O pinion
Three Years After Tree of Life, Where Are We?
BY STEVE ROSENBERG
THREE YEARS AFTER the
Tree of Life shooting, there is
still more work to do.

Three years ago, I was in
Israel when I learned of the
news of the horrific shooting
in my hometown of Pittsburgh
and specifically my neigh-
borhood of Squirrel Hill. Just
one week ago, I spent a few
days back in Squirrel Hill and
walked around the Tree of Life,
reflecting on the continued
fight against antisemitism from
every corner of the spectrum.

Our collective spirits and
our hearts have been hurting.

The fight against Jew-hatred,
antisemitism and anti-Zionism
— disguised as Jew-hatred —
is rampant throughout our
world. Every day, we read
about another story where the
only type of acceptable hatred
is Jew-hatred. Whether this
vitriol comes from the far left or
the far right, or if it comes from
celebrities or regular everyday
people, it is everywhere.

All of these incidents have
one thing in common. They
are all happening in the United
States of America, arguably the
greatest success story of the
Jewish diaspora.

College students
are finishing their second month
back on campus, in some cases
after a year of virtual learning,
and they have been met with
the anti-Israel demonstrators
who could not wait to return.

Vandalism of Jewish institu-
tions and physical threats have
continued against observant
Jews all over the world.

We cannot continue to
ignore this ever-widening ocean
of cultural sewage. Oftentimes
it appears that American Jews
don’t see antisemitism in
America because they don’t
want to, not because it isn’t
real. They choose not to see it
because it makes them uncom-
fortable, as assimilation seems
a better option. Or, it is only
called out if it comes from the
other side — the political side
they choose not to affiliate with.

However, one thing that
always gives me hope is the
community of Squirrel Hill
and the resiliency this vibrant
group of people continues to
show each and every day. Three
years after the murder of 11 of
their most beloved, these folks
demonstrate the strength that
lies within.

Too often though, it is tragedy
that has brought us together
and tested our resolve. We have
all mourned together after
too many innocent members
in our collective communities
have been targeted by hate and
bigotry. Our past and present
are intertwined, and now as
we see ourselves returning to
normalcy at work, school and in
our social lives, our bonds have
been tested. Leadership that
inspires tolerance and respect,
education and understanding,
is more important than
ever before.

The hometown of Fred
Rogers deserves better as does
the rest of the world.

We can no longer sit back
and accept Jew-hatred in
any form. We must stand up
against those suggesting Israel
is an apartheid nation or that
Jews are subhuman. We are
only 15 million strong around
the world — we are far from
the aggressor or the oppressor.

Some might argue that the
Jewish people are the greatest
overachievers in the history of
the planet and we must stand
tall and stand proud, but,
most importantly, we must
learn to stand together to fight
Jew-hatred. l
Steve Rosenberg is the chief
operating officer of the Jewish
Federation of Greater Philadelphia.

What the Tree of Life Revealed About American Jewry
BY ANDREW SILOW-CARROLL
A FEW YEARS AGO a
colleague called to interview
me for a book he was writing
about journalists who worked
for Jewish publications. I told
him that it would be the first
book in history whose reader-
ship would overlap 100% with
the people being interviewed.

That’s a little bit how
I feel about books that look
deeply into the ins and outs
of Jewish communal affairs:
the admittedly small genre of
synagogue tell-alls, studies of
Jewish philanthropy, scholarly
16 OCTOBER 28, 2021
work on how Americans “do”
Judaism. Of course, I eat these
books up — it’s my job and
passion. But I suspect I am
a distinct minority within a
minority. I also suspected Mark
Oppenheimer’s new book,
“Squirrel Hill: The Tree of
Life Synagogue Shooting and
the Soul of a Neighborhood,”
might be similarly narrow in
its scope and audience. In some
ways it is, but that is also its
strength: In describing the Oct.

27, 2018 massacre of 11 Jewish
worshipers in Pittsburgh and
how individuals and institu-
tions responded, he covers
board meetings, interviews
clergy, takes notes on sermons
and reads demographic studies
by Jewish federations. The
result is a biopsy — or really,
a stress test — of American
Jewry in the early 21st century,
the good and the bad.

And as a result it tells a
bigger story about and for all
Americans in an age of mass
shootings, political polariza-
tion and spiritual malaise.

First the good: The Squirrel
Hill in Oppenheimer’s book is
a model of Jewish community
building — home to the rare
American Jewish population
that stuck close to its urban
roots instead of fleeing to the
far suburbs. The neighborhood
boasts walkable streets, a wide
array of Jewish institutions, a
diverse public high school and
local hangouts that serve as
the “third places” so elusive in
suburbia. Oppenheimer credits
a federation leader, Howard
Rieger, who in 1993 spear-
headed a capital project that
kept the community’s infra-
structure — “from preschool
to assisted living” — in place
and intact.

The universal outpouring
of support after the shooting
also showed American Jewish
life at its best. Offers to help
flooded in from Jews around
the country and the world.

Non-Jews rushed to assure
JEWISH EXPONENT
Jews that they were not alone.

Barriers fell between Jewish
denominations, and people
put politics and religion aside
to focus on the qualities and
threats that unite them.

The downside is a photo
negative of all that’s right
about Squirrel Hill and
American Jewry. The diver-
sity and demographics of
Squirrel Hill are a reminder
of the more typically segre-
gated way of American Jewish
life — religiously, racially and
economically. Orthodox and
non-Orthodox Jews spin in
separate orbits. Many white
Jews rarely interact with people
of color who aren’t cleaning
their homes or taking care of
their kids.

As for the support that
f lowed in: Oppenheimer
also describes the ways the
offers of help could feel both
patronizing and self-serving,
as outside Jewish groups and
“trauma tourists” rushed in
without considering the needs
or feelings of the locals. One
New York-based burial society
sent “experts” to help the
provincials tend to the bodies
of victims; they were not-so-po-
litely told that the locals had it
under control. There’s a sad
and hilarious profile of an
Israeli medical clown who,
like so many clowns, ends up
sowing more confusion than
comfort. Oppenheimer also compli-
cates the rosy portraits of
Pittsburgh’s “Stronger Than
Hate” response to the shootings.

While the Jewish community
remains mostly grateful for the
shows of solidarity, there were
missteps and miscommunica-
tions along the way. Even one
of the most iconic images of
the shooting — the Kaddish
prayer written in Hebrew
characters on the front page
of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
— has a complicated backstory
that ended with the departure
See Silow-Carroll, Page 24
JEWISHEXPONENT.COM



O PINION
Snowstorms, Bears and Stars of David: Even in Alaska,
a Tiny Jewish Community Can Make its Voice Heard
BY RABBI ABRAM GOODSTEIN
I GREW UP Jewish in Alaska.

Th e Jewish community in
Anchorage, the city where I
grew up, did things their own
Jewish way. It was the only
kind of Judaism that I knew.

For example, I used to
think that everyone had their
bar or bat mitzvah during the
summer, because in Alaska,
anyway, that was the best time
to invite relatives.

Later, of course, I encoun-
tered many forms of Judaism. I
have lived in Jerusalem. I have
worshipped and worked at
Jewish communities too small
for a synagogue and congre-
gations with more than 1,500
families. All these experiences
convinced me to become a
rabbi. But I would have never
predicted that, aft er ordination
at Hebrew Union College-
Jewish Institute of Religion in
2017, I would come back to my
hometown as a rabbi.

I now offi ciate at b’nai
mitzvah in the very sanctuary
where I received mine. As a
lover of nature and someone
who has grown to appreciate
Judaism in smaller cities and
towns, I feel Alaska is a great
place to be Jewish. While some
may think it’s distant and cold,
I have always found it cozy and
welcoming. Except when it isn’t.

Th is past year, as our state
offi cials and politicians decide
on how to best fi ght COVID,
we saw an uptick of people
comparing health mandates to
the Holocaust. During a conten-
tious Assembly meeting on
mandating masks in Anchorage,
protesters against
mask mandates started wearing yellow
stars of David, appropriating
the Holocaust and the Nazis’
genocide against the Jewish
people. Anchorage’s mayor at
one point even exclaimed that
the Alaskan Jewish community
would support these protesters’
message. our own unique problems here.

Starting Shabbat is a diffi cult
venture when our sunsets are
swinging from light most of
the night to dark most of the
day. Moose get in our sukkot,
and snowstorms and bears
have prevented us from coming
or leaving shul.

However, I believe that
Judaism is beautiful here. Th is
is not a place where Judaism
just survives, but a place where
Judaism thrives. We have our
own special Alaskan way of
being Jewish.

For example, our commu-
nity, which has 160 family
members, has no formal
mikveh, or ritual bath, and yet
we are surrounded by mikveh
possibilities. Every one of
This is not a place where Judaism just survives, but a place where
Judaism thrives. We have our own special Alaskan way of being Jewish.

A small community of some
4,500 people, far from the large
centers of Jewish life, might
have been expected to let this
go. Or perhaps grumble among
ourselves and let “outsiders”
object for us.

Instead, at a hearing on
masks in September, one
of my congregants, State
Assemblyman Forrest Dunbar,
read a letter I had written. “It
was heart-wrenching for me
when I noticed individuals
were wearing yellow Stars of
David, mimicking my Jewish
ancestors who perished during
the Holocaust,” he read,
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quoting me. “For myself and
most Jews, seeing the yellow
Star of David on someone’s
chest elicits the same feeling
as seeing a swastika on a
fl ag or the SS insignia on a
uniform. I believe it is a consti-
tutional right to protest for
your values. But I request that
you do not use symbols that
diminish the 6 million Jews
who were murdered during the
Holocaust.” Th e mayor apologized the
next day, thanks to the work of
a confi dent Jewish community
that showed him how hurtful his
remarks were for Alaskan Jews.

Our confi dence comes with
deep roots. In 1900, a commu-
nity of 60 Jews celebrated Rosh
Hashanah in Nome using a
Torah brought by Sam Bayles, a
Latvian immigrant who sought
his fortune in the Alaska Gold
Rush. Th e Bayles Torah stayed
in Nome until aft er World War
I, when it was moved slightly
south (537 miles) to my congre-
gation, Congregation Beth
Sholom in Anchorage, where it
remains today alongside other
Torah scrolls with their own
uniquely Alaskan histories.

Th eir stories are much the
same as the story of how Jews
came to Alaska. Whether
through a pioneering spirit, a
sense of amazement or a need
to connect with tradition in the
farthest North, Jews have been
coming to Alaska since before
it was even a state.

I oft en feel that Jews in the
lower 48 consider Judaism in
Alaska to be diminished due
to its isolation and its limited
population. We certainly have
JEWISH EXPONENT
Alaska’s 3 million lakes are
pristine, and most of them
are remote. Every summer I
ready laminated mikveh prayer
cards for Jewish Alaskans who
wish to enjoy a mikveh experi-
ence against the incredible
backdrop of rugged mountains
and emerald green forests.

Most people’s Jewish experi-
ence, I imagine, come from
a connection to Jewish insti-
tutions, Jewish professionals
and Jewish friends. My Jewish
experiences seem always to be
nestled among the splendor of
God’s creations.

Th e dispute over Holocaust
analogies and its resolution
was a great reminder that
Jews in Alaska are a part of,
not apart from, Alaska. We
are not an isolated shtetl, but
rather working members of the
Alaskan community. Th ere are
several current Alaskan Jewish
lawmakers, and we have been
represented in state leadership
all the way back to the framing
of the Alaska Constitution.

Prior to the current Anchorage
mayor’s hurtful comments,
three of the city’s previous
mayors were Jewish.

We love this place, and we
support it in every way we can. ●
Rabbi Abram Goodstein is the rabbi
of Congregation Beth Sholom in
Anchorage, Alaska, and the co-host
of the podcast “What Divines Us.”
Be heard.

Email your letters
to the editor.

letters@jewishexponent.com OCTOBER 28, 2021
17