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These rabbis are making an Orthodox case against A.I. Will anyone listen?
Seated inside a ballroom on the campus of an all-girls religious school, the heavy hitters of Haredi Orthodox Judaism stared grimly into the future.
Rabbi Elya Ber Wachtfogel, head of the prestigious Yeshiva of South Fallsburg, had summoned more than a dozen of his colleagues to this Lakewood wedding venue on urgent business. Artificial intelligence posed a dire threat to their way of life. Over the next few hours, these men — the elders of four Hasidic dynasties and more than a dozen yeshivas — would begin to chart a course against it.
Their plan of attack: A communal fast, during which rabbinic authorities will reiterate the dangers of the technology and discourage its use. Then, technical steps — an effort to ban A.I. texting, or to promote phones that automatically blocked such services.
“These coordinated steps will establish a clear and unified communal standard that such use of open A.I. is unacceptable within the homes, yeshivas, and schools of our kehillos,” or communities, read an article on the gathering, known as an asifa, in the community news site Lakewood Alerts.
The Jan. 4 meeting elicited some ridicule online, from within the Haredi world and beyond it. One Instagram post teasing the gedolim, or rabbinic leaders, joked that the asifa had led to the first “A.I.-generated fast.” Riffing on Haredi attire, a commenter on one article about the gathering warned of a “worldwide shortage of black hats.” It is unclear whether any A.I. ban will stick — or, truly, whether a fast day will actually happen.
Yet the asifa has already produced something of broader significance: A religious case against A.I. — perhaps the first made by any group of Jewish denominational leaders. And though they were teased for being out of touch, the Lakewood rabbis had raised concerns with surprising parallels in the critiques of secular A.I. skeptics, said Ayala Fader, the author of Hidden Heretics, a book about the impact of technology on Haredi communities.
“They might come up with different sources for explaining it,” Fader said, “but they are actually articulating some of the objections to A.I. that you can read about in the Chronicle of Higher Education.”
A changing threat
The asifa recalled a gathering in 2012 at a much larger cathedral. Some 40,000 Haredi men packed the home of the New York Mets that day to listen to gedolim rail against the internet. The concerns shared at Citi Field fueled a cottage industry of “kosher” technology — devices that either filtered the internet or lacked a browser altogether.
“Information about religion, about faith, about sexuality, they see as being a corrupting force on the brain which you can’t undo,” explained Frieda Vizel, an expert on Hasidic life who gives tours of New York’s Hasidic neighborhoods. Today, old-school flip phones are ubiquitous in Haredi enclaves, and homes without television are the norm.
The urgency of Wachtfogel’s call was partly due to the evolution of the old threat: A.I.-based texting services mean even kosher phones can open the floodgates of uncensored information.
But the gedolim’s worries about A.I. were more focused on the technology itself — how it was communicating, and the human implications of its power. (Wachtfogel did not respond to an inquiry.)
Their primary concern was social. Get too used to a chatbot telling you what you want to hear, one Haredi rabbi in attendance explained, and you won’t be able to navigate friction in the real world. There’s a budding term for this phenomenon, emotional intelligence atrophy, which threatens the age-old Jewish ideal of shalom bayit, or domestic harmony.
And while using A.I. in various Torah study contexts has become commonplace among non-Haredi rabbinical students and in the rabbinate, the gedolim considered it almost blasphemous. For exposition on the Torah to have divine character, they said, it has to come from a Jew.
“We have a neshama,” or soul, said one Haredi leader, who was granted anonymity to protect his relationships in the community, which he said would be threatened by appearing in a non-Haredi outlet. “We have a spark from Hashem inside of us. And when two Jews are learning together, talking together, or being kind to each other, those two sparks are in connection. Replacing that with a machine, it’s sterile.”
The 11th-century commentator Rashi famously wrote that the essence of living a Torah-based life was toiling in its study. Haredi and Hasidic communities are rooted in this concept of ameilut, or toil: Men learn in yeshiva deep into adulthood, and career development is seen as secondary to a lifelong pursuit of Torah knowledge. To the gedolim, the very purpose of artificial intelligence seemed to be skirting ameilut.
“If at the push of a button, I can get a hold of a d’var torah for my Shabbos meal from A.I., to us, that’s a problem,” the Haredi leader told the Forward. “No, no — I want you to open the book and read it and come up with a question and come up with an answer. That’s part of what’s holy about learning Torah. It’s not just end result. It’s the process.”
The Haredi method
For thousands of years, the Jewish tradition has reserved six days a year for communal fasts, which unify its participants in solemn purpose. This year, if the yeshiva leaders follow through on their commitment, communities in Borough Park, Lakewood, Monsey and Williamsburg will observe a seventh. (No date has been publicly announced.)
On that day, gedolim will inveigh against A.I. the same way they once had about the internet. In addition to no eating or drinking, a special fast day Torah portion will be read.
Ultimately, however, a total ban on artificial intelligence is no more possible or likely in the Hasidic world than a total ban on the internet. Fader noted that in 2012, a total ban was the original goal. “But they quickly realized that couldn’t be,” she said, which is how internet filtering became the compromise. “There’s more flexibility to the system than you might expect.”
Fourteen years after Citi Field, the internet is the economic lifeblood of Haredi communities; as it turns out, e-commerce is basically the ideal business for Haredi Jews, affording men anonymity and women the ability to work from home. And Haredi leaders I spoke to acknowledged that A.I. will ultimately become an unavoidable part of online business. Vizel, the tour guide, told me she had recently come across an ad for an A.I. seminar in a Hasidic newspaper.
Eli Steinberg, a Lakewood-based Haredi pundit, surmised that it was precisely this sense of inevitability that led to the meeting’s outcome. The gedolim, just as they were in 2012 and just like the rest of society today, were playing catch up.
“There’s a challenge here, and there’s no clear answer of how one deals with it,” Steinberg said. While he had not attended the asifa, his sense was that the gedolim had concluded, “‘This unanswerable challenge will have to be dealt with the way we deal with most unanswerable challenges, which is prayer and fasting.’”
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J Street goes on the offensive against AIPAC-backed candidates
(JTA) — J Street, the liberal Jewish Middle East advocacy group, announced that it will spend $3 million to defeat a handful of Republican candidates backed by AIPAC, joining the plethora of progressive groups targeting the American Israel Public Affairs Committee this election year.
Such an attack campaign is an unusual initiative for J Street, which typically endorses candidates but does not target opponents on the basis of an AIPAC endorsement. Until now, according to J Street President Jeremy Ben-Ami, the likelier scenario for his organization was finding its endorsed candidates on the defensive against AIPAC’s spending.
“It’s a new era for us,” Ben-Ami said in an interview. In 2022, J Street targeted an AIPAC backed candidate — but only after AIPAC barraged the J Street endorsed candidate with negative spending.
In a statement, J Street said that this will be the group’s largest super PAC investment in its history, referring to political action committees that can raise unlimited funds but are forbidden from coordinating with campaigns.
The $3 million will be spent on ads targeting Republican Rep. Mike Collins, who is running for U.S. Senate in Georgia against Democratic Sen. Jon Ossoff, who is Jewish, and a handful of incumbents: Ohio Rep. Max Miller, who is running for reelection amid allegations of domestic abuse, which he denies; Wisconsin Rep. Derrick Van Orden; Pennsylvania Rep. Ryan Mackenzie; and Iowa Rep. Mariannette Miller-Meeks.
Ben-Ami said J Street targeted those particular candidates in part because they each face competitive races as the Democrats look to take control of the House and Senate and they have ideological distance from J Street. Many of them were also connected to the movement to deny and overturn the 2020 election results, Ben-Ami said.
J Street’s campaign comes as AIPAC’s brand has become increasingly toxic among voters, and as a growing number of Democratic politicians cross its red line of supporting conditions on U.S. military aid to Israel. J Street’s position, meanwhile, has recently drifted toward supporting a phasing-out of military aid to Israel in 2028.
AIPAC blasted the campaign in a post on X. “Is this from J Street or Justice Democrats?” AIPAC wrote, referring to the progressive organization that has increasingly aligned with pro-Palestinian advocacy.
“A dark money super PAC spending millions to defeat pro-Israel candidates and lie about AIPAC,” the group wrote. “Not a word about helping elect pro-Israel candidates further exposes the difference between J Street and actual pro-Israel organizations.”
AIPAC has been a heavy spender since it launched its super PAC, United Democracy Project, ahead of the 2022 midterms, and is the top outside spender in this election cycle, according to Open Secrets. A number of anti-AIPAC, pro-Palestinian groups have emerged over the past year to counter the pro-Israel lobbying group’s spending.
Unlike those groups, J Street and AIPAC have some overlap in which candidates they back: Both groups endorsed moderate, pro-Israel Democrats such as Reps. Hakeem Jeffries and Dan Goldman. J Street’s super PAC has also previously targeted individual candidates for their AIPAC endorsement, such as Rep. Haley Stevens in 2022, citing AIPAC’s donations from right-wing megadonors.
An AIPAC spokesperson wrote that it is “disappointing, but not surprising, that J Street continues to amplify lies about our community.”
“AIPAC members are focused on helping elect Democrats and Republicans who will strengthen the U.S.-Israel partnership, while J Street is focused on turning support for the Jewish state into a partisan political football,” said AIPAC’s spokesperson.
Ben-Ami said this year’s campaign is not about “the relationship between us and AIPAC,” but is rather about emboldening candidates who may otherwise worry that they will be up against AIPAC’s war chest.
“We are very conscious that there are many candidates who are afraid of what AIPAC might be able to do politically, and therefore adopt positions and say things about policy because they are afraid, and their fear and intimidation is holding them back,” Ben-Ami said.
Now, he said, J Street is putting “the shoe on the other foot.”
“If you are going to oppose American democracy and provide carte blanche to this Israeli government, then you need to be afraid,” he said.
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
The post J Street goes on the offensive against AIPAC-backed candidates appeared first on The Forward.
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Germany’s far-right AfD, riding state win, targets more gains in elections from east to west
(JTA) — Germany’s far-right, riding high after winning an eastern state, seeks to capitalize on its momentum in a series of upcoming elections — starting with municipal voting this weekend, followed by two closely watched state contests.
The first test for the Alternative for Germany (AfD) party comes Sunday in municipal elections in the western state of Lower Saxony. A week later, the AfD has its sights on state elections in the capital, Berlin, and the Baltic coast state of Mecklenburg-Western Pomerania.
The AfD beat out other parties in Saxony-Anhalt on Sept. 6 with 43.8% of the vote and 39 of 83 state parliament seats, falling just short of a majority and marking Germany’s greatest far-right victory in a state election since World War II.
“From previous elections, we know that the AfD is currently able to mobilize almost totally its own constituency and potential voters, while its democratic competitors have much more problems,” said Gideon Botsch, the head of the Emil Julius Gumbel Research Unit on Antisemitism and Right-Wing Extremism at Potsdam University.
While polls do not predict the next state election results will match the historic win in Saxony-Anhalt, the AfD currently leads other parties in Mecklenburg-Western Pomerania with about 35% of the vote. And in Berlin, long a stronghold of Germany’s political left, the AfD is jockeying with the center-right Christian Democratic Union (CDU) and the left-wing Linke for first place, with all three polling around 20%.
The AfD, a nationalist, anti-immigrant party whose leaders have proposed rejecting Germany’s “guilt complex” over the Holocaust, has regularly topped nationwide opinion polls for the past year. In surveys asking Germans which party they would choose if federal elections were held “this Sunday,” the AfD often receives the highest results, Botsch told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
The AfD has built a dedicated and growing base, said Botsch. Its popularity signals frustration with the mainstream parties in power, particularly the CDU, Chancellor Friedrich Merz’s party, amid a sluggish economy. The AfD is especially popular in eastern Germany, where voters are poorer and hit hard by high energy prices exacerbated by the wars in Iran and Ukraine.
The AfD is likely to perform more weakly in the west, where Lower Saxony will hold a municipal election on Sunday. The party has stronger influence in the east, and Germany’s municipal elections tend to hinge more on well-known figures from established parties, said Roger Stöcker, a political scientist at Otto von Guericke University in Magdeburg. Still, even if the AfD doesn’t transform governments, Stöcker said that making inroads to further entrench itself in Lower Saxony would be “a strategically significant success.”
“It’s conceivable that the AfD wins a town hall or a county administration here and there or strengthens its presence in local councils, expanding its local base,” said Stöcker.
The three upcoming elections are being closely watched for signs of the AfD’s wider-scale momentum, said Daniel Schuster, who heads the Simon Wiesenthal Center’s European office.
“Taken together, these elections can help show whether Saxony-Anhalt was an exceptionally strong eastern result or part of a broader national expansion of the AfD’s electoral base,” said Schuster.
Remko Leemhuis, the director of the American Jewish Committee Berlin Lawrence and Lee Ramer Institute for German-Jewish Relations, added that residents will feel the effects of the AfD’s success even if it falls short of its victory in Saxony-Anhalt. A “very strong AfD result,” short of managing to enter government coalitions, would still “raise serious concerns” for Jewish residents about the party’s influence, said Leemhuis.
Residents in Saxony-Anhalt are waiting to see the ramifications of the AfD’s election victory. Without an outright majority, the party needs partners to join a coalition. Its nationalist agenda in the region includes teaching children less about Hitler, banning Pride flags in public buildings and requiring artists and cultural organizations to sign a declaration that they will not “disparage Germany and its culture” if they seek state funding.
State governments also control domestic policing and parts of the judiciary. The AfD could use its power in these areas to “put pressure on minorities it dislikes,” including immigrants, Muslims and Jews who are identified with Holocaust remembrance, said Stöcker. At the same time, the AfD could direct policing and intelligence away from right-wing extremism in Saxony-Anhalt, which recorded the second-highest number of right-wing extremist crimes per capita of Germany’s 16 states last year, Leemhuis said.
The AfD’s victory in Saxony-Anhalt marked a “watershed moment” in German politics, according to Roland Abold, the managing director of Infratest Dimap, a German election research institute. Abold said that the result heaped pressure on Merz and the federal government, as “calls for a change in political direction and a reassessment of cooperation with the AfD are likely to intensify.”
The CDU for now is standing behind Merz, the most unpopular chancellor in modern German history after 16 months in power. But if the CDU faces further heavy defeats in the upcoming elections, questions about Merz as the party’s leader could escalate, said Stöcker.
The AfD already has its eyes on his job. Alice Weidel, the national AfD’s co-chair, announced on Monday that she wants the party to win “at least 40% of the vote” in Germany’s next federal election in 2029.
Ulrich Siegmund, the AfD candidate in Saxony-Anhalt who hopes to become the state premier, said in the same press conference that his goal was “very clear.”
“As perhaps the next Minister-President of Saxony-Anhalt, I need a Federal Chancellor Alice Weidel here in Berlin, so that we can write here history side by side,” said Siegmund.
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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I was born after 9/11. I still carry the memories of that day.
Earlier this week, I was talking with my mother over the phone about her experience on 9/11. She walked me through the familiar parts — how she was in our Upper West Side apartment when she learned about the attacks from a relative, how she went to the garage to get the car so they could drive to a friend’s house upstate once she realized the attacks were acts of terror. There were still hijacked planes in the air, and she worried New York City might be targeted again. Then, she said, “This part is going to make me cry.”
I hadn’t remembered what came next, but suddenly it came back to me. “Oh no, me too,” I said.
While she waited for my father to come back uptown from his office in the Financial District, she stopped inside a fire station across from the garage. Inside was a lone firefighter, who’d stayed behind to man the station while the rest of his company was inside the towers. He was watching the news on television, and my mom stood next to him, watching too, when the towers fell.
“We just lost so many men,” he said.
I wasn’t there when it happened; I wasn’t even alive. But I’d heard this story before, I’d walked dozens of times past that same fire station, which now has a plaque commemorating the seven firefighters who died on 9/11. Hearing the story again on the phone, I found myself walking down the streets of Washington D.C., bawling.
I’m 23, born a year-and-a-half after 9/11. Most Americans my age learned about the attacks in school, as history. I’m part of the 16% who learned through family or friends.
The discovery happened by accident, when I was in kindergarten. My mom and I were in a children’s store on the Upper West Side, when we started flipping through a picture book about the history of New York City. Most of the book was unremarkable, but the end was unexpected: a scene of the smoldering twin towers.
I forget what exactly happened next, but here’s what I do remember: My mom was upset that the shop hadn’t provided a warning about the book’s end, and I was confused about why she was upset. I was five, too young to understand the image and never one to let a question go unanswered; I must have pestered her until she offered up an explanation.
She hadn’t been prepared to tell me about terrorism. She’d been evading the topic for some time, telling half-truths to avoid it. When I’d ask her why we had to take our shoes off in line at the airport, she’d just say it was to make sure no one had anything dangerous, leaving out the part about how a man had tried to get on a flight with bombs hidden in his shoes.
“9/11 is a huge thing for a parent to have to tell a kid about,” my mom told me this week. “You were a happy kid, and I didn’t want you to get scared or traumatized.”
The events, and impacts, of that day slowly unfolded for me as the years passed. I learned that my father had watched from Battery Park as the South Tower fell; he ran westward as plumes of smoke billowed toward him. I learned that my parents had friends who’d died in the towers, one of whom was the father of a boy I grew up with. I remember going to the 9/11 Memorial and Museum when it opened in 2014, feeling sick as I watched footage of people jumping out of the towers.
The New York Times recently interviewed dozens of Gen Z Americans about 9/11. I was struck by how disconnected many felt from the event. “It’s hard to feel sad about something that you don’t remember,” said Annika Heegaard, a 25-year-old now living in New York.
But for me, 9/11 doesn’t feel quite so far away. By now I’ve lived through other mass casualty events, like the Parkland shooting and the Oct. 7 Hamas attacks. But 9/11 is the only tragedy that my family members had such a direct connection to. “It was devastating,” my mom said.
I think the reason I can remember the exact moment I found out about 9/11 is because it changed my view of the world. I remember being almost unable to comprehend that anyone would do what the hijackers did. I wasn’t, as my mom feared, traumatized by learning about the attacks; I didn’t fear for my safety each day. But the knowledge was in some ways a loss of innocence — a discovery that people could do awful things and that the world wasn’t as safe a place as I had assumed.
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