AnarchoBolshevik

[T]here’s a report in Haaretz that quotes a professor named Michael Spagat, who’s an economist at Holloway College at the University of London. This guy is not a radical lefty. He’s a guy who basically spends his time doing statistical analysis about violent conflicts all over the place: Iraq, Syria, Kosovo. He estimates that 4% of the population of Gaza has been killed since October 7th. Four percent. And he says, ‘I’m not sure there’s another case in the 21st century that’s reached that high,’ right? The highest percentage of any population killed in this century, right?

And just by comparison—I did some back-of-the-envelope math—4% of the population killed, if you think about the percentage of people killed in Ukraine, 4% is probably 20 to 40 times higher than the percentage of people who have been killed in Ukraine, given that Ukraine has a significantly larger population, of course, than Gaza, right?

So, this is, as a percentage of the population, the largest slaughter of human beings on the planet in this century. And the goals have not been met. They have not been achieved. And, you know, there were people who were saying this from the very, very beginning. They were protesting against this slaughter from the very, very beginning. And they were mocked, they were reviled, many of them were kicked out of school, they were suspended, they were expelled, they were called antisemites, all of these things, and you know what? They were right. They were right.

No, the Middle Easterner in question is not the director of Hamas, Ansarallah, Yemen’s Supreme Political Council, the DFLP, Fatah Al-Intifada, the PFLP-GC, the SSNP, the Iranian army, or even a European hate group. As far as we can tell, he’s a stranger who is no older than twenty, and yet a recording of him cursing Jews and saying ‘free Palestine’ needs seven hundred thousand views. Being (in)famous has never been easier!

Now, obviously it’s uncool to curse Jews, but let’s be honest: the real reason that the capitalist media are blowing this out of proportion is that they’re starved for evidence linking the pro-Palestine movement to antisemitism. That’s why Trump gets let off easy and Stew Peters is largely unknown whereas a presumably Arab or Palestinian stranger gets big within the span of hours.

If you still think that this is more about the misdemeanour than race, check out this small sample of comments:

These all need to be deported. I despise these ill educated low IQ children and their moronic benefit-scrounging parents. You can never cure stupidity like this.

IMPORTED TERRORIST GARBAGE EVIL TO THE CORE

He looks like deportation material.

What on earth is that accent? Why do they all talk like inner city gang bangers? Scrubbers

What did you think was going to happen when the place was overrun by Muslims? This was totally foreseeable when the Windrush docked. Remember a bloke called Enoch Powell? He did try to warn you.

Deport this half cast and his entire family!!!

Another example of generation after generation of marriage inside the family. These arab and [insert slur here] community's [sic] in the UK all look so [insert slur here] its amazing.

Look at this nasty foreigner’s arrogance, he knows the far left government will allow him to publicly spout his hatred. But if white Brits say the same about Muslims, the cops will come after them. Two Tier Britain.

I am not exaggerating when I say that I have seen a Klan leader (Larry Trapp) treated better than this.

Explaining why celebrating capitalism, colonialism and imperialism on the 4th of July is not in the interest of working and oppressed people, a coalition of a dozen local organizations held a noontime rally at City Hall on July 4. Speakers spoke with fire in their hearts. They called for Mumia Abu-Jamal’s release after 43 years of unjust incarceration; for a free Palestine and an end to genocide; for the U.S. out of the Philippines and Korea; for unity with migrant workers — no deportations; and for solidarity with the first strike by city workers in 40 years.

Organizing groups and endorsers included Mobilization4Mumia, Anakbayan Philly, Philly Educators for Palestine, Community Action Relief Project, the SOL Collective, Workers World Party, Philly Socialists, Philadelphia Alliance Against Racist and Political Repression and International Jewish Labor Bund.

Led by a colorful banner that said “Let the Dragons Fly — Reject Amerikan Empire — All Power to the Anti-Colonial Struggle!,” the demonstrators marched in the streets to where a rally of striking American Federation of State, County and Municipal Employees District Council 33 workers was about to start.

[…]

Over 100 people rallied at Philadelphia’s Malcolm X Park to “Free Mumia” on July 5, forty-three years after he was sentenced to death on July 3, 1982.

The event was endorsed by Philly Peace Park, Workers World Party, Philly Democratic Socialists of America, Black Lives Matter Philly, BLM Boston, Montco4Palestine, Mobilization4Mumia, Philly Palestine Coalition, Freedom Socialist Party, Philadelphia Alliance Against Racist and Political Repression, Ubuntu Freedom and Black Alliance for Peace. Speakers included YahNé Ndgo, Gabe Bryant, Pam Africa, Musa Bey, Ramona Africa and Varvara Lazaridis.

Behind a yellow banner that read “Mumia’s struggle is about Justice for all of us” in black and red lettering, participants marched down 52nd Street to the Lucien E. Blackwell West Philadelphia Regional Library, where AFSCME DC 33 workers were holding down strike picketing. Strikers and Mumia supporters together chanted and sang “Solidarity Forever” for ten minutes in support of the workers struggle for justice before the march for justice for all political prisoners continued back to Malcolm X Park.

Incarcerated for a crime he didn’t commit, Mumia, now 71 years old, is still behind bars at SCI Mahanoy in Pennsylvania. One of the most well-known prisoners in the world, the struggle to release Mumia continues to this day.

(Source. Spotted here. For the context wherein Trump applied the stereotype, see here.)

Remember: words like ‘intifada’, phrases like ‘from the river to the sea’, and even stuffed animals in the form of octopodes are all ways of secretly calling for another Shoah, no matter how many times Palestinians say otherwise. On the other hand, when a Herzlian like Trump applies an infamous stereotype to somebody…

“I welcome this new chapter with great optimism,” said Lubna Musa. “Aladeen’s leadership brings an expanded global vision rooted in a deep understanding of our region. His appointment will strengthen our ability to serve more children, more effectively.”

“It is an honor to step into this role,” said Aladeen Shawa. “Having grown up in Gaza, with experience working there and in the West Bank periodically over the last three decades, I’ve seen firsthand the transformative work PCRF delivers. I look forward to working alongside Lubna and our teams to elevate our impact and reach even more children in Palestine and the region.”

This leadership alignment reflects PCRF’s mission to deliver high-quality medical care to children regardless of politics or borders, through unified global strategy and grounded local execution.

You would think that Herzlians would take the accusation of colonialism more seriously, especially considering that Jews theirselves have repeatedly been (and in some places still are) victims of white colonialism. One could argue that Jews of colour in the occupation itself are often victims of white colonialism, but here we have one Jew of color who would rather shut his eyes to the reality by flippantly missing the point.

This week, Catholic bishops made the unusual move of signing onto an interfaith letter criticizing the budget bill that narrowly passed the Senate on Tuesday. Their affirmation of the letter took place in addition to a more cautious letter from the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops that cited Pope Leo’s admonition to “promote and protect the common good” and faulted the budget for punishing the most vulnerable in society.

The interfaith letter goes further, warning that the proposed budget provides vast resources to target immigrant communities and separate families. Further, with the current administration’s explicit disregard for “sensitive locations” like churches, schools, and hospitals, it is very likely that the régime of dragnet raids and detentions will target faith communities that provide sanctuary and resources to immigrants.

Reverend William Barber teaches us that a budget is always a moral document. The current régime constantly broadcasts its cruelty and immorality. We salute the vital work of faith-based communities in supporting our immigrant neighbors.

(Taken from an email sent to me by Never Again Action.)

[Content warning: article and embedded videos include strong descriptions of violence, sexual assault, self-injury]

Thoroughly researched and disturbing, this Wired article reviews hundreds of 911 calls placed from immigration detention centers run by GEO Group and CoreCivic, our nation’s two largest private prison companies and providers of immigration detention. As the article makes clear, “immigration detention” is just prison by another name, but for people whose only “crime” was coming to the U.S. in search of stability and safety.

The two private prison companies talk a good game about fulfilling their legal obligations to provide adequate shelter and medical care, but the 911 calls reviewed by Wired tell a different story. Medical emergencies of various kinds, some allegedly caused by facility staff, are either actively downplayed or even dismissed, in some cases while the emergency is heard to play out in the background. Perhaps most disturbing is the high likelihood that 911 calls represent a small percentage of the actual emergencies and abuse that happen at these facilities.

These disturbing phone calls are supplemented by multiply-corroborated reports from detainees, their families, their legal representatives, and advocates who describe overcrowded facilities, lack of basic medical care, terrible (sometimes inedible) food, and more. Most of these reports come from several months ago, before the latest round of pressure from the DHS to push the number of detainees even higher.

Remember: the cruelty is the point.

(Taken from an email sent to me by Never Again Action. Emphasis original.)

The supreme court majority continues to defy both precedent and rule of law in order to reflect the whims of the current régime. This time around, they’ve twisted law and logic to allow breathing room for Trump’s executive order restricting birthright citizenship. While their latest ruling does not enshrine the EO into law, it makes the order harder to challenge comprehensively. Knowing this was likely to happen, the ACLU immediately filed a nationwide, class-action lawsuit challenging the EO, because class-action suits remain one of the last avenues to comprehensively challenge a heinous order like this.

Karla McKanders, director of the ACLU Legal Defense Fund’s Thurgood Marshall Institute, said “The Trump administration’s executive order is an unlawful attempt to entrench racial hierarchies and establish a second class of citizens in the United States. We will continue working to ensure that birthright citizenship — a right granted by the U.S. Constitution — is protected, and that families are not torn apart because of this executive order.”

This news comes on the heels of the racist backlash around Zohran Mamdani winning the democratic primary of the NYC mayoral election. While right wing influencers and GOP politicians traded racist and islamophobic epithets online about Mamdani’s upbringing, the President jumped into the fray earlier this week by threatening to revoke Mamdani’s citizenship because of his support for Palestinian rights and his promise that if he was elected mayor, he would do everything in his power to stop ICE from terrorizing the people of New York City.

(Taken from an email sent to me by Never Again Action.)

She stands in front of the cameras. Her eyes are red, her voice cracked. The tears flow freely, but she doesn’t try to wipe them away or stop them. The anchor asks her to talk about him. He’s used to asking such questions. She’s not used to answering them. Still, she emphasizes that she wasn’t surprised. “Since October 7, we’ve been living in fear. Every knock on the door, every phone call,” she says.

And then she decides to break the script. Instead of talking about what a wonderful person he was, instead of saying there was no one else like him, she chooses to say something else entirely.

“From the moment he finished high school, he’s been fighting, nonstop. He was already exhausted. They’re all exhausted. Mentally, they’re completely drained,” she says. “This has to stop.”

That moment came last week, a day after her son, Staff Sgt. Niv Radia, was killed along with six other soldiers by an explosive device in southern Gaza.

Speaking on Israel’s most-watched news channel, Radia’s mother, Alexandra, managed to shock many — perhaps even shake the foundations of public discourse. It was a rare moment in which the wall the army has tried to build between the public and the daily toll on combat soldiers began to crack.

The voices of reservists are often heard. They speak out about the impact on their businesses, their families, and the inequality they feel compared to segments of the population that don’t serve. But the voices of active-duty soldiers, those doing the daily fighting for nearly 21 months now, remain largely unheard and unknown to the Israeli public.

Even when journalists are embedded with IDF combat units, what they see isn’t the day-to-day reality — it’s a carefully orchestrated performance. Soldiers interviewed are handpicked by commanders and IDF spokespersons and thoroughly briefed on what they can and cannot say. And so, reporters return with the same clichés: “This is a generation of lions,” they declare. “Morale is sky-high.”

But active-duty army soldiers who spoke to Haaretz in recent months paint a very different picture — one that bears little resemblance to the official narrative.

They describe mounting exhaustion, severe physical and psychological strain, and a constant fear that they’ll be the next to have their names released as fallen.

Most refused to be quoted on the record. Five agreed to speak. They had just one request: “You sent us to war — now listen to what we have to say.”

• All names in this article have been changed.

Yonatan, 21, Kfir Brigade

“It happened a little after we entered Jabalya last November. During the day, the heat was unbearable — at night, we froze. Sand and dust clung constantly to my skin. We hardly saw any people, just dogs roaming everywhere. They were looking for food — anything, even rotting scraps. Our company commander warned us that anyone who so much as petted them would ‘face a court-martial and end up in jail.’ But I didn’t care. When no one was looking, I’d sneak them slices of sausage.

“A few days later, we were positioned near a house when a pack of dogs came close, barking nonstop. Our deputy commander got annoyed and decided to shoot one of them. The dog howled in pain — then fell silent. The others scattered, but he kept going, aiming down his sights and shooting another dog, then a few more. ‘They need to learn not to come near us. These are terrorists’ dogs — probably rabid,’ he said with a grin. I was furious, but I didn’t say a word. That night, I was ashamed of myself for not speaking up, for not trying to stop him.

“The next morning, we were sent on another house-clearing mission. We scanned the building with a drone and didn’t see anything, so we went in. Two minutes later, there was an explosion. The blast threw me through the air, and I couldn’t understand what had happened. Suddenly, I realized my mouth was full of blood. I thought I was wounded, but I wasn’t — it was the blood of my best friend in the unit. He kept calling my name, begging me to help, but I didn’t know what to do. I froze.

“Eventually the medics arrived and evacuated him. For days after, I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat — everything tasted like blood. We just kept going, clearing houses like nothing had happened, like everything was normal. Afterward, we were sent out of Gaza for a little while to ‘refresh,’ but I couldn’t do anything. I felt like someone had taken part of my soul.

“One morning the commander told us we were going back home to rest and everyone was excited — but I felt nothing. I felt dead, empty, completely numb. Right before sunset, the commander told me I had to guard the equipment at 2 A.M. I stood there for a few minutes before I felt like I couldn’t breathe — everything was closing in on me. I ran off to wash my face. When I came back, my officer was waiting. ‘Aren’t you ashamed of abandoning your post?’ he yelled. Then he told me I’d face disciplinary charges the next day.

“By morning, I was standing trial in front of the battalion commander. He asked if I had anything to say, but no words came out. ‘You’re getting 28 days of confinement,’ he said.

“I didn’t know what to do. When no one was looking, I grabbed my things and ran. Within hours I was sitting on the sand at Gordon Beach in Tel Aviv, still in uniform. I changed into civilian clothes and just sat there, feeling the cool breeze. I opened my phone and scrolled through messages with the friend who’d been injured. I wanted to send him something — even though he was unconscious — but I couldn’t figure out what to say. The hours passed and I had no idea what to do. Go back to base? Go to my parents? And what would I even tell them? Lie and say they let us out? Tell the truth? I had no clue.

“They taught us how to charge forward, how to fix a jammed weapon, how to bandage a wounded friend. But no one taught me what to do after you taste your best friend’s blood."

Or, 20, Paratroopers Reconnaissance Unit

“My breaking point didn’t come in Lebanon or Khan Yunis — it happened in Tel Aviv. After ages without being home, they finally gave us 48 hours leave. It was a week after my birthday, and my parents wanted to celebrate with a big family dinner. I just wanted to stay home and sleep — but I didn’t want to disappoint them.

“When we got to the restaurant, everyone hugged and kissed me and asked how things were. All I could manage was a vague ‘fine.’

“I ordered shrimp pasta. When it arrived, I felt everything rise up inside me — like I was going to throw up. I rushed to the bathroom and vomited harder than I ever had in my life. Then I splashed water on my face and looked in the mirror — I looked awful, like I’d aged ten years. When I came back, my grandmother looked at me and asked, ‘Are you okay? You’re white as a ghost.’ I didn't know what to say. I just wanted to disappear.

“Meanwhile, everyone kept eating. The smells overwhelmed me — I thought I was going to throw up again. ‘Why aren’t you eating?’ they asked over and over. I couldn’t answer. The smell was driving me mad — I couldn’t get it out of my body. At first, I didn’t understand what was happening — and then it hit me: it was the smell of corpses.

“A few days earlier, we’d approached the rubble of a house in Khan Yunis that had been bombed by the air force. In the debris — what was once walls — we suddenly found five, maybe six bodies. There were flies everywhere, and I think dogs had torn at the flesh. There was barely anything left. Two of them were small children — I saw their bones. It was horrible, unforgettable, something that still haunts my nights. But more than anything, I remember the smell — it took over my body, clung to my clothes. Even after I sprayed myself with deodorant nonstop that night, it wouldn’t leave me.

“After the restaurant we went home, and I went straight to my room without saying a word. I didn’t want to leave until Sunday, but my friends insisted we go to a party in Tel Aviv. We drank endlessly — all night. I tried to smile, tried to laugh. ‘What’s up with you?’ they asked. ‘Nothing, nothing,’ I replied. Around 1 A.M., the DJ played some track I didn’t know with pounding bass. It felt like everything was closing in — like I couldn’t breathe. I ran to the bathroom. It smelled like sewage and it reminded me of Gaza.

“In the stall, I tried to calm my breathing, but nothing helped. My heart was pounding out of control. I left the club without saying anything to my friends, grabbed a taxi that cost me something like 300 shekels, went home and crashed. I stayed in bed all weekend, until it was time to go back.

“Sunday morning, I reported for duty in the Gaza border area. We packed the gear and loaded up quickly onto the Humvees that took us back in. I wanted to jump off. I wanted to run — but I didn't have the guts. So I kept going. Another week of explosions. Another week of socks glued to my skin, of heat I can’t even describe. A living nightmare. I just want it to be over already — please. I’m exhausted as if I’m 80 years old.”

Omer, 21, Givati Brigade

“Sometimes when I think about it, it’s hard to believe this war has been going on for only 20 months — it feels like 10 years. I was there from the start, when they rushed us to the kibbutzim in the Gaza border region just hours after it all began. I still haven’t been able to process what I saw there. Burned-out cars, people screaming, gunfire, explosions. What I remember most is the smell of corpses in Kfar Aza — the smell of death, like a steak forgotten on the grill.

“But honestly, there are a lot of things I don’t remember at all — entire hours wiped from my memory. What did I even do there? I have no idea. And there was no time to think about it anyway. Right after October 7 we started preparing to go into Gaza. We were in a kind of high — we wanted it so badly. Now it just seems so stupid to me. I’ve lost track of how many people I knew who’ve been killed — from my battalion, my brigade, my school, my neighborhood. I don’t have the strength to hear about one more. It breaks me.

“They didn’t even let me attend most of the funerals. They said we were needed — that they couldn’t let everyone go. And the ones I did attend — they were awful. How can you sit there and listen to the battalion commander recite clichés about friends of mine he didn’t even know, about fighters he never cared about?

“People think soldiers die in battle, but the truth is, lots of them died for no reason — because of officers’ negligence, or because there weren’t enough munitions to bomb a building before sending us into it. Then the media says he died from an explosive device and everyone thinks it makes sense. It feels like no one cares. How many more friends do I have to bury before people wake up?

“All of us have wills saved in our phones — in the notes app. Sometimes at night we talk about what our funerals will be like, try to guess how many people will come, if our ex will cry. ‘Do you think Tuna [an Israeli rapper] would agree to sing at my funeral if I put it in my will?’ a friend once asked me. ‘If I die, promise me you’ll tell my mom I didn’t suffer — that it wasn’t hard for me,’ another friend said. Two weeks later he was wounded by an anti-tank missile.

“And if that’s not enough, now they’re forcing us to do another four months of reserve duty. No one asks if we want to or if we even can. ‘There’s nothing we can do — we’re short on soldiers,’ the officers say. And if anyone complains, they threaten him with jail — call him a traitor, a coward. So most of us stay quiet. Sometimes we cry to our moms on the phone, or to a friend we feel safe with. But even that doesn’t always help. It’s just shit. I’ve had enough. I can’t do it anymore.

“In high school I was sure that right after the army I’d take the psychometric exam and go study medicine — like I always dreamed. But now? I just want to run away. Travel. Rest. Do drugs. Forget. I don’t know what will be left of me. I already know I’m not the same person I was — that’s for sure."

Yair, 21, Nahal Reconnaissance Unit

“There were ten of us. It was 2 A.M., maybe 3. Just a routine ambush in the northern part of Gaza, I think near Beit Lahia. I suddenly woke up in a panic and realized everyone was asleep — even the officer. I woke him up, and he freaked out, started yelling at the whole team like a madman. It was surreal — I think he forgot that yelling like that could expose our position, but no one dared say anything.

“‘You bunch of idiots,’ he screamed. ‘You want to die out here? What are you, brain-dead?’ He completely lost it — like something had been building inside him for months and just exploded. The next day, he pulled me aside and made me swear not to tell anyone outside the unit that he had fallen asleep.

“It wasn’t the first time something like that happened and honestly, any soldier who’s served in Gaza knows it. You don’t sleep during the day and then you’re sent on night missions — we’re just collapsing. It might sound weird to admit, but it’s kind of a miracle Hamas hasn’t taken advantage of it more.

“Every time there’s some serious incident in the news, people criticize us — ‘How could this happen?’ they ask. But what do you expect when we’ve been fighting for months and barely get to go home?

“People who’ve never been here think the hard part is just the big events — when soldiers are killed or wounded. But the struggle is also in the small stuff, the things no one talks about on the news. Do you know what it’s like to walk around for days with a ceramic vest glued to your back? What it means not to take off your boots for ten days straight? To lie in the dirt covering your team and not be able to keep your eyes open? To be packed so tight together that even the people you love drive you crazy?

“I remember once a guy on our team kept humming a song that got stuck in his head. It pushed me over the edge and I threw a can of tuna at him. ‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ he shouted. We almost got into a fight. If the others hadn’t stepped in, I don’t know how it would’ve ended. I apologized, but I’m still ashamed I did that.

“The worst part is it doesn’t just happen with the guys in the unit — it happens with my family too, with my girlfriend. A few months ago, I came home and just started yelling at her — for no reason, just because she moved one of my shirts. She started crying and walked out. I begged her to forgive me. I didn’t know what to do. I started crying too and she hugged me. I don’t think I’ve ever cried like that before.

“Later we tried to have sex and I just couldn’t. Nothing worked. She tried to calm me down, but I went into this spiral — convinced this was how it would be from now on, that the war had broken me. That she would leave me.

“Lately, my hair has even started falling out from the stress. I keep touching it, pulling it without even realizing. It’s destroying me. I keep telling myself I have no right to cry — that I’m lucky compared to others. One of our squads was completely wiped out. I’m alive. I wasn’t hit by a missile or an explosive device.

“But still, it’s hard. I don’t know if I’ll ever recover. I just want everything to be normal again — like it used to be.”

Uri, 22, Yahalom combat engineering unit

“At some point, I just stopped believing in what we’re doing. During the first year, I was all in — totally committed to every mission. I really believed we were part of something historic, that we were protecting Israeli civilians, that we were helping to rescue the hostages.

“But little by little, I started to doubt it. After you hear about another hostage killed because of an airstrike, after you attend yet another funeral for a friend — it just starts to fade.

“I can’t go on another mission. I can’t go back to the same areas we’ve already been through a million times, investigate another tunnel shaft, enter another building that might be booby-trapped. And for what? Anyone with half a brain can see this war is continuing for political reasons. There’s no reason to keep going. We’re not achieving anything — we’re just risking our lives over and over again.

“Even the commanders don’t know how to explain it anymore, how to convince us to keep at it. Except for the religious guys, no one understands what we’re doing. No one believes we’re helping to bring the hostages home. If anything, we’re putting them in more danger.

“Every time I got close to a tunnel shaft, that thought would hit me. What if the intel is wrong? What if there are hostages down there? What if the terrorists hear us and kill them? And if that happens — how could I live with myself? How could I go on?

“The officers will call it a mistake and say that’s just war — and I’ll have to live with the guilt and shame. No one’s going to help me. Just like no one’s helping my wounded friends. Some of them the commanders didn’t even bother to visit. They were just left on their own.

“Luckily, I’m about to be discharged. But what about the rest of them? I look at the younger soldiers in my unit and I can’t help but wonder — who will live and who will come home in a coffin? It’s awful, but that’s our reality. This has to stop. We can’t bring back the ones we’ve lost, but there are still so many more we can save.

“When will you understand that it’s time to end this? When there are 900 dead? A thousand? Please — stop. Speak out. Protest. Don’t let all this death keep going.”

User Thisisme8719 summed up this article well:

Haaretz published accounts of the trauma, exhaustion, anger, and inability to adjust to civilian life, from a few IOF soldiers who served in Gaza. What traumatized them? Being participants in genocide? Being part of the same military as people posting their war crimes on Tik Tok? That their airforce dropped bunker busters in densely populated refugee camps and "safe" zones? That their fellow soldiers sniped children, grandmothers, and people carrying white flags? That people's homes, the hospitals and clinics where people are treated, even water treatment facilities, were destroyed? Nah.

Anybody who has been paying attention to the oppression of Palestinians is unlikely to sympathize much with these leathernecks, but it is a useful reminder that even oppressors are still human and have human weaknesses: they wake up, they breathe, they eat, they shit, they fuck, they eat some more, maybe they fuck again depending on how late it is and how much they ate, they sleep, they age, but most importantly, they feel all sorts of emotions, no matter how hard the military tried to tear those out.

Rabbi Or Zohar was serving as the spiritual leader of a Reform congregation in the Galilee, already his third pulpit position in Israel, when he began seriously contemplating relocation.

"It's very hard being a Reform rabbi in Israel, and it's very tiring," he says. "You have to do your own fundraising, and there are very few opportunities for moving up the ladder. I was already in my mid-40s and felt that my heyday was behind me, that if I wanted a better job, or a better place to be a rabbi, I needed to think about moving to America."

Since both he and his wife hold U.S. citizenship, there was one less obstacle to overcome. What eventually sent them packing, he says, was the rise to power of the most right-wing, fundamentalist government in Israeli history, followed by the war in Gaza.

"The toxic political environment, and the idea that Israel is changing — and that my values and lifestyle are not respected or supported by the powers that be — made me think, 'Ok, I have other options,'" recalls Zohar. "And so, I started interviewing for jobs, and in the middle of the process, October 7th happened, and that is what did it for us."

Last July, Zohar and his wife moved to Rochester, New York, where he serves as senior rabbi at Temple Sinai, a medium-sized congregation that serves 520 families.

Nava and Yerach Meiersdorf are both graduates of the Schechter Rabbinical Seminary in Israel, which is affiliated with the Conservative movement. She had served as the rabbi of a non-denominational, alternative congregation in Jerusalem, while he was employed as a rabbi for Marom, the young adult branch of the world Conservative/Masorti movement.

Last July, along with their two little children, they picked themselves up and left Israel for jobs in Canada. Both Nava and Yerach were hired as associate rabbis at Adath Israel, a large Conservative congregation that serves roughly 1,500 families in Toronto. In their case, the motivation was primarily economic.

"Many rabbis we know in Israel have spouses who are the main breadwinners, which allows them to get by, but that wasn't the case with us," says Nava. "Salaries for Conservative rabbis in Israel are really low, and we couldn't make ends meets. Because we don't drive on Shabbat, we needed to live in the center of Jerusalem near our congregation, which is not cheap, and my mom would end up helping us every month with the rent."

The Meiersdorf couple and Zohar are among growing numbers of non-Orthodox rabbis trained in Israel who are finding gainful employment in their professions abroad, mainly in North America. The absolute numbers are not very big, but considering that such "exports" were virtually non-existent until about a decade ago, the trend is noteworthy.

"With us, only a few rabbis have left, but since this really never happened before, people are talking about it and are concerned about it," says Rabbi Chaya Rowen Baker, dean of the Schechter Rabbinical Seminary. "People felt a kind of pinch when they left."

Low salaries and a dearth of employment opportunities are among the factors pushing many of these Israeli-trained rabbis abroad. But as Baker notes, there is also the pull of the U.S. market where qualified rabbis are in high demand, as rabbinical schools struggle to recruit new students.

"U.S. synagogues are looking for rabbis, and the positions they can offer are economically more attractive to Israeli rabbis than the positions they would get here," she says. "It's definitely tempting when a synagogue there offers you a salary that's maybe two or three times what you might be making here."

And as Talia Avnon-Benveniste, director of the rabbinical program at the Reform movement's Hebrew Union College in Jerusalem, notes, Israel has a surplus of rabbis. "Right now, we have far more qualified rabbis than jobs available for them."

Israeli-trained rabbis who struggle to find employment at home are, therefore, discovering that they can often pick and choose among offers abroad. Zohar, for example, interviewed at seven different congregations before settling on Rochester. And there is no comparison, he says, between the conditions that are offered in Israel and America.

"My office here, just the office, is larger than some Reform synagogues in Israel," he says. "And here, I have also an entire team to work with — a cantor, an educator, a board. It's not just me by myself doing everything."

The Meiersdorfs also had, according to Nava, "a lot of options."

"And we thought about it very carefully before deciding on Toronto," she says.

An interesting adventure

But it is not only better salaries and terms that are luring Israeli-trained non-Orthodox rabbis away from the Holy Land. Many are also fed up with ongoing attempts in Israel to delegitimize progressive forms of Judaism. Indeed, the Conservative and Reform movements have long suffered from discrimination in government funding, and conversions performed by their rabbis are still not recognized for the purpose of marriage. Under the current government that is dominated by Orthodox parties, the situation has only worsened.

That might explain why it is specifically non-Orthodox rabbis who are leaving. "If anything, among Orthodox rabbis, the move is in the opposite direction," says Avnon-Benveniste. "There are more of them moving here from there."

Out of 136 graduates of HUC in Jerusalem, 27 are currently serving in Jewish communities abroad, 10 of them in North America. The others are spread out around Australia, New Zealand, Britain, South Africa, Germany, Holland, Switzerland, Hong Kong, Russia, Poland, Spain, Portugal, Brazil and Argentina. Out of 115 Schechter graduates, three have left Israel in the past five years, all of them to congregations in North America.

Gila Caine, who received her ordination from HUC in Jerusalem, serves as rabbi of Temple Beth Ora in Edmonton, Alberta — a relatively small Reform congregation that serves about 100 families.

"I saw they were searching for a rabbi, and my husband and I thought it would be interesting to be part of a Jewish community outside Israel, to give our kids that experience, and to experience non-Israeli Judaism," she says. "We thought it could be an interesting adventure."

So interesting, in fact, that they're still there eight years later.

"I've suddenly started understanding what it means to be a Jew," says Caine, reflecting on the experience. "And it's added a whole new dimension to my Jewishness."

Lior Nevo, who grew up in the Reform movement in Jerusalem and was ordained at HUC, never worked in Israel as a rabbi. After her husband's job brought them to the Boston area, she says, "I stumbled on chaplaincy almost by chance."

For the past six years, she has worked as a chaplain at a senior living facility founded by a Jewish organization that today has only a very small number of Jewish residents. "I've fallen in love with chaplaincy work," she says. "Since most of the residents here are not Jewish, and Israel is very much in the news, I've become a big source of information for them on everything happening in Israel," she says. "It's very meaningful for them — and for me."

Born in the United States, Leora Londy immigrated to Israel when she was 18 and held various congregational positions before becoming officially ordained at HUC three years ago. "Being a rabbi in Israel is wonderful but not lucrative," she says.

While on a trip to New York two summers ago, she by chance met a rabbi who asked whether she might be interested in a pulpit position in America. She received not only one, but two job offers during that short trip.

"We decided we would try living outside Israel for a few years," she says.

Londy, her husband and three children now reside in Chappaqua, New York, where she serves as assistant rabbi at Temple Beth El of Northern Westchester.

Rabbi Lana Zilberman Soloway also assumed her U.S. post in the summer of 2023, but on the complete opposite side of the country. She, too, had never actively pursued employment opportunities outside Israel. An immigrant from the former Soviet Union, she worked for many years as a tour educator before being ordained by the Reform movement. It was through this work that she established a relationship with Congregation Or Ami in California's San Fernando Valley: Every year, over the course of nearly a decade, she led their missions to Israel and Europe.

"They invited me twice to come as their scholar-in-residence, and after that, they had an opening for a rabbi, and they invited me to apply," recounts Zilberman Soloway, who previously worked in Israel for Rabbis for Human Rights. "At first, I didn't think it was something I'd be interested in doing, but I was kind of at a crossroad in where I was in Israel at the time and decided to embark on it as a family adventure."

Today, she serves as second rabbi and director of education at the Southern California congregation. Among the advantages of this position for a working mom like herself is that she is not required to be in charge of everything. "Most congregations in Israel are looking for a solo rabbi because they can't afford more than that, but as a mother of three children, I wasn't seeking a pulpit position, which can be very demanding," says Zilberman Soloway.

'Less honor and dignity'

The vacuum being filled by Israeli-trained rabbis today is the result of the sharply declining number of students attending rabbinical school in America. Andrew Rehfeld, the president of HUC, believes that problem is here to stay.

"I would like our numbers to be up, but the days when we had 130, 140, and 150 rabbis coming through the liberal seminaries every year, I don't think those days are coming back — not in our lifetime," he says.

Among the factors behind the dwindling number of rabbinical students, he lists the fact that liberal Jewish families are having fewer children, making it more difficult to sustain their youth movements, which have long served as a pipeline for rabbinical school.

Rabbi David Ariel-Joel was among the first Reform rabbis trained in Israel to move to the United States. He and his wife arrived in Louisville, Kentucky, nearly 25 years ago for what was supposed to be a three-year stint at Congregation Adath Israel Brith Sholom. They never left.

Ariel-Joel says that given his personal experience, he cannot understand why there is such a shortage of rabbis in America.

"I love my job. I think it's the best job possible, the pay is fine and more than fine, and you get a lot of fulfilment from being a rabbi, so I highly recommend it," he says. "But it feels that maybe there's less honor and dignity in being a rabbi today than there used to be. A Jewish mother would once have been proud for her child to become a rabbi, but maybe not so much anymore."

Zohar, the new rabbi at the Reform congregation in Rochester, suspects [that] the problem is related to the high demands of the rabbinate.

"It's a lifestyle, it's not a job," he says. "It's a big commitment, it doesn't leave you lots of free time, so it's not for everyone. And just like you see foreigners replacing Americans at jobs in restaurants and other services that are very demanding, we're seeing Israelis replace Americans in rabbinical jobs."

Besides that, he notes, established synagogue life in America isn't what it used to be. "Whether you want to admit it or not, it's a world in decline, so many people ask themselves, 'Why go there?'"

In demand

Israeli rabbis who have made the move are discovering they can offer American congregations benefits their American counterparts often cannot. Londy, for example, says that after October 7, her New York congregants, like Jews across America, felt that their lives had been upended. "I couldn't have realized how important my presence would be in helping them navigate their relationship with Israel," she says.

Caine was surprised to learn her congregants had such a passion for Hebrew, her native tongue. "It used to be that there was a lot of English and just a little Hebrew in our prayer service," she says. "Now, there's a lot of Hebrew and just a little English. And what was fascinating to me is that it made my congregants, especially the younger ones, much happier. They feel it's more rooted, more Jewish, when they're praying in Hebrew."

For the first time in their lives, these rabbis say, they also have the luxury of just doing their job.

"I came here with a lot of gusto, having fought for a lot of years to be a legitimate female rabbi in Israel," says Londy. "I'm able to do a lot of pastoral and rabbinic work here that I couldn't get to the bottom of in Israel because so much of my time there was devoted to creating legitimacy for egalitarian Judaism."

"One of the reasons it's so nice to have a pulpit here," she adds, "is that I just get to be a rabbi without having to prove I'm a rabbi."

In Israel, Nava Meiersdorf notes, she and her husband are not even recognized as a married couple because a Conservative rabbi officiated at their wedding. "In Toronto, not only do they recognize marriages performed by Conservative rabbis, but I get to officiate at them, and it's all legal. I don't need to fight here for the Judaism I believe in."

The Meiersdorfs are giving themselves three years in Toronto. "It's very significant for us to say this is short term," says Nava. Her husband sounds somewhat less certain. "Our home is always Israel, but we really don't know what will be," says Yerach.

For Zilberman Soloway, this is also a short-term stint. "Originally, we wanted to come for a year, the community wanted us for three years, which is the standard contract, and we compromised on two." But other transplants say it is too soon to know what the future will bring and seem to be leaning toward a more permanent move.

As an Israeli who has no intention of going back, Ariel-Joel is not convinced that America's lack of homegrown rabbis can be solved by importing more of his kind. "I think the rabbinical schools simply have to do a better job of recruiting students," he says.

Nachman Shai, the dean of HUC in Jerusalem, says [that] he is happy to keep filling the gaps. "I believe the very fact that our rabbis are finding employment in congregations outside Israel is a big compliment to what we are doing here," he says.

"Our rabbis wouldn't get chosen if they weren't a good fit, and if there's a demand for Israeli-trained rabbis outside Israel, to me, that's a sign that our standards are very high."

He is obsessed with protecting Raed, who has suffered from malnutrition and whose immune system is fragile.

“He’s not allowed to leave the tent. One scrape could mean evacuation. And I will not live through that humiliation again. I just want him safe.”

Yousef himself now exhibits symptoms of post-traumatic stress syndrome, a common affliction for those exposed to extreme trauma, torture and mental torment, as he has been.

“When I see a bed, I see scattered limbs,” Yousef told The Electronic Intifada. “I hate the dark. I can’t sleep without noise. I see my wife’s face mutilated. I wake, gasping, clinging to my son.”

To make a little money, he has opened a small solar panel charging station in Jabaliya, where he and his family are determined to stay.

Yousef proved a lifeline for my father, as he and those like him have been for so many others.

His quick thinking and training saved my father from lethal danger. My father had passed out, and suffered shrapnel wounds, but it could have been much worse if Yousef had not pressed the damp gauze against his face and kept his airways open.

The bond between my father and Yousef remains untouched by the distance now dividing them.

Yousef has endured the unimaginable, yet he never lost his humanity nor the instinct to save others.