s influence has placed him at the center of a growing dispute on the Jewish right, as the movement he helped shape confronts allegations of antisemitism in its orbit. Hazony has declined requests for an interview from the Jewish Telegraphic Agency in recent months.
Because of Hazony’s prominence, Arfa’s break with him has resonated well beyond their personal history, highlighting a broader debate among Jewish conservatives over how to confront antisemitism when it comes not from political opponents, but from figures embedded in the American right.
That debate was thrust into the open after Hazony’s keynote speech earlier this week at the Second International Conference on Combating Antisemitism in Jerusalem, where he forcefully condemned antisemitic rhetoric aired on the program of conservative media figure Tucker Carlson. Hazony described Carlson’s show as a “circus of aggressive anti-Jewish propaganda,” listing familiar antisemitic tropes aired by guests.
“These aren’t normal political messages, disagreeing with other members of the Trump coalition on legitimate policy issues,” Hazony said. “They’re abusive, wild slanders, and their repeated appearance on Tucker’s show has persuaded almost every Jew I know that the program’s purpose is to drive Jews—along with tens of millions of Zionist Christians—out of the Trump coalition and out of the Republican party.”
At the same time, Hazony argued that Jewish and Christian Zionist activists had failed to persuade Republican leaders to distance themselves from Carlson — not because Carlson was too powerful, but because critics had not presented their case professionally. He mocked the absence of a concise, evidence-based “15-minute explainer video” that could persuade conservatives unfamiliar with Carlson’s program, calling this a sign of “extreme incompetence” by what he labeled the “antisemitism-industrial complex.”
That claim became the focal point of Arfa’s response.
“The truth, as Yoram well knows, is that there is such a video,” she wrote. According to Arfa, she and other Edmund Burke Foundation staff members worked with Hazony to produce exactly such an explainer — a 14-minute, 57-second compilation of examples of antisemitic rhetoric aired on Carlson’s program.
Hazony, she said, chose not to make it public.
“He kept it unlisted in an obscure account,” Arfa wrote, adding that she was “flabbergasted” to hear Hazony publicly insist no such work existed. “It saddens me that he would diminish the work of his dedicated employees by erasing our efforts.”
A spokesperson for Hazony did not immediately respond to a request for comment.
The dispute over Hazony’s speech has become a proxy for a larger argument about responsibility and strategy. Hazony is urging Jews to focus on building alliances with what he describes as the dominant nationalist wing of the Republican Party, arguing that moralistic confrontations risk alienating potential allies and entrenching antisemitism.
“What would you find if you actually invested the time and effort, and opened those doors?” Hazony said in his speech. “Mostly, you’d discover that nationalist Republicans are not anti-Semites. That they are strongly committed to having Jews in their coalition. That they would like to have closer relations with the Jewish community. That many of them see Israel as an inspiration and wish America were more like Israel. In short, you’d discover that most of them are potential friends and allies.”
Critics counter that this approach shifts responsibility away from political leaders who tolerate antisemitism. Several commentators on the right have argued that treating antisemitism as a communications problem, rather than a moral red line, risks normalizing it.
Tablet, where Arfa’s essay was published, issued an unusually scathing response on social media, accusing Hazony of effectively blaming Jews for their own marginalization.
In a post on X directly responding to a Hazony, Tablet wrote, “Tucker Carlson could goose-step down Pennsylvania Avenue butt-naked with a swastika carved into his forehead and it would be the fault of ‘the anti-semitism industrial complex’ for not making the case ‘clear enough’ to ‘Republican nationalists.’”
Tablet’s post added, “The fault doesn’t lie with the Jews for being targeted by political arsonists. It lies with those people themselves, and with those who have given them political and intellectual cover, yourself included.”
The post went on to accuse Hazony of importing European-style ethnonationalist ideas into an American context defined by constitutional liberalism and religious pluralism, warning that such thinking risked alienating both Jews and the broader electorate.
Others focused less on ideology than on political accountability. Max Abrahms, a political scientist who studies extremism and political violence, argued that Hazony’s framing functioned as a defense of powerful allies who have declined to distance themselves from Carlson.“I interpret this as a defense for your political allies, especially J.D. Vance and Kevin Roberts who won’t ditch Tucker,” Abrahms wrote.
A broader critique came from Saul Sadka, a conservative writer and analyst, who accused Hazony of minimizing antisemitism in service of what he considered a marginal political project. Writing on X, Sadka argued that Hazony mischaracterized the Republican Party, overstated the influence of nationalist conservatives, and pressured Jews to align themselves with forces that, he said, are both electorally weak and tolerant of antisemitic rhetoric.
For her part, Arfa,wrote in Tablet that she’d prefer to stay out of the conversation now that’s stopped working for Hazony. Her focus is on studying to become a rabbi at the Abraham Geiger College in Potsdam, Germany, a seminary affiliated with Reform and liberal Judaism.
The post Antisemitism speech sparks pushback from Jewish conservatives appeared first on The Forward.
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What’s missing in our Jewish high schools
ווען איך בין געווען אַ קינד אין די 1960ער און 70ער יאָרן זענען געווען גאָר ווייניק טאָגשולן פֿאַר ייִדישע קינדער. האָבן ס׳רובֿ משפּחות געשיקט די קינדער אין די עפֿנטלעכע שולן, און ווי אַ צוגאָב — אין אַ תּלמוד־תּורה אָדער ייִדישער נאָכמיטאָג־שול צו קריגן אַ ביסל ייִדישע בילדונג.
הײַנט זענען אָבער דאָ אַ סך ייִדישע טאָגשולן, פֿון פּראָגרעסיווע ביז חרדישע. אין דעם אַרטיקל וועל איך זיך קאָנצעטרירן אויף די מאָדערן־אָרטאָדאָקסישע מיטלשולן, כאָטש מע וואָלט עס געקענט אויך ווענדן אויף אַלע שולן וואָס שטרעבן אײַנצופֿלאַנצן אין די תּלמידים אַ טיפֿע פֿאַרבינדונג מיט זייערע ייִדישע וואָרצלען.
אין 2013 האָט דער „פּיו‟־פֿאָרום פּובליקירט די רעזולטאַטן פֿון אַן אַרומנעמיקער שטודיע וועגן די אַמעריקאַנער ייִדן, וואָס האָט באַוויזן, שוואַרץ אויף ווײַס, עטלעכע בפֿירושע טענדענצן אין דער אַמעריקאַנער ייִדישער קהילה. איינס פֿון די געפֿינסן איז געווען דער ממשותדיקער וווּקס פֿון דער אָרטאָדאָקסישער באַפֿעלקערונג, בפֿרט אין ניו־יאָרק און ניו־דזשערזי.
איין סיבה פֿאַרן וווּקס, האָבן די פֿאָרשער משער געווען, איז ווײַל 48% אָרטאָדאָקסישע ייִדן האָבן פֿיר אָדער מער קינדער, בעת בלויז 9% אַנדערע ייִדישע עלטערן האָבן גרויסע משפּחות. אַ צווייטע סיבה: 98% אָרטאָדאָקסישע ייִדן האָבן אַ ייִדישן מאַן אָדער פֿרוי, בעת בײַ די קאָנסערוואַטיווע ייִדן האָבן 73% אַ ייִדישן זיווג, און בײַ רעפֿאָרם־ייִדן — 50%. אַ קינד וואָס ווערט דערצויגן בײַ צוויי ייִדישע עלטערן וועט געוויינטלעך זיך גיכער אידענטפֿיצירן ווי אַ ייִד איידער איינס בײַ וועמען איינער פֿון די עלטערן איז נישט קיין ייִד.
דער פּועל־יוצא פֿון דעם אַלץ איז אַז די ייִדישע טאָגשולן און מיטלשולן, בפֿרט די אָרטאָדאָקסישע, האָבן הײַנט מער תּלמידים ווי זיי האָבן ווען אַ מאָל געהאַט. עלטערן פֿון די פֿרומע שולן האָפֿן אַז דורכן שיקן די קינדער אַהין וועלן זייערע קינדער קריגן אַ געראָטענע ייִדישע בילדונג און במילא פֿאַרבלײַבן פֿרומע ייִדישע קינדער.
נישט תּמיד אַרבעט זיך עס אָבער אויס אַזוי. הינטער די קוליסן שושקען זיך די עלטערן, לערער און שול־דירעקטאָרן — גיכער בײַ די מאָדערן־אָרטאָדאָקסישע מיטלשולן איידער בײַ די חרדישע — וועגן אַן אָנגעווייטיקטן ענין: נישט געקוקט אויף זייערע גרעסטע באַמיִונגען, גייען געוויסע גראַדואַנטן פֿון די מיטלשולן „אַראָפּ פֿון דרך‟; דאָס הייסט — זיי היטן מער נישט קיין פֿרום לעבן.
ווען איך רעד וועגן דעם ענין מיט נישט־רעליגיעזע מענטשן, סײַ ייִדן סײַ נישט־ייִדן, וועלן זיי אָפֿט קוועטשן מיט די אַקסלען און זאָגן: „וואָס איז דאָ דער חידוש? מיר וווינען אין אַ פֿרײַער געזעלשאַפֿט, וווּ קינדער קענען אויסקלײַבן זייער אייגענעם לעבן־שטייגער. אויב דאָס קינד איז צופֿרידן מיטן לעבן וואָס ער האָט פֿאַר זיך אויסגעקליבן, דאַרפֿן די עלטערן אויך זײַן צופֿרידן.‟
ענטפֿער איך זיי, אַז ווען עלטערן גלייבן שטאַרק אין אַ געוויסער אידעאָלאָגיע, איז נאַטירלעך אַז זיי וועלן אַנטוישט ווערן אויב זייער קינד וואַרפֿן עס אָפּ. אַ מאַמע וואָס איז, למשל, זייער איבערגעגעבן צו געוויסע פּראָגרעסיווע אידעאַלן, וואָס מאַרשירט מיט אירע פֿרײַנד אויף פּאָליטישע דעמאָנסטראַציעס און ברענגט אַפֿילו מיט איר קינד — וועט זיכער אַנטוישט ווערן אויב דאָס קינד שליסט זיך שפּעטער אָן אין דער רעפּובליקאַנער פּאַרטיי. בײַ איר וואָלט דאָס אויך געהייסן אַז ער איז „אַראָפּ פֿון דרך‟.
די סיבות פֿאַר וואָס אַ קינד פֿון אַ פֿרומער היים וואָלט פֿאַרלאָזט אַזאַ לעבן־שטייגער זענען אָפֿט זייער קאָמפּליצירטע און אַ רעזולטאַט פֿון עטלעכע פֿאַקטאָרן. דורך מײַנע אייגענע שמועסן מיט מיטלשול־גראַדואַנטן האָב איך אַנטדעקט פֿיר מעגלעכע סיבות דערפֿאַר:
- נאָכן גראַדויִרן, פֿאָרט דער סטודענט אַוועק שטודירן אין אַ סעקולערן קאָלעדזש און דאָרט דערפֿילט ער אַז דאָס רעליגיעזע לעבן האַלט אים אָפּ פֿון זיך אויסלעבן ווי אַ פֿרײַער פֿויגל (ענלעך צום ייִנגל וואָס באַשרײַבט די דערשטיקנדיקע ליבשאַפֿט פֿון דער מאַמען אין איציק מאַנגערס ליד, „אויפֿן וועג שטייט אַ בוים‟).
- ער אָדער זי גלייבט נישט אין גאָט און זעט דערפֿאַר נישט קיין זינען אין היטן די מיצוות.
- ער אָדער זי האָט געליטן פֿון אַן אומגליקלעך משפּחה־לעבן און האָט דערפֿאַר נעגאַטיווע אַסאָציאַציעס מיט דער משפּחה, אַרײַנגערעכנט איר פֿרומקייט,
- ער אָדער זי איז „גיי‟ (האָט ליב דעם זעלבן מין) און פֿילט זיך אַרויסגעשלאָסן פֿונעם פֿרומען ציבור צוליב דער תּורהס פֿאַרווערן אַזוינע באַציִונגען.
שטעלט זיך די פֿראַגע: איז דאָ עפּעס וואָס די מיטלשולן וואָלטן געקענט טאָן פֿאַר יענע תּלמידים איידער זיי פֿאַרלאָזן דאָס רעליגיעזע לעבן? אויב מע האָט שוין אויסגעפּרוּווט אַלע קירובֿ־מיטלען און עס העלפֿט ווײַטער נישט, זאָל מען זיך פּשוט אונטערגעבן? איך האַלט אַז ניין. יעדעס קינד וואָס גראַדויִרט פֿון אַ ייִדישער מיטלשול, וואָלט געדאַרפֿט אַרויסקומען ווי אַ שטאָלצער ייִד, אַפֿילו אויב ער דריקט עס אויס אויף אַ נישט־רעליגיעזן אופֿן. און טאַקע דערפֿאַר דאַרפֿן די שולן אַנטוויקלען די ייִדישע אידענטיטעט פֿון די תּלמידים נישט בלויז אינעם רעליגיעזן זינען אָבער אויך אינעם נאַציאָנאַל־קולטורעלן.
איין אופֿן, וואָס ס׳רובֿ טאָגשולן טוען שוין, איז דורכן פֿאַרשטאַרקן די קינדערס אידענטיפֿיקאַציע מיט מדינת־ישׂראל. דאָס העלפֿט אויב דער בחור אָדער מיידל וועט שפּעטער טאַקע עולה זײַן. אין דער אמתן אָבער וועלן ס׳רובֿ תּלמידים זיך נישט באַזעצן אין ישׂראל, אַזוי אַז דאָס אַליין איז נישט קיין לייזונג.
וואָס מע דאַרף יאָ טאָן איז לערנען דעם תּלמיד די פֿילפֿאַרביקייט פֿון זײַן ייִדישן אָפּשטאַם, וואָס בײַ ס׳רובֿ ייִדן אין אַמעריקע איז דאָס אַ מזרח־אייראָפּעיִשער. אַחוץ די געוויינטלעכע ייִדישע לימודים ווי חומש, נבֿיאים און גמרא, דאַרף מען אויך אײַנפֿירן קורסן וואָס באַקענען די קינדער מיט דער רײַכקייט פֿון דער ייִדישער קולטור. ווען דער תּלמיד וועט זיך דערוויסן אַז ייִדישקייט נעמט אַרײַן נישט בלויז רעליגיע אָבער אויך די ייִדישע שפּראַך (ווײַל העברעיִש וועלן זיי זיך שוין במילא אויסלערנען), די געשיכטע, מאכלים און מוזיק פֿון אַמאָליקן ייִדישלאַנד, גיט עס אים אַ בעסערן פֿאַרשטאַנד פֿון וואָס עס הייסט צו זײַן אַ ייִד.
אַ צאָל מיטלשולן טוען דאָס שוין, אָבער בלויז אויפֿן שפּיץ מעסער. אינעם ענגליש־קלאַס, למשל, וועט דער לערער הייסן די תּלמידים לייענען אַן איבערזעצונג פֿון אַ באַשעוויס־דערציילונג. ליטעראַטור איז אָבער בלויז איין אַספּעקט פֿון קולטור. כּדי באמת אײַנצופֿלאַנצן אַן אינטערעס און ליבשאַפֿט צום עטניש־קולטורעלן אַספּעקט פֿון ייִדישקייט דאַרף מען אײַנפֿירן קורסן פֿון פֿאַרשיידענע מינים. למשל:
- אַ קלאַס וועגן דער געשיכטע פֿון די ייִדן אין מיזרח־אייראָפּע — און נישט בלויז וועגן דער ציוניסטישער באַוועגונג און דעם חורבן (דאָס לערנט מען שוין), נאָר וועגן די גרויסע אויפֿטוען במשך פֿון דער טויזנט־יאָריקער געשיכטע פֿון די ייִדן אין מיזרח־אייראָפּע: דער געבורט פֿון דער חסידישער באַוועגונג, די צעבליִונג פֿון דער ייִדישער און העברעיִשער ליטעראַטור, דער פּאָליטישער אַקטיוויזם פֿון די מזרח־אייראָפּעיִשע בונדיסטן, ציוניסטן און ייִדישיסטן, און ווי די ייִדן האָבן מיטגעבראַכט אָט די קולטור־ירושה קיין אַמעריקע.
- אַ קורס וועגן ייִדישן קינאָ, וווּ די קינדער קוקן אויף קלאַסישע ייִדישע פֿילמען ווי „דער דיבוק‟, „טבֿיה‟ און „ייִדל מיטן פֿידל‟ און דיסקוטירן סײַ דעם קולטור־היסטאָרישן קאָנטעקסט, סײַ די קונסט פֿונעם פֿילם.
- אַ קלאַס פֿון קלעזמער־מוזיק, און אַפֿילו אַ וואַרשטאַט וווּ די קינדער ברענגען זייערע אינסטרומענטן און לערנען זיך ווי אַליין צו שפּילן די אַלטע ייִדישע מעלאָדיעס (אָדער אַ קלאַס פֿון פֿאַרשידענע מינים ייִדישן פֿאָלקסמוזיק, אַרײַנגערעכנט די ספֿרדישע און תּימנער טראַדיציעס).
- אַ קאָכקלאַס וווּ די קינדער לערנען זיך אויס ווי צוצוגרייטן היימישע מזרח־אייראָפּעיִשע מאכלים ווי בלינצעס, קניידלעך און ראָגעלעך.
- ייִדיש־לעקציעס, ניצנדיק דעם אויסערגעוויינטלעכן קאָמפּיוטער־קורס, „ייִדיש פּאַפּ‟ וווּ קינדער לערנען זיך די שפּראַך דורך קוקן אויף די חנעוודיקע ייִדישע קאַרטונס פֿון נאָמי מיט איר ראָבאָט מאָבי— און וואָס איז, אַגבֿ, פֿרײַ פֿון אָפּצאָל.
געוויסע לערער און פּרינציפּאַלן וועלן טענהן, אַז צוליב דעם שוין געפּאַקטן לערנטאָג פֿון אַ ייִדישער מיטלשול (בפֿרט צוליב די אַוואַנסירטע סעקולערע לימודים וואָס די עלטערן פֿאָדערן כּדי זייערע קינדער זאָלן קענען אַרײַן אין די בעסטע אוניווערסיטעטן), איז פּשוט נישטאָ קיין צײַט צוצוגעבן אַזוינע קורסן. דאָס איז אָבער אַ תּירוץ פֿאַר די בענטשליכט. יעדער ווייסט אַז דאָס לערנען אַוואַנסירטע גמרא, למשל, איז נישט פֿאַר אַלעמען. אין דער זעלבער צײַט פֿונעם גמרא־קלאַס קען מען גיבן איינעם אָדער מער פֿון די קולטורקלאַסן ווי אַ ברירה.
דערצו קען מען אָפּהאַלטן די קלאַסן נאָך די געוויינטלעכע שול־שעהען. פּונקט ווי די מער אַטלעטישע תּלמידים גייען טרענירן אויף ספּאָרטמאַטשן, זאָלן תּלמידים מיט אַן אינטערעס צו קולטור זיך דערוויסן וועגן דער פֿילפֿאַרביקער קולטור־ירושה פֿונעם ייִדישן פֿאָלק און אַפֿילו גיין אויף שײַכותדיקע עקסקורסיעס צוזאַמען. די סטודענטן וואָס וווינען אין דער ניו־יאָרקער געגנט קענען, למשל, פֿאָרן צוזאַמען אין ייִדישן טעאַטער.
בקיצור, ווען מע פֿלאַנצט אײַן בײַ קינדער אַ ליבשאַפֿט צו זייער עטניש־קולטורעלן אָפּשטאַם, גיט עס זיי אַ געלעגנהייט צו בלײַבן שטאָלצע, גוט־אינפֿאָרמירטע ייִדן. נאָכן גראַדויִרן וועלן זיי קענען אויסדריקן זייער ייִדישע אידענטיטעט נישט בלויז דורך גיין אין שיל שבת און יום־טובֿ, נאָר דורכן ווײַטער זיך לערנען ייִדיש, זיך פֿאַרנעמען מיט אַקאַדעמישע פֿאָרשונגען פֿאַרבונדן מיט דער ייִדישער געשיכטע אָדער ליטעראַטור און גיין אויף ייִדישע קאָנצערטן, פֿעסטיוואַלן און קאָנפֿערענצן. דערבײַ וועלן אויך יענע קינדער, וואָס פֿאַרלאָזן דאָס רעליגיעזע לעבן, ווײַטער אָנהאַלטן אַ שטאַרקע פֿאַרבינדונג מיט ייִדן און ייִדישקייט און במילא וועלן זיי, כאָטש אינעם קולטורעלן זינען, קיין מאָל נישט אַראָפּ פֿון דרך.
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Russia’s Medvedev Praises Trump But Questions US Submarine Threat
Deputy Chairman of the Russian Security Council Dmitry Medvedev attends an interview with Reuters, TASS and WarGonzo in the Moscow region, Russia January 29, 2026. Photo: Dmitry Medvedev’s Secretariat/Handout via REUTERS
Dmitry Medvedev, deputy chairman of Russia’s Security Council, praised US President Donald Trump as an effective leader who was seeking peace but added that Moscow had seen no trace of nuclear submarines Trump said he moved to Russian shores.
Trump, who has said he wants to be remembered as a “peacemaker” president, has repeatedly said that a peace deal to end the Ukraine war is close, and a new round of US-Russian-Ukrainian talks is scheduled for this week in Abu Dhabi.
Asked if Trump was positive or negative for Russia and about unproven speculation that Trump was some sort of Russian agent, Medvedev said the American people had chosen Trump and that Moscow respected that decision.
Medvedev lauded Trump’s courage in resisting the US establishment and said the US president’s sometimes “brash” style was “effective.”
“He is an emotional person, but on the other hand, the chaos that is commonly referred to, which is created by his activities, is not entirely true,” he told Reuters, TASS and the WarGonzo Russian war blogger in an interview at his residence outside Moscow and authorized for publication on Sunday.
“It is obvious that behind this lies a completely conscious and competent line,” said Medvedev, who served as Russian president from 2008 to 2012.
President Vladimir Putin remains the final voice on Russian policy, though Medvedev, an arch-hawk who has repeatedly goaded Trump on social media, gives a sense of hardliners’ thinking within the Russian elite, according to foreign diplomats.
“Trump wants to go down in history as a peacemaker – and he is really trying,” Medvedev said. “He is really trying to do that. And that is why contacts with Americans have become much more productive.”
TRUMP’S SUBMARINE THREAT
Medvedev said the key to understanding Trump was his business background, quipping that there was no such thing as a former businessman – a play on an old Russian joke that there is no such thing as a former KGB agent.
Trump in August said he had ordered two US nuclear submarines to move closer to Russia in response to what he called “highly provocative” comments from Medvedev about the risk of war after what appeared to be an ultimatum from Trump.
“We still have not found them,” Medvedev said of the US submarines.
After Russia’s 2022 invasion of Ukraine, Medvedev has repeatedly hurled invective at Kyiv and Western powers while warning of the risks of an escalation of the war towards a nuclear “apocalypse.”
Medvedev said Russia would “soon” win military victory in the Ukraine war but the key thing was to prevent any further conflict, adding: “I would like this to happen as soon as possible.”
“But it is equally important to think about what will happen next. After all, the goal of victory is to prevent new conflicts. This is absolutely obvious.”
Russia currently controls a fifth of Ukraine but has so far been unable to take the whole of the eastern Donbas region, where Ukrainian forces hold about 10%, or 5,000 square km (1,900 square miles), according to open-source maps of the war.