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With 1.6M followers, TikTok influencer Miriam Ezagui teaches the masses about her Orthodox lifestyle
(JTA) — “Hi my name is Miriam,” the video begins. “I’m an Orthodox Jew, and I share what my life is like.”
So opens a typical TikTok post from Miriam Ezagui, a 37-year-old Brooklyn-based labor and delivery nurse who has amassed 1.6 million followers on the social media platform. Users who make their way to “JewTok,” as the Jewish corner of TikTok is known, have likely encountered Ezagui’s videos, which cover everything from purchasing a sheitel to making matzah ball soup to a makeup tutorial with her daughter.
Since starting her account in May 2020, Ezagui has cemented herself at the top of the searches for “Jewish” and “Orthodox Jewish” thanks to her warm demeanor, easy humor and information-based approach. But she didn’t set out to become a Jewish influencer.
“I didn’t originally start as a Jewish account,” Ezagui told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency. Instead, it was a way to be productive while on maternity leave for her fourth child: “It gave me an excuse to get dressed and not just walk around in pajamas all day.”
“I never would have imagined that it would be where it is today,” Ezagui said of her TikTok account. “It’s been a little life-changing.”
These days, Ezagui gets invited to numerous events and Jewish product launches: she’s received free clothes thanks to collaborations with local retailers; tickets to see the off-Broadway play “The Wanderers” in exchange for an ad on her account, as well as discounts at the well-known Shani Wigs store in Brooklyn. Ezagui, who collaborates with both Jewish and non-Jewish influencers, said she’s often recognized as she goes about her day-to-day life.
Ezagui, who is Hasidic and whose four daughters range in age from 18 months to 9 years old, began her account as a way to share tips on the best ways to safely and comfortably hold a baby using woven wraps. But that all changed in late January 2022, when comedian and “The View” host Whoopi Goldberg said on air that “the Holocaust isn’t about race.”
As the granddaughter of Holocaust survivors, Ezagui said she questioned how someone with as much of a platform as Goldberg had such a lack of understanding about the Holocaust — so she decided to speak up and create a video that debunked Goldberg’s claims.
“I really had a long, hard think about whether I wanted to come out as being openly Jewish online because I was really scared of hatred and antisemitism because it’s so easy for people to do that online because they can just be a blank profile or screen,” Ezagui explained of why she was initially skeptical to post. “I never hide the fact that I’m Jewish, but I was not a social media personality … I share things personally but not with the world.”
Ezagui made her first explainer video in February 2022, breaking down why the Holocaust was an attempt to eliminate the Jewish people because the Nazis viewed them as a lesser race. “I feel like I have an obligation as a Jewish woman,” she said in the three-minute clip. “As the granddaughter of not one, but two, Holocaust survivors, I feel like my voice needs to be heard.”
“The Nazi movement wanted to eradicate Jewish people from the world. They saw us as subhuman, they saw us as inferior, something that the world needed cleansing of,” she added. “If you read the Nuremberg Laws, they refer to us as the Jewish race. They racialized us, they slapped stars on our arms, put us in concentration camps, sent us to gas chambers because we were Jewish — our whiteness didn’t save us.”
Though the video got positive feedback from her followers, the video only received around 350 likes. But her account started attracting a large following in April 2022, when she featured her grandmother, Lilly Malnik, who discussed her memories of the Holocaust. The video, titled “Meet my Bubby,” racked up over 30,000 likes.
In the next four months, several of Ezagui’s videos began to rack up anywhere from tens of thousands to millions of likes and views. In one particular TikTok from June 2022, Malnik discusses how she lost her menstrual cycle while in Auschwitz. The clip garnered 3.1 million likes and 23.4 million views.
Along the way, Ezagui began producing more Judaism-focused content. Within two months of her first Jewish video, half of Ezagui’s content had become talking about the Jewishness of her day-to-day life. These days, she posts a mix of storytimes (a popular type of TikTok video in which creators recount a story about their lives), explainer videos on Orthodox customs and scenes from her days as a mom and nurse.
“It’s a lot about multitasking or it’s a lot about me just filming my everyday life,” she added, explaining how she manages to fit between one and four hours of filming each day, except on Shabbat. “You know, ‘OK, I’m making some chicken matzah ball soup. Let’s take out the camera.’”
It’s a mixture that’s clearly working for her. Fans say that it’s Ezagui’s authenticity — her children are often yelling in the background, for example — is what sets her apart. “I like Miriam so much because I feel like she embodies the idea of an influencer staying true to themselves,” said Alyssa Cruz,19, of Toledo, Ohio. “She does not apologize for living her life a certain way, but she also handles hate and criticism with grace and respect. You can tell her what her true intentions are, and she never tries to be anyone but herself.”
“I like that she’s not as much of an ‘influencer’ as some other similar types of TikTok channels,” said Rachel Delman Turniansky, 57, from Baltimore. “I get that there are people who have been able to monetize their accounts, and good for them, but it’s kind of a nice break from that to see someone who isn’t doing it for that reason.”
“Miriam is a friend of mine, so it’s been fun to watch her grow,” said Shaina, a 25-year-old in Wellington, Florida, who knows Ezagui personally and did not want to share her last name for privacy reasons. “I’m also an Orthodox nurse, and I love seeing the way she runs so many different parts of her life — work, family, religion, TikTok, her own hobbies, etc. — in such a great rhythm. She doesn’t hide behind filters, and set ups. What you see is her real day to day life.”
Though Ezagui’s approach is often no-nonsense and educational, her videos are occasionally livened up with her unique blend of sarcasm and cheekiness — something her fans lovingly call “spicy Miriam.”
“I love Miriam’s humor — it’s mom humor so it reminds me of my own mother,” said 22-year-old Los Angeles native Alexa Hirsch. “I love her sexual innuendos because they’re so lighthearted and cute! I love how she manages to maintain her family friendly persona while also normalizing discussions about personal and private aspects of Orthodox Judaism.”
When asked whether Orthodox Jews can have sex on Shabbat, Miriam responded that the practice is “actually encouraged,” then boldly calls for her husband to help her push the beds together, raising her eyebrows and smirking.
Replying to @greysanatomyfanatic is making a baby allowed on shabbos? #babymaking #shabbos #religion #jewishtiktok #husbandwife
♬ original sound – Miriam Ezagui
As her internet fame has grown, so, too, has the amount of antisemitic comments Ezagui has received on her accounts. Perhaps not surprisingly, she has found that her posts about Judaism have received the most hate. “When people are trolling my account, I’m not afraid to call them out, but I don’t want to make it [my account] all about that,” she said. “But when I do call out, I like to do them in a tasteful way.”
For example Ezagui, in response to a comment saying “go in the oven jew,” Ezagui filmed a video in which she superimposed the comment over a video in which she says: “For thousands of years Jews have been persecuted. Great empires have tried to extinguish our flame, but we survive. We. Will. Always. Survive! Your hatred has no power over me.”
Ezagui emphasized how important it is for her account to be a safe space for all people, regardless of their race, gender or religion. She consistently features content creators and also man-on-the-street videos of people of all backgrounds — in one video, she and a Muslim friend discuss why they cover their hair, and in another she discusses topics like why Purim costumes should not appropriate other cultures.
“I welcome everyone to my channel,” she said. “ I accept people as they are, I think it makes them feel comfortable.”
“She’s all about education, and in a world filled with falsehoods and stereotypes about Jews, it’s nice to see someone actively combatting it and engaging with people’s questions,” said Olivia, a 21-year-old living in Morningside Heights who declined to provide her last name. “There are so many people in the world who have never met anyone Jewish in their lives, and to them, Jews are almost fictitious, mythical, evil creatures rather than just real people. It’s really difficult to be so visible as a Jewish person, especially an Orthodox one, yet she does it anyway, and I think that’s really brave and commendable.”
When the busy mom isn’t on camera and or at work, she enjoys reading, experimenting in the kitchen and getting some much needed R&R at the nail salon.
In the future, Ezagui hopes to bring the birthing classes she runs in the Orthodox community to a wider audience, or even to start a podcast. Both ideas are still in their early stages but would continue her TikTok account’s mission of education.
“A lot of people don’t know Orthodox Jews, and there’s a lot of antisemitism surrounding Jews from a place of not, like, extreme hatred,” Ezagui said. “I’m not here to change anybody’s mind if they hate us for no reason, just to hate. But there’s a lot of people that hate Jews, just because of stereotypes that are not real or because there’s a lack of information.
“One of the things that I hope to accomplish with my account is that people can learn from a Jewish person directly,” she added. “And that has a positive impact.”
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The post With 1.6M followers, TikTok influencer Miriam Ezagui teaches the masses about her Orthodox lifestyle appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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When Assassination Attempts Stop Shocking Us
US President Donald Trump takes questions from media at a press briefing at the White House, following a shooting incident during the annual White House Correspondents’ Association dinner, in Washington, D.C., U.S., April 25, 2026. Photo: REUTERS/Jonathan Ernst
The villagers of Chelm once faced a serious problem.
A wooden bridge at the edge of town had a loose plank in the middle. People kept stepping on it, falling through, and breaking their legs. The town elders gathered for an emergency meeting. Some said, “We should put up warning signs!” Others said, “We should add lights along the bridge!”
Then one leader stood up and said, “I have the answer! Let’s build a hospital at the bottom of the bridge!”
This, I fear, is where America stands today.
Just a few days ago, during the White House Correspondents’ Dinner in Washington, D.C., a gunman rushed past a security checkpoint and opened fire. The President, the First Lady, and members of the Cabinet were evacuated. The suspect, a 31-year-old teacher with an engineering degree, had written a manifesto targeting administration officials, and investigators later found anti-Trump and anti-Christian rhetoric on his social media accounts.
Regardless of where one stands politically, this news should shake our very core. A civilized society cannot become comfortable with such evil acts of violence. And yet, by morning, the conversation had already shifted: More security. Stricter gun laws. Better screening.
All of it sounded like building another hospital at the bottom of the bridge — because while some of these ideas are worthy and necessary, they do not answer the deeper question that should be at the forefront of our minds: How did we arrive at a moment when evil has become so banal that it no longer shocks us?
Many blame all sorts of reasons — from political extremism to mental illness, from social media to economic anxiety — and while each of these may contain parts of the truth, none addresses the root of the problem. Because the broken plank is not only political. It is a crisis of the nation’s soul.
Shortly after the attempted assassination of President Ronald Reagan in 1981 at the same Washington Hilton in Washington D.C., the Lubavitcher Rebbe addressed the nation with remarkable clarity. The Rebbe rejected the explanation that crime grows from deprivation and poverty, as some suggested. The Rebbe noted that Reagan’s attacker lacked nothing materially. The real issue, the Rebbe said, was that he lacked education. Not education of the mind alone, but education of the conscience.
A child must grow up knowing that there is “an Eye that sees and an Ear that hears,” that human life is sacred, that actions matter even when no one is watching, and that freedom is not permission to do whatever one wishes, but responsibility to do what is right.
Without that foundation, a society may produce people of dazzling intellectual brilliance, but with almost no goodness to guide it.
Alas, history has already shown us where that road leads. The Nazi era proved that reason alone can rationalize anything, even evil. Germany of the 20th century produced philosophers, scientists, poets, and composers. And yet, it also produced Auschwitz.
In Schindler’s List, there is a haunting scene during the liquidation of the Krakow Ghetto in which a little girl, hiding near a piano, is shot by an SS guard. As her tiny body lies in blood, another guard sits down and begins to play the piano. One guard asks the other, “Is that Bach?” His friend replies, “No. Mozart.” And they continue to discuss the music as if nothing had happened. That was Nazi Germany: murder alongside Mozart.
Elie Wiesel once asked the Lubavitcher Rebbe how he could still believe in God after Auschwitz. The Rebbe responded with a question of his own: “In whom do you expect me to believe after Auschwitz? In man?”
Because without God and the absolute truth of His Bible, morality becomes negotiable. Without grounding ourselves in Divine commandments such as “Do not murder,” even cultured and educated people can descend into evil.
We must act responsibly in the face of real threats, increase security, and pass legislation where needed. But if we truly want to prevent the next attack, we must repair the bridge itself. And that repair begins with teaching our children not only how to think, but how to live. Not only how to succeed, but how to serve. Not only how to respect life, but how to recognize “the Lord your God” Who gives us life and Who commands us to protect it in ourselves and in others.
A few years ago, here in Arizona, I had the privilege of working with Governor Doug Ducey and others to help bring a statewide Moment of Silence to the beginning of the school day. Just one quiet minute in which students can pause and remember that life has purpose, that actions have meaning, and that there is something greater than themselves.
This responsibility belongs to all of us. Adults and children alike must know that kindness is not optional, that words matter, and that every human being — even those who are different from us — is created in the image of God. And the simple moral truths that built our civilization must once again guide the way we live: “Honor thy father and thy mother.” “Love your fellow as yourself.” “Do not stand idly by while your fellow’s blood is being shed.”
Let us repair the bridge. Let us return to God and His guidance, and strengthen the soul of our country. For when a nation strengthens its soul, it not only survives. It rises.
Rabbi Pinchas Allouche is the founding Rabbi of Congregation Beth Tefillah and the founding dean and spiritual leader of the Nishmat Adin High School in Scottsdale, Arizona, where he resides with his wife, Esther, and 10 children.
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The Conspiracy Architecture Doesn’t Need Jews: It Just Prefers Them
A 3D-printed miniature model of Elon Musk and the X logo are seen in this illustration taken Jan. 23, 2025. Photo: REUTERS/Dado Ruvic/Illustration
Within hours of the shooting at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner (WHCD), a comment on The Young Turks’ social media pages offered one theory of the case.
The shooting, the commenter explained, was the work of “the family that owns and brags it founded that country and stole our fed and our way of tying our currency to its value in gold.”
Another, on the same channel, called it “another convincing Mossad-CIA joint charade.”
A sitting president had nearly been shot at a press dinner in Washington. The shooter, a 31-year-old California tutor named Cole Tomas Allen, was already in custody. None of this had any plausible connection to Israel, Jews, or the Federal Reserve. The audience supplied that connection anyway.
At NYU’s Center for the Study of Antisemitism, my colleagues and I collected and annotated 2,000 YouTube comments from 10 major US news outlets in the first 24 hours after the attack — left, center, and right — and compared them to our earlier work on the Charlie Kirk killing in September 2025 and on the saturation of antisemitic conspiracy during last summer’s US-Israeli campaign against Iran.
What we found is a structural shift in how online publics process political violence in real time. It is not, on its surface, what a Jewish reader might expect. It is more troubling than that.
At first glance, what I am about to describe might look like a decline in antisemitism. It is not.
In the Kirk corpus, roughly three in 10 comments performed conventional blame attribution: it was the Left’s fault, the Right’s fault, the media’s fault, Kirk’s own rhetoric. At the WHCD, that figure collapses to one in 20. Conspiracy theories — false flag claims, staged-event narratives, claims that Trump himself or the security state orchestrated the shooting — jump from a marginal six percent to roughly one in four. Within a single news cycle, the question being answered shifted from *who is responsible?* to *did this even happen?*
And it shifted across the entire spectrum.
At CBS, the most-engaged comment in the entire corpus — 1,887 likes — read: “That’s a helluva way to get out of the dinner berating.” The second most-engaged, 1,875 likes: “And the band played on.” A Titanic metaphor, Trump as the doomed captain.
One-word assertions reached the engagement-leading tier without any humor cover at all: “STAGED” at CBS, 659 likes. “Faker than 3 dollar bill BS” at CNN, 1,233 likes.
The same logic ran in the opposite direction at Fox News, where the staging frame was inverted into “MAGA-HOAX” — left-leaning commenters arriving on the Fox thread accused MAGA itself of having staged the attack. Different villain, identical architecture: a manufactured event, a hidden orchestrator, a perpetrator framed as a patsy, security-camera footage read as evidence of staging.
The motives stacked on top of one another — mutually exclusive, but co-existing without friction. Trump staged it to escape being roasted at the dinner. Trump staged it to manufacture sympathy for his $400 million ballroom expansion. Trump staged it to distract from issues like the Iran war, or from his collapsing poll numbers.
This is what a comment section now looks like in the hours after a political-violence event in the United States. Not partisan blame. Not grief. Not even shock. Instead, we see conspiracy as the default register of interpretation, stable across editorial positions.
What does this have to do with Jews?
Six weeks ago, during the US-Israeli campaign against Iran, the same architecture was running through the same comment sections — and the orchestrator slot was filled by Israel, by Mossad, by AIPAC, by “the family that founded that country,” by Trump-as-Israeli-asset. The mechanics were identical. What rotated was the villain.
This is what Jewish readers need to see clearly. The conspiratorial machinery that saturates American comment sections after political violence is not ideologically fixed. It is a template. It takes whatever villain the moment makes available — Israel during Iran coverage, Trump and the CIA at the WHCD, regardless of context, because that audience already carries the frame.
Antisemitism, in other words, has become structurally optional but instantly available. The infrastructure no longer needs a Jewish orchestrator to function. It still has a slot ready for one.
That is why a comparatively low antisemitism rates at most outlets this week is not a reprieve. It is a measurement of which villain the architecture happened to reach for. The infrastructure built up during the Iran coverage has not gone away. It has gone latent. The next event that supplies a Jewish or Israeli connection will reactivate it instantly, because the architecture itself was never dismantled.
One qualifier. Our corpus closed on April 26, before reports surfaced of writings recovered from Allen’s hotel room. What those documents revealed about his motive, they cannot affect the finding here. We are not diagnosing the shooter. We are diagnosing the commentariat.
Two things follow.
For those tracking online antisemitism: monitoring systems calibrated only to antisemitic markers will systematically miss what is actually happening. The threat to Jews is not located only in explicitly antisemitic comments. It is located in the universalization of the conspiratorial template that produces them whenever the conditions are right.
For those thinking about platform governance: we already know how to see this in close to real time. The bottleneck is not technical. It is institutional. Moving from documentation to early warning and intervention is a political choice, not a research problem.
The empty chair after the evacuation was Trump’s. The chair where antisemitism used to sit in this kind of discourse is, at most outlets this week, also empty. Neither absence is permanent.
Dr. Matthias J. Becker is AddressHate Research Scholar at New York University’s Center for the Study of Antisemitism. He is the founder and lead of Decoding Antisemitism, the largest study of online antisemitism conducted in Europe, and now directs its successor project, Decoding Hate, at NYU’s Center for the Study of Antisemitism.
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‘Aliyah Buddies’: How Moving to Israel Helped Me Find My People, My Community, and My New Life
Illustrative: New olim disembark at Tel Aviv’s Ben Gurion Airport on the first charter aliyah flight after he Oct. 7, 2023, Hamas attacks, arriving to begin new lives in Israel. Photo: The Algemeiner
When I made Aliyah to Israel last September, I knew another war with Iran was possible. So, on February 28th, when we all woke up to sirens, I wasn’t shocked. But I was surprised at how quickly ballistic missile attacks became almost a normal, routine part of reality.
Even so, as attacks continued with multiple impacts near where I live in Tel Aviv, I was still so glad that I had moved to Israel. Despite everything going on, I still wish I had done it 10 years ago. Now that I am here, I can’t even remember the fears that held me back for so long.
Part of the reason I feel this way comes from the support and community I have built here in Tel Aviv, largely with olim, and specifically those who were on my Aliyah flight.
Nearly seven months later, a group of us from the flight, organized by Nefesh B’Nefesh, in partnership with the Ministry of Aliyah and Integration, the Jewish Agency for Israel, Keren Kayemeth LeIsrael, and Jewish National Fund-USA, are in touch almost daily in an online chat group.
The group was born out of what I call “the Israel effect,” the phenomenon of people gravitating toward each other, looking for ways to help or get to know new people.
This happens in bomb shelters, at the grocery store, in the street — and it happened on our flight. Pretty immediately, I started talking to another olah who was sitting next to me on the plane. When we landed, we ended up in the airport waiting to complete the process of immigration with several other olim our age. We discussed everything from where we were from to where we were going to live and work, to our reasons for moving across the world and our army processes. Because we were starting a similar chapter of life, the connection was natural.
Eleven of us opened a group chat that day called “Aliyah Buddies.” At first, our questions revolved around finding ulpans and learning how to settle bureaucratic matters like converting our drivers licenses. Even though I had plenty of Israeli relatives on my father’s side of the family who were excited to accompany me to the Interior Ministry or the bank, this group was still a lifeline.
It was a place for us to put all of our worries, our doubts, and our struggles, and to be supported by the other people in the group who were experiencing the same problems. We moved from practical matters to inviting people out to events, planning reunions, asking for help choosing LinkedIn pictures, and giving general life updates. No matter what time of day or what the topic was, there was always somebody willing to help, encourage, or commiserate.
“I love this chat,” one member wrote in the Fall after a fellow group member posted photos of a single friend looking for a relationship. Just recently, a friend in the group chat got engaged and invited us all to her engagement party.
Under missile fire, this feeling is amplified. Shortly after the war’s first sirens, someone posted “Everyone good?” with a heart emoji. That led to everyone checking in from places across the country, then discussing the Home Front Command’s system of early warnings, alerts, and all-clears. In the weeks since, there have been constant check-ins along with photos from shelters, sharing fears and stress as well as more humorous stories about missile alerts interrupting showers.
In a post October 7th world, these connections are more meaningful to me, especially after I, like so many others, went through several friendship losses in the wake of the attacks. Friends who I had known for years unfollowed me or blocked me without so much as a single word. It doesn’t compare to what the State or people of Israel went through, but I definitely lost my spark for months, and felt guilty that I was living a safe, comfortable life in the Diaspora while so many were fighting and losing their lives here in Israel. Now, being here and building new communities like we’ve done in our group chat means everything to me.
Aliyah has shown me, more than anything, how deeply we as Jewish people care for one another — even if we don’t fully know them yet. What I didn’t fully understand before I moved to Israel was the strength of the community here. The sense of camaraderie among immigrants, the way people show up for each other — it makes the challenges of building a life here seem doable.
Anyone considering aliyah should understand that coming to Israel doesn’t solve all of your problems. But I’m finally in the right place, the place that feeds my soul, and where everything comes together. It is exhausting, frustrating and has challenged me in countless ways, but it is more amazing and fulfilling than I could have hoped — and at the end of the day, that’s what counts.
Arielle Gur made Aliyah to Tel Aviv in September 2025 out of love for her family, the country, and the people of Israel.