Voices

The Jewish Press

(Founded in 1920)

Margie Gutnik

President

Annette van de Kamp-Wright

Editor

Richard Busse

Creative Director

Susan Bernard

Advertising Executive

Lori Kooper-Schwarz

Assistant Editor

Gabby Blair

Staff Writer

Mary Bachteler

Accounting

Jewish Press Board

Margie Gutnik, President; Abigail Kutler, Ex-Officio; Danni Christensen; David Finkelstein; Bracha Goldsweig; Mary Sue Grossman; Les Kay; Natasha Kraft; Chuck Lucoff; Joseph Pinson; Andy Shefsky and Amy Tipp. The mission of the Jewish Federation of Omaha is to build and sustain a strong and vibrant Omaha Jewish Community and to support Jews in Israel and around the world. Agencies of the Federation are: Community Relations Committee, Jewish Community Center, Center for Jewish Life, Jewish Social Services, and the Jewish Press. Guidelines and highlights of the Jewish Press, including front page stories and announcements, can be found online at: wwwjewishomaha.org; click on ‘Jewish Press.’ Editorials express the view of the writer and are not necessarily representative of the views of the Jewish Press Board of Directors, the Jewish Federation of Omaha Board of Directors, or the Omaha Jewish community as a whole. The Jewish Press reserves the right to edit signed letters and articles for space and content. The Jewish Press is not responsible for the Kashrut of any product or establishment.

Editorial

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The Jewish Press welcomes Letters to the Editor. They may be sent via regular mail to: The Jewish Press, 333 So. 132 St., Omaha, NE 68154; via fax: 1.402.334.5422 or via e-mail to the Editor at: avandekamp@jewishomaha. org. Letters should be no longer than 250 words and must be single-spaced typed, not hand-written. Published letters should be confined to opinions and comments on articles or events. News items should not be submitted and printed as a “Letter to the Editor.” The Editor may edit letters for content and space restrictions. Letters may be published without giving an opposing view. Information shall be verified before printing. All letters must be signed by the writer. The Jewish Press will not publish letters that appear to be part of an organized campaign, nor letters copied from the Internet. No letters should be published from candidates running for office, but others may write on their behalf. Letters of thanks should be confined to commending an institution for a program, project or event, rather than personally thanking paid staff, unless the writer chooses to turn the “Letter to the Editor” into a paid personal ad or a news article about the event, project or program which the professional staff supervised. For information, contact Annette van de KampWright, Jewish Press Editor, 402.334.6450.

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The Jewish Press (USPS 275620) is published weekly (except for the first week of January and July) on Friday for $40 per calendar year U.S.; $80 foreign, by the Jewish Federation of Omaha. Phone: 402.334.6448; FAX: 402.334.5422. Periodical postage paid at Omaha, NE. POSTMASTER: Send address changes to: The Jewish Press, 333 So. 132 St., Omaha, NE 68154-2198 or email to: jpress@jewishomaha.org.

Can this dark history be rectified?

ANNETTE VAN DE KAMP-WRIGHT

Jewish Press Editor “Beneath a sprawling 14th-century building with moss-furrowed terrace walls and interiors painted in garish strokes of purple and yellow,” Orge Castellano wrote for JTA, “lie what could be the remains of Spain’s second-largest synagogue from the medieval era. The 7,500-square-foot estate [is] currently being explored by researchers and archeologists. “The property has had a lengthy and multifaceted history as a hospital, in the 17th century; a Catholic chapel; an orphanage, and most recently, in the 20th century, as a school, a restaurant and a cocktail bar. But the city council bought the now abandoned property in 2018 and launched an archaeological excavation project last February, with the hope of uncovering a synagogue that was pushed underground over the centuries.” Castellano goes on to explore how abandoned, excavated and renovated synagogues are a great draw for tourists. Also, the aim is “to preserve and foster Jewish history and culture — something the country’s government has prioritized in recent years in order to rectify its dark Inquisition history.” And there’s the catch. Let’s be honest: you can’t ‘rectify’ anything by creating museums out of what was left behind. Growing up in Europe, I know there are places like that everywhere, serving as constant reminders of what used to be.There are few things that drive the point home as much as seeing everything from Jewish quarters, stores, businesses, synagogues and mikvehs having become tourist attractions. I want to scream: none of this belongs in a museum! It’s real life and it should still be here! But it isn’t. And that is probably why, when I see stories about happy Spaniards who proudly display excavated Jewish memories, I get a little testy. Of course, these buildings must be preserved. I am not advocating to pave them over and forget all about it. But at the same time, it strikes me how much more comfortable the world seems to be when they have Jewish life in the rearview mirror, rather than here, among them, in the present. And who wants their trauma to be a tourist attraction? I have questions about those tourists, whoever they are. Are they being educated? Do they come away from these archeological sites appropriately schooled on how Spain treated its Jews? Do they know the gory details of the Inquisition, the stories of torture? And once they do learn all that, do they turn around and continue to support BDS because they deem Israel an Apartheid State? Do they still believe in antisemitic tropes? I know I’m making all kinds of big jumps and assumptions here, but it is possible that people can pay lip service to antisemitism, while not seeing what’s right in front of them. Again, the past is

viewed through very different glasses than the present. It’s easy to be sympathetic to Jews who were tortured and persecuted hunderds of years ago. But extending that same empathy to Jews today, who are real people and not faded images in a history book, is hard. Or perhaps I am just really, really overthinking A view of the interior of the Synagogue of Lorca in Murcia, Spain. Credit: Museo Arqueológico Municipal de Lorca this. Here’s a thought: what if, instead of museums, the local governments turn some of these excavated shuls into housing for Jews? Like that Moshav that is being constructed in California—a modern-day Jewish communal space. I know, no plumbing, but that can be fixed. Or maybe turn them into Jewish community centers of sorts. Or Jewish student housing, or yeshivas. Because you know what’s even better than Jewish museums? Real living and breathing Jewish people.

Jewish women are leaders on abortion rights. But they can’t do it alone.

BARBARA DOBKIN

JTA In 1966, I was a student at Boston University’s School of Social Work when I received a phone call from a college friend. She explained in hushed tones that she needed an abortion and thought I could help her. At that time, I didn’t know anyone who had terminated a pregnancy; all I knew was that abortion was illegal. I quietly asked some classmates if they knew how to end a pregnancy safely. One of them had an answer. It didn’t take long before I received the phone number for a doctor who performed abortions in a kitchen that functioned as an underground health clinic. “He won’t call you back unless you say the right word,” my classmate instructed me. I nervously left the doctor a message with the code word, knowing that my friend’s fate hung in the balance. When the doctor called me back, I booked my friend an appointment. For $500, she terminated her pregnancy, regained her independence and moved on with her life. We never spoke of her abortion again. My friend was lucky to have had a small community of resourceful people during an era when accessing an abortion was illegal and shrouded in fear, intimidation and shame. She was also lucky to be able to pay $500 (about $4,300 in today’s dollars) for a risky procedure and not suffer health complications. According to a report published by the Guttmacher Institute in 2018, more than 22,000 women and girls worldwide die each year after having an unsafe abortion. Now, all signs suggest that the U.S. Supreme Court is poised to overturn or substantially erode Roe v. Wade, its landmark decision that legalized abortion in 1973. If it does, at least 24 U.S. states would deem it illegal to receive or perform abortions. Consider the number of people who will die or suffer long-term health problems as a result of unsafe abortions if we return to a pre-Roe world. I am a Jewish philanthropist who has supported many initiatives for the dignity of women in the American Jewish community, Israel and the broader world. I never thought I would live to see the day when abortion would become illegal once again. But here we are. I look around and wonder: Why are so few Jewish leaders speaking out? Most Jews — 83% according to the Pew Research Center favor abortion rights, making the Jewish community among the most progressive religious groups in the nation that support reproductive justice. Given that percentage, I would expect Jewish groups to use their influence to protect abortion access at this urgent moment in our history. And yet the vast majority of American Jewish organizations have been chillingly silent. Jewish women have an enduring legacy in advancing reproductive justice. The Jewish Women’s Archive documents that history in its digital collection Jewish Women and the Feminist Revolution as well as in a recent podcast episode about The Jane Collective – an underground abortion counseling service in Chicago founded by Jewish activist Heather Booth that operated from 1969 to 1973, when abortion was illegal. Since its founding in 1893, NCJW has been a leader in the reproductive health and rights movement. Recently, it launched the “Rabbis for Repro” campaign and convened a Jewish Abortion Access Coalition with partners inside and outside of the Jewish community. NCJW organized Repro Shabbat, an opportunity for congregations, organizations and communities to celebrate the critical importance of reproductive health and justice, and to learn more about Judaism’s approach to these issues. I am grateful for all of these efforts. But the burden to mobilize Jews around abortion access should not fall to women and LGBTQ+ people alone. Leaders of the organized Jewish community dominated by men have never been shy in voicing outrage about crises that undermine our basic humanity, such as antisemitism and violence in Israel. Nor have they been shy in expressing anxiety about assimilation, intermarriage, infertility and Jewish continuity. But what about the crisis of losing the

right to make decisions about our own bodies? Where is the communal outcry about that? There are, no doubt, thousands of people in the Jewish community — rabbis and educators; donors and congregants; friends and neighbors — who have had abortions or will need them in the-

National Council of Jewish Women leaders and advocates rallied on the steps of the U.S. Supreme Court to show sup-

port for abortion access, Dec. 1, 2021. Credit: NCJW future. Their reasons may vary, but one thing remains true: Keeping abortion safe and legal reflects our most cherished Jewish values: pikuach nefesh (saving a life), briyut (health and safety), kavod (human dignity) and tzedek (justice). So I call on every Jewish leader and institution — not just the ones run by and for women — to speak out boldly in defense of abortion access and safety. Our lives, our families, and our futures depend on it. When my friend who needed an abortion called me for help nearly 50 years ago, I know she felt profoundly afraid of what her future would look like if she were forced to become a mother before she was ready. I never want another to experience that same fear. The Jewish community knows how to stand up for dignity, justice and the health of those we love, including those who are strangers among us. We’ve done it before, and we must do it again. The time is now.

Barbara Dobkin is a feminist philanthropist.

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of JTA or its parent company, 70 Faces Media.

DAVID SVI KALMAN

JTA Is it appropriate to call an ancient rabbi a “legendary hottie”? To use “thirst” in the online sense? To translate one Talmudic voice replying to another as, “Oh my God, what the actual f–k is wrong with you, you misogynistic ageist dips–t”? Miriam Anzovin, an ex-Orthodox artist in Boston, ignited debate over those questions this week after making headlines in both North America and Israel for her series of TikTok videos responding to passages in the Talmud, the central text of rabbinic Judaism. Anzovin’s way of talking about Talmud has been shocking for some. “This is a particularly provocative and crude use of texts sacred to Judaism to rake in likes,” tweeted Avishai Grinzaig, a prominent Orthodox activist and writer in Israel. “This is not traditional, this is not religious continuity, this is not accessibility. It’s just a disgrace.” Even among fans, Anzovin’s work is frequently praised as a pedagogical tool, useful to get more people engaged in Talmud study but still a sideshow or stepping stone to the more serious study that takes place in study halls and yeshivas. But for many others, including me, Anzovin’s work is a natural outgrowth of something much larger: a new way of talking about Jewish texts and holy scripture that has come of age with the internet. Despite flying under the radar for many traditionalists, this form of communication about Torah is already fully developed, and it is time for it to be taken seriously as a genuinely new way of engaging with Jewish ideas. The method of engagement is widespread but does not yet have a name. It draws on “shitposting,” a term that originally referred to insincere and intentionally inflammatory remarks but has since been adopted by many affinity groups of urban transportation, of Star Trek and of Torah to refer to a method of discussing ideas that oscillates rapidly between sarcasm and sincerity and doesn’t treat foul language or off-color humor as out of bounds. Though I have participated in such groups for years, Facebook’s “Shitpost the Beit Midrash” group is a personal favorite. Until seeing Anzovin’s videos I had never put much thought into how these conversations were supposed to fit into the grander narrative of Jewish discourse. This kind of discourse is easy to find if you know where to look. On both Facebook and Twitter there are an endless number of well-populated groups and accounts dedicated to Torah memes; as Anzovin’s viral fame makes clear, TikTok, too, is an emerging frontier for this content. Content in these groups is irreverent by default; it frequently contains profanity and sexual innuendo and is not afraid to criticize even the most respected rabbis. Someone unfamiliar with the tone of these groups might think that contributors are disdainful of Judaism or even on the verge of leaving it behind entirely. But this could not be further from the truth: Many contributors are rabbis and Jewish educators, and they are extending one of the oldest components of Jewish discourse: criticism. Criticism of Jewish texts is nothing new; the first critic of the Bible is other parts of the Bible. The Talmud itself actively encourages interrogation of even the most sacred texts; one well-known story relates that the sage Rabbi Yochanan was deeply saddened that his study partner kept agreeing with his interpretations. Medieval commentators put each other down with invective that still seems harsh today; decode a page of the Talmud and you will quickly discover a war zone. Today, students of Jewish texts are still taught to question everything they study, and these questions are frequently the seeds from which additional insights into the Torah grow. It is not a stretch to say that the entire edifice of Torah study would crumble if criticism were forbidden. It is foundational. In the modern era, this tradition of criticism has taken on a new urgency because it is, for many people, what allows them to maintain a relationship with texts that can feel in turns misogynistic, homophobic and obsessed with ritual minutiae. When Leviticus says that it is an abomination for two men to have sex, I could meet the moment with pensive laments that, yes, some parts of Torah are difficult, but we must try our best to understand. Or, I could say to the text: I love you very much, but this is ridiculous. That the first form is better received does not make it more legitimate. Though it has its place, restricting critique to only the softer form can have the effect of intellectualizing concerns that are felt viscerally, effectively minimizing those concerns in the process. The appeal of sharp-tongued critiques is about more than just the ability to let loose. It’s about being able to bring one’s whole self to religious conversations. Playing rough with the tradition also communicates a confidence that it is impervious to our barbs. Conversely, tone-policing the expression of Jewish ideas — especially when it comes from a gender that hasn’t been in a position to write centuries worth of commentaries — telegraphs an underserved fragility, one that ensures

Miriam Anzovin has captured widespread attention for her irreverent Tik-

Tok Talmud commentaries. Credit: Screenshot a generation of “approved” Jewish ideas that are removed from the concerns of actual people. On the internet, this sharper form of criticism has flourished. Until now, both contributors to and observers of the genre have spent little time theorizing about their own work, but it is time to acknowledge that meme-ified Torah is a genuinely new form of expressing Jewish ideas, one whose reach is already massive and is likely to grow further. This form of Jewish discourse one that allows for both caustic and innocent humor, the one that treats absolutely nothing as off-limits has allowed for a far wider variety of relationships to the tradition, and it allows people to contribute to that tradition even if they do not personally have the wherewithal to write a monograph or give a sermon. It is not marginal; it is the future.

David Zvi Kalman is the scholar in residence and director of new media at the Shalom Hartman Institute of North America and the owner of Print-o-Craft Press. He holds a PhD from the University of Pennsylvania.

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of JTA or its parent company, 70 Faces Media.

REAL ESTATE