For the past few days, the world’s oldest and youngest transnational institutions have been riding high. In fact, these institutions — the Roman Catholic Church and the European Union — seem to be riding the winds of a Zeitgeist, or “world spirit,” one that promises better days ahead for our battered and embattled ideals of liberal democracy, common decency and shared humanity. Suddenly, it appears there is reason for hope.

But the hope, held by some on the political center and left in Israel, that this mighty wind will gust as far as Israel may well be a hope misplaced.

Let us first take the youngest transnational institution. On Sunday, an event of seismic proportions rocked the European continent. The prime minister of Hungary, Viktor Orban, who gave to the world the model of illiberal democracy and gave to Hungarians deepening immiseration over the past 16 years, was voted out of office.

It was not close: The opposition party Tisza, led by Peter Magyar, won 138 parliamentary seats while Orban’s party, Fidesz, managed to claim only 55. This assures the new government of the 2/3 majority required to change the laws passed under Orban that hobbled the EU, disabled the nation’s political institutions, and enabled him and his cronies to line their pockets. In his victory speech, given by the right bank of the Danube in front of the Parliament building, Magyar declared to a wildly cheering crowd that Hungary is back not only as a European nation, but back fully as a EU member. Hungary, he announced, “will be a solid ally of the European Union.”

On Palm Sunday, a different crowd — holding aloft not the flag of the European Union, but instead olive branches — welcomed Pope Leo XIV at St Peter’s Square. In his homily, he took aim at the moral corruption of the American government, one that launched a reckless military campaign against Iran (as well as a foolish political campaign in Hungary on behalf of Orban). Responding to Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth’s repeated invocations of Jesus Christ to justify his blood lust, Leo cited Isaiah: “Even though you make many prayers, I will not listen: Your hands are full of blood.” He returned to this subject during a peace vigil, praying for a kingdom of “dignity, understanding and forgiveness” to stand as a “bulwark against the delusion of omnipotence that surrounds us and is becoming increasingly unpredictable and aggressive.”

These remarks did not sit well with Donald Trump, who unleashed a series of bizarre accusations on Truth Social, declaring that “Pope Leo is WEAK on Crime,” “terrible for Foreign Policy,” and “WEAK on nuclear weapons.” Leo should “get his act together as Pope,” Trump said, “and stop catering to the Radical Left.” A few days later, after Leo failed to get his act together and instead decried Trump’s threat of carrying out a genocide against the Iranian people, the president declared that “he was not a big fan” of the Pope. When asked about these remarks, Leo replied, “I have no fear of the Trump administration, or speaking out loudly of the message of the Gospel, which is what I believe I am here to do.”

The Israeli government, one imagines, is not a big fan of the Pope, either. In a recent Sunday Mass, he addressed Israel’s campaign against Hezbollah, lamenting the deaths of more than 2,000 Lebanese, including 165 children and 250 women. Political and military leaders, he declared, have the “moral obligation to protect the civilian population from the horrific effects of war.” Nevertheless, Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu continues to rule out a cease-fire even as negotiations between Israel and Lebanon are set to begin.

No less predictably, opposition leaders in Israel have embraced the results of the election in Hungary. Writing in Hungarian — the language of his father’s family — Yair Lapid rushed to congratulate Peter Magyar on his victory, while the former defense minister Benny Gantz, also of Hungarian descent, expressed his hope that Hungary will be a “beacon of western values and moral clarity within the European community.”

Gantz’s words lacked the necessary clarity for Yair Golan, the leader of the Democratic Party, who cut to the chase: The election revealed that the “Hungarian public is fed up with corruption, incitement and the shattering of democracy.” Israel, he predicted, will “soon” experience a similar turnabout.

But there’s a rub. If the current zeitgeist does embody a renewal of a democratic and humanistic spirit, how one can insist on the importance of “moral clarity,” as Gantz does, while supporting the military campaigns in Gaza and Lebanon? With the notable exception of Golan, most other opposition figures in Israel have expressed few reservations over the criminally inhumane razing of Gaza. As the columnist Iris Leal recently observed, “there is no war that a Zionist politician from the center-left would not support.”

While a majority of the Israeli public is as fed up as Hungarians with their own government’s corruption and shattering of democracy, they nevertheless support the various wars undertaken by that same government. In a recent poll taken by the Viterbi Family Center for Public Opinion and Policy Research at the Israel Democracy Institute, more than 90% of respondents support the war against Iran.  As for the future of Gaza, a poll published last year by Haaretz revealed that 56% of Israelis support the forcible expulsion of Gaza’s population to other countries, and 54% think this expulsion should extend to the Arab citizens of Israel.

Only a fool would deny that Iran and its Hamas and Hezbollah clients pose serious threats to Israel’s security. But it also takes a fool to declare that never-ending war and military occupation will alone win lasting peace for Israel. The mighty wind of democracy and decency has swept Viktor Orban from office and carried the words of Leo across the world. But it remains to be seen if this same wind, at the moment when Israelis find themselves at a crossroads between fully becoming a Jewish state or a democratic state, is strong enough to lead them to take the right path.

The post Winds of change are in the air in Hungary and at the Vatican. Will they reach as far as Israel? appeared first on The Forward.

“Don’t tell Mom.”

It is a sentence that has echoed through Iran’s prisons for decades. A sentence carried through monitored phone lines in the final minutes granted to the political prisoners before execution.

It’s a closing plea made just before the state carries out a sentence from which there is no appeal in practice, regardless of what the law suggests in theory.

Political prisoners are typically permitted one final phone call. The call is brief and the tone measured. A father or a sibling answers. There is no explicit reference to what awaits. The word execution is rarely spoken aloud. Surveillance renders such candor both futile and dangerous.

Instead, there is a restraint.

“Dad … please don’t tell Mom.”

He once imagined a different future. He is a teenager with dreams. Employment. Stability. The ordinary dignity of contributing to his household. A simple life with shared meals, familiar arguments, the slow accumulation of years.

He did not anticipate becoming an example.

In the final hours, time takes on a different texture. Memory becomes intrusive. Childhood surfaces with disorienting clarity. The mind hangs between improbable hope and quiet comprehension. There may be a reprieve. Perhaps international pressure will intervene. Perhaps the sentence will be suspended. Hope flickers irrationally. But the machinery of execution is efficient. The last image is not of ideology. Not of slogans. It is of home.

And then, silence.

Executions function not only as punishment, but as communication. A message sent through prison walls into society: dissent has consequences. Protest has a cost. Silence is safer.

Within Iran’s Revolutionary Courts, outcomes in political cases are determined long before the hearing begins. Access to a lawyer is restricted. Trials may last minutes; in some cases, there are no trials. Charges such as “enmity against God” or “corruption on earth” are applied, enabling capital punishment under a broadly interpreted definition of dissent.

By the time the final call is made, the legal process has typically run its course.

What follows is administrative efficiency.

Hours later, families are notified. The burial conditions are controlled and restricted. Public mourning is not permitted. Grief itself becomes regulated.

The executions of political prisoners in Iran emerge from a judicial architecture that has long blurred the boundary between adjudication and enforcement.

Political cases are typically adjudicated in Revolutionary Courts, institutions established in the aftermath of the 1979 coup d’état to address actions perceived as threats to the state. Over time, their jurisdiction has significantly expanded. Proceedings are conducted behind closed doors. Defendants in national security cases, as defined by the regime, may not be allowed to consult their preferred attorney during the investigative stage, which is a crucial time when coerced confessions are frequently obtained.

Claims of forced confessions, brief trials, and a lack of evidentiary transparency have all been documented by human rights organizations on numerous occasions. The way charges like “enmity against God” (moharebeh) and “corruption on earth” (efsad fel-arz) are phrased leaves room for interpretation. These offenses are punishable by death under Iran’s Islamic Penal Code.

In politically sensitive cases, appeals are reviewed in minutes and without public scrutiny. The interval between sentencing and execution is usually brief, especially during nationwide protests.

The outcome is a system in which capital punishment transcends its role as a criminal penalty and instead operates as a deliberate instrument of state control and intimidation.

The right to a fair and public hearing, access to independent legal counsel, and the exclusion of evidence obtained under duress are guaranteed under international legal standards, notably those set out in the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, to which Iran is a member. International Law limits the use of capital punishment, where it has not been abolished, to the most serious crimes, understood to involve deliberate killing. Significant concerns arise regarding proportionality and due process when the death penalty is applied in cases related to protests. In such conditions, the legitimacy of the sentence itself is called into question, and fundamental legal protections are undermined.

Executions in this context serve a dual function: they eliminate the individual and communicate a warning to the broader public. Particularly in the aftermath of protest movements, they operate as instruments of deterrence, reinforcing the cost of dissent.

This is not merely a domestic judicial matter; it is a question of whether procedural form can substitute for substantive justice and whether the language of law can obscure the absence of its protections.

The cases differ in detail, but the structural concerns remain consistent: restricted legal representation, opaque trials, and the rapid advancement of capital sentences.

Time, in such cases, is measured not in months but in days, sometimes hours.

The international community has mechanisms at its disposal. Governments engaged in diplomatic relations with Tehran possess channels through which urgent appeals have been raised, yet these efforts have too often failed to elicit meaning response. The UN Special Rapporteur on the situation of human rights in Iran has repeatedly called for transparency and adherence to international fair trial standards, but such appeals lack effective means to hold authorities inside Iran accountable.

Public pressure matters. Diplomatic engagement matters. Clear and coordinated messaging matters. Silence, too, carries consequences.

In the context of war and ceasefire, the Islamic Republic of Iran has intensified its repressive measures, imprisoning and executing young individuals for the simple act of sharing images and videos with international media. The Internet blackout has severely restricted access to information about detainees and ordinary Iranians.

As the United States and Islamic Republic of Iran prepare to engage in more high-stakes talks in Islamabad, aimed at stabilizing a fragile ceasefire following weeks of conflict, concerns are intensifying that those at risk of execution and ordinary Iranians may face heightened risk under an increasingly vengeful policy of the regime.

For Iranians, the future remains uncertain and unsettling. Rather than offering reassurance, these negotiations are met with anxiety and distrust, as many fear that diplomatic engagement may come at the cost of further repression at home.

Amid pervasive fear and danger, the fate of millions of Iranians remains unknown.

The men and women awaiting execution today are not abstractions. They are sons and daughters who once ended a phone call with the same plea:

“Don’t tell Mom.”

The question now is not only what will happen inside prison walls, but also what will happen outside of them — in foreign ministries, in multilateral institutions, in the public conscience. Because once the sentence is carried out, there is no correction. What Iranians might face now is the aftermath of an unfinished war.

This year, as Parshat Tazria-Metzora coincides with Shabbat Rosh Chodesh, and the weekly haftara gives way to the closing chapter of the Book of Isaiah, it is impossible to hear Yeshayahu’s stirring words of consolation this season without feeling their weight.

Almost three years have passed since the horrors of October 7th. We have lived through war fought on multiple fronts — in Gaza and Lebanon, Syria and Iran. Homes destroyed across the north, south, and center of Israel. Families cycling through bomb shelters and reserve duty. Non-stop shiva calls. And, as this haftara falls just before Yom Hazikaron, military cemeteries that have grown far too large.

Yeshayahu’s vision of comfort is addressed precisely to this kind of grief — and it places a profound and demanding condition on that comfort.

The prophet paints a future of joy and renewal: Jerusalem rebuilt, her streets once again filled with laughter and light. “Bring Jerusalem joy, exult in her, all of you who love her; celebrate her joy with her, all of you who mourned her” (Isaiah 66:10). The Gemara (Taanit 30b) reads this verse with care and draws out a powerful principle: Only those who have genuinely mourned for Jerusalem will merit sharing in her future joy. The invitation to rejoice in redemption is conditional upon having grieved.

This teaching about who truly “mourns for Jerusalem” carries urgent contemporary weight. A Pew Research Center study released last month found that American favorability toward Israel has dropped eight percentage points in a single year, with 60% of Americans now holding an unfavorable view. More troubling is the trend within the Jewish community: just last year, 73% of American Jewish respondents held a favorable view of Israel. That figure has fallen to 64% — a decline of nearly 10 points in 12 months. For those who love Zion, these are not merely political data points. They are a challenge to the very solidarity that Yeshayahu’s vision demands.

What lies behind this shift? Part of the answer is a well-funded, coordinated campaign to delegitimize the State of Israel and Zionism — visible in American higher education, in the media, and in political lobbying. This must be named and addressed.

But it would be a mistake to look only outward. We in Israel must honestly ask whether the policies and public statements of top Israeli officials have not made it easier to misrepresent Israel as a state unconcerned with minorities, insensitive to other faiths (including Jewish denominations which are not Orthodox), and willing to flatten Gaza and repopulate it with Jewish settlements. The obligation to protect the state is sacred; so too is the obligation to ensure that the vision of an independent, flourishing Jewish State remains one that Jews in Israel and the diaspora can embrace together.

“As a man is consoled by his mother, just so shall I comfort you, and in Jerusalem, you shall be consoled” (v. 13). Yeshayahu’s image of consolation is strikingly intimate — the warmth of a mother, the certainty of belonging. This comfort is not meant to be experienced alone. It is promised to a people that returns to Jerusalem together, whose grief has been communal and whose joy will be shared. Since October 7th, so many Jews worldwide have indeed mourned, prayed, donated, advocated, and made aliyah. That solidarity is real, and must not be taken for granted.

Generations ago, a visitor to the Kotel etched into its ancient stones a verse from this very haftara: “You shall look on, your heart rejoicing, while your bones grow vigorous, like grass, and the hand of the Lord becomes known to His servants” (v. 14). An anonymous hand carved those words of hope into the wall — a private prayer left for all who would come after. This person understood Yeshayahu’s meaning precisely: Our hope is not merely personal. The rejoicing, the vigorous renewal, the recognition of God’s hand in history — all of it belongs to all our people, as one.

As we approach Yom Hazikaron, mourning our fallen with aching hearts, may we recommit to the work of shared solidarity that Yeshayahu demands. May we grieve together, hold one another, and confront with honesty and courage whatever stands between us and the vision of Jerusalem restored. And may we all merit, as a nation, and not merely as individuals, to see that day of consolation soon.

Rabbi Dr. Kenneth Brander is President and Rosh Yeshiva, Ohr Torah Stone.