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When you invite your ancestors into your sukkah, consider bringing their Jewish languages in, too
On Sukkot, we strengthen our local communities, hosting elaborate meals with relatives and friends and leaving one wall of the sukkah open, symbolizing hospitality. Sukkot also invokes the Jewish community in time. We build temporary structures to commemorate our biblical ancestors wandering through the desert, and we invite ushpizin – symbolic guests.
Traditionally, ushpizin have been biblical characters, kabbalistically associated with particular divine attributes. In my community in Los Angeles, I have noticed and participated in a new approach: summoning the presence of more recent ancestors. This Sukkot, I am promoting this tradition with a focus on our ancestors’ words.
I first experienced a more personalized ushpizin at a friend’s sukkah about a decade ago. Before dessert, the hosts asked each guest to share one person – historical or contemporary – that they would like to symbolically invite to the meal. The guests offered diverse responses, which led to additional conversations and strengthened ties among guests. My family and others we know have adopted this practice at our own sukkah gatherings, interspersed with kiddush, lulav shaking, singing, schmoozing and, of course, copious food.
In our ushpizin conversations, some guests have “invited” celebrities like Taylor Swift and Post Malone or Jewish heroes like Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Rachel Goldberg-Polin. Some have used the opportunity to introduce lesser known historical figures, like scientist Rosalind Franklin and entertainer Gertrude Berg. But the most common type of ushpizin I’ve noticed over the years has been relatives – an adult child living in another state, an elderly parent who was too frail to travel, a deceased grandparent they sorely missed, or even a great-great grandparent who had been part of their family lore.
When sukkah guests speak of their deceased ancestors, especially parents and grandparents, they often get emotional. Several have told me afterwards that sharing a bit about their relative made their holiday more special and personal. And I have observed guests speaking to each other to learn more about their ancestors and share similar stories of love and loss.
This year, I’m planning to introduce a linguistic angle to our round of ushpizin. I will ask each guest to share one “heritage word” — a word they inherited from their ancestors even though they don’t speak that language. This idea flows from the podcast I host, Heritage Words, a production of the HUC Jewish Language Project and HUC Connect. In each episode, I interview guests about the languages their ancestors spoke and the meaning those languages bring to their lives today.
From the 16 episodes to date, I have learned about the heritage words Jews continue to use generations after their families stopped speaking their immigrant languages. Several are terms of endearment — expressions of love, usually said to children by parents and grandparents. Rozeeta Mavashev reports that her mother uses the Bukharian word “jonam” (darling), similar to the Persian word “joon,” as in “How are you doing, jonam?” Sam Miller has fond memories of his Jewish Neo-Aramaic-speaking grandmother expressing love with “qorbanokh” (dear one, lit. “your sacrifice”), similar to the Judeo-Arabic and Modern Hebrew word “kapara.”
Other heritage words involve euphemism, avoiding a word seen as crass by substituting a different word, often from a foreign language. Anthropologist Evelyn Dean-Olmsted, who coined the term “heritage words,” says the word “pishar” (to urinate) is common in the Spanish of Mexican Jews, likely an influence from Ladino or Yiddish but also claimed by Syrian Jews as Judeo-Arabic. Mayim Bialik uses diminutive forms of Yiddish words for body parts when speaking to her children, like “hentlekh” (hands) and “eygies” (eyes).
Another common domain of heritage words is cuisine. Sarah Aroeste speaks — and sings — about “masadiku,” an empanada-like savory pastry filled with potato and cheese, a recipe passed down by her Ladino-speaking ancestors from Monastir. Telahun Liad Samuel shares his experiences doing the Hamotzi blessing with “dabo,” traditional Ethiopian Shabbat bread.
Often with strong emotion, the people I interviewed associate these words with particular ancestors: parents, grandparents, even great-grandparents. Those ancestors – or their parents or grandparents – moved to a new country, and they or their children learned a new language. At some point, the immigrant language was mostly lost, and heritage words (and maybe some songs, recipe cards, or family letters) are all that remain. Similar to our treasured family possessions — jewelry, candlesticks, and kiddush cups — heritage words are heirlooms, but more portable and less at risk of being stolen, damaged, or destroyed in a fire. Like photos on a Mexican ofrenda, Heritage words connect us to our ancestors and keep their memory alive for generations after they have passed away.
Sukkot is a perfect holiday to honor our immigrant ancestors. The exodus commemorated by our temporary structures involved our biblical ancestors migrating to the Promised Land. Similarly, the traditional biblical ushpizin migrated: Abraham, Joseph, Moses, etc. Most Jews today have ancestors who migrated — from Fes to Paris, Sanaa to Tel Aviv, Baghdad to London, Damascus to Brooklyn, Rhodes to Seattle, Tehran to Los Angeles, or Warsaw to Chicago, to give just a few examples.
When I hear the term of endearment “bunchky,” it brings up fond memories of my grandfather, and it reminds me that my great-grandparents immigrated from Lithuania to the United States speaking Yiddish. By using this word and sharing it in my sukkah, I am helping to preserve my ancestral language and my ancestors’ memories. I look forward to enriching my Sukkot holiday with my guests’ heritage words — linguistic souvenirs of their ancestors’ sojourns to a new land.
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In the depths of Tel Aviv’s bus station, a fragile refuge for those with nowhere else to go during war
(JTA) — TEL AVIV — Two floors underground, past dumpsters and oil-laden puddles, through a reinforced Cold War-era door, a bomb shelter is buried underneath Tel Aviv’s Central Bus Station.
Built in 1993 to accommodate more than 16,000 Israelis, the shelter found a new life during the Israel-Iran war as a public refuge for residents of Neve Shaanan, among Tel Aviv’s most diverse neighborhoods and one of its poorest, home mainly to asylum seekers and foreign workers.
With few other options for public shelters in south Tel Aviv, residents pitched tents in the squalor of a space that had fallen into disrepair — with pipes dripping and rats scurrying — for more than 38 days as Israel and Iran exchanged missile fire until a ceasefire that began on April 8 halted the fighting.
“It’s very difficult. Not just because of the war, but because of the conditions we’re living in,” Gloria Arca, who took refuge inside the shelter with her son, Noam, said in Spanish during an interview in April. “We’re protected from the missiles, but inside we’re not safe.”
For many Israelis, the bus station occupies a space that balances between nostalgia and revulsion. Until 2018, the station was a main node for travel into and out of Tel Aviv. Since then, ridership has dropped, and now the hulking structure is seen as little more than an eyesore. During Israel’s 12-day war with Iran last year, a short video by Israeli comedians went viral for sharing the station’s GPS coordinates in a video that jokingly urged Iran, “Please don’t bomb this bus station.”
Yet the station also offers a concrete window into Israel’s widening reliance on foreign workers, which has surged in the wake of the Oct. 7, 2023, Hamas attacks.
When there is no war on, the shelter functions as a community center, complete with a Filipino church, a refugee health clinic, and retailers catering to customers in more than a dozen languages.
During wartime, the station takes on a new and vitally important role as a shelter for those who have none in their homes or neighborhoods, no family in the country whose homes they can flee to and little ability to pay for temporary accommodations somewhere safer.
Arca, who came to Israel more than two decades ago from Colombia and is in the country legally, knew that it would take her and Noam more than 10 minutes to get to a shelter from their home — longer than Israel’s advanced missile warning system allows. So they decided to move into the bus station, pitching a tent alongside some of their neighbors.
Depending on the day, more than 200 residents spent their nights in the shelter during the war, according to Sigal Rozen, public policy coordinator at the Hotline for Refugees and Migrants.
“It’s not easy, especially with young children and families with special needs,” she said. “You can’t get up in the middle of the night and just run.”
The Hotline, with funding from the Tel Aviv Municipality, worked to improve conditions in the shelter, but the starting point was dire. During a visit in April, rats could be seen scurrying across newly installed artificial turf meant to brighten the space, and mosquitoes landed on visitors’ ankles before being chased off.
More than anything, Arca worries about safety in the shelter — but not from the war. “We’re protected from the missiles, but inside, we’re not safe,” she said. “Security is there, but they don’t do their job. Drug users come in and use the bathrooms. There are many children here, and we’re afraid.”
The challenging conditions were nothing new to many of the people who moved in, who represent an often unseen but growing sector of workers in Israel.
The category of “foreign worker,” a term used in Israel to describe non-citizen laborers, most of them from countries such as the Philippines, India, and Thailand, who enter the country on temporary work visas tied to a specific employer, has long been a fraught designation.
Dominant in some industries, such as home health care, where there are so many foreign workers that the role is known as “filipina” in Hebrew, foreign workers have taken on greater shares of other sectors in recent years, particularly after Israel banned Palestinian workers from Gaza and the West Bank after the Hamas-led Oct. 7 attack. With Israelis increasingly reluctant to take low-paying manual labor jobs, the Israeli government has moved to fill the gap by permitting employers to hire more foreign workers.
Israel’s foreign worker population rose by 41% in 2024 alone to more than 156,000. By 2025, the total had reached 227,044. It is expected to grow even more in the coming years, as the government has set a ceiling of 300,000 workers.
For many Israelis, footage that circulated after the ceasefire showing long lines of foreign workers arriving at newly reopened government offices to renew their visas offered a stark illustration of the growing sector.
It is not uncommon around the world for people from impoverished countries to migrate to countries with more work and higher pay. For the workers, occupying a tenuous legal status can be worth it to be able to support their families, send their children to stronger schools and earn wages on a different scale than in their home countries.
Evelyn, a Filipina caregiver sheltering with her three children beneath the Central Bus Station, declined to give her last name out of fear of deportation. “In Israel, I can earn 10 times what I do in the Philippines. So I have money to send back to my family — not just taking care of my kids here, but my parents in Manila.”
But advocates for the workers say foreign worker status, and Israel’s increasing reliance on foreign workers, creates conditions that are ripe for abuse. Ohad Amar, executive director of Kav LaOved, a nonprofit that works to uphold equal labor rights for all workers in Israel, said the workers are “enduring conditions akin to modern slavery.”
Many foreign worker visas in Israel are tied to a specific employer and are non-transferable. Kav LaOved has documented numerous cases of delayed or unpaid wages, as well as workers who feel pressured to remain silent about abuse from their employers lest they lose their immigration status.
“Israel had not relied on migrant workers in the same way before. This is the first time at this scale,” Amar said. “Every day we are getting reports of workers’ rights violations, and we are completely overwhelmed.”
During wartime, foreign workers are frequently exposed to Israel’s unique dangers in extreme ways. On Oct. 7, as sirens blared, foreign workers were slaughtered in the fields of kibbutzes near Gaza. During the most recent war, videos circulated online of construction workers from China who filmed themselves stranded high in the air during missile barrages, afraid and without protection.
The first death in the latest round of fighting with Iran was Mary Anne Velasquez de Vera, a foreign worker in Israel from the Philippines. At the end of March, two other foreign workers were killed by a Hezbollah rocket while working in a field in northern Israel after they were unable to reach shelter.
Feeling physically vulnerable is an experience many foreign workers in Israel know well. Evelyn, a migrant from the Philippines who slept in the bus station with her children during the war, described how, in an industry as intimate as caregiving, working with elderly people who struggle to make it to a shelter, workers can feel pressured to stay in the building during an attack.
“They can’t exactly tell their employer they left grandma in the building during a missile attack, because they’ll get fired and lose their visa,” Amar said.
Some of the risks are much less visible. Evelyn was out of work as a housekeeper for the duration of the war, when her employer, an elderly woman, left the country. She lived on donations from community members and civil society organizations.
“Here is still better than back home,” she said. “But we are all struggling, and not just because of the shelter. If I can’t start working soon, I really don’t know what I will do.”
Workers like Evelyn who lack work visas must rely on informal employment, making them ineligible for compensation from Bituach Leumi, Israel’s national workers’ insurance, when they go unpaid. But having a visa did not solve the challenges of war, Rozen said.
The threat of losing their visa if they lose their employment hangs over the heads of the workers, forcing them into difficult decisions, like whether to leave their children with volunteers at the shelter or alone at home.
“Even those who still have work face a problem. If a single mother has children and there’s no school, where does she leave them? She can’t bring them along when there’s an alarm,” Rozen said. “So even when work exists, many can’t do it.”
She said the war had offered a glimpse into the as-yet-unaddressed challenges that come along with Israel’s increasing reliance on importing labor from abroad. The country’s labor market didn’t come to a standstill, as was the case in other countries in the region such as the United Arab Emirates where the vast majority of workers are migrants who tried to leave, but for Rozen, something new and troubling was laid bare.
“If you don’t want foreigners here, then don’t recruit them,” Rozen said. “But you can’t recruit them, triple their numbers, and then expect them to disappear when there’s a war.”
The post In the depths of Tel Aviv’s bus station, a fragile refuge for those with nowhere else to go during war appeared first on The Forward.
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Nearly half of young Americans view US relationship with Israel as a burden, survey finds
(JTA) — Nearly half of young Americans, 46%, believe that the United States’ relationship with Israel is mostly a burden to the United States, according to a new survey from the Institute of Politics at the Harvard Kennedy School.
The Harvard Youth Poll, which polled 2,018 Americans aged 18 to 29, found that just 16% of those surveyed described the U.S. relationship with Israel as mostly a benefit.
Respondents were asked about their view of other U.S. alliances, including Canada, which 53% saw as beneficial, and Ukraine, which 21% saw as beneficial. Israel received the lowest perceived benefit of any country tested.
The survey also found that 55% of young Americans believe the U.S. military action in Iran is not in the best interest of the American people.
It comes as attitudes about Israel among young Americans in recent years have grown sharply negative. Earlier this month, a Pew Research Center survey found that 70% of Americans aged 18 to 49 held a somewhat or very negative opinion of Israel. That view was split among partisan lines, with 84% of Democrats in that demographic holding a negative view of Israel, compared to 57% of Republicans.
The Harvard survey was conducted by Ipsos Public Affairs between March 26 and April 3 and had a margin of error of 2.74 percentage points.
The post Nearly half of young Americans view US relationship with Israel as a burden, survey finds appeared first on The Forward.
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Long Island father and teen son arrested after investigation into swastika drawn in school bathroom
(JTA) — A father and his teenage son were arrested Wednesday after an investigation into swastika graffiti at the teen’s school led police to search their home, where authorities said they found chemicals used to make explosives.
The arrests stemmed from an investigation into swastika graffiti found in a boys’ bathroom at Syosset High School on Long Island. After police determined that a 15-year-old student had drawn the swastika, the Nassau County Police Department sent officers to his home.
There, the teen told the officers about the explosive materials, according to prosecutors. He said his father had purchased the chemicals for him to build rockets.
During the subsequent search of the home, police found “highly unstable” materials that had been combined to make explosives, including nitroglycerin, multiple acids, oxidizers and fuels. They began to evacuate people in adjacent homes, fearing an explosion.
The teen was not identified by police due to his age. Francisco Sanles, 48, who was arrested at the scene, has pleaded not guilty to seven criminal counts, including criminal possession of a weapon and endangering the welfare of a child. His son was charged with five counts, including criminal possession of a weapon, criminal mischief, aggravated harassment and making graffiti.
Swastika graffiti is relatively commonplace in schools, with the Anti-Defamation League reporting over 400 incidents in 2024: Syosset High School itself was hit by a spate of antisemitic graffiti, including swastikas, in 2017. But it is relatively rare that incidents result in arrests.
In an email to the school district Wednesday night, the Syosset School District — which enrolls a large number of Jewish students — said its investigation had identified the student for the police, and he would face “serious consequences pursuant to the District’s Code of Conduct.”
“Antisemitism and hate speech have no place in our communities or in our schools,” the district said. “Syosset has long been proud of being a welcoming, empathetic, and inclusive community and those values remain firm. We protect those values and this community by confronting and holding accountable those who traffic in any form of hate.”
In January, New York City Police arrested and charged two 15-year-old boys suspected of spraying dozens of swastikas on a playground in a heavily Jewish Brooklyn neighborhood with aggravated harassment and criminal mischief as a hate crime.
The post Long Island father and teen son arrested after investigation into swastika drawn in school bathroom appeared first on The Forward.
