As head of the nonprofit Brandeis Center for Human Rights Under Law, Kenneth Marcus was early — critics would say premature — in using aggressive legal tactics to fight antisemitism on college campuses and other public spaces. 

The former assistant secretary for civil rights in the first Trump administration, Marcus remembers when other Jewish organizations said his organization’s tactics —  which include suing universities for not adequately addressing antisemitism and challenging educators and universities under the Education Department’s Title VI civil rights statute — was counterproductive and, in conflating anti-Israel rhetoric with antisemitism, targeted speech protected by the First Amendment. 

The liberal Leadership Conference on Civil and Human Rights, which includes a number of Jewish groups, opposed his nomination to the administration post, saying he used the Title VI complaint process “to chill a particular political point of view.”

Others objected to the center’s tone. An American Jewish Committee official internally called an op-ed he wrote about campus antisemitism in 2022 “inflammatory.”

Nowadays, more than a year into Israel’s war with Hamas and amid widespread complaints about anti-Israel activism on college campuses and antisemitism in the streets, he is seeing a shift. 

“It is my consistent sense that my approach to campus antisemitism is shared by a very wide swath of the Jewish community, including Jewish communal organizations from center right to center left,” he said in an interview. “There was a time some years ago where that wasn’t necessarily the case.” 

In a profile earlier this year, calling him “The Man Who Helped Redefine Campus Antisemitism,” the New York Times wrote that “his tactics have been widely copied by other groups.”

Among the groups that in the past year have partnered with the Brandeis Center (which has no affiliation with Brandeis University) are the Anti-Defamation League, Hillel International, the Jewish Federations of North America and the AJC — the very group that circulated an internal memo criticizing Marcus in 2022. 

Marcus isn’t alone in seeing a change in what American Jews see as ideologically mainstream. With the incoming Trump administration promising a crackdown on the kind of campus activism that left many students, parents and observers feeling alienated and isolated, a historically liberal Jewish community is increasingly embracing goals and tactics often seen at odds with historically liberal positions. 

“I think that we [Jews] became alarmed at some of the initiatives happening in universities, happening in other settings, and are moving to figure out a way to limit that movement,” said Steven Windmueller, emeritus professor of Jewish communal studies at Hebrew Union College in Los Angeles. “And in the process, it has also shifted the debate and context of where we are on free speech.”

And it’s not just free speech, said Windmueller. Jews who felt burned by the left’s harsh criticism of Israel since the start of the war are questioning the wisdom of joining coalitions with groups with whom they have been traditionally aligned, on issues like civil rights, immigration, LGBTQ+ rights and abortion. Jews who historically have embraced diversity at elite universities — in part owing to memories of having been excluded themselves — are joining longtime right-wing critics of campus DEI — or diversity, equity and inclusion – efforts.

“The failure of many of these DEI offices to effectively respond to the crisis right now is quite an indictment — it just is,” Jonathan Rosenblatt, CEO of the Anti-Defamation League, told Jewish Insider in December 2023. Even though ADL supports the goals of DEI, it and other organizations are asking whether the offices adequately protect Jewish students and if they support an ideology of oppressed vs. oppressor that turns Israel and its supporters into pariahs.

Under a second Trump administration, Windmueller said, conservative Jewish groups are certainly going to enjoy increased influence and score policy successes. But even beyond the most conservative Jewish voters, “I think it may happen with at least a cadre of Jews who will feel comfortable, or at least come to terms with, the new political realities,” said Windmueller. “And part of that is that they are looking for someone, and maybe that’s Donald Trump, who will protect their kids on campuses.”

Granted, as the sizable majority of Jews who voted for Kamala Harris in the presidential election showed, such shifts aren’t drastic or widespread. The largest liberal Jewish groups are not about to embrace a right-wing agenda.

But Jewish communal professionals must navigate even subtle changes in the political winds, in order to stay relevant and effective. 

Pressures to partner with unconventional allies and keep a distance from many traditional ones are being felt by Jewish community relations professionals around the country, according to Amy Spitalnick, CEO of the Jewish Council for Public Affairs, a support group for the local Jewish representative bodies known as community relations councils.

“Certainly in a number of communities, there are parents and other stakeholders who are rightfully concerned about what their kids are facing on campus or in K-12 schools and sometimes take a very reactive approach,” she said. “So how to balance that with the policies and solutions that we know actually work is a challenge for many Jewish professionals right now.”

As an example of a reactive response, she offered the support that some Jews have offered to Trump’s pledge to expel or deport campus activists who are strident critics of Israel.

Spitalnik said Jewish safety isn’t assured by abandoning values like inclusivity, pluralism and democracy, but by doubling down on them. By the same token, she urges local leaders to resist some “very loud voices” saying Jews should walk away from coalitions that have been unsupportive of the Jewish community or deeply critical of Israel since the war.

“To me, and I think to many doing this work of community relations and coalition-building, the pain and isolation some Jews are feeling is proof of the need to invest more deeply in coalition work … and to do the work of civil rights that is core to our values and safety,” she said.

Some groups associated with liberal positions do not see a contradiction between assertive and even aggressive tactics in fighting antisemitism and sustaining their core issues, including civil rights, immigration, LGBT rights and abortion.

“I think most Jews care about free speech. I think most Jews care about the freedom to protest,” said Rabbi Jonah Pesner, director of the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism. “They know that Jews need those freedoms to be safe in America, while at the same time, they want there to be smart policies to keep all minorities safe, particularly for us, the Jewish minority.”

Pesner says the RAC has been in conversation with partners in the Leadership Conference on Civil and Human Rights, talking about keeping Jews and all students safe while protecting freedom of expression and protest. 

“We try really hard to take a nuanced view, and we try to be with other partners to help people balance free speech and civil liberties along with defense and safety,” he said.

But while many groups strive for balance, each week brings another clash between what Jews might call defense and safety, and others consider an attack on free speech and academic freedom.

At Cornell University, the interim president is facing blowback from higher education groups after he appeared to endorse the views of a Jewish instructor who felt a course on Gaza being taught in the school’s American Indian and Indigenous Studies program was biased and inflammatory. No action was taken to shut down the course or censure the instructor, but higher education groups said the president had no business saying the course lacked “openness and objectivity,” and that his criticism would have a chilling effect on other faculty.   

Menachem Rosensaft, the instructor who said the Gaza course amounted to “antisemitism on steroids,” said the controversy had nothing to do with academic freedom. Instead, he blamed a “hypersensitivity and fragility on the part of those who don’t want to hear any criticism of courses” like the one on Gaza. 

“No one is arguing that the course should be shut down,” he said in an interview. “However, I believe strongly that it is part of my academic freedom and my First Amendment right to express my views on the legitimacy of that course.”

Rosensaft, a former World Jewish Congress official who teaches classes on law, antisemitism and the Holocaust at Cornell and Columbia University, can point to his liberal bona fides. In 1988, he was part of a delegation of Jewish leaders who met in Stockholm with PLO leader Yasser Arafat, breaking a Jewish communal taboo when Israel itself refused to recognize what it considered a terrorist group. 

Rosensaft said he finds it “amusing” that a group such as CAMERA, a right-wing Jewish media watchdog, agrees with him on the Cornell course. But at a time when Jews are being threatened on campuses, he said, “we find ourselves in need of allies — not for a political goal, not for a political purpose, but in order to keep [the campuses] from blowing up.

“I’m not a supporter of President Trump, but if, as a consequence of his election, the Department of Education will use Title VI to protect Jewish students on campus nationwide, that is a positive thing,” he said.

Even in the deep blue Bay Area of Northern California, Tyler Gregory, the executive director of the local Jewish Community Relations Council, senses a difference between Trump’s first term and his looming second.

“The first time Trump was elected, I think our community embraced the resistance mantra, like a lot of the country,” he said. “This time, I think our community wants to call balls and strikes. Where Trump stands up for the Jewish community, including in higher ed, we’re going to support that, and where he undermines our community by aligning with certain problematic far right groups, we’re going to call that out.”

Gregory also does not see a contradiction between calling out antisemitic or threatening speech on campus, and a belief in free speech. In a recent essay in the San Francisco Chronicle, he criticized local public schools, writing, “That parents had to resort to filing civil rights complaints is not surprising given lackluster and slow responses to antisemitism by some school districts.”

“If free speech is a core value of the university, why aren’t [ administrators] using it to call out antisemitism and isolate these bad actors?” Gregory told JTA. “If they’re not willing to do that, then how are we supposed to take this value seriously from the administrators?”

At the Brandeis Center, Marcus too says he believes very strongly in the importance of free speech and the First Amendment. “And for that reason we frequently decline cases that we believe would require an encroachment upon constitutionally protected freedoms,” he said.

That being said, his organization is busier than ever, filing Title VI complaints, suing universities and opening a K-12 antisemitism hotline.

“Our workload has increased exponentially, and our staff has increased arithmetically, and we have gotten very significantly increased [financial] support,” he said. “But this is related to the much, much greater increase in the number and complexity of the challenges that we’ve been asked to address.”

Last year, New York City’s Jewish Museum imported a new director from the Israel Museum. Now, it’s bringing the oldest archaeological evidence of the existence of King David from the Jerusalem museum, too.

The Tel Dan Stele, a stone fragment long held exclusively by the Israel Museum, is on view at the Jewish Museum on the Upper East Side until Jan. 5.

A 12-by-13 inch chunk of basalt, the Tel Dan Stele is a 9th-century BCE stone document acknowledging the military victories of a person whom scholars believe to be King Hazael of Aram, an area in contemporary Syria that includes what is today Damascus. One of those victories was over a descendant of David, the king of ancient Israel.

When it was discovered in northern Israel in 1993, the Tel Dan Stele became the earliest evidence beyond the Bible that King David was a real figure.

“There is no archeological evidence surviving from the First Temple,” said James Snyder, who took the helm of the Jewish Museum a year ago. “There is from the Second Temple, and that’s at the Israel Museum. From the First Temple, what therefore becomes important are these references to this archeological evidence of the time of the First Temple, and of evidence that reinforces biblical history.”

The First Temple, believed to have been built by David’s son King Solomon in the 10th century BCE, was destroyed during the Babylonian siege of Jerusalem in 586 CE.

“What makes the Tel Dan Stele so important is that it’s the oldest archeological evidence of the existence of the House of David, which is the sort of touchstone or fountainhead for the unfolding thereafter of Judaism, Christianity and then Islam,” Snyder added.

In fact, it’s so old that the Aramaic used in the stele was still being written in the Phoenician alphabet — a language that predates Aramaic.

The ancient inscription refers to the “House of David,” in translation saying, “[I killed Jeho]ram son of [Ahab] king of Israel, and [I] killed [Ahaz]iahu son of [Jehoram kin]g of the House of David.”

Before coming to the Jewish Museum, the stele was on display for nearly two months at a biblical archaeology museum in Oklahoma. It was previously displayed at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, just blocks from the Jewish Museum, a decade ago. (A replica is also on display at the Museum of the Bible in Washington, D.C.)

On view at the Jewish Museum — which recently opened an on-site kosher restaurant, filling the space left vacant by Russ & Daughters during the pandemic — only a few weeks, Snyder says the stele is a treasure for the institution, which he said is increasingly aiming to draw connections between Jewish history and material culture and contemporary art.

Snyder said the loan had been in the works for a few years — beginning while he ran the Israel Museum — but added that it feels particularly timely to have it in the museum after the Hamas attack on Israel on Oct. 7, 2023.

“The House of David has equal importance to the three monotheistic faiths that percolated in the region over 1,500 years,” Snyder said. “So it’s from Judaism to Christianity to Islam. So the House of David is really the monarchy that envisioned and enabled the unfolding of those monotheistic traditions, and they happened in sequence.”

He added, “This archeological fragment is a perfect example of the intersection of where archeology and biblical history meet.”

The artifact is displayed as part of an exhibition of standout items from the museum’s collection of more than 30,000 works, reflecting “an ever-evolving understanding of the relationship between art and global Jewish culture across time,” according to the museum’s website. The museum is currently renovating its third- and fourth-floor galleries, which are scheduled to open in next fall.

Across from the stele is a video installation of poppies created this year by Israeli artist Michal Rovner, which explores the coexistence of beauty and violence in nature.

“Culture is an antidote to the polarization and politicization of the times we’re living in,” Snyder said. “Culture is an opportunity to engage in ways that get into a brighter time ahead.”

The University of Michigan has fired a director in its Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion office owing to antisemitic comments she made to Jewish professors at a spring conference. 

The New York Times first reported the firing, which a person with insight into the university’s governing body confirmed to the Jewish Telegraphic Agency on Friday.

The development comes amid widespread tensions over how Jews fit into DEI programs at universities and other institutions.

The staffer in question, Rachel Dawson, was the director of an office for multicultural initiatives. She was officially fired on Thursday after multiple members of the school’s Board of Regents were angered by the university’s initially lax response to her comments, according to the source, who was not authorized to speak publicly about the incident.

Dawson had privately remarked in March that “the university is controlled by wealthy Jews”; that “we don’t work with Jews” because “they are wealthy and privileged and take care of themselves”; that “rich donors and Jewish board members control the president” and “silence” students from the Middle East and North Africa; and and that “Jewish people have no genetic DNA that would connect them to the land of Israel,” according to an investigation of her comments viewed by JTA.

The university commissioned the investigation from an outside law firm following a complaint by the Michigan chapter of the Anti-Defamation League. Some of her alleged quotes are paraphrased, the investigation’s report says. The investigation found that “it is not possible to determine with certainty whether Ms. Dawson made the exact remarks attributed to her,” as Dawson denied making several of the comments the ADL charged her with, and there was no recording of them. 

But after reviewing text messages and other documents written by the Jewish professors at the conference who had initiated the conversation, investigators wrote, “we conclude that the weight of available evidence supports ADL Michigan’s report.”

According to The New York Times, the university initially intended to mandate antisemitism training for Dawson. But in a series of emails in October, a Jewish regent urged the university president to fire her instead, saying she had not “been held accountable in any meaningful way,” and needed to be “terminated immediately.”

That regent, Mark Bernstein, is a prominent attorney and Democrat who has served on a range of statewide civil rights efforts as well as on the board of Bend the Arc, a Jewish progressive civil rights group. He did not immediately respond to a JTA request for comment.

But the source with knowledge of the situation told JTA that beyond what the New York Times reported, other regents also wanted Dawson terminated and were unhappy in general with the DEI office’s attitude toward Jews. 

As pro-Palestinian encampments were active on campus in the spring, during which some protesters put up a large sign reading “Long live the intifada,” the regents asked the school’s vice provost and chief diversity officer to grade the DEI office’s performance. She awarded it an “A-,” which horrified the regents, according to the source.

Carolyn Normandin, director of the Michigan ADL, said she welcomed the firing.

“We think it is important that the University of Michigan took action against a DEI administrator, who allegedly made deeply antisemitic comments at a conference,” Normandin wrote to JTA. “We are glad the University administrators found our complaint to be credible, and we believe that this is a step toward restoring trust and ensuring Jewish students feel safe and supported.”

Neither the university, nor an attorney representing Dawson responded to JTA requests for comment. The university took down Dawson’s staff page from its website on Friday. 

Her attorney told the Times that her comments — made to two Jewish professors from other universities who had asked her about DEI protections for Jewish students at Michigan — had been mischaracterized, and that “it’s deeply troubling that they would escalate the situation to termination based on one conversation in somebody’s private capacity.”

Dawson’s firing came to light days after a different Jewish member of the university’s Board of Regents, Jordan Acker, was targeted at his home by pro-Palestinian activists who smashed his windows and vandalized his wife’s car, and soon after the university announced it would scale back some aspects of its DEI initiatives, which have attracted particular criticism in a field of escalating political controversies.

Michigan, which has large numbers of both Jewish and Arab students, has been a site of continued unease since the Oct. 7, 2023, Hamas attack on Israel that triggered the war in Gaza and a groundswell of campus activism. In addition to the targeting of Acker — the third time he had been targeted — the student government was recently led by activists who vowed to cut off all student activity funding unless the university divested from Israel. A handful of Jewish students at the university have reported being physically assaulted in recent months, though it is unclear if those incidents were connected to Israel.

On Thursday, Crime Stoppers announced it was offering an $8,000 reward to anyone with information leading to the people who vandalized Acker’s home. The vandalism took place in Huntington Woods, a progressive Detroit suburb with a large Jewish population.

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Hi there! It was a historic week for Jews in sports, from Max Fried’s record-breaking contract with the New York Yankees to the likely first-ever instance of three Jewish hockey players appearing on the same team in an NHL game.

Read on for more on all the above, plus our lead story about Jewish athletes going pro in Israel.

Meet three American Jews who went pro in Israel during the war

Ryan Turell and Nikki Bick both played basketball at Yeshiva University, with dreams of bigger things. Now, the pair are each playing professionally in Israel, for the men’s and women’s teams, respectively, of Ironi Ness Ziona.

For them, as well as soccer player Rachel Dallet, the draw of going pro in Israel was strong, even during a war. All three made aliyah in recent months, inspired both by a Jewish sense of belonging and the chance to continue their athletic careers at an elite level.

“It’s always been a dream of mine to play basketball in Israel professionally, ever since I was in high school and I was thinking maybe playing professionally can happen,” Turell told me. “I always wanted to do it.”

I caught up with the three athletes to hear about their immigration experiences and how they’re adjusting to a new language, culture and playbook — both on the field, or court, and off.

Click here for their stories.

Halftime report

GOING LIVE. “September 5,” the new drama that retells the story of the 1972 Munich Olympics massacre, during which 11 Israelis were murdered by terrorists after being taken hostage in the Olympic Village, hits theaters this week. The film, which is drawing awards buzz, spotlights the ABC Sports broadcast team that covered the attack live. Check out our interview with the film’s director.

ICYMI. Thanks to those who joined us on Tuesday for our online event marking the 75th anniversary of the City College basketball championship and scandal! I had a fascinating conversation with author Matthew Goodman — if you missed it, you can watch the recording here.

REFUAH SHLEIMAH. The baseball world is rallying around Jonah Rosenthal, a Jewish scout for the Los Angeles Dodgers who suffered a stroke on Tuesday. A GoFundMe set up by Rosenthal’s wife had raised over $75,000 in the first two days, exceeding its $60,000 goal.

WANDERING JEW. Team Israel alum Spencer Horwitz experienced quite the rollercoaster ride on Tuesday. The infielder, who made his MLB debut in 2023, was traded twice in a matter of hours, first from the Toronto Blue Jays to the Cleveland Guardians, and then from the Guardians to the Pittsburgh Pirates. Most of us will never make it to the big leagues, but at least Horwitz can say he was on three MLB teams in one day!

HIS NAME STILL ISN’T COHEN. Former star pitcher-turned-broadcaster David Cone is not Jewish, but his partner and son Sammy are. Check out these photos from Sammy’s bar mitzvah, including the five-time World Series champion and perfect game hurler donning a prayer shawl.

THIS ISRAELI HAPPENING. Veteran outfielder Kevin Pillar has announced that he not only intends to continue playing in the Major Leagues next season, but that he also plans to compete in the 2026 World Baseball Classic. Pillar had committed to playing for Team Israel in 2023 but had to back out to focus on winning a roster spot in Spring Training (which he did, for the Braves). Pillar told me last summer that he hopes to represent Israel in 2026 whether or not he’s still in the league.

RED CARD. The Premier League club Arsenal is investigating an employee over a string of antisemitic social media posts. A since-deleted X account associated with equipment staffer Mark Bonnick had interacted with several Jewish users, including posting about “Jewish supremacy” and accusing Israel of ethnic cleansing in Gaza.

Max Fried makes Jewish MLB history

Ace pitcher Max Fried entered the baseball offseason as one of the most coveted free agents on the market. On Tuesday, he got his payday, signing an eight-year, $218 million contract with the New York Yankees.

The deal is the largest-ever for a Jewish player, and biggest overall for a left-handed pitcher in raw numbers in baseball history. The 30-year-old has a 3.07 ERA in 151 career starts and is a two-time All-Star, a three-time Gold Glove winner, a Silver Slugger winner and a 2021 World Series champion.

Fried is also a Los Angeles native who grew up worshipping Hall of Famer, and fellow Jewish Dodger southpaw, Sandy Koufax. Now Fried could spend the rest of his career playing in the city with the most Jews in the world. He joins fellow Jewish pitcher Scott Effross on a Yankees team that features bench coach Brad Ausmus and multiple highly-touted Jewish prospects, including flamethrowing pitcher Eric Reyzelman.

Read more about Fried’s record-breaking deal here.

Jews in sports to watch this weekend (all times ET)

⚽ IN SOCCER…

Manor Solomon and Leeds United play Preston Saturday at 7:30 a.m. The squad is in second place in the Championship and has won four of its past five games. Matt Turner and his Premier League club Crystal Palace take on Brighton Sunday at 9 a.m.

🏒 IN HOCKEY…

Jakob Chychrun and the Washington Capitals host Jason Zucker and the Buffalo Sabres Saturday at 7 p.m. The Vancouver Canucks and their three Jewish players — Quinn Hughes, Mark Friedman and Max Sasson, likely the first Jewish trio to appear in a game for the same team — host Jeremy Swayman and the Boston Bruins Saturday at 10 p.m. Jordan Harris and the Columbus Blue Jackets face the Carolina Hurricanes Sunday at 5 p.m. There are no PWHL games this weekend.

🏈 IN FOOTBALL…

Michael Dunn and the Cleveland Browns host the Kansas City Chiefs Sunday at 1 p.m.

🏀 IN BASKETBALL…

Deni Avdija and the Portland Trail Blazers host the San Antonio Spurs tonight at 10 p.m. and face the Phoenix Suns Sunday at 8 p.m. In the G League, Amari Bailey and the Long Island Nets face the Capital City Go-Go Sunday at 3 p.m.

Fantasy baseball

After Fried signed, Alex Bregman remains one of the top available players on the free agent market. He’s joined by fellow Jews Pillar, Joc Pederson, Harrison Bader and Rowdy Tellez, each of whom is also looking for a new team.

Have a prediction about where these Jewish stars will sign? Email us at sports@jta.org with your official picks — feel free to include years/dollar amounts if you’re so bold — and we’ll shout out the closest guesses when the players sign!

This article was produced as part of The New York Jewish Week’s Teen Journalism Fellowship, a program that works with Jewish teens around the world to report on issues that affect their lives.

When Talia Sobel was a freshman member of the Jewish Student Union at Trevor Day School on the Upper East Side, the club spent a lot of time discussing the joys of Judaism, such as holidays, culture and traditions. 

Now, as a junior, she is the leader of the club, which meets each Tuesday at the private school. And instead of devoting meetings to holidays or crafts, she’s pivoted the JSU’s focus toward making space for teens to talk about the challenges of being Jewish in a post-Oct. 7 world.

“This school year and in future years, we need to talk more about the events from this past year, as they are now a part of history,” Sobel said, adding that conversations about current events in Israel and Gaza are essential to prevent the rampant spread of misinformation associated with the war.

Sobel’s club isn’t the only one to make this pivot. As the number of antisemitic attacks grew in the U.S. following Hamas’ Oct. 7, 2023 attack on Israel, leaders of Jewish student groups in high schools around New York City are changing the agendas of Jewish Student Unions and other Jewish affinity groups. Many of these clubs are no longer focused on lighthearted activities, such as making mini sukkahs or braiding challah. Instead, they are creating safe havens for Jewish students, many of whom feel unable to discuss their Jewish identity elsewhere. 

At Trevor Day School, the JSU this year is focused on education. In order to foster productive conversations among the club’s members, meetings now have community norms for discussions: No interrupting. Disrespect of opinions will not be tolerated. Stay calm in heated conversation. Use “I” statements rather than generalized statements. Sobel said that, by practicing these tools within the relatively safe environment of the JSU, students will be better able to handle challenging conversations outside of it. 

Like Sobel at Trevor, Mika Rosenthal, a junior at the Ethical Culture Fieldston School, said that before Oct. 7, the mission at her school’s Jewish Affinity Group was to celebrate Jewish culture and holidays. Now, however, the group the “strives to create a more welcoming and inclusive environment for Jews and non-Jews who want to learn more about Judaism,” Rosenthal, the group’s leader, said. She added that she wants all Fieldston students to have a place to understand Jews and the Jewish experience because she felt a lot of friction at the school last year. 

This school year, Rosenthal said she’s focused on creating a safe haven for her Jewish classmates within the group. “Our goal is to create a space where members can connect, engage, and feel proud of our Jewish heritage,” she said. 

Last fall, JAG members at Fieldston had a conversation with school administrators about how they want the Israel-Hamas conflict to be discussed at school. “We experienced significant tension last year surrounding Oct. 7, and the JAG was primarily focused on having difficult conversations among Jewish students,” Rosenthal said, adding that the discussions often get emotional as her peers process their experiences of being a Jewish teen as the war continues. 

Rosenthal added that, immediately after Oct. 7 and into this school year, her group has emphasized smaller, more intimate conversations to limit any hostility within the group. “We want to shift toward bringing our community [together] in more positive ways, which is aligned with one of the key initiatives of our school,” Rosenthal said.

At the iSchool, a public high school in SoHo, Zach Leitner didn’t have a JSU where he could process his feelings after an antisemitic incident during his freshman year, so this year, as a sophomore, he decided to start one. He wanted to create a place to talk about upcoming holidays, play games and learn about Jewish history. The weekly club has made candy sukkahs in preparation for Sukkot and learned about the different branches of Judaism through a slide show Leitner prepared. 

“Going to a NYC public school makes it harder to think about controversial things, just like the conflict in the Middle East,” Leitner said, adding that the culture of diverse opinions can be overwhelming in a large diverse school. 

“This is why we have our club, so that Jewish student voices can be heard,” Leitner said. Leitner and the other leaders of the club have discussed the idea of having conversations about the war but have so far decided against it. “The nature of the club is for Jewish kids to hang out and have fun,” he said. 

Still, Leitner said there are plans to discuss the war and take advantage of his school’s diverse student body. As such, the iSchool JSU plans to have a joint event with the Muslim Student Alliance to discuss various perspectives on the war.

Since the Israel-Hamas war began in 2023, Jewish teens have reported strained relationships with friends amid rising fears of antisemitism, according to Hey Alma. One-quarter of Jews have sought new connections with other Jews, and 43% of Jews have sought to or engaged in Jewish life since Oct. 7, according to the United Jewish Appeal Foundation. For young Jews, school-affiliated clubs provide a sense of support, according to the National Council of Synagogue Youth, an organization affiliated with the Orthodox Union that runs a program that supports Jewish school clubs at more than 320 high schools across North America.

While some JSUs are shifting their focus as the war between Israel and Hamas continues, the one at Bronx Science, a specialized high school in the Bronx, is holding firm as a space of celebration. This is something leaders say is especially important because, since Oct. 7, the group now regularly has up to 50 students attending its weekly meeting.  

“We don’t want our meetings to feel like a debate every time,” Noa Senker, the secretary of the Bronx Science JSU and an 11th grader, said. “We want to continue highlighting the culture and holidays so that Jewish students with all different opinions can feel included.”

For Sukkot they built Sukkahs from pasta and for Yom Kippur they played “put a finger down” to discuss things students need to atone for. Senker said that these fun activities are more important than ever, “because it is most important for everyone to feel rooted in the culture, especially at this time.”

In “September 5,” the new movie depicting the abduction and murder of 11 Israeli athletes and coaches at the 1972 Munich Olympics, there are many echoes of Hamas’ Oct. 7 attack on Israel, 51 years, and one month later.

Both are historical tragedies involving the murder of Israelis by Palestinian terrorists; both involved the taking of hostages, some of whom were American citizens; and both are remembered with the invocation of a specific date.

But “September 5” — which opens in limited release this week and is already drawing awards chatter — was not in any way conceived in response to Oct. 7. The movie had been filmed, and was already in the post-production process, at the time of the 2023 attack.

“I think it will certainly have an effect on how audiences will see the film, but I also think that our film is clearly about a specific moment in history, and or let’s say, even more specifically, a moment in media history, and about that turning point,” Tim Fehlbaum, the film’s director, said in an interview.

“What I would hope is that the audience reflects on how today we consume news, and about our complex media environment, through that historical lens.”

Indeed, “September 5” dwells on another way in which the Munich attack paralleled Oct. 7: It represented a watershed moment in the livestreaming of terrorism.

On that day, members of the Palestinian terror group Black September killed two of the Israelis in their dorm in the Olympic Village and held the remaining nine as hostages. After West German authorities botched virtually every stage of the situation, the remaining hostages were all killed at a nearby airport.

The entire tragic saga played out on live television, with ABC Sports, which was covering the Games, staying on air for most of the day. The film focuses not on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict nor the experiences of the athletes and those seeking to save them, but on the ABC reporting team that went to West Germany to cover the Games and ended up in the middle of a deadly crisis.

The film depicts the split-second decisions that the reporters and producers — including Peter Jennings, who appears in the film and is also portrayed in some scenes by actor Benjamin Walker — must make while covering a hostage crisis as it plays out. At one point, there is a debate over whether the journalists should call the Black September attackers “terrorists.” At another, a young producer asks aloud, “Can we show someone being shot on live television?” And in another scene, German police seek to crack down on coverage that shows the positions of their sharpshooters.

The story is told with uncommon tension, including the use of vintage television equipment, which the filmmakers wanted to make sure was period-accurate, even though tracking down the right supplies was at times challenging.

“When we were making our research, we learned, more and more, the role the media played in that day,” Fehlbaum said. “Then, we were lucky enough to get in conversation with one of the eyewitnesses, and was in the control room that day, Geoffrey Mason. During this conversation, that was the moment when we finally decided that we wanted to tell the story entirely from that angle.”

The Jewish actor John Magaro plays Mason, a young ABC producer at the time who is not himself Jewish, and who is the only one of the principal figures in the film who is still alive. (He is the one who asks about showing a shooting on live TV.) Another key character is Marvin Bader (Ben Chaplin), a veteran ABC Sports producer who was Jewish and whose pain at covering the crisis is clear throughout.

“We learned that from Geoffrey Mason, from private conversations that he had with him, with Marvin’s background, how it still — you could tell that this was not so long after World War II that they were in Munich for the broadcast of these Olympics,” Fehlbaum said.

Despite his Ashkenazi-sounding surname, Fehlbaum, who is a native of Switzerland, does not have any Jewish ancestry. But the director went to film school in Munich, and in that city, he said, “this tragedy is still very present.”

One through-line in the film is that the Olympics, the first to take place in Germany since the Games Hitler hosted in 1936, were meant to “welcome to the world to a new Germany,” in the words of a German official, at a time when World War II and the Holocaust were still in living memory for most people.

Mark Spitz, a Jewish American swimmer, won seven gold medals, and the producers are depicted discussing whether to ask Spitz about “winning gold in Hitler’s backyard.” Among the massive amount of archival footage in the film is one of Spitz’s wins, as well as a feature about the Israeli Olympians, including American-Israeli wrestler David Berger, visiting Dachau days before they met their deaths.

Peter Sarsgaard plays famed ABC Sports executive Roone Arledge, while ABC anchor Jim McKay, who led the coverage that day, appears only in archival footage.

Israeli fans at the infamous 1972 Olympics in Munich, Sept. 5, 1972. (Klaus Rose/picture alliance via Getty Images)“September 5” is at least the third major motion picture about the hostage crisis. “One Day in September,” Kevin Macdonald’s Oscar-winning documentary from 1999 about the Munich crisis, was a major influence on the film, Fehlbaum said.

As for the other major film about the massacre, Steven Spielberg’s 2005 “Munich,” it’s very different, focusing mainly on the aftermath of the tragedy, on Israel’s campaign of revenge, and how one fictional soldier, Eric Bana’s Avner, became disillusioned with it.

“Steven Spielberg, I mean, that’s of course a big influence on me, regardless of ‘Munich,’ all of his films, generally,” Fehlbaum said. “‘Munich,’ of course, also we studied carefully, but … our film has a very different perspective on this tragedy.”

Driving the northernmost spur of Israel’s Road 886, it’s hard not be astonished by just how close Israelis and their Hezbollah foes lived to one another before the war that began 14 months ago.

In the panhandle known as the Finger of the Galilee, Road 886 runs south-to-north along the Ramim Ridge, a 3,000-foot-high range in the Naftali Mountains dotted with small Israeli towns and kibbutzim that overlook Israel’s lush Hula Valley to the east and a smattering of Lebanese villages to the west. The road terminates at Misgav Am, a storied Israeli kibbutz right on the border fence that’s closer to the Lebanese village of Udaysah than to any town in Israel.

When I drove the length of this road several days after the announcement of Israel’s ceasefire with Hezbollah — and shortly before Israeli troops entered nearby Syria after the fall of the government there — signs of war were everywhere.

At one clearing in the woods, spent artillery canisters and detritus left behind by soldiers were scattered on the ground. Trees scorched from fires sparked by incendiary exchanges between the two sides were bent at odd angles. The road, chewed up by tanks and heavy military equipment, is full of large potholes and tread marks. Concrete berms stand at points where the military fashioned makeshift routes into Lebanon. A roadside picnic area is a mess of mud, the vestige of a staging ground for military vehicles.

At Kibbutz Manara, where in better times tourists can ride a gondola down the steep ridge to a base station just outside the Israeli city of Kiryat Shmona, Road 886 is flush with the border. The kibbutz is so close to Lebanon that a Hezbollah fighter could theoretically hear an Israeli baby in Manara crying in their bedroom crib less than 100 yards away.

When I stopped to take some photos, I heard a U.N. vehicle turn on its ignition at a UNIFIL post on the Lebanese side of the fence.

The only reason I didn’t feel like I was risking my life was because there were still Israeli soldiers on the Lebanese side. Under the terms of the current ceasefire, Israel has 60 days to move its troops out of the country. The Lebanese villages near the border remain unoccupied and, in many cases, largely in ruins, and the Israeli Defense Forces has warned Lebanese residents that they cannot yet return.

There is no such order in place for Israelis, who for the first time in more than a year can return to their homes in the northern Galilee without the threat of imminent attack from Hezbollah drones and unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs), rockets, antitank fire or infiltrations.

But the Israelis who live here for the most part haven’t come back.

“There’s lots of things people don’t know,” Shani Atsmon of Kiryat Shmona said of Hezbollah. Atsmon has been living at a hotel and hasn’t yet returned to the city. “At any second they can come into Israel with paragliders like Hamas did on Oct. 7. Maybe there are tunnels. They’re still at the fences. I don’t want to risk my life. It can come from anywhere — Lebanon or Syria. It’s scary.”

Unlike in southern Lebanon, where roads were jammed with returning residents almost as soon as the ceasefire was announced on Nov. 27, the northern Israeli communities that emptied out due to the war are still ghost towns. There are no schools open, banks are mostly closed, health clinics aren’t operating, and there’s hardly any place to buy food. The government is still paying for evacuees to live elsewhere, and many families with children already have made clear they won’t move back until the end of the school year in six months, at the earliest.

The fall of the Assad regime this month in Syria only adds to the uncertainty. While the Israeli military has conducted an extensive bombing campaign to degrade the offensive capabilities of any future Syrian army, the turmoil in Syria and the fall of Damascus to an Islamist militia is a reminder that threats to the border region of northern Israel are never far away.

“We still don’t have a feeling of security,” said Revital Gabay, a nurse who evacuated from Kiryat Shmona and is living at a hotel outside the city. “I was home on Friday for five minutes to get something and I heard army artillery fire. We know Hezbollah is on the other side of the fence, watching us. We’ll have another two years of quiet and then at some point there’ll be a war and we’ll be sent back to the stone age.”

The question that will determine northern Israel’s future

I went to Israel’s northern war zone because I wanted to see what it looks like in this liminal period between the apparent end of the long war with Hezbollah and the resumption of normal life. What I found was that while certain frontline communities, such as Metula, have suffered extensive destruction, the area’s main city, Kiryat Shmona, and many surrounding towns and kibbutzim have limited damage.

To be sure, there are wrecked homes to rebuild, burnt forests to restore, crumbling businesses to reconstruct and ruined roads to repair. Israeli government authorities estimate direct damage to Israel’s 82 border-area communities — those in the 4.5-kilometer evacuation zone near the Lebanon border — at over $420 million, including damage to homes, public and private buildings, infrastructure like electricity and water, agriculture, equipment and vehicles. Along with indirect losses, such as compensation for lost revenue — if, for example, a farm couldn’t produce the pomegranates it normally does — the total costs of the war in the north are an estimated $1.4 billion, excluding military expenditures.

And over 110 soldiers and civilians inside Israel were killed by Hezbollah attacks since Oct. 8, 2023, when the Lebanese terrorist group joined in attacking Israel the day following Hamas’s shocking, brutal attack in the south.

But considering the intensity and duration of the attacks here, the area fared much better in the showdown with Hezbollah than military analysts had predicted — a testament to the effectiveness of Israel’s overwhelming military successes in Lebanon in addition to its homefront defenses like the Iron Dome anti-missile system, air raid alerts, abundant bomb shelters, and, somewhat controversially, the decision to evacuate over 60,000 locals.

The more lasting damage up north, it seems, is psychological — with even graver long-term implications for the future of the Galilee than the war’s physical toll.

More than anything else, residents are traumatized by the fear that what happened in southern Israel on Oct. 7 can happen here, too — if not in the near future then one day years from now, when their children will pay the price.

“We lived here with quiet for 20 years, but we never forgot that they hate us,” Kiryat Shmona resident Zahava Zarad, 61, said of her Hezbollah neighbors across the border in Lebanon. “I want the army to kill Hezbollah without giving them any advance warning. Their little kids today are the terrorists who one day will come to murder my grandchildren. They have to be destroyed in groups, not one by one. That’s the feeling.”

The critical question for Israel is whether the security concerns of those who live here can be assuaged. If not, the northern Galilee will struggle to retain its population, much less attract newcomers, and the area may fall into a downward spiral as families leave, businesses fail and real estate prices crater.

If that happens, the damage from Oct. 7 will last for generations.

“Only those who really love it here will return — or those who have no alternative,” Zarad said.

Ramim Ridge: In the line of fire

Bordered by Lebanon both to the west and north, the Finger of the Galilee is particularly vulnerable to enemy attack.

During the war, Hezbollah used rockets and UAVs to attack Israeli targets as far away as metropolitan Tel Aviv, but closer Israeli communities presented the most convenient target of opportunity. The communities here could be reached using short-range rockets, artillery, and a uniquely nimble and lethal weapon against which Israel struggled to defend: antitank shells.

Unlike rockets, which fly in an arc and can be intercepted by Israel’s Iron Dome system, antitank shells fly straight as a bullet, can be shot using shoulder-mounted systems, often arrive without warning, and can tear through the Israeli safe room shelters known as mamads like they’re a tin can. That meant that any Israeli community with a straight line of sight into Lebanon and within the range of antitank fire — about two to three miles — could be a very dangerous place.

This is partly why Israel’s evacuation order was set to cover any community within 4.5 kilometers (about 2.7 miles) of the border.

The communities that sit atop the Ramim Ridge, some abutting the border, were particularly exposed.

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At Ramot Naftali, a picturesque town on the ridge that in normal times is home to about 550 residents, vintner Yitzak Cohen, 75, is one of the few locals who stayed home throughout the war. He owns a boutique winery that produces about 15,000 bottles per year and grows his grapes on a four-acre plot of land in the Kedesh Valley on the west side of the ridge, in full view of the Lebanese villages about two miles away.

“I was born here. I experienced all the wars that were here. This was a very strange war, very atypical,” said Cohen, whose house is right behind the facility where the wine is aged and bottled. “This thing of evacuating all the residents was extreme. I didn’t consent to be evacuated.”

Ramot Naftaly Winery stayed operational throughout the war, thanks to a skeleton crew of Israelis and Thai laborers. They kept working amid sirens, Hezbollah attacks and a seemingly endless rain of shrapnel.

“Every morning you’d find shrapnel here,” Cohen said. “But it didn’t deter us. We kept going.”

The winery’s visitor center, a significant source of income with group tastings and gourmet meals and special events, was shuttered. The first group to return after the war arrived the day before I visited.

“For the time being it’s pretty sad here. I’m waiting for residents to return to the town,” Cohen said. “Now you see on weekends that families with children are coming back to scout out the situation.”

But the families aren’t staying. Cohen can’t even get his grandchildren to visit. That morning, Cohen told me, he had an intense argument on the phone with his son-in-law, who doesn’t feel comfortable having his children visit their grandfather on the front line. The kids, by Cohen’s account, are eager to come.

He sighs. Cohen’s wife split her time during the war between Raanana, where a daughter lives, and home, where she’d spend the weekends with her husband. But over the last year, Cohen has seen his grandkids only about once a month — relatively infrequent by Israeli standards.

Cohen walks me back behind the winery and shows me the chicken coop beside his house where his grandkids gather eggs whenever they visit. Without his family around, the chickens produce more eggs than Cohen can possibly eat; he gives away the excess to neighbors. Cohen reaches over to the persimmon tree behind me, plucks one of the bright orange orbs, wipes it against his shirt and takes a bite, beckoning me to do the same.

“I see it as a mistake that the government evacuated the residents. I’m not saying that someone who is afraid, who has kids, should be prevented from leaving, but for it to be initiated by the government was a terrible mistake,” Cohen said. “If the towns here had been full, then they” — meaning Hezbollah — “wouldn’t have dared to do what they did when there were no residents. If they would have hit one family, we would have erased them. They would have been afraid.”

In the 2006 war with Hezbollah, Cohen recalls, a Katyusha rocket landed in his yard while his daughters were in the house. It’s not clear whether this anecdote buttresses his argument.

I ask Cohen the question on everyone’s minds: When will his neighbors return?

“It depends on the circumstances, on how people feel about their personal safety, their financial security,” he says.

Outside Kibbutz Yiftah, another community on Ramim Ridge about two miles from Lebanon, I come upon a man with his three adult children harvesting olives alongside the road.

Early December is generally late to pick olives, which are practically ready to fall off the tree on their own. But Arik Aharon and his children, all of whom live in Yiftah during normal times, are just in time. Aharon’s two sons and daughter have spread out a long net to catch the fruit, which they shake off the tree using a mechanical picker that resembles a pitchfork with moving fingers. The olives will have to be pressed immediately; during the harvesting season, an olive press may stay open throughout the night to process a freshly picked yield. The Aharons will probably get just a few kilograms of olive oil this year from their rushed labor.

But it’s better than nothing. Last year the trees went unpicked, Arik tells me. He, his children and their families all evacuated to points south.

“We haven’t returned home,” says Or, his daughter. “It’s not possible to go back now and live in Yiftah. But it is possible to harvest olives.”

When will they come back?

“I don’t feel safe returning now; it’s not on the agenda,” Or says. “I have a baby daughter. We’re 1,000 meters from the border. I won’t come back until I feel safe.”

What will make you feel safe? I ask.

“I don’t have an answer,” she replies.

Kiryat Shmona: A city without people

When I arrive at Kiryat Shmona in the early afternoon, I pull into the shopping center at the city’s southern entrance to grab a quick bite. The parking lot is surrounded by Israeli and international chain restaurants: McDonalds, Pizza Hut, Café Neeman, Biga boulangerie.

But as I step out of my car it becomes clear they’re all closed. Of course, I realize. For 14 months they’ve been gathering dust, their customers and employees gone. Reopening will be more complicated than flicking on a switch and lighting the ovens. Equipment needs to be cleaned, damage repaired, employees hired. Most important, there must be customers.

The only action at this shopping area is at the supermarket, which stayed open throughout the war. Many of its patrons carry automatic weapons. They’re either soldiers in uniform or members of local security squads who stayed here for the duration of the war, paid by the government to safeguard their own communities.

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I head into town and park on Kiryat Shmona’s main drag. The last time I visited this particular strip, in early April, the only eatery still operating was a family-owned shwarma place called Baguette Shlomi that had stayed open to serve soldiers deployed to the area and a few remaining locals. While interviewing one of the restaurant’s owners we were interrupted by an air raid siren and had to rush into the kitchen for cover.

This time, I see a long line of customers snaking out the door, despite the fact that it’s mid-afternoon. Baguette Shlomi is the only place open among a dozen or so stores on the block. Next door, a mobile phone shop has a sign taped to the door that reads, “Dear soldiers! Please wipe your boots of mud before entering the store!”

Kiryat Shmona is a city in need of some TLC. At one roundabout, a rusting 7-foot menorah from some bygone Hanukkah that’s missing three of its eight branches is perched on the sidewalk, a sad-looking sentry in a mostly empty neighborhood. At night, the windows in large apartment blocks are mostly dark, their occupants living elsewhere.

Ravit Levi, who spent about a year at a hotel 15 minutes south of the city, went back to her Kiryat Shmona home in early November. Even though the war was still raging, the IDF’s invasion of southern Lebanon gave her confidence to move back — that, and she was fed up living in temporary accommodations.

“We said, That’s it. We were tired. We missed home,” she said. “Now we’re in our home and it’s a pleasure for us.”

Her adult daughter, Peleg Levi, a single mom with two kids, also returned to Kiryat Shmona. Because there are no schools open in the city, her 11-year-old son must commute about 10 miles south to attend school at Yesod Hamaala. During the war, if there was too much shelling or if Peleg didn’t feel comfortable doing the drive, she kept her son home.

Meanwhile, her 2-year-old daughter has returned to a house she doesn’t even remember, according to Peleg. “She’s more used to growing up in a hotel surrounded by strangers,” Peleg said.

It’s not easy finding people in Kiryat Shmona, which had a prewar population of 25,000. I drive for blocks on end without seeing a soul.

In the relatively new neighborhood of Yuvalim, a bus careens through the streets but there are no passengers at any of the stops. One block bears the scars of a direct strike: The impact crater on the pavement has been filled in by dirt, nearby apartment buildings are pocked with shrapnel damage, and the windows of the closest building were all blown out and are covered with plywood. There’s broken glass in the lobby, the elevator isn’t working because there’s no electricity and the stairwell is covered with guano from birds that found their way inside.

Elsewhere in the neighborhood, the frame of a sukkah is visible on an apartment balcony, its walls torn to shreds and its roof long gone. It’s an eerie reminder of the day this long war started, with a surprise early morning attack the day after Sukkot’s conclusion, on Simchat Torah, prompting many residents to flee in their pajamas — to say nothing of dismantling their sukkahs. I’m reminded of the forlorn sukkahs I saw still standing amid the ruins in Beeri, Sderot and other southern communities months after Hamas’s Oct. 7 attack.

In the hillside neighborhood of Naftali Hills, which overlooks the entire city, I run into David Cohen and two of his daughters cleaning the patio in front of a small synagogue. Cohen, 56, was born and raised in Kiryat Shmona, and his eight children were born here. He spent most of the war in Tzfat and is eager to return, but it’s not possible yet because the schools aren’t open.

In any case, the family isn’t quite ready. Cohen’s youngest daughter, Adi, is worried about a terrorist coming through her window, Cohen says. Their neighborhood is the closest one in Kiryat Shmona to the Lebanon border, and there are no other towns in between.

Cohen says he’s not sure whether the ceasefire will hold up, but in the meantime he’s taking advantage of the quiet to clean up. His yard is overgrown and neglected, his fridge shorted out and broke due to war-related electrical blackouts, and there’s dust everywhere in the house. Other homes have been infested by rats — a story I hear repeatedly during my trip.

He takes me into the synagogue to show me some damage to the interior ceiling of the social hall where some shrapnel hit the roof, but the sanctuary, after a thorough cleaning, looks pristine. Cohen is the gabbai (sexton) of the synagogue, Mishkan Saadya, which he was instrumental in building and which carries his grandfather’s name. Before the war, as many as 100 people would come to Friday night services. Now, Cohen says, he doesn’t think there are more than five men living in the neighborhood.

“A synagogue that goes 14 months without a minyan is sad. To see it abandoned like this …” his voice trails off.

Kibbutz Kfar Blum: Just outside the evacuation zone

During this war, even small distances could make a big difference. Kibbutz Kfar Blum was one of the unfortunate communities in the lose-lose zone: too far for residents to be eligible for government assistance to relocate elsewhere, but close enough to Lebanon to make for an opportune target for Hezbollah.

Most Kfar Blum residents had no choice but to stay, even as nearby communities to the north emptied out and services like schools, health clinics and shopping areas shut down.

A week into the ceasefire, Kfar Blum appeared idyllic. Retirees balancing on antiquated bikes cycled on the kibbutz paths. A shirtless young man sat in the sun writing a song on a yellow notepad. Laughing children could be heard through the open window of a neighborhood preschool. Everywhere, the boughs of citrus trees hung low with ripening lemons, grapefruits, oranges and pomelos. Some of the deciduous trees were at peak foliage, flaunting brilliant yellows and reds.

But scars of war were also evident. A soldier sitting behind a concrete bunker manned a checkpoint at the entrance to the kibbutz, checking every vehicle seeking to enter. On Nov. 24, the Pastoral Kfar Blum Hotel, a luxury lodge whose rooms are rarely priced under $300 per night, took a direct hit, leaving the roof of one of the guesthouses mangled, and a 60-year-old man was seriously wounded. The many bomb shelters in the kibbutz are still unlocked and ready.

“It was scary,” said Zvi Renan, 70, a bus driver who last month moved to a rental unit at Kfar Blum from Beit Hillel, a town about three miles north, in the evacuation zone. “When the drone attacks began, it became clear very quickly that they can kill or wound you. It’s not a pleasant feeling. On one drive to Kiryat Shmona I had to stop and run for cover three separate times.”

Despite the evacuation of Beit Hillel, Renan decided to stay put. But between all the sounds of war, Renan said, he didn’t sleep soundly even for a single night. Sometimes he failed to make it to shelter in time when an air raid siren sounded. The stress took a toll. Three and a half months ago, Renan had a heart attack. He’s now recovering from surgery.

Despite the challenges, Renan has no intention of leaving.

“I moved to the north four years ago and I’m sorry I didn’t come 30 years sooner,” he said. “I own an apartment in Givatayim” — next to Tel Aviv — “but I’ll never move back to the center of the country. I can’t take the crowds and the stress.

“I didn’t regret moving up north even for one second during the war. On the contrary, we have to stick our finger in the eyes of Hezbollah and the Iranians and show them that people here won’t move. I’m one of those who believe that it was a mistake to evacuate the north when Hezbollah started firing at us. We should have gone into Lebanon the next day.”

Renan ignored his daughters’ pleas to leave. If he died, he told them, the two properties he owns would ensure they’d be okay financially.

“When I hear people in Israel say it’s difficult, and they want to move to Cyprus or Greece, it makes me want to vomit on them,” Renan said. “We have no other home. My mother spent five years in a concentration camp in Europe. Even if you’re in the shit here, at least it’s your shit.”

Then he reached up into his avocado tree and offered me two bright-green fruits to take home to my family.

The evacuees: Not hurrying to come back

The Yarden Boutique Hotel is so close to Kiryat Shmona, about 15 minutes south, that I was surprised to find it full of displaced residents from the city. Out of 130 rooms, about 115 are occupied by evacuees, according to hotel CEO Meir Levi.

It turns out most chose this location because they or their spouse need to be near Kiryat Shmona for work. The evacuees here include local policemen, men who work at essential factories related to the defense industry, and lots of agricultural workers — including about 70 foreign laborers.

A few weeks ago, four Thai workers who’d been living at the hotel were killed in an Oct. 31 barrage by Hezbollah on an apple orchard in Metula, about 100 meters from the border, that also killed an Israeli farmer.

Before the war, said evacuee Miri Ben Shaanan, there was practically no social interaction between the Thai workers and the local Israelis. But with everyone living together at the hotel, a sense of comradeship had taken hold. “We talk with them, we laugh with them,” she observed. “This never was the case before.”

After more than a year in the hotel, the evacuees seem to be at wit’s end. Tired of eating the hotel’s food, many have turned their rooms into makeshift kitchens, acquiring microwaves, refrigerators, electric burners, and toasters so they can prepare food that makes them feel at home. Some evacuees have bought washing machines.

Shani Atsmon, whose husband works for the police in Kiryat Shmona, says living in the hotel has felt like an eternity. She has marked two of her husband’s birthdays at the hotel, and other families have celebrated weddings and bar mitzvahs there. Babies learned to walk in the lobby. Parents have sent off their kids to the army from the hotel.

“My daughter was drafted into the army last week. When she comes ‘home’ we can’t cook for her or do her laundry like a normal person,” lamented Gabay, the Kiryat Shmona nurse, who lives at the hotel.

“My 6-year-old is afraid to go to bed at night,” she said. “If we had an alternative we wouldn’t stay here in the north. Enough! We’re fed up being the country’s shield. But we can’t afford to live in the center of the country. If we could, I don’t think I’d stay.”

Some of the family’s close friends are returning, Gabay said, but others are putting up their homes for sale. Families that found a place for themselves in the center of Israel — where culture, excellent healthcare and job opportunities are in abundance — won’t return, she said.

“Kiryat Shmona always struggled, but we felt the place was starting to develop,” Gabay said. “Now it will take time to go back to what it was. You feel like it’s starting from zero.”

During breakfast at the hotel, I sit with Etti and David Fahima. She’s ready to return to Kiryat Shmona, but he says it’s not safe.

“I very much want to go back to my home, my things,” Etti says. “Being here so long has crossed the bounds of good taste. I live in this hotel in a state of chaos. I’ve worked from my hotel room for a year.”

David says they’ll stay at the hotel for as long as they can because it’s safer than going home. Sooner or later, he understands, the government will stop underwriting their stay. No one knows when that will happen, but the rumored date everyone keeps mentioning is Feb. 1.

“The moment the government turns off the flow of aid we won’t have a choice but to go back,” David said.

“But people have internalized the fears of Oct. 7. When you don’t have a feeling of security, you have nothing.”

 

(JTA) — The fall of Syrian dictator Bashar al-Assad has opened up a sea of uncertainty about Syria’s future — and about the treasures of its past, including the remnants of its Jewish history.

A 13-year civil war has cost the country more than 600,000 lives and saw some 100,000 people “forcibly disappeared” into prisons by the Assad regime. The war has also wreaked havoc on Syria’s most important cultural sites — from ancient monuments, castles and mosques to the vestiges of a rich Jewish culture.

Well before the war, Syria’s historical synagogues and other Jewish sites languished in neglect after Jews left the country en masse surrounding Israel’s establishment. Now, archaeologists are beginning to assess how much more was lost to bombardment and wartime looting.

Syria was home to well established Jewish communities for more than 2,000 years, dating back to the Roman period, including Sephardic Jews expelled from Spain in 1492 and European Jewish merchants. But the 20th-century rise of Arab nationalist movements, along with a set of anti-Jewish laws and violence surrounding the establishment of Israel, resulted in waves of Jewish emigration.

About 100,000 Jews lived in Syria at the start of the 20th century, dropping to 15,000 in 1947. An anti-Jewish riot that year, followed by the creation of Israel in 1948, spurred many of the remaining Jews to leave — though they were not legally permitted to do so in most cases despite facing persecution in Syria. The Aleppo Codex, a landmark 10th-century copy of the Hebrew Bible, was damaged and secreted out of the country to Israel around that time.

By 1992, when Assad’s father acceded to pressure to let the Jews emigrate, there were about 4,000 Jews remaining in Aleppo and smaller numbers in Damascus and Qamishli. Most left the country shortly afterwards.

In 2011, a now-infamous Vogue profile of Asma al-Assad, Bashar’s wife, quoted her as saying that Jews fit into her vision of religious diversity in Syria. “There is a very big Jewish quarter in old Damascus,” she told the interviewer, who noted that homes in the quarter had been boarded up since the 1992 exodus. (The article was removed from the internet after drawing criticism for sanitizing the wife of a dictator, and his regime, but remains accessible in an archived form.)

In 2022, an estimate of Syria’s Jews counted only four; this year, the widely circulating number is three. Many Jewish sites have had no caretakers for decades, said Emma Cunliffe, an archaeologist with the Cultural Property Protection and Peace team at Newcastle University.

“In a conflict situation, that neglect intensifies,” said Cunliffe. “Those few people who remained to look after them were then unable to reach them. But then as the war progressed, the damage increased significantly.”

By 2020, nearly half of Syria’s Jewish sites were destroyed, according to a report from the Foundation for Jewish Heritage. The Jobar Synagogue in Damascus, one of few Jewish places of worship still visited by a handful of elderly Jews before the war, was mostly turned into rubble in 2014. A host of ancient Torah scrolls, tapestries, chandeliers and other artifacts from the synagogue went missing, with some resurfacing in Turkey.

The al-Bandara Synagogue, one of the oldest synagogues in Aleppo, also suffered damage during heavy fighting in the region. The synagogue had been renovated in the 1990s but was damaged again during the civil war in 2016. Cunliffe, who conducted a study of the site in 2017, said some parts of the building were destroyed and its courtyard was littered with debris. (A recent virtual reality exhibition at the Israel Museum in Jerusalem allowed visitors to explore the famed synagogue as it stood in 1947, using photographs taken by a local woman who later emigrated.)

Tadef, a town east of Aleppo, was once a popular destination for Jews because of its shrine to the Jewish scribe and prophet Ezra, who was said to stop there on his way to Jerusalem. But after a long period of neglect, the shrine was illegally excavated and looted both by rebel groups and Syrian government forces between 2021 and 2022, according to the rights group Syrians for Truth and Justice.

Scholars also worry about the ruins of Roman-era synagogues in Syria’s ancient cities, such as Apamea and Dura-Europos. Satellite imaging has shown that Dura-Europos was heavily looted while being held by Islamic State forces, according to Adam Blitz, a fellow of the Royal Anthropological Institute.

Remnants from the synagogue of Dura-Europos are treasured by museums, including the Yale University Art Gallery, which displays 40 tiles from the synagogue’s ceiling. But Blitz said other artifacts from the site are feared to have been pilfered by combatants.

“There has been tremendous fear about mosaics being looted,” he said of Syria’s ancient sites.

The extent of the damage to Jewish sites is still difficult to assess, according to Cunliffe, who said the skills and training needed for forensic damage collection remain limited in the war-torn country. Investigations through satellite imagery will also take several months. It may take much longer to establish protection for these sites, as Syria’s cultural sector has been overlooked during the war and the Syrian Antiquities Authority has been consigned to a tiny budget.

As Syria hurtles into a new era, the fate of its heritage sites hangs in the balance. The country’s gems of Jewish history will only survive as far as its next regime allows, said Cunliffe.

The new regime has its roots in Islamic fundamentalist movements but in recent years has taken a pragmatic turn, leaving open questions about the fate of minorities and their interests under its governance.

“Support for the people who are in a position to access them and protect them is critical, and also the need for an inclusive society that will allow that to happen,” Cunliffe said about the historic Jewish sites. “We don’t know what the future of Syria looks like. Certainly, there’s a lot of fighting, and which group ultimately wins will dictate a lot of what is possible.”

Three single Jewish men sat next to each other onstage. One nursed a mostly-empty beer and scratched his graying stubble while another readjusted his kippah. To their right, separated by a blue divider, the bachelorette — wearing hot pink pants and sorting through a stack of cue cards — sat on her own.

Those in the audience at Caveat, a venue on the Lower East Side, knew what the contestants looked like, of course, but the bachelorette on stage did not. Nor did she know the men’s occupations or their names — nothing that could create any preconceptions. All they knew were each other’s voices, and their shame-free answers to some of life’s most personal questions.

From the men’s responses to probing questions — including “What Jewish icon was your role model growing up?” and “How many times have you been in love?” — the bachelorette would pick one man to have a dinner date with at a local Jewish restaurant. 

Welcome to The Jewish Dating Game, a monthly live show that’s inspired by the long-running 1960s game show “The Dating Game.” This live, Jewish version of the game was launched in July by actor and writer Linnea Sage. Sage’s goal is to help contestants — and audience members — find their beshert, or soul mate. 

What sets The Jewish Dating Game apart from a non-Jewish one? “I don’t think it would be as funny,” Sage told the New York Jewish Week. “At the end of the day, Jews have something special. We’ve got some pizzazz, you know, that I think is just endearing and entertaining to watch regardless.”  

At Caveat on a Monday evening last month, the night’s bachelorette, Dina Plotch, excitedly dove into her questions, which had been written by Sage. “Ooh, this [question] is super important —  do or die,” she said after flipping to the cue card of her liking. The audience of approximately 75 “Jews and allies,” as the event’s description reads, waited with bated breath. 

She leaned into her microphone: “Did we free Britney [Spears] too soon?” 

“I don’t totally know what you mean,” Contestant 1 responded, with unabashed honesty that earned the room’s loud applause. Contestant 3 chimed in, saying he’d seen the documentary about Spears’ conservatorship and that “it seemed like we did it at the right time.” 

Finally, Contestant 2 brought it all home: “To be honest with you, I go with bachelor number one’s answer. Because whatever is meant to be is meant to be, and you know what? God has a plan, and when she’s meant to be free, she’s meant to be free.” The audience went wild.

The idea for the Jewish Dating Game came to Sage while she was stuck in a creative rut this past spring. She and her husband, Paul Skye Lehrman, who co-produces the show, are both voice actors — and in May, the couple sued an A.I. company that cloned both of their voices without their permission. 

“I had this huge reckoning with like, ‘What am I doing now for the rest of my life?’” Sage said. “Because the industry is changing so drastically.” Hosting The Jewish Dating Game, she added, has allowed her to tap into her background in theater and improv comedy.

Sage said she was also inspired by a growing need for involvement in the city’s Jewish community after Oct. 7. “I so quickly felt like I needed to be around my people as often as possible, and in as loving ways as possible,” she said. 

She was already attending Jewish events organized by friends. “But I didn’t really think that that was going to be any part of my career,” Sage said. “I thought I was just sort of an attender.” 

At large Shabbats organized by SHIUR — a group that aims to take “the ancient Jewish practice of text based discourse integrated with space, ritual, and practice to the world of art, diplomacy, culture and more” — she’d befriend other women who, as soon as they learned Sage was married, would ask to be set up with someone. “I would literally spend the rest of the evening shuffling nice Jewish boys in front of these women,” she said. “And like a live Tinder swipe, they’re just like, ‘Left, left, no, forget it.’ And I’m like, ‘Can we give these people a chance?’ Like, so much of attraction is based on getting to know somebody.” 

Her Shabbat matchmaking attempts helped inspire The Jewish Dating Game — specifically, its focus on values and personalities rather than looks. But her “a-ha moment” happened when she literally woke up in the middle of the night with the idea. Sage, as she normally does when she dreams up an idea, went back to sleep. “If I wake up in the morning and I still remember it, then it was worth remembering,” she said.

Sage woke up still thinking about the idea — and she hasn’t stopped since. “I feel like the people on ‘Shark Tank,’ who are like, ‘This is my baby and this is all I do now,’” she said. “I literally don’t stop thinking about it.”

In July, Sage put on the first edition of The Jewish Dating Game, inspired by the matchmaking show that in 1978 infamously featured a contestant who later pleaded guilty to seven counts of murder. Said Sage, “I try to screen my contestants enough that I know they’re not serial killers.”

Other than refraining from murder, singles interested in a spot onstage must complete a submission form that asks for information like their line of work, level of religious observance and what they’re looking for in a partner. Then, after completing social media background checks and getting a feel for the candidates’ personalities, Sage uses her “yenta magic” to concoct a lineup with compatible pairings.

Plotch, the November bachelorette and full-time social worker who also acts, said she was excited to be featured. “I love being onstage and I date Jewish boys, so like, why not?” she said. 

Plotch said the answer to the Britney Spears question is what clinched her decision. “Obviously, as a lady of a certain age, [I] grew up with Britney as the be-all and end-all,” she said, adding that she took notice that one of the bachelors was not only aware of Spears, but had even seen her documentary. “I felt that that was a sign that this was my beshert — or at least beshert for the evening.” 

Earlier that night, the audience had been treated to a fun surprise. During Round 1 of the game, which featured a bachelor interviewing three bachelorettes, one of the contestants was Harmonie Krieger, a star of the Netflix series “Jewish Matchmaking.” Krieger, who’s since become a dating coach for the Lox Club, a Jewish dating app, said she had an “amazing” night — though she wasn’t kidding herself about her connection with the bachelor. 

“Listen, from the beginning, I knew that guy wasn’t my type,” she said in an interview after the show. “He said, ‘I’m not really an island [vacation] person,’ and I’m like, ‘Oh no. This is not gonna work.’”

While not ultimately a winning contestant, Krieger expressed the importance of an event that facilitated Jewish matchmaking in a time of rising antisemitism. “I’m Reform, I never grew up like I had to marry Jewish,” she said. But since Oct. 7, her view on the matter has shifted. “And now I feel such an inclination to, almost like, do my duty and carry it on.”

Beyond the matchmaking, Sage said her goal for the show is to provide “a night of Jewish joy” for all involved. Lehrman, Sage’s husband, said he’s seen that vision come to life. 

“It’s not the easiest time to be publicly Jewish,” Lehrman said. “And the foundational thing for this show is there’s always a moment in the evening where I look up and see the audience, and there’s this feeling where people have allowed their guard to go down.”

Following two rounds of matchmaking, the house lights came on and audience members roamed the theater to mingle. People lined up to introduce themselves to contestants as if they were newly anointed celebrities. The room was abuzz with not only singles looking for a date, but also couples who were just there to enjoy the show. 

Zach, 38, who attended with his wife, said he felt like “automatically, everyone’s already a friend you could talk to” because of their shared experiences: “We all had the same critical mother, we all had the same pressure to find a Jewish spouse — it’s like a fun way to kind of share that.” 

He added, “I don’t even talk to the person in the elevator who [lives] on my hall of like, four people. No way. But, you know, you bring a bunch of young Jews together with some libations, and everyone’s having a good time.”

The next Jewish Dating Game is Monday, Dec. 23 at Caveat (21A Clinton St.). Get tickets and info here.

TEL AVIV — A woman with a gaunt face and ripped pajama pants ambles into Cafe Otef, nestled in a up-and-coming yet still gritty corner of Tel Aviv’s Florentin neighborhood. She gestures to the water dispenser, and Ziv Hai, a worker at the cafe, obliges with a glass while owner Reut Karp offers her a cigarette.

“We don’t have them in our region,” Hai said about apparently unhoused people. “Learning how to navigate that has also been part of the journey.”

Hai was far from home because the cafe is no ordinary establishment. Founded by Tamir Barelko, a serial entrepreneur in the culinary world, it is the second in the Cafe Otef chain — “Otef” referring to the “envelope” region of Israel bordering Gaza that Hamas terrorists invaded on Oct. 7, 2023. The first branch opened as a pop-up in Tel Aviv’s glitzy Sarona complex, staffed by residents of Netiv Haasara, one of the communities targeted in the massacre. This branch, named Cafe Otef-Re’im, honors the kibbutz of the same name, where 80 terrorists invaded, killing seven residents and kidnapping four. The kibbutz was also next to where the Nova music festival massacre took place.

Staffed entirely by displaced residents from the battered communities in the south, the cafe offers a wide range of goods from that region: cheeses from Be’eri, honey from Kibbutz Erez, jams, spreads, granola and specialty cakes, alongside branded items such T-shirts, water bottles, and aprons — all sourced from small producers affected by the massacre.

But the piece de resistance is the chocolate, crafted from recipes by Dvir Karp, the owner’s late ex-husband, who was murdered on Oct. 7 in front of their children, then ages 10 and 8.

Reut Karp said that during the pandemic, “when we all thought we were going to die,” she had urged her ex-husband to write down his chocolate recipes. Despite his initial resistance — insisting he had them all in his head — he eventually complied. After his murder, Karp felt a profound responsibility to preserve his legacy. She believes Dvir would have been proud of her posthumous rebranding of his chocolates, including a new logo inspired by the luxury brand Cartier, though she joked he would “probably say I went overboard.”

Most of Re’im’s residents were evacuated to nearby apartment buildings in Florentin, while Hai, who is from a different kibbutz close to Egypt, was initially relocated with his family to Ofakim, a small city near Beersheba. In April, he moved to Tel Aviv, where he said he experienced an intense culture shock.

“At first, I was like, what the hell am I doing here, and I just wanted to move back,” he said. Over time, however, he adjusted to city life, finding a sense of belonging through his work at the cafe, which opened in the summer.

“I feel like I left a piece of myself behind in Sufa, and here in Tel Aviv, I’m trying to rebuild myself anew. The cafe gives me a place where I can feel comfortable,” he said. “I can tell a dark joke, and everyone here — because they’re also from the south — gets it.”

Karp, who co-owns another cafe featuring Dvir’s chocolates in Israel’s south, was approached by Barelko to manage the Re’im branch. She declined, citing her responsibilities to her three children who are still coping with the trauma of the attack (Karp herself was away for the weekend of Oct. 7). Determined to involve her, Barelko appointed managers to handle daily operations, allowing Karp to serve as the owner and hostess.

The role proved a perfect fit for Karp, who expressed gratitude for having a reason to get up each day.

“So many times over the past six months, I’ve said, thank God I have this place that forces me out of bed. And all the workers say the same thing,” she shared, highlighting one employee who had lost his entire family in the attack.

The cafe has become a gathering place for those directly impacted by the events of Oct. 7 — survivors of the Nova music festival, bereaved parents and others — while also offering a space for those not directly affected to engage with their stories and find meaning. “They want to feel a sense of connection and to know it’s not just a gimmick,” Karp said.

“People always say Tel Avivians are living in a bubble — sitting in coffee shops while soldiers are fighting and hostages are trapped in Hamas tunnels,” she added. “But here, people let themselves enjoy coffee without the guilt.”

The cafe’s location in the center of the country has also made it a natural meeting point for evacuees from both Israel’s north and south who have been relocated to the city. Karp noted the unique camaraderie that has formed between the two groups, describing it as a shared understanding of what it means to be displaced within their own country.

As if on cue, an older woman from Kibbutz Manara in the north approached and chatted with Karp about her recent visit to her kibbutz — the first since the ceasefire agreement with Hezbollah in late November. Their laughter seemed out of place given the context of the conversation, with the older woman remarking that it would take “at least a decade” to rebuild the kibbutz. Over 70% of the homes in Manara have been damaged, with rocket fragments still scattered across the area, prompting some residents to compare it to Chernobyl.

The two hug before the older woman walks away — a scene that plays out repeatedly throughout the afternoon.

“Some people recognize me from TV but hesitate to ask questions or offer a hug,” Karp said. “But that contact is like a human charger for me.”

Around 100 of Re’im’s 450 residents have returned home. Yet, according to Karp, many of their temporary neighbors in Tel Aviv feel conflicted about their departure. “On the one hand, they’re happy for us to go back home, but on the other, they want us to stay because our presence here has put a face to Oct. 7,” she said.

The red anemone, or kalanit – Israel’s national flower, ubiquitous in the region of Re’im — is equally ubiquitous at the cafe, embroidered on staff uniforms, printed on takeaway cups, and displayed on ceramic items for sale. But otherwise, there are few overt signs of the cafe’s deeper purpose. One less obvious sign comes in an innocuous poster on the wall, its tiny spiral text easy to miss.

Created by Adi Drimer, an art teacher from Re’im, the artwork contains the haunting text messages sent in the kibbutz WhatsApp group on Oct. 7. Karp points out her own chilling plea from that day, begging other kibbutz members to rescue her children: “Urgent! Urgent! Daria and Lavi are alone,” read her text. “Dvir was murdered.”

Karp said the decision to avoid making the cafe overtly about the massacre was deliberate, respecting those who prefer to keep their coffee and grief separate.

“We also don’t want to sink into the sadness of it all,” she said. “This is a place for renewal, and when people see us moving forward, it inspires them.”

Barelko has big plans for the chain. Two new branches are set to open in the coming weeks: one in Rehovot, called Cafe Otef–Sderot, for residents of the southern town, and a misnomered Cafe Otef–Kiryat Shmona, paying tribute to those evacuated from the northern town for 14 months.

He also plans to introduce food trucks at various locations across the country and expand the initiative to include employment for soldiers disabled in the war, whose numbers are estimated in the thousands.

“In the end, we realized this is the best approach to rehabilitation. It builds both hope and resilience,” he said.