Even a journey of a thousand miles in the Midwest begins with a single step towards the immigration officer at Newark Airport in New Jersey, on the US eastern seaboard. The officer does not take too kindly to that single additional step that I took over the yellow line and gestures to me to move back behind it. America might well be changing but not the starchy, uptight officials who 'welcome' the foreign visitors at its airports.
After my entry onto US soil has been authorized, I travel to the small hotel in Manhattan where I am due to stay over the weekend before I continue westward, on a journey to the Jewish communities in Pennsylvania, Ohio and Michigan. It is Thursday, the day after Shavuot – a completely regular weekday for a Jew from Israel visiting Manhattan, but it is a Jewish festival with all that entails on the calendar of the Jews living here. The second day of Yom Tov (Yom Tov sheni shel galuyot) observed by Diaspora Jews but not in Israel is an anomaly in the Jewish calendar, a glitch on the matrix that enables an observant Jew from Israel to talk on his cellphone, to use public transportation and go shopping – while he looks at his fellow Jews living in America coming out of the synagogue dressed in their finery, walking home at a relaxed pace, as befits the festival atmosphere, to another heavy festive meal.
On the following day, an hour before sunset, a familiar New York rainstorm hoses down the city in preparation for Shabbat. I am walking down 42nd Street, the beating heart of Manhattan, from 9th Avenue in the west to 5th Avenue in the east. On the way, I pass through Times Square, trying to look for signs of a pro-Palestinian demonstration, or at least a sticker on a traffic sign to indicate that such an event is due to take place, but my efforts are in vain. Even in Bryant Park, one of the most popular and pastoral spots in Midtown Manhattan, there is not a single hint of the war raging in the Middle East. Only at the entrance to the Beit Chabad – on the corner of 42nd Street and 5th Avenue, by the Skechers shoe store and just a few meters away from the public library – I finally come across the first sign of the tension that has reached this point. A guard standing by the entrance looks at me for a moment nodding his head in approval. Guards at the gates of Jewish institutions is hardly anything new in New York, but this is the first time I have ever encountered this at the entrance to a Beit Chabad in the US.
As usual, most of those praying here are Israelis, as are the majority of those who remain behind for the Shabbat meal. And no inexpensive meal, by any standards, I should add. The meal costs 65 dollars per person, a price that is totally unjustified from a culinary point of view, but well worth it for the experience. The main topic of conversation of my fellow diners – a ragtag bunch of Israelis that you would only ever stumble across as a group at a Beit Chabad overseas – was the ridiculously exorbitant price of the flights. Nobody had managed to obtain a ticket for less than 1,500 dollars, an amount that no veteran traveler on the Ben-Gurion to New York line can recall ever having paid before. The financial griping intensifies as the diners gain a first glimpse of the dessert, a rather modest portion of some or other sorbet, possibly mango. For 65 dollars they could have made a bit more of an effort, groans the Israeli to my right, and doesn't even bother to taste it.
Oren Levy, the Principal of the Hillel Academy Jewish elementary school in Pittsburgh: "On Shabbat, I wear a kippa and go out on the street wrapped in my tallit, so I probably feel the tension more than others. It's not that I have a target marked on my back, but since 2018 I have constantly been looking over my shoulder and to the sides much more than in the past. But I don't feel that we are turning into France."
On Shabbat morning I make my way northwards to Lincoln Square Synagogue, better known as LSS. It is located on Amsterdam Avenue, the continuation of the 10th Avenue in the Upper West Side. Here too I notice that the security arrangements are much more stringent than usual. When I was here last August, nobody asked me where I came from; the security guards made do with a cursory glance before allowing me in. This time, I was forced to use the codename "Petach Tikva" in order to satisfy them.
The Etz Chaim Synagogue no longer exists on its original site. The majority of the building where it operated together with additional community centers was demolished several months ago. The renowned architect, Daniel Libeskind, has been tasked with the design of the new building, which is also due to serve as a memorial site for those murdered there. The fence surrounding the plot is decorated with photos of children's drawings, in memory of those murdered there.
Prior to commencing the Musaf prayer, Rabbi Shaul Robinson, who has been the spiritual head of this Zionist community for some 18 years now, reads out the names of those IDF soldiers killed in battle during the week that has just ended. All the worshipers stand in reverent silence. This is followed by the prayer for the welfare of the United States of America and then the prayer for the State of Israel and for the IDF soldiers. Following the Musaf service, a lavish kiddush is held in honor of one of the girls in the community who is now completing her medical studies at Ben-Gurion University and is also about to get married. This new young family will most probably go and live in Israel; aliyah is a familiar concept within the LSS community.
I spend the rest of the Shabbat enjoying a pleasant stroll across Central Park and Midtown. The temperatures along the eastern seaboard are currently extremely high, approaching 100 degrees Fahrenheit (38 degrees Celsius), but with must less humidity than on the muggy, sweltering Israeli coastal plain. When Shabbat finally ends, around 9:20 pm, it is time to begin to say farewell to the 'Big Apple' and to prepare for the flight. We shall return to New York later to learn about the intricate Jewish network that spins its web over the entire US and beyond, but first of all – Pennsylvania.
Between Sderot and Pennsylvania
In American terms, we are talking about a city that is almost a suburb of New York. After hardly an hour's flight, the hallmark yellow plane of Spirit Airlines lands at Pittsburgh International Airport. In other periods in history, I might not have been able to enter this city so easily: the first three Jews who sought to do business in this area were sent packing. But that was in the 17th century, a short time after Peter Stuyvesant, the last governor of the New Netherlands, conquered the Swedish colony just over the River Delaware. The United States has been established since then, and over the years the Jewish community of Pennsylvania has grown and grown. Today, there are some 300 thousand Jews resident there – the majority living in the state's largest city, Philadelphia, and some 50 thousand in Greater Pittsburgh, the second largest city in the "Keystone State". Between these two cities lies Aaronsburg, the only town in the United States to be named after a Jew – the merchant Aaron Levi, who decided to set up home there more than two hundred years ago.
The first place to visit in Pittsburgh is the Etz Chaim (Tree of Life) Conservative Synagogue, in the suburb of Squirrel Hill, the beating heart of the city's Jewish community. It was here some six years ago that the unforgettable incident occurred that shocked the US and the entire Jewish world. It happened on Shabbat, October 27, 2018. At precisely 09:54 am, 46-year-old Robert Bowers, a fervent antisemite who espoused "white supremacy" entered the synagogue, armed with an assault rifle. He shouted, "All Jews must die," and proceeded to shoot in all directions. His killing spree claimed the lives of eleven people, all of them Jews. A further two worshipers were wounded along with four police officers. The murderer himself was injured and then captured by the police. In the summer of 2023, he was convicted on dozens of counts of murder, attempted murder and hate crimes, and was sentenced to death by lethal injection. His sentence has not yet been carried out.
The Etz Chaim Synagogue no longer exists on its original site. The majority of the building where it operated together with additional community centers was demolished several months ago. The renowned architect, Daniel Libeskind, has been tasked with the design of the new building, which is also due to serve as a memorial site for those murdered there. The fence surrounding the plot is decorated with photos of children's drawings, in memory of those murdered there.
I have another hour and a half left until the meeting with the members of the community, sufficient time to grab a bite to eat at one of the two kosher restaurants in Pittsburgh. It will soon be eight in the evening, and anybody who is familiar with the America that is not New York knows that it would be prudent to start getting a move on; here they like to finish the day early, and it is extremely difficult to find a culinary institution that is open after nine at night. So, I make my way along Murray Avenue to the Eighteen restaurant. On the way there, I notice that some of the storefront windows are decorated with blue and white flags and signs proudly boasting: "We stand with Israel."
The restaurant appears to be closed and locked, but I am hungry enough to insist by knocking on the door. In any event, according to Google, the restaurant should be open until eight-thirty. After a few minutes, a young, somewhat Hasidic looking man opens the door and I enter into an area that is home to Judaica, books, hamburgers and shakshuka. As the only diner there, I am afforded the full service, and the hamburgers they prepare here are very tasty. I highly recommend it, just make sure you knock on the door and don't give up too easily!
I ask the restaurant manager what the story is with the locked door, and she tells me that they have become accustomed to it since the COVID-19 pandemic, when it was only possible to purchase food as part of the takeaway service. It sounds to me as a lame excuse to conceal their fear of antisemitic attacks, but I don't want to push the issue, and from here I continue on foot to the meeting at the Jewish community center.
Three of the members of the Jewish community in Pittsburgh came to share their feelings with us and tell us about the reality of their daily life here as Jews. Maggie Feinstein, born and bred in Pittsburgh, is a professional counselor. Before the shooting in 2018, she worked in a non-Jewish neighborhood in the city, and following this extremely troubling event she set up the "10.27 Healing Partnership", an organization that deals with mental health and treating trauma in the Jewish community. Adam Reinherz, a resident of Pittsburgh for 17 years now, is a senior reporter at the Pittsburgh Jewish Chronicle, the leading Jewish newspaper in the city. Oren Levy, the son of an American mother and a former Israeli, moved here from New Jersey 11 years ago, and since then he has worked as the principal of the Hillel Academy Jewish elementary school in Pittsburgh.
I ask the restaurant manager what the story is with the locked door, and she tells me that they have become accustomed to it since the COVID-19 pandemic, when it was only possible to purchase food as part of the takeaway service. It sounds to me as a lame excuse to conceal their fear of antisemitic attacks, but I don't want to push the issue, and from here I continue on foot to the meeting at the Jewish community center.
I ask the three of them to begin by recounting the trauma of October 2018 and its implications. "When I grew up, the doors of the synagogues were always open," says Feinstein. "As a child, I could enter whichever one I wanted and I felt at home. The situation began to change gradually even before we reached October 7. The neighborhood boasts a basic level of security even today, we can still allow our kids to go to a friend's house, as everybody knows everybody and they know that if something untoward should occur on the street, then it will be immediately reported. But there is a significant difference in the feeling of the community institutions. The free flow of people began to come to an end around 2010 and the doors began to remain closed.
Maggie Feinstein: "October 7 sent shock waves through our community. This was extremely difficult for us, as prior to 2018 we used to say, 'it won't happen here,' and then it did happen. And so, we thought that this cannot happen in the State of Israel, but then it happened there too. You cannot avoid wondering – what is wrong with me, if on two occasions I thought that 'this cannot happen,' and on two occasions I was wrong?"
"Following the mass murder in 2018, everybody understood that security must be afforded the highest priority, and that we simply cannot afford to continue without orderly security plans. Once, it was possible to pass through the building where we currently are located, the JCC (Jewish Community Center), via a sort of covered path between one part of the neighborhood and the other. We simply used to enter this building and walk from one end to the other. Now, for security reasons, it is impossible to do anything like that. It it's sad but completely understandable."
Reinherz: "The topics of my coverage have not changed since October 2018. As a journalist, I continue to focus on education, the relevant occurrences in the community, the daily rhythm of what is going on here and in the vicinity. People here are still working to maintain the community fabric and the way of life, people help you out to educate your children, they know from where you come and where you are going to. In this manner, the way of life continues. The only thing that has changed is the level of tension.
Levy: "On Shabbat, I wear a kippa and go out on the street wrapped in my tallit, so I probably feel that tension more than others. It's not that I have a target marked on my back, but I do stand out more. Since 2018, I have been looking over my shoulder and to the sides much more than in the past. But I don't feel that we are turning into somewhere like France for example."
He tells me of a family that migrated to Pittsburgh from France following the terrorist attack on the 'HyperCacher' kosher supermarket in Paris back in January 2015: a Muslim terrorist took workers and customers hostage and then murdered four of them before he was killed. "They told me that in certain areas they simply were not able to wear a kippa or their tzitzit out," says Levy. "I don't feel anything of that sort here in Pittsburgh. This is a very welcoming city, and I would even say that the majority of Americans here are pleasant and warm, they respect the Jewish culture and are actually quite pro-Israeli."
Feinstein: "After the attack, our Jewish community began to glow and projected the complete opposite of the hatred that had driven the murderer. We showcased our cultural wealth, the stories of the eleven murdered Jews who were all members of the community. Each and every one of them was a whole world unto himself or herself, and each one, in their own particular way, represented a certain aspect of the Jewish community of Pittsburgh. When we decided to dive into their stories we understood why they found a wealth of meaning in Shabbat, in the prayers & ceremonies, in their membership in the community. I really felt proud to be a Jewess, and particularly in the community of Pittsburgh, which has its own delicate and appealing ways of holding ceremonies and maintaining tradition, preserving Judaism, each one in his or her own manner.
"Last summer I sat in the courtroom where the murderer's trial took place. While I was engaged in small talk with somebody sitting next to me, I discovered that my grandfather had sold his burial plot to the grandfather of the person I was speaking to, as they had changed synagogues and my grandfather thought that that individual would want to be buried in a plot that was connected to the synagogue he had left. As far as I am concerned, this was a form of greeting from the past, and also a lesson to teach us just to what extent our grandparents were committed to creating a safe Jewish-American experience. They arrived here under different circumstances and from different backgrounds, but they looked for ways of integrating and coexisting. As a girl, I knew that if you go to Sunday school (a program of Jewish studies held on Sundays – AS), you could go wherever you wanted each week, it didn't matter if it was in your synagogue or another one."
Reinherz: "On Shavuot, I saw the most amazing expression of what it means to be a Jew in Pittsburgh. More than 400 people came to this building for a Tikkun Leil Shavuot all-night Torah study session and listened to lectures addressing all spheres of Jewish life. People from the entire spectrum showed up. We felt what is stated regarding the verse 'And there Israel encamped opposite the mountain' – the reason that it is worded in the singular, that they were 'as one man with one heart'. Just as the People of Israel in the desert, so too we face disputes and arguments from time to time, but all of us come together to engage in a session of communal study. It does not occur in many communities across America."
Levy: "I chose to move to Pittsburgh as what amazed me and attracted me to come here was the cohesiveness of the community. Prior to moving, we checked out other communities along the east coast, in the Midwest and the west coast too; in most places, if you wear a certain type of shirt or hat, you will immediately feel that you belong to one synagogue but are rejected in another synagogue, and of course you will have to send your children to a certain school. In Pittsburgh there is genuine respect for who you are as a person.
"Here is one story that clearly illustrates this. I met a haredi in New York, and when he heard that I am from Pittsburgh, he told me that he had visited here for a conference. During his stay in the city, he looked for kosher food and found somewhere that was defined as a 'traditional Jewish food' restaurant. Just before entering the establishment, he saw across the street a couple of religious Jews, he waved to them and they waved back. Inside, when he looked at the menu he suddenly realized that the restaurant is not kosher. 'I was rather surprised that the couple saw a religious Jew about to enter the restaurant and didn't say a word,' he recounted. I told him that this is precisely Pittsburgh in a nutshell. Here you can wear what you want, do what you want, and people will respect you and your choices, they won't make any assumptions and will not be judgmental."
Q: How did the October 7 massacre in the Gaza border communities affect the life of the Jewish community here?
Reinherz: "I believe in the approach that says that there is a limit to what we are all capable of doing. There are many things that scare me and that is not something to be ashamed of, but it is also important to understand what we can and cannot control. After October 7, just as was the case after October 27, I felt a sense of deep pain and extreme emotions, that were also accompanied by numerous tough questions. But I really am aware, or at least try to be aware, of what is under my control.
"So, what is under my control? To try and be fair and decent to other people. People who perhaps do not look like me nor behave like me, people with a different world view than mine. Because the world in which I want to live is not monolithic. It is not a world driven by fear but by love and kind kindheartedness, respect, esteem and appreciation. So, as far as possible, I must remain in control of that."
Levy: "The perpetrator of the mass murder here in October 2018 came from the extreme right-wing, and as a Jewish American I was utterly floored and left speechless with disbelief, as I had never experienced something on that level before here in America. What we have been witnessing since October 7 is aggression from the radical Left. Here too in the neighborhood I do not feel entirely safe and secure. If I argue over the price in a store then on occasions I will hear an antisemitic comment. I see people wearing pins with the Palestinian flag on their shirt collar and I would be lying if I were to say that it doesn't make me feel uncomfortable. I am also uneasy on the global level too. I am profoundly concerned about the situation of the Jewish people around the world and in Israel."
Feinstein: "October 7 sent shock waves through our community in many ways. Firstly, many people here have family in Israel. Secondly, we were appalled at the very fact that something like that could actually happen here. This was extremely difficult for us, as prior to 2018 we used to say, 'it won't happen here,' and then it did happen. And so, we thought that this cannot happen in the State of Israel, but then it happened there too. You cannot avoid wondering – what is wrong with me, if on two occasions I thought that 'this cannot happen,' and on two occasions I was wrong?" Do I have to think that from here on it can always occur?
"After the attack it was easy to mention antisemitism as the cause of the attack against us, and the knowledge that we are not alone was a helpful factor in the healing process. Following October 7, we experienced a much more mixed bag of feelings and confusion, as our community memory has been programmed for another type of antisemitism. So, our response on this occasion was different too. The response to the shooting here was patently clear – you need to be a good citizen and a good neighbor. That is completely different from adhering to a specific stance on geopolitical issues related to the Middle East, as was required following October 7. It is much easier to choose to be a good neighbor than to formulate your opinion on issues over which you have no control or influence. That doesn't mean that we didn't know what to do but it was simply more complicated."
Q: Let's talk about the upcoming elections. Pennsylvania is considered to be a swing state, one of six or seven that will be decisive in the ultimate election of the next US president. How does this affect the Jewish community and the importance of their vote?
Feinstein: "I understand the desire to try and place the voting patterns of the Jews here in a specific mold, but that is an issue that is particularly difficult to forecast. Since the mass killing here in 2018, we know that the world is watching us, and I don't want them to look at how we vote but rather at what we do as citizens, as neighbors. In any event, our numbers are too low for them to form a significant bloc."
Reinherz: The Democratic primaries in Pennsylvania were held at Pesach. We tried to reschedule them but were unsuccessful. As soon as we understood that this was the case, there was a tremendous effort in the community for people to use postal votes in order to exercise their democratic right in parallel with adhering to their Judaism."
Levy: "We were granted a gift – the power to vote and to voice our opinions. We don't take it for granted. I think that every person and every Jew feels an obligation to go and vote for whomever he believes in."
On the following day, Oren Levy invites me for breakfast at his extremely comfortable home in the affluent Squirrel Hill neighborhood. Obviously, I cannot overcome my innate Israeli curiosity and ask him how much such a house costs. "About 700 thousand dollars," Levy replies. After a very quick calculation, I realize that a four-room apartment in my neighborhood of Petach Tiqwa actually costs more. The real estate prices in Pittsburgh are clearly one of the reasons why the Levy family decided to move here. "When they offered me to come and live in Pittsburgh, I was sure that it was a city full of coalminers and steelworkers," he says with a smile. "I asked if I would be called upon to make up a minyan at the mine."
Levy and his wife have four children that they are raising here. He admits that the peaceful, quiet and relatively inexpensive life in this not very large city – with a total of about 300 thousand residents – there is a price to pay in terms of Judaism. According to him, of the 50 thousand Jews in Pittsburgh, only ten percent are active to any degree in the community, the majority of whom are orthodox.
Following the attack in 2018, and even more so during the Covid-19 pandemic, the Levy family considered making aliyah. They even met on a number of occasions with members of Nefesh B'Nefesh, the non-profit organization that encourages and supports those making aliyah from North America. To date, this has not worked out, mainly as Levy believes that the income of a teacher in Israel will not enable him to maintain the standard of living to which he has become accustomed in Pittsburgh. His wife works in the field of medicine and earns a doctor's wage, and it is clear to them that were they to come and live in Israel then she too would earn much less. Having said all that, my host declares that they are closer than ever to making aliyah, to a large extent due to the resurgence of antisemitism. He says over and over again that this is due to a minority, but he painfully recounts how his daughter and her friend, 12-year old girls, went last week to the local shopping mall dressed in long skirts and thus easily identifiable as Jews. A woman there who was sporting a pin with the Palestinian flag, stopped beside them and called out to them "Hi" while flashing them an evil smile. "Sure, they did not incur any physical damage," he says, "but this an act of antisemitism that my daughter should not have to experience."
