“Prayer for the French Republic” is a very Zionist play. Set in Paris in both 2016 and 1945, the production, which opened off-Broadway in February, follows the Salomons—a Jewish family forced to navigate different breeds of European antisemitism throughout the decades. They eventually come to the conclusion that after the Charlie Hebdo attack, the Sarah Halimi murder, and the possibility of a President Marine Le Pen, there is no choice but to move to Israel. Playwright Joshua Harmon captures the psychological toll that accompanies the realization that one’s home country is no longer safe. It’s an epiphany made all the more painful given that France was the first nation to emancipate its Jews and that the Jewish community still recites the prayer for the French Republic in synagogue as an expression of loyalty and citizenship. The line that closes the final act, “it’s the suitcase or the coffin,” punctuates the feeling of desperation the Salomon family and generations of Jews before them have grappled with in leaving everything behind.

The line that closes the final act, “it’s the suitcase or the coffin,” punctuates the feeling of desperation the Salomon family and generations of Jews before them have grappled with in leaving everything behind. 

The head of the Salomon family is Charles, married to Marcelle. Charles resembles a typical American Jewish father, though his ancestry traces back to Algeria. Marcelle is the classic archetype of a New York-born Jewish mother, emotional and charismatic, as seen in scenes when dirty wine glasses in the living room boil over into full-blown family confrontations. Their children are Elodie, an opinionated but immature young woman, and Daniel, a newly observant Orthodox Jew who is brutalized on the streets of Paris while wearing a yarmulke. Patrick is Marcelle’s brother, intensely secular and disdainful of his family’s convictions, regarding Judaism as something archaic and unnecessary. This attitude is originally shared by Molly, a left-wing American cousin of the Salomons who is studying abroad in France. 

“Prayer for the French Republic” is successful at highlighting the tension between those who take their Jewish identity seriously and those who have been conditioned not to do so. Harmon portrays both Patrick and Molly as out of touch, uneducated, and even as malicious forces for the Salomons, who are greatly influenced by maintaing their son’s continued safety and their family’s sacrifices in generations prior. We root for the Salomons to make it to Israel not only because it would encapsulate a climax of the Jewish story, but also because the move would rebel against the assimilationist, anti-Zionist forces keeping them back. 

But the play is anything but subtle, to its own detriment. Rather than incorporating the important themes of antisemitism and national liberation into the subtext of the work, the dialogue reads as opinion pieces in Jewish newspapers, drowning audiences in long monologues on the intricacies of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and soliloquies on the question: “Why do they hate us?” It’s hard to believe such conversations were meant to resemble believable family discussions. Harmon’s points are presented to audiences in a somewhat academic manner rather than with natural dramatic prose. It’s more likely that this play was written to educate American audiences, perhaps too blatantly and obviously, on the plight of their fellow Jews overseas. Perhaps this is why the Salomons walk and talk like Americans, rather than French Jews who have been wrestling with these problems for years. 

Only in the last few years have American Jews emerged from the comfortable sense that antisemitism was something of the past, or only the domain of the far-right. By this metric alone, I’m sure many theatre-goers, both Jewish and non-Jewish, were deeply moved by “Prayer for the French Republic,” but to those attuned to the politics of the Jewish community, to those aware that antisemitism can indeed come from both the right and the left, “Prayer” fails to offer anything new or artistically notable. 

Perhaps Harmon was aware of this discrepancy, and perhaps this contributed to the characterization of Patrick and Molly. Harmon may be trying to warn us that the winds of change will not just affect the Jews over there, and implicitly asks us: “Which character do you want to be, which Jew do you want to be?” This is certainly an ambitious approach in making a broader argument about the role of modern Jewry, and yet, realistic execution remains of paramount importance when dealing with such pressing subject matter.

“Prayer for the French Republic” remains a deeply Zionist play. For this I am grateful, considering Broadway is currently wading through an era of preachy social justice, where political ideas being propagated in the theatre are just as expected as the intermission. 

Still, “Prayer for the French Republic” remains a deeply Zionist play. For this I am grateful, considering Broadway is currently wading through an era of preachy social justice, where political ideas being propagated in the theatre are just as expected as the intermission. If “Prayer” is not able to transcend the preachiness, at least it is authentically Jewish. It represents the Jewish story as a particular phenomenon rather than a universalist message against racism. Through the Salomon family’s petty arguments and internalization of threatening political winds, each act strings together fragments of Jewish history with contemporary anxieties. It is crucial that Jews continue to make such a stand in the arts. It is crucial that we make the case for our perspective, with all the baggage behind it. The success of “Prayer for the French Republic,” both commercial and critical, should tell us that these stories deserve to be told, and that the public hasn’t yet been dissuaded from listening. ■

Blake Flayton is New Media Director and columnist at the Jewish Journal.

Change is happening fast in Turkey, and countries from Europe to the Middle East and the US are taking note.

On the brink of international isolation not so long ago, we have seen President Recep Tayyip Erdogan usher in a far-reaching geopolitical recalibration in recent months, including several actions that have required real leadership at a time when the world is crying out for partnership and peacemaking.

Across the Black Sea, the Turkish government has provided critical defensive assistance to Ukraine. At the same time, Erdogan has presented himself as a critical mediator between Moscow and Kyiv, leading the international effort to secure a ceasefire.

With neighboring Armenia, a new opportunity now beckons to normalize a relationship that has been almost nonexistent for a century, with reopened borders and mutually beneficial trade ties. Erdogan also visited Abu Dhabi last month to patch up ties with the UAE. At the directive of the president, Turkish Foreign Minister Mevlut Cavusoglu in January met with Bahrain’s Crown Prince Salman bin Hamad Al-Khalifa in Manama. He is also scheduled to visit Israel in the first week of April.

It was a breakthrough when Israeli President Isaac Herzog visited Ankara last month — the most senior Israeli to travel to Turkey in 14 years.

For the last several months, I have been directly involved in diplomatic efforts to shore up another bilateral relationship that is critical for regional security: That between Turkey and Israel. The backchannel talks helped lead to a significant breakthrough, as Israeli President Isaac Herzog visited Ankara last month — the most senior Israeli to travel to Turkey in 14 years.

The renewal of this relationship was no small feat. Relations tumbled dramatically in 2010 amid the fallout of the Gaza flotilla raid. Eight years later, riots broke out in Turkey after the US recognized Jerusalem as the capital of Israel. And the Israelis have chafed for years over Turkish support for the militant Hamas group.

The many differences between the two countries, particularly over the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, will not be solved overnight or through one meeting, but the images of Erdogan welcoming Herzog with open arms undoubtedly sent a signal of hope in a part of the world that needs unity, not division, and security collaboration, not confrontation.

The path to rapprochement was long and winding, stretching all the way to New York and Washington. In the US, I worked closely with Turkish Ambassador Murat Mercan to orchestrate the steps taken by each side, including phone calls between the heads of state and proposed confidence-building measures for each side. At a time when many in the US, including some Jewish leaders, were questioning Washington’s decades-long alliance with Turkey, we discussed how a new Turkish approach toward Israel could be beneficial to all sides.

The summit must not be a one-off. Based on my conversations with the two presidents last week, I feel confident that this new Turkish approach could pay dividends far and wide. As US Ambassador to Turkey Jeff Flake told me, the new direction in Turkey’s foreign policy has been acknowledged and appreciated in Washington.

Even at home, Erdogan has embarked on important reforms and demonstrated congruence between Turkey’s internal affairs and its outward commitments. He is widely reported to have curtailed the influence of the Muslim Brotherhood and made it clear that his party is with the Turkish people in their respect for both Islamic and secular traditions.

In recent months, the president has clearly charted Turkey on a new course that can help solidify its standing as an invaluable force for stability. With the government now embarking on this new, pragmatic foreign policy, we may be able to reconstruct a regional architecture that has been so sorely lacking.

While the future is unknown, we should today credit Turkey for the many steps it is taking to inject hope in places where it has been hard to find. These new bonds of friendship are fragile and must be cultivated by all parties. We all should do all we can to look past our own perceptions of the wrongdoings of the past and explore how we can join together in the quest for greater peace and stability. ■

Rabbi Marc Schneier is president of the Foundation for Ethnic Understanding and a noted adviser to many Gulf states.

My friend Jonny 8-Vax is in trouble. He avoided getting COVID due to his eight vaccines, but succumbed to something far worse. Jonny fell in love with a Democrat.

After a contact-high from visiting the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library in Simi Valley, and an endorphin rush from attending a Trump rally in Texas, he accidentally left his echo chamber and met a gorgeous Texan blonde who resembled Ivanka Trump and introduced herself as @chelsearodham. Jonny was seduced by her red lipstick, which was painted over her face with #MAGA written on both cheeks. She admitted to being a liberal Jewish actress from West Hollywood researching a role for “Hillary: The Musical” at the forthcoming Hollywood Fringe Festival. Jonny loved the red paint but ignored the red flag. They bonded during a Young Republicans talent show where he dressed as Elvis and sang “The Real King Lives in Mar-a-Largo.”

It’s complicated. He’s in favor of vaccines but against mandates, while she’s in favor of vaccines and supports mandates. Some couples get matching tattoos, but on their second date they got matching booster shots.

Some couples get matching tattoos, but on their second date they got matching booster shots.

“The thing is,” said Chelsea, “I’m fed up with only having the choice to vote for old white men. I want diversity.” “You’ve got Kamala,” he replied. “Which is more important, someone’s gender and the color of their skin, or someone who will be an incredible leader to run America?” Jonny then offered her another vaccine with a vax card that stated “TDS, Dose 1.” “What’s TDS?” she asked. “Trump Derangement Syndrome!” he said. “You are now protected against the liberal virus. There has been a high infection rate in Los Angeles.”

She slapped him, put on an “I’m still with her” button, and flew home to Austin, Texas. Jonny then visited the Reagan Presidential Library’s gift shop, bought 200 vintage “Reagan Bush ‘84” campaign bumper stickers, and spent the night sticking them on cars around West Hollywood. 

Heartbroken, Chelsea tore up a photo they’d taken at the rally alongside a Trump cutout, with the inscription “I’m with him.” 

In search of a new girlfriend, Jonny headed to the “free state of Florida” where the strongman Republican governor Ron DeSantis had told high school students “you do not have to wear those masks. I mean, please take them off…we’ve gotta stop with this COVID theater. So if you want to wear it, fine, but this is ridiculous.” These were the words of a dictator who imposes dictates upon young minds by insisting they have free choice. As Chelsea once said, “he’s basically Putin.”

Jonny wanted to edit a loving video montage to send her but is still awaiting the delivery of his new Macbook Pro, which will take three months to arrive since Apple’s manufacturing plant is in China, and there is both a supply chain slowdown and a silicon shortage. 

Nevertheless, Jonny was still heartbroken for Chelsea, traveled to Florida, and drowned his sorrows at a bar near Mar-a-Lago. Unfortunately, since central Florida is a land of golf courses and hip replacements, the only available drinking spot was at the Boca Raton JCC, which contained 300 Jewish grandmothers playing Mah-Jong. On the upside, he left with the telephone numbers of their 300 granddaughters. 

Jonny’s next stop was Shabbat in Miami with the hope of sitting next to Jared in shul and meeting Ivanka at the kiddush table. His heart leapt when he saw the ultimate Jewish blonde facing in the other direction, and he said “Shabbat Shalom!” but when she turned around, he saw that it was Chelsea. “Shabbat Shalom, cowboy. I thought you’d never find me.” They hugged, kissed and got thrown out of shul for immodest behavior. 

They danced salsa at a bar in Miami beach, did “Scarface” impressions, and booked tickets for a romantic getaway to Toronto to show solidarity with Canadian truckers. One thing they can agree on is that right now, everyone dislikes Justin Trudeau. This could be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

Marcus J Freed is an actor, filmmaker and Jewish educator. www.marcusjfreed.com and on social @marcusjfreed.

I recently came across a letter of apology sent to me in 1982, when I was a 21-year-old senior at UC Berkeley, sent to me by a slightly older grad student named Todd. Reading it again for the first time in many years, I was astonished at the difference between how heated political arguments were handled then versus now. I’m sharing the story hoping that people will see that it’s possible to engage in passionate arguments while still remaining civil, with no need to try to silence opponents.    

Our blowout began after a Bay Area newspaper published a letter to the editor that I had written in response to a cover story by a secular Jew who wrote about what his Jewish identity meant to him. His article upset me greatly. To my mind, he wrote about his religious exploration in a way that trivialized our sacred religious values and instead, elevated leftist social agendas and politics that he traced to Jewish roots. (Familiar story, right?) My letter was harsh, and I signed it as the editor of Ha’Etgar, UC Berkeley’s Jewish quarterly newspaper.  

Todd saw my letter. Then he saw red. He also wrote a letter to the editor, ostensibly about the original article but targeted almost entirely on ridiculing me and my arguments. He belittled me by name numerous times, including an opening salvo where he referred to me in my role as editor of Ha’Etgar as a “little toy gun,” in contrast to the “big Jewish institutional guns” that he derided. Yeah, that stung. 

Todd and I had only a passing acquaintanceship through Berkeley’s Jewish student community. We had never had a real conversation, let alone an argument. I was apoplectic when I saw Todd’s letter, shocked at how personal his attacks were. I called him and said I wanted to meet in person to discuss the matter. We sat on the grass on a little slope in front of the Hearst Mining Building, which I suppose was appropriate because my mood was explosive. I ripped into him for having attacked me so personally in print, while he defended himself and defended points made in the original article. My ego was too bruised and I was too young and headstrong to have been willing to give any ground, though Todd had made some valid points. Among other things, he was right that my calling the writer a “self-hating” Jew was completely inexcusable. 

We resolved nothing, and I walked away from the meeting only partly mollified for having vented my anger at the right address. My reading of the situation was that Todd remained totally unmoved by my anger and hurt, but I was wrong. A week later, I received the letter from him, neatly typed on two pages. It began:

Dear Judy, 

This is an extremely difficult letter for me to write. I felt very sad as you walked away after our meeting last week. I could feel your hurt and knew the time had come for a personal apology. But you had been so stubborn, as I had been (steadfast? intransigent?) that an apology seemed a sign of weakness at that moment. . . 

His letter was thoughtful, proof that he had tried to understand my viewpoints, while maintaining that the tone of my letter had been “misguided and sometimes vicious . . . I hasten to add that I’m sure many of the flaws could be found in my letter. . .”

Thank you, Todd, wherever you are, for the graciousness and generosity in your letter, for not reporting me to the student government to get me booted from my editorship or trying to “cancel” me.

Thank you, Todd, wherever you are, for the graciousness and generosity in your letter, for not reporting me to the student government to get me booted from my editorship or trying to “cancel” me in whatever ways were available in those primitive days before social media became such an easily weaponized tool of destruction. Thank you for signing off with the words, “I hope there is no need for us to avoid or run away from each other—I am perfectly capable of respecting someone personally while disagreeing with them politically.”   

Dialogue, time, perspective, apologies. Perhaps this can become an old-but-new recipe for conflict resolution.

Judy Gruen’s most recent book is The Skeptic and the Rabbi: Falling in Love with Faith. 

“I feel like I was duped,” a close friend confided recently. “Everything I was told about marriage was wrong: You don’t stay in love; you stop giving each other the benefit of the doubt; and there is no wine and candles on ‘mikvah night.’” She paused and added, “Look at me. I’m still young, but being married made me old.” 

In the weeks that passed, I looked — really looked at couples around me, whether young mothers changing diapers while their husbands scrolled Instagram or older women who seemed to have dragged their uncommunicative husbands to dinner at a kabob joint, just to get out of the house for an hour. I didn’t know about their lives. The only thing I know to be sure is that if you look and listen very closely, you begin to understand how a man can age a woman — physically and emotionally. 

These days, my social circles mostly consist of two types of women: those who have been married for many decades and would rather spend time with their dog than their husband, and those who have been married for less than a decade, have young children, and would rather spend time with their coffee than their husbands (and sometimes, their kids). Yes, men — even good men with good intentions — can slowly deplete women like no one else.

Please note that I am not a Licensed Marriage and Family therapist, but I’ve spent most of my life watching high-conflict marriages around me. The following was written with male-female marriages in mind, particularly those with young children. There are many ways that even a good man can age a woman:

He grows inured to her pain.

When my friend first hurt her back in an injury, her husband was incredibly sympathetic and attentive. But over the years, as she struggled with chronic pain and was seldom able to respond to a simple “How are you?” without referring to her back, he grew increasingly inured to her pain. It’s understandable, and it also happens with emotional pain.Another friend who’s struggled with depression since she was a young child found that her husband held loving space for her mental health struggles early in their marriage. But after a year or so, he, too, grew inured to her emotional pain, despite how hard she tried to “keep it together” for the sake of their shalom bayit (“peace in the home”). Like women, men are human. But it’s extremely painful for a woman to subdue her pain because she fears her husband has, sadly, grown desensitized to her suffering. 

He implies that she’s a bottomless pit of need without ever saying a word. 

Taking care of a home and children, especially while working, is indescribably taxing. But you know what’s worse? Living with a man who, even through a simple sigh, signals to a woman that she’s depleting him by asking for too much, too often. As one friend said, “If I could ask anyone else but my husband, I would. I wish I didn’t even have to ask him for help.”

When it comes to taking his family’s side, he’s on autopilot.

Couples get married to create a new “us.” For many women, especially new wives, there are fewer things more shocking than quickly learning that in your new marriage, that “us” is your husband and his family. And on the other side, there’s you. Just you and your Long Island Iced Tea. 

He helps around the house. 

Yes, you read that correctly. I love and appreciate men. But as a woman from a traditional Middle Eastern (Iranian) family, it’s taken me three decades to unlearn something: In America, we need to stop asking men to “help” out around the house.

Why do we expect men to “help” around the house, as though they’re an auxiliary or additional person in the home, rather than an actual occupant? A husband isn’t a metaphorical Airbnb guest who happens to live with us.

If you live alone, do you refer to washing dishes as “helping out”? Of course not. You’re washing dishes because you live there. So why do we expect men to “help” around the house, as though they’re an auxiliary or additional person in the home, rather than an actual occupant? A husband isn’t a metaphorical Airbnb guest who happens to live with us. If I rented out a room in my home to an
Airbnb customer and found him in my kitchen, sweeping the floor, I would be surprised and grateful. But when I find my husband sweeping the floor, I smile and resume cleaning the table. We’re both assuming responsibility for the space we occupy with two small children. 

Today, nearly all women work, and I harbor deep resentment for the childhood message I received from traditional family members: Don’t bother a man with housework requests because he works all day. It’s not only disturbing and cruel to women; it’s not even rooted in reality. Men work. Women work. Of course, there are some women, most of them mothers with very young children, who can stay home with their little ones while their husbands work. But guess what? What those women do is work. 

And if you spend 12 hours a day cleaning up after a child, you can’t be expected to spend the rest of your day cleaning up after a grown man. There are few things less sexy to a woman than incessantly picking up a man’s socks from the floor or putting away his cereal bowl in the sink after breakfast, and such small tasks weigh down a woman for one simple reason: Rather than feeling that she has a reliable partner with whom to tackle life, she’s constantly reminded that everything — even the socks — fall on her shoulders. 

The same reasoning applies to taking care of children. Just as a man isn’t “helping” with cleaning the home where he lives, a father isn’t “babysitting” when he spends time with his own children. In the past few years, I’ve heard a ubiquitous lamentation by many friends: Their husband defensively claims he’s watching the kids because he’s with them, but he’s glued to his phone. “I’m here,” one father kept repeating to his wife when she asked him to play with their toddler. He was there, but he was checking emails. His wife finally gave up, ended her Zoom work meeting early, and sat down to actively play with their child. 

I don’t know why so many men live — truly live — their home lives in such a half-mannered way (I had another hyphenated word in mind that begins with “half,” but I steer clear of expletives in the Journal). I can’t imagine a lovestruck father who holds his newborn infant in his arms, looks down at that perfect, cherubic face and thinks, “I will be part of your life from the comfort of the couch.” For a mother, not feeling that she can rely on her husband to fulfill at least some of her children’s needs is the most painful burden of all. It ages her physically, mentally and spiritually.

We marry so we can learn how to give. And in case you think I’m bashing husbands and fanning the flames of marital resentment, here’s a sneak peek of next week’s column: “How a Woman Tears Down a Man.”

Tabby Refael is a Los Angeles-based writer, speaker, and civic action activist. Follow her on Twitter @RefaelTabby