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91传媒

July 8, 2026

Table for Five: Matot-Masei

One verse, five voices. Edited by Nina Litvak and Salvador Litvak, the Accidental Talmudist

If a man makes a vow to the Lord or makes an oath to prohibit himself, he shall not violate his word; according to whatever came out of his mouth, he shall do.

鈥 Numbers 30:3


Gilla Nissan

Author of 鈥淢editations with the Hebrew Letters 鈥 Guide to the Modern Seeker鈥

No wonder many people who take Torah seriously often say, B鈥檒i neder, meaning: I hope this or that will happen, but I am not making a vow. Let us concentrate on B鈥檙it HaLashon, the Covenant of the Tongue, a central idea in 91传媒 mystical literature, especially in Sefer Yetzirah, the Zohar, and later Kabbalah. While the 鈥渃ovenant of the flesh鈥 is circumcision, the 鈥渃ovenant of the tongue鈥 refers to sanctifying speech. While the first covenant deals with the creative power of the body, the second guards the creative power of speech.

As a teacher of the Hebrew letters, I have spent much time contemplating Torah鈥檚 understanding of speech. Torah begins by teaching that God, through His wisdom (Bereshit), created first all 22 letters from Aleph to Tav, the tools through which the world was created and remains in existence. As co-creators, we constantly shape our reality through speech. As Rabbi Yitzchak Ginsburgh says, the 91传媒 people are called to witness the Divine on earth through the power of speech. Much of our world is shaped by words set in motion consciously or unconsciously. This is both sobering and hopeful.

My grandmother Sara would come to visit us, stand by the mezuzah, and bless and bless for a long time. In fact, the mission of this holy language of Truth is to bless. This may be one measure of self-development: 鈥淎donai, guard my tongue from evil and my lips from speaking deceit. To those who curse me, let my soul remain silent. And let my soul be as dust to all.鈥


Rabbi Aryeh Markman

Exec. Dir. Aish LA and Co-Founder and CEO 91传媒 American Summit

If you are a Jew, you made a vow. Spoken before the thunder of Sinai, sealed in fire and cloud, witnessed by the Almighty Himself. Our tradition teaches that every 91传媒 soul that would ever be born 鈥 and every soul that would ever choose to join our people 鈥 stood at that mountain. Together, trembling and eternal, the 91传媒 People 鈥 past, present and future 鈥 swore to uphold the Torah and carry the flame of 91传媒 identity through every generation, no matter the cost. Welcome to being 91传媒.

But time, assimilation, distraction and distance conspire to silence the memory of our vow. And God doesn鈥檛 forget. Torah Law itself reflects this reality: even if a Jew vows to violate the Torah, that vow is null and void 鈥 for the oath sworn at Sinai takes precedence over all others. The covenant endures.

For 40 years, Aish LA has been awakening Jews to the depth and power of their heritage. But this moment in history, since Oct. 7, 2023, demands more than awakening 鈥 it demands action. We must know how to defend ourselves, articulate our reason for existence and seize the extraordinary opportunities before us. That is why we created the 91传媒 American Summit 鈥 bringing together the most effective leaders, funders and changemakers for a single defining day to forge the strategies and relationships that will move the needle. A unified 91传媒 response, catalyzed at the exact moment history is demanding one. On Sunday, Aug. 30, we will transform that ancient vow into action.


Michael Milgraum

Psychologist and Author

We are taught that Hashem made a series of statements, each of which was fulfilled in turn and resulted in our world. It is also of interest that a well-known principle in 91传媒 thought is that if a Tzadik makes a statement, then one way or another that intention will be fulfilled, sometimes through divine means. I believe there is an essential teaching in these Torah principles, which can be stated this way: Fulfillment of what one has spoken is a sign of an elevated spirituality.

Think of all the times that you realized you made a terrible mistake, and you told yourself you would never let it happen again. What power, confidence and sense of dignity it would create inside of you if you would actually follow through with that resolution! Further, think of how many broken dreams and broken hearts have resulted from people not keeping their word. The ability to verbally make a commitment and follow through with it is not only essential in our business dealings, it is also the fabric from which our closest relationships are formed and maintained.

I once heard this poignant observation: Children are particularly wounded by broken promises, because they are innocent enough to believe in them with all their hearts. Let us strive to not break the hearts of children or wound that innocent part of each one of us that still has the purity to believe that people might actually mean what they say.


Rabbi Tal Sessler

Temple Beth Zion

One of the leading psychologists of our time is Steven Hayes. Dr. Hayes devised his psychological approach on his very flesh. He suffered from severe panic attacks, and consequently developed a psychological modality known as Acceptance and Commitment Therapy. The commitment part of this therapy is about making a commitment to your chosen values, responsibilities and principals. Hayes postulates that moral and ethical propriety give rise to more robust mental health. In other words, the more I act in accordance with my values and principles, the more mental health I generate for myself, and the more I act in a manner incongruent with my values the more I suffer anguish and distress. Judaism was attuned millennia ago to this intrinsic correlation between ethical living and personal well-being. Our verse summons us to be people of integrity, to live up to our chosen responsibilities and to be people of our word. As modern psychology teaches us, this is not just a matter of personal integrity, it is also a question of personal well-being. Psalm 24 asserts that those who do not take God鈥檚 name in vain 鈥渁scend to the mountain of Hashem.鈥 In other words, they know both spiritual elation and peace of mind. Let us walk in their light and emulate their ways.


Baruch C. Cohen

Los Angeles Civil Trial Attorney, Baruch C. Cohen Esq.

The First Person Broken by a Broken Promise.

Most people think this verse is about honesty. It is about something far deeper. The Torah does not merely prohibit breaking a promise. It teaches that when we violate our word, the first casualty is not the person to whom the promise was made. The first casualty is ourselves. Every promise is more than a commitment to another person. It is a conversation with our own character.

When we repeatedly keep our word, something remarkable happens. We begin to trust ourselves. Our children trust us. Our spouses trust us. Our clients trust us. Eventually, our reputation is simply the echo of thousands of promises quietly kept.

The opposite is equally true. A person who casually breaks promises does not merely lose credibility with others. He slowly teaches himself that his own words have no weight. Every broken promise chips away at the foundation of integrity until words become negotiable and commitments become suggestions.

Perhaps that is why the Torah does not say, “Do not break your promise.” It says, “He shall not violate his word.” A person’s word is part of who he is. To profane it is to diminish something sacred within himself. In a world overflowing with contracts, disclaimers and legal protections, the greatest security still belongs to the person whose handshake means exactly what it says. Long before others decide whether they can trust us, we decide whether our own words deserve our own respect.

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From Roadmap to Reality: UCLA Must Move Beyond Aspirational Commitments in Combating Antisemitism

More than a year has passed since UCLA launched its Initiative to Combat Antisemitism. The release of the Commission’s Roadmap Report marks an important milestone and reflects growing recognition by university leadership that antisemitism has become a serious challenge on campus. For that recognition, the 91传媒 Faculty Resilience Group (JFRG) is grateful.

We commend Chancellor Julio Frenk for making the fight against antisemitism a visible priority and applaud several concrete steps already taken, including the appointment of former LAPD Commander Steve Lurie as Associate Vice Chancellor for Campus and Community Safety and the hiring of Leora Freedman as Assistant Vice Chancellor for Civil Rights. These are meaningful developments and demonstrate that UCLA understands the need for institutional change.

Yet acknowledgment alone does not create safety. Reports do not protect students. Committees do not stop discrimination. Recognition without remedy is not protection.

The Roadmap demonstrates that UCLA has heard many of the concerns raised by 91传媒 faculty, students, staff, and community members. Unfortunately, hearing those concerns is not the same as addressing them. While the report reflects the architecture of meaningful reform, it lacks the urgency, specificity, transparency, and accountability necessary to transform aspirations into reality.

The central challenge facing UCLA today is not whether it understands the problem. The challenge is whether it is prepared to act.

Perhaps the most significant unresolved issue is UCLA’s continued reluctance to clearly identify the role that antizionism often plays in contemporary antisemitism. The Roadmap largely treats antizionism, BDS, and anti-normalization campaigns as political viewpoints or policy matters. Yet when these ideologies are used to exclude 91传媒 students from organizations, denyopportunities to Israelis, intimidate Zionist faculty members, or create hostile educational environments, they cease to be merely political positions. They become mechanisms of discrimination.

Of course universities have a responsibility to protect free expression, including criticism of Israeli government policies. But UCLA should explicitly state that antizionism constitutes anti-91传媒 discrimination when it results in exclusion, retaliation, harassment, denial of opportunities, or unequal treatment based on 91传媒 identity, Israeli nationality, or Zionist affiliation.

The report’s treatment of antisemitism training illustrates a broader problem. UCLA proposes developing comprehensive educational programs for students, administrators, teaching assistants, department chairs, and civil-rights personnel. Training can be an important tool, but the report leaves critical questions unanswered. What will be taught? Who will be required to participate? Will the training include recognized definitions of antisemitism and real-world examples? How will compliance be measured? What consequences will exist for non-participation?

Without answers to these questions, training remains an aspiration rather than an intervention.

Similarly, the Commission recommends that UCLA consider using the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (IHRA) definition of antisemitism, yet stops short of formally adopting it. The IHRA definition has become one of the most widely utilized tools for identifying contemporary manifestations of antisemitism while preserving legitimate political discourse. By declining to establish a clear path toward adoption, UCLA risks leaving one of the most valuable tools available sitting unused in the toolbox.

Accountability represents another major gap.

The Roadmap discusses dashboards, reporting systems, and internal reviews, but provides little public information regarding outcomes. 91传媒 students, faculty, and staff deserve to know whether complaints are investigated promptly, whether discrimination findings result in meaningful remedies, and whether repeat offenders face consequences. Transparency is essential to rebuilding trust.

We therefore call upon UCLA to publish meaningful Title VI and Title VII data, including complaint categories, investigation timelines, outcomes, remedies, disciplinary actions, retaliation claims, and patterns of recurring violations. Institutions cannot demonstrate progress without measurable benchmarks.

Equally important is the need for independent oversight. The Roadmap largely relies upon internal administrative structures to evaluate institutional performance. Yet organizations rarely succeed when asked to police themselves. Independent monitoring by trusted civil-rights experts would strengthen credibility, improve accountability, and reassure affected communities that concerns are being evaluated fairly and objectively.

Perhaps nowhere is the need for urgent action more apparent than within UCLA Health and the David Geffen School of Medicine.

For years, 91传媒 students, residents, faculty, and staff have raised concerns regarding discrimination, exclusion, retaliation, and hostile workplace environments. While the Commission acknowledges these concerns, it relegates them to future assessment rather than immediate action. Medical education and patient care cannot wait for another round of studies. UCLA should immediately initiate audits of admissions, hiring, clinical assignments, rotations, and supervisory structures to ensure equal treatment. It should implement explicit whistleblower protections and establish safeguards against retaliation.

Moreover, hospitals are fundamentally different from traditional campus environments. Patient-care settings should be places of healing, professionalism, and safety. Political demonstrations, amplified sound, intimidation, and coercive activism have no place in clinical spaces where vulnerable patients seek care and medical trainees learn their profession. UCLA Health requires a hospital-specific policy that prioritizes patient welfare and preserves the integrity of healthcare environments.

The same principle applies to professionalism. Political regalia, conflict-related symbols, and ideological signaling in clinical and supervisory settings can create pressure and discomfort for patients and trainees. Healthcare professionals must be judged by their competence and compassion, not by political allegiances displayed in patient-care environments.

The Commission also acknowledges concerns regarding departmental neutrality, yet leaves loopholes that permit political advocacy on university-hosted webpages beyond departmental landing pages. Academic neutrality must apply throughout official university platforms, not merely on selected pages.

Finally, UCLA must recognize that combating antisemitism requires more than preventing harm. It also requires rebuilding what has been damaged. The university should invest in 91传媒 Studies, Hebrew language instruction, Israeli history, 91传媒 peoplehood, and rigorous scholarship that reflects the diversity and complexity of 91传媒 identity. Intellectual balance is not achieved through neutrality alone; it requires active support for serious scholarship and academic inquiry.

The Commission’s Roadmap represents an important beginning. It demonstrates that persistent advocacy by 91传媒 faculty and community members has succeeded in placing critical issues on UCLA’s agenda. But beginnings are not endings.

The 91传媒 community has heard many promises over the past year. What it seeks now is evidence.

UCLA has an opportunity to become a national model for confronting antisemitism through principled leadership, transparent accountability, and meaningful action. To achieve that goal, the university must move beyond assessments, committees, and aspirations. It must embrace implementation, enforcement, and measurable results.

The time for diagnosis has passed. The time for treatment has arrived.


Matthew Davidson is Executive Director 91传媒 Faculty Resilience Group and Deborah Termeie, DDS, Continuing Lecturer, UCLA School of Dentistry is JFRG at UCLA Advisory Council Spokesperson.

91传媒 Faculty Resilience Group is recognized as a 501(c)(3) tax-exempt nonprofit organization (Tax ID: 99-3377476). Donations are tax-deductible within the guidelines of U.S. law.

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Emanuel Gives Israel Some Love Tough Rather Than Tough Love

There鈥檚 a reason why the expression 鈥渢ough love鈥 ends with love.

We know that the most important things in life are usually said last– after the obligatory 鈥渂ut.鈥

I have a lot of feelings for you, but I can’t continue.

I鈥檇 love to make a donation, but now’s not a good time.

America does some great things, but it’s irredeemably racist.

In his speech Wednesday at Tel Aviv University, Democratic presidential hopeful Rahm Emanuel tried the same thing: he led with 鈥渓ove鈥 to set up his 鈥渢ough.鈥 He assumed savvy Israelis would not see he was softening them up before delivering the hammer.

Sure enough, he began with empathy: “I want to start by saying four words that Israelis don’t hear often anymore: I understand your cynicism.鈥

He acknowledged that Palestinian leadership has failed its people; that it rejected Israeli peace offers and responded with violence and intifadas.

He acknowledged the horror of Oct. 7, adding: 鈥淔or those that paraded, celebrated and cheered on October 8, what happened on October 7, your moral bankruptcy speaks louder than any words today.”

He also got personal, recounting how his Jerusalem-born father fought in the War of Independence and that his uncle, whose grave he visited upon arrival, died fighting for Israel as part of the Irgun.

At this point, I can imagine many Israelis rolling their eyes: OK, where鈥檚 he going with this? When is he telling us what he really came here to say?

It didn鈥檛 take long for the 鈥渂ut鈥 to show up, for Emanuel to let everyone know he was here for serious business.

The United States’ unconditional support for Israel, he warned, “has produced a prime minister who has presumed that his strategic interests would incur no cost if he ignored America’s concerns about the settlements and sparked a regional war.

鈥淯nconditional support has allowed you to deny food and medical relief to innocent Palestinians suffering in Gaza, leaving the world to conclude that Israelis not only want to kill the Palestinians but that they are completely indifferent to their death, destruction, and suffering.

鈥淯nconditional support has girded a political coalition in the Knesset that learned it can burn Palestinian farmland in the West Bank and terrorize Palestinian families without consequence.”

Under Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, he said, support for Israel has plummeted around the world and made Israel a pariah state.

He said the United States should stop supplying military aid to Israel and instead treat it like any other ally. “The United States cannot continue to finance and support that cynicism in silence. You cannot fight indefinitely against a world that has stopped believing you have the right to fight. You must instead find a new sustainable path to peace, security, and prosperity.”

He promoted a plan, the “23-state solution,” in which the Arab states would accept the 91传媒 claim to Israel and Israel would “cease and desist from its cynical game of nurturing destructive organizations like Hamas rather than real partners in pursuit of peace.” If Israel attempts to annex the West Bank and “pursue the fantasy of a greater Israel,” he warned that it would lose its American support.

Here鈥檚 the point: Whether or not his criticisms and prescriptions have merit, they were undermined by his superficial appreciation of Israel鈥檚 shattered state since Oct. 7. I鈥檝e been to the country numerous times in the past 1,000 days. The nerves are frayed. People are exhausted. The tragic memories are very much alive.

Emanuel didn鈥檛 show that he has the pulse of Israelis. He was full-throated and cocky with his hammer, but shallow with his empathy.

Instead of ending with his preaching, he would have been more credible had he finished with a poignant tribute to the victims of Oct. 7; with a recognition of the national trauma that continues to haunt Israelis and has only reinforced their deep distrust for “peace” with genocidal neighbors sworn to their destruction. That would have made empathy his central message, which, ironically, would have made the hammer go down easier.

Israelis know their country is in a mess. They know they need an eventual solution to the Palestinian conflict and to many others. They know they need change. They know they’re hated, especially on the left.

If you want to lecture them in their own country, you better do it with radical sensitivity, especially if you suddenly pop in one day as a potential future presidential candidate. Which makes one wonder: Was Emanuel’s real intent to talk to Israelis or to show progressive voters back home that he’s the kind of Jew who can bash Israel with the best of them?

In that sense, Emanuel came across more as a slick political operator than a concerned family member who has your best interest at heart.

That鈥檚 a shame.

Israel is in a real crisis, both internally and externally. Israelis could have used some tough love from someone they could trust.

Instead, they got a swaggering politician who buttered them up before adding more gloom and doom to a nation already on overdose.

If you don鈥檛 do the “love” right, it鈥檚 hard for the “tough” to get through.

Of course, I may be wrong. Emanuel鈥檚 bluntness, political agendas aside, may end up serving as a jarring wake-up call that will benefit Israel in the long run.

In any case, if he ends up in the White House one day, we may have no choice but to swallow his love tough.

 

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The Story That Never Goes Away

Rachel Goldberg-Polin is the mother of Hersh Goldberg-Polin, the 23-year-old Israeli American taken hostage by Hamas at the Nova music festival on Oct. 7, 2023 and murdered while held captive. She came to Los Angeles this spring to speak about 鈥淲hen We See You Again,鈥 her new book about grief, pain, love and the aftermath of her son’s murder. More than 1,300 people came to Valley Beth Shalom in Encino on April 30. Two days later, another crowd came to Stephen Wise Temple.

Between those public appearances, Goldberg-Polin sat down with The 91传媒 Journal at a house in Los Angeles, with her husband, Jon Polin, nearby.

There’s one version of Goldberg-Polin on stage: the mother many in the 91传媒 world had been watching, praying with and counting beside since October 2023. The interview gave another: a woman trying to explain what happens after words written in private are handed to the public, after strangers begin carrying pieces of your pain, after people who mean only love keep coming toward your body.

Three days after Oct. 7, Goldberg-Polin was on CNN, speaking about the two messages Hersh sent at 8:11 that morning. The first said, 鈥淚 love you.鈥 The second said, 鈥淚鈥檓 sorry.鈥 Goldberg-Polin said she knew at once that something horrible was happening.

By late October, Goldberg-Polin was speaking at the United Nations. On Oct. 19, she delivered the speech that became known for the line 鈥淗ate is easy. Love is hard.鈥 On Oct. 24, she spoke at U.N. headquarters in New York, asking for proof of life and Red Cross access to the hostages. Ten months later, Goldberg-Polin and Polin walked onto the stage at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago with 鈥320鈥 taped over their hearts. The number marked the days Hersh had been held in Gaza. The crowd chanted, 鈥淏ring them home.鈥 For many Americans, it was the first time the Goldberg-Polin family鈥檚 story broke through.

The book became an immediate bestseller. Though Goldberg-Polin has read excerpts at public events, she only read the full manuscript once, when she recorded the audiobook in March.

At Valley Beth Shalom, Goldberg-Polin spoke to a room where the audience seemed afraid to move.

Goldberg-Polin also had quips that made the crowd laugh. That mattered because in her book, Goldberg-Polin writes about how painful laughter had once been to hear. At VBS, Goldberg-Polin could make the room laugh while holding it in a silence where many seemed afraid to shift in their seats.

Goldberg-Polin does not speak as if she is handling it. Like many survivors, bereaved families and friends of those murdered on Oct. 7, Goldberg-Polin speaks about a life split into before and after. At VBS, Goldberg-Polin said she misses the ease of the life she had before Oct. 7, 2023, and feels grateful for that life. One-on-one, Goldberg-Polin was less sure about what the book had done for her.

But Goldberg-Polin resisted the neatest label for the book. 鈥淚 want to be careful because I think a lot of people write and then are asked, 鈥榃hy did you write this?鈥欌 Goldberg-Polin said. 鈥淎nd I think it鈥檚 impressive when people write for very altruistic reasons. I think it鈥檚 amazing. And I鈥檝e read books over my life where I鈥檝e thought, wow, I feel very privileged to have read this and it helped me, but I did not write this in that way.鈥

At a national news interview earlier that day, a journalist called the book a memoir. 鈥淚 said, 鈥榣isten, this is not a memoir. It is not a tell-all,鈥欌 Goldberg-Polin said. 鈥淭his is like I鈥檓 in agony and I鈥檓 giving over these tiny bubbles of my pain and I don鈥檛 know how it will be received or what will happen with them, but I just want to be very honest about what it is.鈥

Nearly 90 pages were cut while editing the book.鈥淚t felt like it was asking too much, I think, of people to even be exposed to that much suffering,鈥 Goldberg-Polin said. 鈥淪o we sort of whittled and with a peeler, we peeled down and put 87 pages into a document that I call ‘the suitcase.’ … I felt so much like when you fill your cup too much and you think 鈥︹ She paused to edit herself. 鈥淣o, no, no, tip out some of that, because otherwise it鈥檚 going to spill all over the place. When you fill a pitcher of water to bring to the table and it鈥檚 too full, you have to actually dump some out in order for it to be a successful pitcher that you鈥檙e bringing to the table. And I think that there was such a surplus of burning, searing material that I didn鈥檛 agonize over getting it out. It just came out.鈥

The writing came from necessity. Goldberg-Polin rejected the idea of herself as a writer. 鈥淥h, I鈥檓 completely not a writer, but I think that life makes us into things sometimes when there鈥檚 no other option,鈥 Goldberg-Polin said. 鈥淚 mean, I鈥檓 not a swimmer, but if I had to save myself, I could swim from one place to another.鈥 Goldberg-Polin reached for a memory from the years when Hersh was a baby in Berkeley, California. She remembered being told to “keep ipecac in the house” 鈥 if a child swallowed poison, the medicine would make the child throw up. 鈥淪o in many ways, I think the writing was ipecac,鈥 she said. 鈥淚t was something I was doing to save myself from this really severe syrupy, dark, drippy suffering. And in order to get that out, it was 鈥榞et me a pen鈥 or 鈥榞et me a computer.鈥欌

College essays were hard. This book came from another place. 鈥淭his wasn鈥檛 hard for me, unfortunately, I think because it came from such a terrible place and it was just a life-support solution.鈥

Even before Oct. 7, she had a real yearning 鈥渢o explain what I鈥檓 feeling in a way that is digestible and understandable,鈥 Goldberg-Polin said. 鈥淎nd so all the more so now when you鈥檙e desperately trying to have people in any way comprehend what you鈥檙e going through.鈥

She loved books before writing one, though not from childhood. During the interview, Goldberg-Polin edited herself after saying she had always loved reading. 鈥淚鈥檝e always loved reading鈥hat鈥檚 a lie. I started to love reading once I was 18 and above. I wasn鈥檛 a great reader when I was young.鈥 That changed when Goldberg-Polin came to Israel for a year at 18. There was no internet, no movies or television. The 28 young people in the program relied on whatever books were around. 鈥淎nd so someone passed around the book, 鈥楾he Godfather,鈥 and I really wasn鈥檛 a reader, but I got into it,鈥 Goldberg-Polin said.

Then came 鈥淭he Shining,鈥 which scared her enough that she had to sleep in her roommate鈥檚 bed for a few nights, and 鈥淭he World According to Garp.鈥 That book 鈥渟ealed the deal,鈥 Goldberg-Polin said. 鈥淎nd I鈥檝e been a bibliophile and obsessed with books, and I worked in the library when I was in college. But all that is to say that I鈥檝e been a devourer of books, but not a writer.鈥

Goldberg-Polin mentioned a friend named Dasi, who years earlier used a phrase that stayed with her: 鈥渂roadcast therapy.鈥 鈥淚 think she made it up, meaning sometimes if you鈥檙e going through something, you want to discuss it with one or two people to process and turn it over and untangle it. And sometimes there are people who need to talk to 14 people about what they鈥檙e going through in order to untangle it on not this huge ball of confusing yarn.鈥

She said many people in pain are doing some version of that. 鈥淚 think that so much of what people who are in pain are trying to do is broadcast therapy in different ways,鈥 Goldberg-Polin said. 鈥淎nd maybe someone only needs one person to be the receiver, but I鈥檓 understanding since last week that finally I鈥檓 able to talk about the book because for many months, the book was finished being written already in November and we were editing it in December. And then there was 鈥楳ums the word,鈥 we鈥檙e not saying anything for many, many months. Having people read it, it means a lot to me that you are now carrying some of those molecules, some of those flecks, little, little tiny flecks of dust or something. That oddly feels like I can breathe in a different way.鈥

What was really heartening and really hopeful, she said,is that 鈥渨e鈥檝e gotten thousands of messages in this past week since the book came out from people all over the place and all different backgrounds and textures and colors and brands and different belief systems and different philosophical world outlooks, and they鈥檙e in pain and they are sharing their pain to say 鈥榶es,鈥欌 Goldberg-Polin said. 鈥淎nd there鈥檚 something about yes, that means 鈥榯here鈥檚 room for this here. There鈥檚 room for this pain. We鈥檙e not getting better. None of us are getting better. We鈥檙e getting different, and I鈥檓 okay with that.鈥欌

Goldberg-Polin had written about how much laughter hurt after Oct. 7. At VBS, Goldberg-Polin made the room laugh with a quip about giving birth to Hersh without any pain medication. 鈥淚t was in Berkeley鈥 she said to a round of laughter. But, she said, laughter remains complicated unless she is the one bringing it into the room. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know that I鈥檓 great at being around it unless I鈥檓 sort of bringing it to the table, which isn鈥檛 fair, but I think it鈥檚 true,鈥 Goldberg-Polin said. 鈥淚 think in our home and between Jon and me, there is actually a lot of laughter. I always think he should feel very lucky because I think he is hilarious and I feel like most partners should want their partner to feel that way about them.鈥

Even over the last two and a half years, Goldberg-Polin said, there has been laughter, though not in the beginning and not right after Hersh was killed. 鈥淚 mean, obviously less in the beginning, there was such a complete traumatic terror, active terror that was going on, true terror right after Oct. 7,鈥 Goldberg-Polin said. 鈥淪o then I think there wasn鈥檛. And certainly right after Hersh was killed, there wasn鈥檛, but it is a real relief to hear us laughing and to feel the laughter and to cry from laughing so much, which we do and we have done. And also, I think it鈥檚 a sign within the brokenness that something is still cohesive.鈥

Hersh shared some of his father鈥檚 relationship to humor, Goldberg-Polin said. Hersh could make someone else laugh while holding in his own laughter. 鈥淚 think he was also a lot like Jon is, where he tries to hold into,鈥 Goldberg-Polin said. 鈥淭here鈥檚 some sort of suppression. I see that Jon does that and Hersh used to do that as well because I think there鈥檚 some sort of pride of knowing that you have made someone else laugh, but you don鈥檛 want to crack yourself up because then it鈥檚 saying, 鈥業 know I鈥檓 funny.鈥 So there鈥檚 a humility in the ability to provide this sense of joy.鈥

Readers now tell Goldberg-Polin they feel they know Hersh through the book. She mentioned her friend Sarit Zussman, whose son Ben Zussman was killed in Gaza in December 2023. Zusman鈥檚 son and Hersh had been in the same high school class.

鈥淲hen she talks about how we process information now as mothers who lost our firstborn son, but it鈥檚 anyone who鈥檚 lost anybody, it鈥檚 not firstborn sons,鈥 Goldberg-Polin said. 鈥淪he calls it 鈥榖ereavement dementia,鈥 and it sounds better in Hebrew, but she coined that term. And I do think that it鈥檚 very hard to retain and remember things.鈥

She thinks it鈥檚 nice that people keep saying, “Now I really feel like I really know Hersh”: “I鈥檓 so glad that people feel that.鈥

She knows people visit Hersh鈥檚 grave because they send her photos鈥淎gain, I鈥檓 old, so I don鈥檛 really know how things like Facebook and Instagram work, but we have young people who are helping us with those things and they forward those to us. And it is really beautiful.鈥

But she is not a grave person. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 need to. 鈥 Hersh is right here,鈥 she said, gesturing to her heart.

Still, the grave has become a place for others, calling it 鈥渁 beautiful place for people to go.鈥 Visitors leave rocks, letters, pictures and stickers. At the end of Passover, the Burial Society goes around the cemetery to straighten things up thinking they were doing the family a favor. The Society noticed how cluttered the site had become, and removed objects that people left.

The family protested, 鈥溾楴o, no, we鈥檙e okay with it. You can leave all of that stuff.鈥 But it does look messy,鈥 she said. 鈥淚 think that what’s really beautiful is the messiness of a grave. There鈥檚 something very beautiful about these letters that clearly are either from children or adults with extremely bad handwriting.鈥

The grave is one place where public love becomes an object. Every one of those objects ends up in the family home. Friends鈥 garages hold even more: six storage bins, thousands of letters and pieces of art.

Goldberg-Polin is not ready to go through them just yet. 鈥淢aybe in six months or six years or six decades, I鈥檒l suddenly want them,鈥 she said. 鈥淎nd people have taken the time to write or to express themselves. That鈥檚 holy, and I don鈥檛 want to mistreat that, but I also am not in a place where I can really do it.鈥

But she and her daughters will sometimes 鈥済o through these boxes and start opening things and reading things,鈥 she said. 鈥淎nd I hope that one day I have grandchildren who would be curious about their Uncle Hersh, who they never got to meet, and maybe they鈥檒l have the stamina, the emotional stamina and courage to go through some of those things. So we try to keep everything that we can. We know that it comes from a place of love, and I鈥檓 so respectful and grateful for it.”

The Story That Never Goes Away Read More 禄

Remembering Who You Are

To my fellow Jews who have found a great purpose in anti-Israel activism, who have in recent months voted for stridently anti-Israel politicians or plan to vote for others whose opposition to Israel has become central to their politics, I wish to exercise a privilege our sages reserved for those who have reached the age of 50: the privilege of offering advice. I am years past that threshold, so please allow me to share a few thoughts.

Over the years, and especially since Oct. 7, 2023, I have made it a point to speak with people who share your point of view. It has never been my way to argue or to lecture, to excoriate or even cajole. Rather, I have had a sincere desire to listen. I don鈥檛 pretend that listening has settled the argument between us 鈥 only that it has earned me the standing to make one.

What I have found is not that you are a 鈥渟elf-hating Jew,鈥 an expression I don鈥檛 use because I don鈥檛 believe it is true. I think something more complicated has happened. I may have your story wrong 鈥 you know your own heart better than I ever could, and I offer this only as the story I have heard most often, from people who arrived at your convictions honestly. I think you grew up hearing the origin story of the nascent 91传媒 state, the one proffered in books like Leon Uris鈥 鈥淓xodus,鈥 where heroic young Jews, outnumbered and outgunned, reclaimed their ancestral land after some 2,700 years of exile 鈥 and did so in a manner unparalleled in its morality.

You may have gone to 91传媒 day school and heard the same themes. You heard them again around the Shabbat table in your home. And then you heard another story. You may have read 鈥1948,鈥 by the Israeli historian Benny Morris, with its factual accounts drawn from recently unsealed documents of those years, which contradicted some of the stories of your youth. And no doubt you went to college, as nearly all young Jews do, and read the stories of the Palestinians themselves 鈥 similar in ways to the Leon Uris book, but portraying the Nakba, the violence, the treachery, the perfidy of the Zionists as they craftily stole the lands of the blameless Arabs of Ottoman Palestine.

You also learned that there is a power dynamic at play across the globe 鈥 oppressor versus oppressed 鈥 and that the former, in every case, is bad, and the latter, good. You see yourself as good, and you are perhaps ashamed that you clung so easily, so guilelessly, to what you were taught as a child. Now you seek to rectify that wrong. And you will do it by declaring: Not In My Name.

I鈥檓 not going to try to argue you out of what you鈥檝e concluded about the settlements, how Israel came into being, or about particular Israeli policies, in the space of one letter. I won鈥檛 pretend that a single essay can undo years of reading, feeling and reasoning that brought you to where you are 鈥 in part because that reading is not unfamiliar to me. I too have sat with Edward Said, Rashid Khalidi, and Mahmoud Darwish, and with 91传媒 critics of Israel such as Peter Beinart, Noam Chomsky and Norman Finkelstein, trying to understand their arguments on their own terms rather than through the eyes of those who oppose them.

What I want to offer instead is something beneath (or beyond) that argument 鈥 a different frame for thinking about what鈥檚 at stake, one that I hope you鈥檒l test against your own conclusions rather than receive as a verdict upon them.

Judaism is widely thought of as a religion. But that isn鈥檛 an accurate description. It is, in the main, a peoplehood. A family. A civilization. A tribe to which I belong, and to which you belong. I keep Shabbat. I keep a strict kosher diet. I daven three times a day and put on tefillin every weekday. Those things are both fundamentals of 91传媒 faith, precious to me, and yet, even I know that they are not what ultimately binds me to another Jew. What binds one Jew to another is that we belong to the same people.

So do you.

Whether you are observant or secular. Whether you vote left or right. Whether you believe in God or doubt God鈥檚 existence altogether. I am not asking you to abandon your politics. I am asking you to weigh something alongside your politics that I don鈥檛 think it fully accounts for. Judaism has never asked us to love only our own. But neither has it asked us to pretend that our obligations are identical to everyone鈥檚. It teaches concentric circles of responsibility.

We begin with those entrusted to us and from there extend our concern outward.

The world has, for millennia, told the Jews to become like everyone else: to assimilate, to dissolve into the larger culture, to relinquish our sense of peoplehood. The Jew, 鈥渟tiff-necked鈥 鈥 even the Torah describes us that way 鈥 has refused. We are, in many ways, a nation of No. No to idolatry. No to forced conversion. No to surrendering ourselves entirely to whatever civilization happened to dominate a particular age.

Most ancient peoples disappeared into larger civilizations. Their languages faded. Their customs dissolved. Their identities became the concern of archaeologists. The Jews remained. Not because we imagined ourselves superior to anyone else, but because we insisted on belonging to one another, generation after generation, even when we possessed no country, no army and, too often, very few rights.

Today there are roughly 15 million Jews in a world of more than 8 billion people. Half of those Jews live in Israel. That is one-half of your family.

Whatever you conclude about any specific government鈥檚 conduct, here is what I wish you to consider: there is a difference between criticizing a policy and declining to affirm that Israel has a right to exist as a 91传媒 state. And what strikes me hardest about that second position is that it never comes with a coherent proposal for what would happen next to the 7 million Jews who live there, to the country鈥檚 borders, to who would govern it and how. It is one thing to oppose a policy. It is another to withhold recognition of a state鈥檚 right to exist while offering no account of what should take its place in any practical sense.

Some politicians embraced by parts of the progressive movement have blurred that line, or refused to draw it. Take Zohran Mamdani, the Democratic Socialist who won the New York mayoral race. Asked repeatedly whether he鈥檇 condemn the slogan 鈥淕lobalize the Intifada鈥 鈥 a phrase 91传媒 organizations across the spectrum, and even some on the left, have called an incitement to violence 鈥 he has consistently declined. On 鈥淢eet the Press,鈥 pressed a third time, he said only: 鈥淚 don鈥檛 believe that the role of the mayor is to police speech.鈥 He may be sincere about that principle. But I鈥檇 ask you to notice what it costs: a refusal to say, plainly, that a phrase invoking praise for two intifadas marked by bombings and mass murder of civilians 鈥 and more recently the pogrom of Oct. 7, 2023 鈥 should not be chanted in the street. That is not the same as debating a checkpoint or a settlement.

I raise this not to tell you how to vote, but to ask you to look closely at what you鈥檙e actually endorsing when you support a politician, and to separate that from the broader moral story you鈥檝e told yourself about being on the right side of history.

Sometimes those two things point the same way. Sometimes they don鈥檛.

I won鈥檛 be vague. This was a war 鈥 a terrible one, with the destruction and civilian death that war always brings, and it began when Hamas terrorists crossed a border from tunnels they had spent years building and committed atrocities against families, children and the elderly. I do not believe what followed was a genocide, and I say that plainly rather than declining to take a side. I know human rights organizations, the International Court of Justice and some scholars have used that word, and that others reject it just as forcefully; I鈥檓 not going to relitigate that whole dispute here.

But here is something that isn鈥檛 in dispute: the word has traveled far past the courtroom and the academic debate. It has landed on a Hassidic man walking home in Brooklyn. On an Israeli couple turned away from a hotel in Italy because the manager decided all Israelis stood accused. On 91传媒 students told to leave their own campuses. On synagogues vandalized, firebombed, shot at, and on Jews gathered for a Hanukkah celebration, murdered on Bondi Beach. Whatever you conclude about the word itself, I ask only that you notice how easily it travels once it leaves the register of legal argument and becomes a chant or a slur 鈥 how it starts being aimed at anyone visibly 91传媒.

If it is truly your wish to see Israel disappear as a 91传媒 state, and half of our people 鈥 your people 鈥 become homeless, stateless, or overwhelmed by those who openly wish them harm, then there is probably little more I can say. But if that possibility gives you even a moment鈥檚 pause, ask yourself whether the satisfaction that comes from believing yourself to be on the right side of history is worth that risk.

You are safe here in America. I pray that continues. But you are also, very likely, well-read. You know the history of the Shoah. You know the history of the pogroms. You know what has happened to Jews when the societies in which they lived began to unravel, when institutions weakened, when old prejudices found new language and respected voices gave them new respectability. The names change. The slogans change. The rationales change. The vulnerability of the 91传媒 people does not.

For 2,000 years the 91传媒 people contributed enormously to the civilizations in which we lived. We became physicians, merchants, philosophers, scientists, musicians, poets, teachers and loyal citizens. Yet one thing remained beyond our control: our own security. The idea of a 91传媒 state did not arise because Jews abandoned concern for humanity. It arose because enough Jews concluded that the goodwill of others had never proved sufficient to guarantee 91传媒 survival. Many times in that history, as you well know, 鈥済oodwill鈥 was in very short supply.

For 2,000 years the 91传媒 people contributed enormously to the civilizations in which we lived. We became physicians, merchants, philosophers, scientists, musicians, poets, teachers and loyal citizens. Yet one thing remained beyond our control: our own security.

You may think I lean too heavily on fear. Perhaps I do. But memory and fear are not the same thing. A people that has survived centuries of exile, persecution, expulsions, massacres and attempted annihilation carries memories that shape its judgment. Those memories have been purchased at an unbearable price.

My brother. My sister. I wish you well. I hope you prosper in health and happiness and grow in wisdom 鈥攁s we all must.

I ask only this: before you decide that the 91传媒 state is the great moral error of the age, remember something far older than political Zionism. Remember who we are. Remember that before Israel became a modern state, the 91传媒 people had already survived for thousands of years by remembering that we belong to one another.

Governments come and go. Policies change. Political movements rise and fall. Family endures.

My hope is that ours will too.


Peter Himmelman is a Grammy and Emmy nominated performer, songwriter, film composer, visual artist and award-winning author.

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Rosner’s Domain | A Dime-Store Abe: The Karhi Crisis

The Israeli government has decided not to abide by a Supreme Court ruling. Or maybe it hasn’t. It depends on who you believe and which text you read. Confusing? That is not a bug. This week鈥檚 鈥淐onstitutional Crisis鈥 is typical of the way the government operates. It issues a statement, or a tweet and then walks it back. Oops, we did not mean it. Or rather, we did, but we also meant to deny that we did. Communications Minister Shlomo Karhi will say one thing, while Cabinet Secretary Yossi Fuchs will say another. It is a deliberate tightrope walk. To push toward a crisis, only to step back right at the edge of the abyss.

Israel has a government that consistently pushes Israeli society to the brink. This has been the case almost since its inception, entirely independent of Oct. 7, 2023 and the resulting three-year war. In fact, it sometimes feels – and this is a truly chilling thought – that the war is merely a footnote to the coalition’s primary agenda.

In the U.S., which just marked its 250th year, there was one president who knowingly and explicitly violated a directive from the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. A constitutional crisis? Yes, you could call it that. Let鈥檚 recall the circumstances: the primary crisis of those days was the American Civil War. President Lincoln suspended the writ of habeas corpus. Chief Justice Roger Taney ruled that this cannot be done. Lincoln ignored him. Hard times require hard decisions, he essentially argued. He believed his duty to suppress a rebellion empowered him to take extreme measures.

This is a comparison worth making. Lincoln violated a court order to win the Civil War. It was a nontrivial decision during nontrivial times and the cause was incredibly important. Karhi, Israel’s Communications Minister, declared earlier this week that he intends to defy a court order to do what, exactly? Go out and ask 100 citizens what Karhi鈥檚 dispute with the court is even about, and most will stare back at you with puzzled eyes. It has something to do with a bureaucratic council, some outdated regulator. Who even remembers what it is, what its job is, or why it exists, other than serving as a toy for politicians to assemble, dismantle, and squabble over to the point of a constitutional crisis? Lincoln got into a brawl to win a war. Karhi wants a war to win a brawl.

Lincoln defended his decision. The circumstances were undeniably unique and lent themselves to a constitutional crisis. After all, what was the worst that could happen? A civil war? One had already broken out! The Israeli government, conversely, does not defend its decisions; it dodges stating explicitly what those decisions even entail. What does it mean when the government officially declared that it will act with all legal tools at its disposal to cancel the court decision in the future? Does that mean it will comply with the decision in the present? Justice Minister Yariv Levin and Minister Karhi gave the distinct impression that it would not. They later launched into lengthy explanations about how the court itself is subject to the law.

The court is the ultimate interpreter of the law. The Justice Minister can of course say that, in his opinion, the court is not obeying the law. Anyone can say whatever they want. But Levin, Karhi, all the other dime-store Lincolns who have decided to take the law into their own hands do not have the authority to determine that the court is acting illegally. The authority to determine who is obeying the law belongs to the court. There is no alternative.

Did the court rule correctly regarding the broadcasting council? I do not know, and I do not care. It is simply not important enough to justify defiance that risks a constitutional crisis. Beyond headline-chasing and petty squabbling, there is nothing here. The court confiscated Karhi鈥檚 toy. He should get over his disappointment.

Consider another American precedent. When the U.S. Supreme Court outlawed racial segregation in public schools in the landmark 1954 Brown v. Board of Education decision, President Dwight D. Eisenhower was far from thrilled. For the next three years, he barely lifted a finger to enforce the ruling in Southern schools. But in 1957, when the Governor of Arkansas deployed the National Guard to block a court order, Eisenhower reacted. He could tolerate, perhaps even tacitly encourage, foot-dragging. But he could not tolerate a rebellion.

Israel does not yet have a rebelling government. It has a government that flaunts the possibility of it, some members embracing it, others denying it. It is a government on the abyss. Perhaps its frustration with the court is an authentic phnomenon. More likely, it is a calculated political strategy heading into the election. To call this a dangerous game is entirely trivial. To call it a dangerous strategy is stating the obvious. It is also clearly an ongoing distraction from Israel’s core challenges. Yes, the relationship between the government and the judiciary needs repairing, but there are far more critical issues currently going unaddressed. So, until the elections, we remain on the brink of the abyss. We can only hope that the results, whatever they may be, will pull us one step back, rather than pushing us one step forward.

Something I wrote in Hebrew

The attempt to pass a new Basic Law that elevates the status of Torah study, I argued, is not merely tactical 鈥 a dispute over how many people will serve in the IDF and from which sector. It is an ideological clash that cuts to the very root of the Zionist ethos. Here:

IDF service is a civic duty wrapped in a status of quasi-sanctity. This sanctity is special, and exclusive, to military service. In the eyes of Israeli Jews, no other civic duty compares to it. Now come the ultra-Orthodox, presenting a competing sanctity 鈥 their demand seeks to establish 鈥 in a constitutional Basic Law 鈥 that a legendary pioneer like Joseph Trumpeldor, who shed his blood defending the land a century ago, stands on the same plane of national mission as a hypothetical yeshiva student who chose to remain safely in the study halls of old Jerusalem.

A week’s numbers

Israel is becoming impatient with the Gaza situation. Remember: Hamas is supposed to disarm. There鈥檚 no hint that this is about to happen. So what should Israel do?

A reader鈥檚 response

Marcia Elbaz writes: 鈥淒ear Shmuel, can Israelis trust leaders like Bennett and Eizenkot who don鈥檛 have Bibi鈥檚 experience?鈥 My response: At some point, we鈥檇 have no choice 颅鈥斅 as far as I know, Netanyahu is not immortal.


Shmuel Rosner is senior political editor. For more analysis of Israeli and international politics, visit Rosner鈥檚 Domain at .

Rosner’s Domain | A Dime-Store Abe: The Karhi Crisis Read More 禄

鈥淏elieve All Women鈥 Should Not Be Political

The collapse of support for Maine Democratic Senate candidate Graham Platner should be about more than one campaign. It should force a national conversation about whether moral principles have become subordinate to political ideology.

When Lyndsey Fifield first came forward with allegations of abusive behavior against Platner, Democrats dismissed her as a 鈥淩epublican operative.鈥 Only after an additional rape allegation was reported, an allegation Platner has denied, did many Democratic leaders withdraw their support and call on him to end his campaign.

It was not the reports about Platner鈥檚 Nazi tattoo or the allegations of abusive behavior by multiple women that appeared to become the Democratic Party鈥檚 breaking point. Only after a progressive woman publicly accused him of rape did many Democratic leaders call on him to step aside. To many observers, it raises an uncomfortable question: was the decisive factor moral clarity, or the growing political cost of continuing to stand by him?

For many 91传媒 Democrats, this should be a moment of honest reflection. The Democratic Party of 听Bill Clinton where support for Israel and the fight against antisemitism were foundational values is increasingly at odds with the party鈥檚 most influential extremist wing. Too many 91传媒 voters believed they could separate rising anti-Zionism from rising antisemitism, or that the movement would eventually draw a moral line. Instead, they have watched October 7 be minimized, 91传媒 trauma questioned, and anti-Israel extremism become increasingly normalized on the political left. It is time to confront an uncomfortable reality: a political movement that cannot consistently condemn terrorism, 91传媒 hate, or sexual violence when the victims are 91传媒 has lost its moral compass. That should concern every American, regardless of party affiliation.

As an Iranian 91传媒 mother, this is deeply personal.

My family fled Iran after the 1979 Islamic Revolution. We know what happens when ideology becomes more important than truth, when political movements decide which victims deserve compassion and which do not. We came to America believing this country was different. We believed our leaders would defend moral principles consistently, not selectively.

Today, I fear we are losing that moral clarity.

There should never be a partisan response to rape.

There should never be a partisan response to terrorism.

There should never be a partisan response to antisemitism.

Yet, since October 7, too many Jews have watched the moral framework that once united Americans fracture before our eyes.

The Hamas massacre was marked by credible reports, eyewitness testimony, forensic evidence, and investigations documenting sexual violence against Israeli women. Yet many who once championed the #MeToo movement responded not with empathy but with skepticism, silence, or outright denial.

Where was 鈥淏elieve All Women鈥 when the women were 91传媒?

That question has never been adequately answered.

For many 91传媒 Americans, the Platner episode feels painfully familiar. Too often, our pain is viewed through a political lens. 91传媒 victims are asked to meet a higher burden of proof. 91传媒 fears are minimized. 91传媒 trauma is debated rather than acknowledged.

This is not merely about Israel. It is about whether 91传媒 lives are afforded the same moral consideration as everyone else鈥檚.

For decades, support for Israel was not a partisan issue. Democrats and Republicans alike recognized Israel as America鈥檚 closest democratic ally in the Middle East. They understood that Israel is a nation built on democratic institutions, free elections, an independent judiciary, and protections for women, religious minorities, and LGBTQ citizens that remain rare throughout much of the region.

That bipartisan consensus has weakened.

Today, too many voices within the Democratic coalition treat support for Israel as a political liability rather than a moral imperative. In some activist circles, antisemitism is excused and repackaged as anti-Zionism. 91传媒 identity itself has become grounds for suspicion.

As an Iranian Jew, I recognize this pattern because I have seen where it can lead.

History teaches that societies rarely abandon moral principles all at once. They do so gradually, making exceptions when the victims are unpopular, when acknowledging evil is politically inconvenient, or when ideology demands silence.

What starts with the Jews doesn鈥檛 end with the Jews.

The Democratic Party now faces a choice. It can reaffirm that rape is wrong regardless of the victim鈥檚 identity or the accused鈥檚 political affiliation. It can condemn terrorism without qualification. It can reject antisemitism wherever it appears. Or it can continue allowing extremist ideology determine whose suffering deserves compassion.

America deserves better.

The 91传媒 people deserve better.

Moral consistency is not a Republican value or a Democratic value. It is an American value.

If 鈥淏elieve All Women鈥 means anything, it must include 91传媒 women.

If our fight against hatred means anything, it must include Jews.

And if America is to remain the nation my family believed it to be, we cannot allow political ideology to determine whose humanity is worth defending.


Shirin Yadegar is a journalist, political commentator, talk show host and founder of

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Why Can’t We Be Friends?

Some years before the Covid pandemic, my husband and I attended the wedding of the daughter of good friends.We were seated near a 91传媒 couple from another state and the wife mentioned they were planning a move. When I asked where, the response surprised me: 鈥淣ot sure yet but definitely somewhere blue.鈥Back then, the idea that the political demographics of a given location would be the primary criterion for relocation surprised me. Today, not so much given that political alignment is the driving factor in way too many friendships.

I have thought back to this conversation often over the last four years as I have been writing my latest book about American 91传媒 polarization. Recently, I decided to take a closer look at my own circle of friends. Although many are 91传媒 and religiously liberal (meaning, not Orthodox), they span the political spectrum. For a few of my lifelong friends, our bond is primarily about a long history of connectivity and being close to people who knew my parents. For others, it is largely about a mutual interest in a particular activity, interest or a shared set of professional or personal goals. It is also true that many of my current friends are part of my synagogue community, which thankfully is one where the rabbis intentionally downplay politics and elevate 91传媒 tradition.

As I contemplated these friendships, I realized that most relationships can be analyzed in terms of four factors: interpersonal history, contact, community and commonality. In my experience, lasting friendships formed decades ago can often withstand the test of time, and even physical absence, if some points of contact and strong commonalities exist.

What worries me about the present moment is the seemingly growing need for people to surround themselves only with politically like-minded friends. What does it say about a person if the totality of their interests 鈥 and therefore their ability to connect with other humans 鈥 is defined solely in terms of politics?In her fascinating book “Last Branch Standing,” Sarah Isgur notes how the Supreme Court Justices dine together after every oral argument, during which times discussing work is prohibited. As a result, they get to know one another on a completely different level鈥 as people with other strong areas of interest and passions. As a case in point, it is widely known that Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Antonin Scalia were dear friends and shared a passion for opera even if they differed markedly in their respective politics.

I do believe that reducing polarization and the toxicity of our discourse is possible, particularly in the American 91传媒 community. But we need to be especially mindful of setting a better example for the next generation. Over the years, I have taught many classes on 91传媒 parenting, which usually focused on how to transmit 91传媒 tradition in a way that can work for religiously liberal families.But now more than ever, we also need to emphasize the importance of being open-minded when it comes to embracing friends from a wider spectrum of political beliefs. In connection with religiously liberal Jews, for example, this spectrum includes more politically conservative Orthodox Jews as well as Christians raised in conservative homes who warmly embrace Israel.

If we want to see a less polarized society, both internally and beyond, we must emphatically reject the idea that political alignment is the predominant commonality for friendship. People who surround themselves with like-minded folks also are more vulnerable to developing even more extreme views in their echo chambers. It is already the case that younger Jews are increasingly embracing a political stance that is hostile to Israel. Based on a survey of 800 91传媒 adults in the spring of 2026 conducted by the 91传媒 Resource Center, half of non-Orthodox Jews under the age of 35 support a binational state.

Given that Jews represent a sliver of the American population, we can only do so much to impact positively the larger American discourse. But we can reduce the toxicity of our internal discourse. A great starting point is emphasizing the importance of commonalities other than politics in our personal relationships. When friendships are built largely around nonpolarizing mutual interests, friends are far more likely to listen to one another when controversial topics arise.


Roberta Rosenthal Kwall is a law professor, author and 91传媒 educator with a focus on American Judaism. Her latest book is 鈥淧olarized: Why American Jews are Divided and What to do About It鈥 (October, 2026, Bloomsbury Press).

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Ruth-less, the Enigma of a Name

It鈥檚 never too late to consider lessons of the Torah. For the Biblical holiday of Shavuos which celebrates the Israelites receiving the Torah, Jews read the biblical Book of Ruth, a pastoral love story set in ancient Israel. If not for the last five verses of the last chapter (4:17-22) which state that Ruth was the great-grandmother of King David, this entire romantic tale may not have been included in the Bible.

These last few verses were likely a later addition to this popular love story in order to make it 鈥渒osher鈥 for Israelite/91传媒 readers to enjoy the tale of a young Moabite woman鈥檚 immodest, even illicit, behavior with an older Israelite man. It should also be noted that David, like his great-grandmother Ruth, also had a particular attraction to the opposite sex.

But my focus here is not so much on the story as on the name of the heroine, which presents a fascinating enigma, an intriguing puzzle.

Although other names of Biblical heroines like Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, Leah, Chana, Esther and Deborah, are widespread among Jews throughout the ages, the name Ruth somehow did not catch on. It never was a popular name among Jews, especially those who are observant.

What do you mean, not popular? I hear you say. I know a Ruthie. And what about the late Supreme Court Justice, Ruth Bader Ginsburg?

My reply is: I know three Ruths, one who was born in Germany, another to Polish parents in Vienna, the third an Israeli, the latter two secular. But the point I am making is that among mainstream Jews in Europe that name was rarely given to girls.

Two ways to assess this is:

1. To look at memorial tablets on synagogue walls or on Holocaust memorial plaques or walls built in towns and cities after the Holocaust;

2. The other way is to listen during synagogue services, when the time comes to recite the 鈥淔ull Recovery鈥 or, in Hebrew, the 鈥淩efu鈥檃 Shleyma鈥 Prayer for the person who is ill. The cantor or rabbi asks the congregant the name of the sick person and that person鈥檚 mother鈥檚 name. That is the traditional way the prayer has been formulated. For example, 鈥淢ay a full and speedy recovery come to: Dan, ben (son of) Rachel,鈥 or 鈥淪arah, bat (daughter of) Leah.鈥

In the decades I have been pursuing this elusive name, in synagogues in the US and in various European lands, in scores of synagogues in Jerusalem and other cities in Israel, in Ashkenazic, Sephardic, Yemenite, Iraqi and other communities in Israel 鈥 I have never ever heard the name Ruth as part of a 鈥済et-well鈥 prayer, either in the first part of the prayer( (鈥淢ay the All-Merciful One cure Ruth, the daughter or XXXX鈥) or the second, 鈥淢ay the All-Merciful One cure XXXX, the son/daughter of Ruth鈥). Furthermore, I have never seen that name on any memorial tablet that is usually hung on a synagogue wall.

In the southern French city of Nice, there is a huge memorial tablet honoring all the Jews who had been deported to German concentration camps.Among the hundreds of names, I did not find once the name Ruth.

In modern Israel, the name Ruth has been revived鈥攁mong secular Jews. But, basically, among more traditional Jews, that name has been sidelined.

Regarding this name there is a kind of personality split among Jews.

On the one hand, on the late spring holiday of Shavuos, so ripe for a summer tale of romance as depicted in the Book of Ruth, those four short chapters are happily and melodiously read at the Morning Service of the First Day of Shavuos, with an especially upbeat tone at the end when the verses depict Ruth as being an ancestor of King David, who himself will be the ancestor of the Messiah. On the other hand, not one of the men sitting there has a wife, mother, mother-in-law, sister or daughter named Ruth; nor do any of the women sitting in shul bear the name Ruth, nor do they have any relatives with that name.

The noted memorial in Paris, The Wall of Names, lists the 76,000 Jews, including 11.000 children, that the Germans deported to death camps between 1942 and 1944, with the help of the French Vichy government. I spent a long time gazing at the almost endless list of names engraved in the stones.

I can鈥檛 say that I read all the names. But during the time I spent there I did not once encounter the name Ruth.

Now for the question: Why?

First of all, Ruth is a Moabite, not an Israelite; never mind that she entered the fold with that famous phrase that she utters to Naomi (Chap. 1:16): 鈥淭hy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.鈥 Countervailing this, there is also the famous law in Deuteronomy 23:3 that explicitly states: 鈥淣o Ammonite or Moabite or any of their descendants may enter the assembly of the Lord, even in the tenth generation.鈥

For a love story, however, and in a literary work whose genre is a 鈥渞omance鈥 鈥 the rules were apparently bent. And bent so that Ruth is even listed as having King David as her descendent.

But what most likely disturbed the Jews throughout the ages is Ruth鈥檚 immodest behavior. What well-brought up, unmarried 91传媒 girl, even if inspired and urged on by her mother-in-law, Naomi, slips into a man鈥檚 bed and spends the night with him?Ruth is a widow; she had married one of Naomi鈥檚 two sons, Machlon; Naomi鈥檚 other son, Chilion, married Oprah. (The men鈥檚 names have ominous meanings: 鈥渋llness鈥 and 鈥渄evastation鈥.)

Most of Chapter 3 deals with Ruth, obeying Naomi鈥檚 instructions, who secretly, and unbeknownst to Boaz joins him in his bed (Boaz is Naomi鈥檚 distant kinsman) after 鈥渉e has eaten and drunk and his heart was merry鈥 and Ruth 鈥渦ncovers his feet鈥 鈥 a strange phrase, but the sexual overtones are not difficult to miss.

As everyone knows, this tale has a happy ending. Boaz marries Ruth and she has a son with him. This delights Naomi and the baby is like a son to her.

She takes the child (4:17), 鈥渓aid it in her bosom and became nurse unto it.鈥 It is as though Naomi herself had borne the child.However, it seems to me, Ruth鈥檚 immodest behavior doomed her name as a name of choice for 91传媒 girls over the centuries. The same held true for Naomi and Boaz, neither of which were popular names among Jews until they were revived in modern-day Israel.

Jews spoke in two voices about Ruth, a kind of national schizophrenia, one with joyous chanting on Shavuos as the Book of Ruth was read; the other, removing her name from the chain-link of repeated names throughout the generations. Despite her alleged family link to King David which, as I asserted before, was likely attached to the Book of Ruth to make it kosher and acceptable to Jews 鈥 the Jews expressed their opinion about this biblical character with a vote of silence.


Curt Leviant is the editor of “Masterpieces of Hebrew Literature: A Treasury of Two Thousand Years of 91传媒 Creativity.” His most recent fiction is “The Woman Who Looked Like Sophia L.” A new novel titled, “My Adventures with The Knight of the Mournful Countenance, His Grace, Don Quixote, as told by Sancho Panza, Ex-Squire,” will appear in July 2026.

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Honoring My Father: Saying Kaddish with Men

On July 3, 2025, my father, Gerald Leroy Naftalin z鈥漧, died, and my family was forced to transition to a new way of being 鈥 a way without my father. We found ourselves watching out for my mother, just as we had promised my dad. Our lives now included davening three times a day, every day.

I have a tendency to make excuses: I鈥檓 too tired in the morning to exercise; I have too much work to go out; I鈥檓 not creative enough to start that project. I have always been a spiritual person 鈥 I enjoy a beautiful niggun, I feel connected to my 91传媒 community and I find meaning in davening. Yet, I often made excuses about why I wouldn鈥檛 go to shul on Shabbat. I attended a few times each month, but if I was tired or simply not in the mood, I stayed home.

When my father died, I stopped making excuses. I showed up early each morning during shiva to daven with my family and community. When shiva ended, I made a conscious decision to say kaddish for my father for 11 months. I didn鈥檛 know at the time that this decision would lead me down a path of spirituality, discomfort and, ultimately, healing.

It was not an option for me to forgo saying kaddish. I am one of five siblings, but leaving the responsibility to my brothers or sisters was simply not possible. I felt obligated to honor my father and to thank him 鈥 eternally 鈥 for the life he and my mother provided. Kaddish is an essential step in the 91传媒 grieving process. In the Orthodox community, it is typically a son or male relative who takes on the obligation of reciting the prayer daily. When I committed to saying kaddish for 11 months, I never expected the journey it would take me on.

Saying kaddish every day required commitment and left no room for excuses. I had to know the davening times, arrange my day around minyanim and continually adjust my schedule to ensure I would join a minyan three times a day. The logistics changed often: when I settled into a rhythm of school drop-off, minyan, work, dinner, bedtime for my kids and minyan again, something would shift. The clocks would change, or minyan times would get later and later. Despite the constant adjustments, I kept showing up. That was my process. But the real beauty was also in the process of those around me.

I didn鈥檛 do this alone. My sister and mother, both members of the same community, joined me each day. It was their journey too. We had our schedule: meeting in the morning and standing together to grieve the loss of my dad. Even that process changed. After 30 days, my mother stopped saying kaddish, but she continued to attend minyan each morning and evening, standing next to my sister and me as we recited kaddish together.

It wasn鈥檛 always easy. Being a woman saying kaddish in a Modern Orthodox community meant learning the choreography of the room and coordinating our prayer with the men around us. This is a prayer not always heard from our section. I did not recite it under my breath but announced it in the minyanim I attended. It was not always easy.

When I began saying kaddish, a new emotion entered the shul: anxiety. As a psychologist, anxiety is something I recognize and try to understand. I felt anxious about making it on time to Shacharit so I could recite the first kaddish and not miss an opportunity to honor my father. I felt anxious about possibly being the only person to recite kaddish, about keeping up with the men who may also be saying kaddish, and about missing my cue. At times, I felt invisible. The experience was full of contradictions 鈥 new and uncomfortable.

As the days went on, I began to find my voice. I no longer became flustered when it was time to say kaddish. I knew the cues and the progression of brachot. It was the routine, the repetition, the commitment that changed the experience. It wasn鈥檛 the words of the prayer that brought comfort, but the act of saying those words. Kaddish does not speak about death; it magnifies and sanctifies God鈥檚 name during a time when we often question and doubt. By the sixth month, I had found my voice, and my community had heard it. Saying kaddish had become my routine. Filling the often empty women鈥檚 section during the daily minyan had become habit.

Let me be clear: I am not a hard-core feminist. I am actually quite traditional in my views and practices. When I decided to commit to saying kaddish for my father, I was not trying to push the envelope or test boundaries in my community. I was trying to heal in the way Judaism instructs us. I just wanted to be part of the process, and that required my daily return to a minyan that was mostly inhabited by men. I just wanted to heal.

When the 11 months ended, I said kaddish on my own. I joined a group of close friends for our annual tradition of celebrating Shavuot in the desert. I was not with my mother or sister. I was immediately transported back to the anxious davener at the start of this journey. As the last kaddish approached, so did my anxiety. I felt it in my stomach, my chest, my heart. When I stood to recite the last kaddish and mark the end of my journey, I was overcome with emotion. It was as if I was losing my father all over again 鈥 grieving anew. The loss of my father, the daily reminders of his death and the power of Hashem required me to readjust once again.

Saying kaddish every day tested my faith and commitment. It made me realize that there is no room for excuses. It taught me how to show up. It taught me that my voice can be heard, even when not expected. It showed me how prayer brings us closer not only to Hashem but to each other.

Now I mark a new journey. I am still filling the often empty women鈥檚 section of the daily minyan, but this time without anxiety and with pride. I am proud of the honor I was able to bring to my father鈥檚 name. I am proud to be part of this ancient tradition. When I daven now, I connect to my father in a way I never have before. It feels as if he has watched me go on this journey and we are standing together at the finish line. But the finish line isn鈥檛 the end 鈥 it is just the start of a new process, with the spirit of my father by my side. A journey that no longer involves excuses.


Dr. Ilana Jurkowitz is a licensed clinical psychologist assessing children and adolescents around Los Angeles since 2010.

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