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Visiting Jerusalem, Ron DeSantis tries out his Jewish stump speech
JERUSALEM (JTA) — Ron DeSantis may not have declared that he’s running for president yet, but his incipient campaign was on full display Thursday at a conference in Jerusalem, where he ran down a laundry list of issues relevant to Israel and American Jews.
Most of the Florida governor’s remarks reflected what has become Republican orthodoxy in the post-Donald Trump era: He supports Israeli West Bank settlements as well as keeping Jerusalem under full Israeli control. He wants the United States to be more aggressive toward Iran’s nuclear program. He vehemently opposes the movement to boycott Israel.
And he declined to take a position on the Israeli government’s effort to sap the Israeli Supreme Court of much of its power — which President Joe Biden has repeatedly criticized as a danger to Israeli democracy.
“We must also, in America, respect Israel’s right to make its own decisions about its own governance,” he said. “You’re a smart country. You figure it out. It shouldn’t be for us to butt into these important issues.”.
He also pushed back at claims that his legislation has led to the banning of Holocaust books in his state, calling them “fake narratives” (though multiple Holocaust books have been banned). And, at a press conference, he signed a bill that aims to penalize antisemitic harassment. He also touted a new bill that gives vouchers worth thousands of dollars to parents who send their children to private schools.
“We’ve really seen a historic migration of American Jews and Israeli Americans moving to southern Florida,” he said. “It’s really, really boomed, and I think Florida’s policies have really reinforced that.”
DeSantis, who landed in Israel yesterday, was the keynote speaker at a conference on Thursday hosted by the Jerusalem Post at the Museum of Tolerance here. He received multiple standing ovations and cheers throughout the morning. At a press conference after his speech, some of his supporters sat among the journalists and clapped at his responses.
Israel is the latest on a four-stop international trip by DeSantis, who is expected to announce later this year that he will challenge former President Donald Trump for the Republican presidential nomination. On the trip, he is meeting with Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, President Isaac Herzog and other officials. His trip also includes stops in Japan, South Korea and the United Kingdom.
“If there’s any announcements, those will come at the appropriate time,” he said in response to a question about his potential candidacy.
In his speech, DeSantis described his past support for Israel, advocating for the 2018 move of the U.S. embassy from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem and, in 2019, holding a Florida cabinet meeting in Jerusalem. He also told the crowd that he baptized his children with water from the Sea of Galilee and said he put a note in the Western Wall asking God to protect Florida from hurricane season.
An affinity for the Bible also played a role in DeSantis’ position on the West Bank, which he called “disputed” rather than “occupied.” He referred to the territory by the term “Judea and Samaria,” which is the Israeli government’s standard term for the area and also emphasizes its place in the Bible. He spoke of visits to the northern West Bank settlement of Ariel, as well as to the City of David, a Jewish neighborhood and archaeological site in eastern Jerusalem.
“We visited the Biblical heartland of Judea and Samaria,” he said during his speech regarding a previous trip. Later, at the press conference, he said, “Those are the most historic Jewish lands there are, going back thousands and thousands of years.”
He also came out staunchly in favor of continued Israeli control of eastern Jerusalem, claiming that it is the best way to ensure religious freedom in the city. Palestinians aspire for the city’s eastern area to be the capital of a future Palestinian state.
“With Israeli sovereignty over the city of Jerusalem, people have the ability to practice their religion freely,” he said. “They have the ability to visit their sites freely. That would just actually not be true if that were in other hands.”
Although his Israel policies dovetail with those of Trump, and even though Trump’s Israel ambassador, David Friedman, was at the conference, DeSantis avoided saying the former president’s name in his speech, instead referring to “the previous administration.” He did say Trump’s name once during the press conference.
Following his speech, DeSantis announced partnerships with Israeli firms to develop tech products, and portrayed his state as an inviting home for Jews. He said the state had invested millions of dollars into synagogue security as well as Holocaust education. And he signed a bill that bans projecting threatening images on buildings without permission, as well as littering with the intent to intimidate.
Florida has seen an uptick recently in white supremacist activity. The Goyim Defense League, a far-right antisemitic group, relocated there last year. In October, several public spaces in Jacksonville displayed messages promoting the antisemitic ideas of rapper Kanye West. Neo-Nazis intimidated attendees at an Orlando-area Chabad center in February, and last week, police arrested a man for a March attack on a different Florida Chabad center.
“This is going to be able to provide more tools to be able to combat antisemitic activity,” DeSantis said. ״If you have a synagogue and someone shines a swastika-like image on that, they have a right to do the image for themselves, but putting it on someone else’s property, they’re defining that in this bill as a trespass.”
The signing of that bill, and DeSantis’ contention that he supports Holocaust education, comes as legislation he signed has enabled parents in the state to pursue bans of Holocaust literature. A South Florida school district library removed a Holocaust-themed novel by Jodi Picoult in March, and this month, a high school in the state removed a graphic novel adaptation of Anne Frank’s diary from its shelves.
Despite those instances and other bans parents are seeking, DeSantis claimed that there was no significant campaign to ban Holocaust books. He called that allegation the “book ban hoax.”
“Those are all fake narratives,” he said. “We’ve provided curriculum transparency for parents, to make sure that the curriculum used in school is transparent and to make sure everything is age appropriate and is not conflicting with Florida standards. And so, what parents have identified unfortunately are pornographic images in books.”
The legislation, which has targeted books about sexuality and gender, is at the center of DeSantis’ campaign to limit or ban discussion of those topics in schools. The law, called the “Parental Rights in Education” bill and dubbed by critics as the “Don’t say gay” bill, also bans discussion of LGBTQ topics between kindergarten and third grade, among other measures. It is one of a series of recent state laws limiting transgender rights.
That law is also at the center of DeSantis’ feud with Disney, the state’s largest employer, which just sued the governor for allegedly punishing the company for its criticism of the law. At the press conference, DeSantis said the suit is about Disney wanting “to be able to control things without proper oversight.”
DeSantis did not refer specifically to the Anne Frank graphic novel in his remarks, and said Florida had “beefed up” Holocaust education in the state. But a Jewish ally of his who accompanied him on the trip, Republican state Rep. Randy Fine, defended banning the book, which he called the “Anne Frank pornography book.”
“I read the diary of Anne Frank many times as a kid and I don’t remember any of that stuff that they put in that graphic novel,” Fine told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency. “And frankly that graphic novel is antisemitic. To sexualize the diary of Anne Frank in that sort of inappropriate way, it is antisemitic.”
When told that the passages, which are authentic and relate to Frank’s attraction to another girl as well as a description of her own genitalia, have been included in the diary for decades, Fine said that the graphic novel was inappropriate regardless because it depicted the passages in an image.
“It wasn’t just that the passages were in the book,” he said. “It was how they were visualized.”
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The post Visiting Jerusalem, Ron DeSantis tries out his Jewish stump speech appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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How Yiddish and Savta Sarah shaped my Jewish journey
I first fell in love with Jewish languages as a Fulbright fellow at Tel Aviv University.
I was fascinated by the many languages that had converged in Israel: Hebrew, Arabic, Yiddish, Darija, Russian, Amharic and Ladino. I learned about different communities’ language and history, which built meaningful connections with the people who brought them to life in the present.
Learning Yiddish felt especially profound: the knowledge that it had once been the most widely spoken Jewish language in the world, and that millions of its speakers had been killed in the Holocaust.
I was a Roman Catholic from Texas. Moving to Israel was my first sustained exposure to Jewish life, and I was welcomed into it with a warmth that felt both casual and profound — Shabbat dinners, holiday tables and conversations that stretched late into the night.
About a year into my time there, I met my now-husband, Sagi. Through him, I met his grandmother, Sarah. He called her Savta Sarah (savta is Hebrew for grandmother), so I did too.
On Shabbat afternoons, we’d visit her home. She spoke Yiddish, Polish, Russian and by that time, primarily Hebrew – always with a Yiddish inflection – and little English. My Hebrew was still rudimentary. But I knew German, which is still intelligible to a Yiddish speaker. This became our shared language.
Savta Sarah taught me words like nudnik, mentsh, takhles, shtinker, meshugas, fargin — and pointed out how Yiddish lived on in Israeli slang over the decades. Yiddish, she told me, was a language of cynicism and humor, a way of making life’s tsuris bearable.
Sarah taught me how Yiddish articulated a sense of resilience through cynicism, poking fun at everything in life from the tragic to the banal – for example – “Ikh vil dos nisht haltn, efsher vet emitser dos ganvenen” (“I don’t want to keep this, but hopefully someone will steal it”) can be used when you’ve been given something you don’t want, but feel too guilty about throwing it away.
I also loved “der mentsh trakht, un got lakht” (Man supposes but God disposes)” – used when bad things happen, to remind the hearer, mostly with humor, of the futility of mortality, but it can also refer to a sense of faith, despite the circumstances.
Cynicism was how people survived. This mentality existed alongside warmth in a culture rich with hospitality that always made sure to pause on weddings, bris-milah, holidays and Shabbos to celebrate life.
Sarah embodied that sensibility: perceptive and generous, yet direct and unsentimental. She was also the single Holocaust survivor of her immediate family.
Her memories occasionally surfaced without warning. We would be talking about something mundane, and suddenly she would shift into the past.
Sarah was born in the 1930s near today’s Polish-Ukrainian border. Her mother was murdered by the Nazis in a mass execution of Jewish women and children. Sarah, my mother-in-law told me, survived by luck.
Afterwards, during the chaos of a violent attack on the forced labor camp, Sarah was separated from her father, who was killed. She hid in snowy fields for days, later being taken back to the camp. There she reunited with cousins who smuggled her scraps of food. She was still a child.
After the camp was liberated by the Allied Forces, Sarah was sent to a refugee camp in Cyprus. A first attempt by Jews to escape to British Mandatory Palestine failed when the government turned back ships carrying Jewish refugees. Sarah considered joining an aunt in Venezuela, ultimately trying again to land in eretz-yisroel, at last immigrating in 1947, a year before Israeli independence. She built a life — marrying, raising children, and lovingly witnessing her grandchildren reach adulthood.
I never asked her about the Shoah, but her memories emerged in fragments during our visits. Once, Sarah recalled guarding a loaf of bread in her bed in the camp, only to wake and find it stolen. She told it plainly, without visible emotion. And yet, she joked often and radiated pride in the family she had helped rebuild.
Over time, my relationship with Savta Sarah became part of my own spiritual journey. What began as curiosity about Judaism deepened into a desire to convert. After years of learning, I entered a Modern Orthodox conversion program called “Project Ruth” and will soon immerse in the mikveh to complete the process.
There isn’t just one reason for that decision. But Savta Sarah, a very secular woman, is part of it — not because she argued for faith, but because she embodied a form of Jewish resilience and continuity through her stories and through the Yiddish she taught me. From her, I learned what it meant not just to inherit a tradition, but to participate in rebuilding it.
I have always been a spiritual person who has felt close to God, and feel drawn to Judaism’s daily prayers and the intimacy of putting on tefillin. I was drawn far less to kosher laws. But when I think of Jewish history and my journey that has led me into the Jewish people, stories woven together like the braids of a havdalah candle, it makes sense to be observant. I’m not doing it just for myself, but also as a way of honoring past generations and paving the way for future generations.
When Sagi and I left Israel in 2022, we visited Sarah one last time. By then, she understood we were a couple as two men, though we’d never needed to formally explain.
As we were leaving, she pressed several crisp hundred-dollar bills into Sagi’s hand, smiling mischievously. “This is for both of you,” she said. Then, more seriously: “Look out for each other, that’s all you have in this world.”
Savta Sarah died a few years later. Since then, I’ve continued learning Yiddish, slowly and informally. Language and memory have become central to how I understand my place in the Jewish story.
A century ago, Yiddish speakers in Eastern Europe could not have imagined who might one day take up their language. As fewer native speakers remain, the future of Yiddish may depend, in part, on unexpected inheritors.
And for me, that is an incredible honor.
The post How Yiddish and Savta Sarah shaped my Jewish journey appeared first on The Forward.
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Non-Jews Must Stand Up to Indifference: Antisemitism in Modern Europe
Protesters hold up placards against British Prime Minister Keir Starmer during his visit to Golders Green, northwest London, following a terror attack on April 29, 2026, in which two men were stabbed, in London, Britain, April 30, 2026. Photo: Stefan Rousseau/Pool via REUTERS
Fears and anxieties are running high among British Jews, and among Jews across Europe more broadly. There is only so long that a community can project strength and resilience while its members are being stabbed in broad daylight, and while vile antisemitic graffiti stains the walls of cities like Berlin.
At some point, the question must be asked: how much can a society tolerate before its silence becomes complicity?
This is not a theoretical concern — it is already visible in policies, media coverage, and public debate.
What is perhaps most disturbing is not only the rise in antisemitic incidents, now at record highs in many parts of Europe, but the muted response to them. Similar hatred towards other minorities would provoke outrage and sustained debate.
Yet when Jews are targeted, reactions are often subdued and short-lived. Coverage exists, but in everyday conversations and workplaces, the urgency is largely absent.
Living in Germany, I have found that antisemitism is rarely a topic of concern among non-Jews. It does not seem to stir deep emotional reactions or sustained attention. It exists, but almost in the background. This indifference is not neutral. It is part of the problem.
Many Europeans today do not personally know a single Jewish person. Their understanding of Jews is often filtered through biased media narratives.
There is a vague awareness of a connection between Jews and Israel, but little real understanding. Seen mainly through conflict and accusations, Israel often becomes a reason for disengagement. Even when Jewish co-workers may exist, their identity may remain hidden. I was reminded of this when my son told me about a Jewish boy on his football team who was mocked by teammates when they heard that one of his parents is Jewish. I encouraged my son, as captain, to confront such behavior immediately.
When I share such incidents with non-Jewish friends, they are often genuinely shocked and condemn it, unable to believe such things still happen in Germany today. For a moment, this is reassuring. Yet the concern rarely lasts as people move on with their lives.
But antisemitism is never just a “Jewish problem.” It is a societal one.
History has shown, time and again, that what begins with Jews does not end with them. Antisemitism is not an isolated prejudice; it is often a symptom of broader ideological movements that seek control and dominance. Whether in the forced religious expansions of the medieval period, the racial ideology of Nazi Germany, or modern Jihadist movements that weaponize religion, the pattern is clear: once a society tolerates the dehumanization of one group, it opens the door to the erosion of freedom for all.
This is why today’s indifference is so dangerous. It reflects not only a failure to protect Jews, but an unwillingness to confront the deeper threats.
There is yet another dimension to the issue of antisemitism that is often overlooked: the position of non-Jewish allies.
Across Europe and beyond, there are Christians, Hindus, Muslims, and other righteous individuals who stand up against antisemitism and support Israel, often at significant personal cost.
They lose friendships, face tensions within their families, and encounter hostility in their workplaces. Unlike Jewish communities, which are bound by a strong sense of shared identity and belonging in Am Israel, these allies often stand alone. They do not always have a community to turn to.
This raises an uncomfortable but necessary question: what happens to these individuals if antisemitic rhetoric continues to escalate into physical violence? Jews, despite the immense challenges, have Israel — a homeland that represents refuge and continuity. For Diaspora Jews, aliyah remains an option, however challenging it may be.
But what about those who stand with them, who have tied their moral convictions to the fight against antisemitism? Who protects them?
They may well be the next in line — not because of who they are, but because of what they represent: resistance to hatred, commitment to truth, and refusal to conform to dominant narratives.
This is the hallmark of an unhealthy society — not only the presence of hatred, but the isolation of those who oppose it.
There is a broader irony: many who champion progressive values like anti-oppression, anti-colonialism, and human rights, fail to see how their silence or selective outrage contributes to the problem. In overlooking antisemitism, they undermine the very principles they claim to uphold.
The solution is neither simple nor immediate. But it begins with something fundamental: speaking.
We must continue to talk about antisemitism. We must do it consistently and persistently. There is a lesson in the propaganda strategies of the past: repetition shapes perception. Just as the Nazi propagandist Joseph Goebbels demonstrated how repetition can amplify lies, it can also strengthen truth.
Silence allows distortion to take root. Speaking up on the other hand, creates the possibility of change. There is still hope that people will listen. Because the cost of silence is not only borne by Jews. It is borne by society as a whole.
Paushali Lass is an Indian-German intercultural and geopolitical consultant, who focuses on building bridges between Israel, India, and Germany.
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I Confronted the Palestinian Authority: I Saw a Culture of Fear and Discrimination Against Christians
Palestinian Olympic Committee President Jibril Rajoub, who is also the secretary-general of Fatah’s Central Committee, holds a news conference to update the media about challenges facing Palestinian sports ahead of the Olympics in Paris, in Ramallah, in the West Bank, June 12, 2024. Photo: REUTERS/Ammar Awad
“Excuse me. This is not true. This is not true. Excuse me … I never supported killing civilians or kidnapping kids and women. Never! Even in the past. Okay?” shouted Palestinian leader Jibril Rajoub during an interview that I independently conducted with him at his office in Ramallah last summer.
The secretary-general of Fatah’s Central Committee, Rajoub is one of the most powerful figures in the Palestinian Authority (PA) and is widely regarded as a potential successor to President Mahmoud Abbas. Previously sentenced to life imprisonment for lobbing a grenade at an Israeli army bus, Rajoub later became infamous for torturing political dissidents during his stint as the head of the West Bank’s Preventive Security Force from 1994 to 2002.
As a 19-year-old American student living and working in the largely Palestinian Christian town of Beit Sahour, landing the interview was surprisingly easy.
After confirming a time with Rajoub’s assistant, I hopped into an orange minivan (a common form of public transportation in the West Bank), and headed to Ramallah from Bethlehem. During the ride, I asked my driver — who knew that I was scheduled to meet a Palestinian politician — what his main grievances with the PA were. He replied, “They don’t do anything for us.”
I told him that I’d bring this criticism up. He immediately blurted out, “No, don’t do that!”
At the behest of Rajoub’s assistant, I arrived at the entrance of a corporate office building in an upscale Ramallah neighborhood. Moments later, Rajoub’s assistant appeared, and I was led to a different building. Upon entering this other building, which I did not know, I was greeted by a gigantic mural of former Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) Chairman Yasser Arafat.
While waiting for Rajoub, who was half an hour late to the interview, I chatted with Fatah-affiliated staff members, who explained that the building was the meeting ground for members of the Fatah Central Committee.
As I asked Rajoub various questions — such as, “What do you think is the most legitimate criticism directed toward the PA today?” — I came to realize that he was a master at evading accountability.
Throughout the interview, Rajoub became increasingly fed up with me, often uttering phrases such as “listen” and “excuse me.” But it was when I attempted to ask Rajoub about his comments following Hamas’ terrorist actions on October 7, 2023 (which he ridiculously blamed Israel for) that he cut me off and started yelling. After I became visibly intimidated, Rajoub had the nerve to tell me, “I’m more democratic than you expect.”
As I left Rajoub’s oversized office, he asked, “Where are you going next?” After I told him that I was returning to Bethlehem, I realized my mistake. I thought, “If they didn’t know before, the PA definitely knows where I live now.”
On the drive back, I was silent and aloof. Thinking that I may be targeted by the PA, the days following the interview filled me with dread. I knew that some American citizens had been tortured by PA forces. When I volunteered at a summer camp, I told a Palestinian Christian colleague about what happened in the interview. She replied, “If we [as Palestinians] asked [Rajoub] what you did, we’d be sent to Jericho.” In the PA’s Jericho prison, Palestinians are routinely tortured.
What this experience revealed to me was that Palestinians in the West Bank live in a constant state of fear due to authoritarian PA rule, which severely restricts basic freedoms. But I quickly noticed that this culture of fear doesn’t affect each group in Palestinian society equally.
“There is a level of [discrimination] organizationally. There’s always a favoritism [toward] Muslims versus the Christians. I’ve seen that happen over and over again,” said Christy Anastas, a Christian Bethlehemite, who fled due to religious and political persecution. The West Bank’s culture of fear disproportionately affects Christians, the most vulnerable demographic.
In 1950, Bethlehem and the surrounding villages were 86% Christian. In 2017, Christians constituted approximately 10% of Bethlehem’s population and 1% of the West Bank’s.
While the number of Christians has marginally increased since the PA’s first census in 1997, the percentage of Palestinian Christians has rapidly dwindled, which is partly the result of emigration. Christian flight is the consequence of various factors, including economic hardship, political instability from the Mideast conflict, theological reasons, better opportunities abroad, corrupt and repressive Palestinian governance, and religious discrimination/extremism.
A 2020 study found that Christians are overwhelmingly worried about the presence of Salafist groups (77%) and armed factions such as Hamas (69%). Two-thirds were fearful of rising political Islam and Sharia-based PA rule. Finally, 70% reported hearing statements that Christians would “go to Hellfire,” 44% believed that Muslims don’t wish to see them in the land, and an identical percentage perceived discrimination when seeking jobs.
Additionally, Christians are commonly cursed on mosque loudspeakers. Rajoub himself has made anti-Christian comments. Unlike Muslims, who similarly experience PA repression, Christians face discrimination in many areas of daily life because of their religion.
Sometimes, anti-Christian discrimination is subtle. “As a Christian who went to an Islamic university uncovered, I used to get sexually harassed the whole time just because I had a cross and I didn’t have a headcover. I personally experienced that over and over again. It’s subtle. You can’t go up and say, ‘It’s because I am a Christian.’ You can’t prove it. That’s part of the problem,” Anastas explained. Other times, discrimination manifests in anti-Christian violence. In December 2025, Muslims severely beat a Christian man in Beit Jala. Some days later, Muslim extremists set ablaze a Christmas tree in Jenin’s Holy Redeemer Church.
However, most Palestinian Christians are afraid to speak about this discrimination.
“They will not talk about it [discrimination] publicly. They will not talk about it in groups,” said Luke Moon, Executive Director of the Philos Project. When I asked Anastas what happens when Christian-Muslim issues do occur, she told me that Palestinians are “always trying to manage it within the society, shut it down, and think, ‘It’s the Israeli occupation trying to create fractions between us.’”
Since Palestinian society perpetually aims to project a false image of unity, it’s uncommon for stories of anti-Christian violence to appear in international media. Consequently, it’s typical for these media outlets to inaccurately place the blame for Christian suffering entirely on Israel, while ignoring the problems within Palestinian society.
A 2024 study found that Christians don’t typically report incidents of harassment (or worse) to the police because it may instigate further oppression. As I questioned Maurice Hirsch, the study’s first author, about the interviews he conducted with Christians, he said that his sources “cannot be named. These people suffer the effects of PA retribution.”
Similarly, Anastas explained that the consequences of reporting discrimination are unpredictable: “Sometimes you go into Stockholm syndrome, where you’re inside an oppressive system, and you’d rather make friends with the oppressive system to be able to survive, versus try and fight it, because you never know what the consequences are. The consequences are unpredictable. Sometimes, you can get away with it. Sometimes, you can get killed for it.”
What I experienced in Ramallah was not simply an interview with a senior Palestinian official, but a glimpse into the culture of fear that operates in the West Bank. This casts a shadow on the future of Israeli-Palestinian relations.
By maintaining an atmosphere of fear, the PA undermines the possibility of reform. A society that intimidates its own citizens (and especially religious minorities), engages in torture, discourages self-criticism, and incentivizes martyrdom is not a viable partner for peace. Until this changes, moderate Palestinians won’t have the ability to create a future where values such as freedom, justice, and peace with Israel are upheld.