September 29, 2023

July 31, 2003

Over the centuries, Jewish scholars and laymen alike have battled over the question of what it means to be a Jew.

I think there are no easy answers to this question. But for me, being Jewish has given me a great desire to enter public service and replace my divot. Had I been born in Poland or Russia – the birthplace of my grandparents – I probably would not be alive today, because I was born at the time of the beginning of the Holocaust. I certainly wouldn’t have had the opportunities afforded to me.

My story is a familiar one and part of a common Jewish commitment to make this a better world.

I was born of first generation immigrants. My Mother emigrated from St. Petersburg, Russia, when she was very small. Her family came over during a Russian Revolution via haycart through Siberia, and then by boat to Eureka, California. Whatever possessions they had with them were stolen.

My Grandfather died two months after his arrival at the age of thirty-two, leaving my Grandmother penniless with four small children and no source of income, unable to speak English. It was a rough life, and my Mother was sick as a child, spending three years in a sanitarium with tuberculosis.

At the age of 18, she had virtually no education. She was a very beautiful woman and became a model. Incidentally, she was Russian Orthodox in her religious beliefs.

On my Father’s side, my Grandfather was born into a Polish family in a small town on the border with Russia. He left by himself at the age of 14, out of fear of conscription into the Polish Army and to avoid having to participate in some of the Pogroms that were being carried out by the Polish Military.

He was a stowaway on a ship, which landed in 1890 in Boston Harbor, where from 14 to 19, he worked as a shoemaker. He then worked his way to Sacramento where he met a young Lithuanian immigrant – my Grandmother.

They were married and moved to San Francisco. My Grandmother had six children, in five and a half years. She worked in a shoe store, and she would say that she could deliver a baby in the back of the shoe store, and still complete the sale.

They opened two small stores – one in the Mission District, one on Market street. In 1906, their house fell down in the earthquake. One business burned, and the other was dynamited to stop the fire. Following the fire, they moved to Berkeley. They had five more children, for a total of eleven. Because the family was poor, one child worked while the other went to school.

My Father was one of the lucky ones. He was designated to be educated. He became a physician, and he became the first Jewish full professor at the University of California Medical Center. Imagine my family’s pride at that accomplishment.

My Uncle, who helped put my father through school but had little education himself, also fulfilled the American dream and became a successful businessman with an abiding interest in politics.

And this uncle was one that really gave me my desire to participate in public life, when he would take me down on Monday afternoons to what he called “the Board of ‘Stupidvisors”. And he would say to me, “Dianne, you get an education, and you do the job right.” And for some reason, it stuck.

My Father wanted me to be a doctor. At Stanford University, I took Bio 1, 2, and 3, and I got a D in Genetics. I came home and said, “Dad, I don’t have the aptitude for this. I can’t possibly be a doctor.” And then he told me the first and last lie he ever told me. “Don’t worry, I got a D, too.”

I knew, because of what it meant to his family, that my father never saw the south side of an A. I recognized I wasn’t going to go into medicine, and I began to take a number of diverse courses.

One of those course was American Political Thought. In that class, I could write my heart out and earn a very good grade. This told me something about where I belonged.

I then went on to be a Coro Foundation intern in San Francisco, which gave me an opportunity to do a team project in the Post Conviction Phases of the Administration of Justice.

 I sent the paper to the then Governor, Pat Brown, and he liked what he read. He appointed me to the California Women’s Board of Terms and Parole, where I became the youngest member of a parole board in the United States.

I also served on the Crime Commission, the jail investigative body, and I developed a portfolio of expertise in the criminal justice system.

Then, I decided the time came then for me to try to do what my uncle said I should do, and I ran for the Board of Supervisors, and topped the ticket, which entitled me to be the first woman President of that Board.

Some editorial writers were opposed to having a woman as President of the Board of Supervisors. They said I should do the statesman-like thing, and yield to the next higher runner up.

I looked around, and I saw the next runner-up who was man and a real estate broker, and I decided that I should not give up my spot, and I became the first woman President of the Board. During my time on the Board, my husband, Bert Feinstein, became ill with cancer, and it was terminal. It was an experience which for me has made the battle against cancer one of my top priorities as a United States Senator. It was anexperience which led me to the decision to retire from the public life.

On my first day back to the office after taking leave, I went in the press office and said, I am not going to run for Mayor. Forty-five minutes later, Dan White shot and killed George Moscone, and Supervisor Harvey Milk, the first openly gay elected official in the United States.

I was absolutely determined that the assassination would not succeed in changing the Administration. So I kept all of Mayor Moscone’s staff, slowly making them, I believe, loyal to me.

From that experience, I drew my greatest political lesson – that the best way to govern a diverse society is from the center of the political spectrum. If you do this, you can listen to the right, you can listen to the left, you can make judgements as to what is the best thing for all the people. And I did that for nine years as Mayor.

San Francisco was the first city to experience AIDS, which tore the City apart and caused a riot. It left deep scar tissue much as the Rodney King episode did in Los Angeles. I believe that there is a dark current that runs deep within our society, and must always be guarded against.

My experience is that bigotry and prejudice in diverse societies, ultimately lead to some form of violence, and we must be constantly vigilant against these things.

I was born during the Holocaust. I find that looking at Jewish history and cultural tradition, the horrors that can take hold of a society, and the memories of six million people who were murdered, keeps alive an historic commitment of social justice and progress.

That is the legacy for me, as a Jewish American in this day and age. Despite terrible events, so deeply etched in our souls, Jews have forged themselves with the renewed commitment to the social good, to justice, to equality for the underdog, for the rights of every person regardless of their race, creed, color, sex or sexual orientation, to live a safe, good life.

For those of us who hold elected office, governing in this complex and diverse country can often be very difficult. If we’ve learned everything from the past, it’s that it takes all of us who treasure our nation’s beauty and the character of our people to be mindful and respectful of one another.

Every day it calls on us to put aside our animosities, to search together for common ground, and to settle differences before they fester and become real problems.

Our Jewish culture is one that values tolerance with an enduring spirit of democracy. The right of an individual to speak out, the right of an individual to live and grow and thrive in a society.

For me, that’s what it means for me to be a Jew, and everyday I rededicate myself to that ideal.

This new academic year, as universities across America trumpeted their commitment to the pursuit of Diversity, Equity and Inclusion (DEI), for many Jewish students, this otherwise laudable goal has become entirely devoid of meaning, with the campus turning into a hotbed of antisemitism, Jew hatred and exclusion.

According to the ADL, in the last year, antisemitic incidents across the US reached record highs, with antisemitic activity reported on college and university campuses surging 41%.

Although these statistics should sadly not come as a surprise to anyone, what is staggering is the extent to which university administrators and leaders are willing to excuse and turn a blind eye to antisemitism, all in the name of the sacred pursuit of academic freedom and free speech.

When in January this year, on the eve of International Holocaust Remembrance Day, we called out the University of Michigan for refusing to condemn a group of students who called for an “intifada revolution,” the University justified their refusal to act by responding that “[o]ne of our most important values as an institution – one we teach and model in and out of the classroom and one that is embodied in our commitment to diversity, equity and inclusion – is the respect for those who have different opinions, have different life experiences, hold different world views.”

In this particular case, the “different world view” they were calling to respect was a direct and unadulterated call for violence, placing Jewish students, faculty and staff, in harm’s way.

In August last year, when a number of registered student groups at UC Berkeley Law School passed a by-law to exclude Zionist speakers, the University excused this by claiming Zionism was merely an expression of a “political viewpoint” and therefore protected speech under the First Amendment, not the inherent and indispensable part of Jewish identity that it is. In response, we filed a Title VI claim under the Civil Rights Act, on the basis of the University condoning the wholesale exclusion of a group of students, Jewish students in this case, on the basis of their identity, national original and shared ancestry.

And then most recently, last week, during Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish calendar, the Ivy League University of Pennsylvania hosted a ‘Palestine Writes’ literature event. Whilst a celebration of Palestinian literature and art ought to be embraced, this was mostly a festival of hate, featuring a who’s who of antisemites, extremists and even convicted terrorists.

One of the keynote speakers was Roger Waters, who has repeatedly engaged in antisemitism, including making such mendacious and racist claims about the “the Jewish lobby”. Waters is now being investigated by the German police, over engaging in Holocaust distortion, while wearing a mock-SS uniform during a recent series of concerts in the country. The US State Department has even said that Waters has “a long track record of using antisemitic tropes to denigrate Jewish people.”

Another speaker, Randa Abdel-Fattah, has previously claimed that “Israel is a demonic, sick project and I can’t way for the day we commemorate its end.”

Marc Lamont-Hill, also speaking at the festival, was fired by CNN after effectively calling for Israel’s destruction. He has also previously said that calls for Palestinians to “reject hatred and terrorism” were “offensive and counterproductive.”

Meanwhile, Susan Abulhawa, the executive director of the Palestine Writes festival, has previously expressed support for US-designated Palestinian terror groups Hamas, Islamic Jihad and PFLP, describing their terrorist actions, including those which have resulted in the murder of American citizens, as “self-defense by resistance groups,” while comparing Israel to Nazis and calling for a boycott of the Jewish state.

Although Penn President Liz Magill released a statement noting that some of the speakers at the event had a “troubling history of engaging in antisemitism by speaking and acting in ways that denigrate Jewish people,” Penn failed to take any meaningful steps in response, claiming they “fiercely support the free exchange of ideas as central to our educational mission.”

It is inconceivable that Penn would have permitted such a festival had it promoted, say, hatred against members of the African American or LGBTQ community, and rightfully so. Yet such hatred and incitement against Jewish students is being excused and whitewashed, while their voices are being marginalized, silenced and excluded, all in the name of free speech and a perverse interpretation of the Diversity, Equity and Inclusion (DEI) policy.

Perhaps as recipients of federal funding, universities ought to be reminded of their obligations under Title VI of the Civil Rights Act, which prohibit discrimination on the basis of race, national origin and shared ancestry, or in circumstances where universities fail to take action against the creation of hostile environments on campus. This is a point that was also reinforced in the historic May 2023 White House Plan National Strategy to Counter Antisemitism.

Indeed, legislation has already been proposed in Congress to rescind federal funding from universities that allow antisemitism on campuses.

It is imperative to recognize that, even in circumstances where antisemitic hate speech in question is protected under the First Amendment, there is still an obligation for university leaders to condemn these attacks on Jewish students, support them and underscore that their concerns are real.

In order to guide the universities to determine the kind of speech and actions that qualify as antisemitism, universities ought to adopt the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (IHRA) Working Definition of Antisemitism, the most widely endorsed definition of antisemitism in the world.

If universities truly want to pursue DEI, it is time Jewish students were included in this discussion and academic freedom no longer used as an excuse for Jew hatred.

Arsen Ostrovsky is a human rights attorney and CEO of the International Legal Forum, an independent NGO and global network of lawyers committed to combating antisemitism. You can also follow him on Twitter (‘X’) at: @Ostrov_A.

My heart is in Kaplan Street, but I am at the ends of the West.

My name is Rabbi Elliot Cosgrove. My community, Park Avenue Synagogue, is the largest Conservative synagogue in New York. Day and night I labor to create a vibrant, passion-filled, committed Jewish community, a Jewish community with Israel at its center. To learn about Israel, to support Israel, to travel to Israel, and most importantly, to love Israel – this is not just at the heart of my synagogue; this is at the heart of who I am as a rabbi and as a Jew.

Why am I standing here, at this time, at this place, in front of this crowd? Why?

Because:

If not now, then when?

If not here, then where?

And if not me, then who?

If not now, then when?

Fifty years ago, on the eve of the Yom Kippur War, Israel’s fate hung in the balance, the country surrounded by external foes. Today, 50 years later, Israel once again stands at a tipping point, its internal divisions threatening to tear it apart. It is precisely at this moment, when the Prime Minister of Israel stands before the community of nations, that we need to publicly affirm what it is that Israel fought for, fights for, and will continue to fight for: a Jewish and democratic state.

If not here, then where?

We are here because, as stated in Israel’s Declaration of Independence, on November 29, 1947, the United Nations General Assembly passed a resolution calling for the establishment of a Jewish state in the land of Israel. We are here because of our commitment to an Israel, as stated in Israel’s Declaration of Independence, based on freedom, justice, and peace as envisioned by the prophets of Israel … and faithful to the principles of the charter of the United Nations. We are here to remind and affirm to the world the principles upon which Israel is founded: A Jewish and democratic state.

If not me, then who?

I am here because I love Israel. With all my heart, with all my soul, and with all my might. I am here because. “All of Israel is responsible one for the other.” To my brothers and sisters fighting for democracy in Israel: You are not alone, we stand with you! I am here to remind my American brothers and sisters that to love Israel is to stand by it, to defend it, to shape it, and to help it realize the principles upon which it was founded. I am here because I want my children to know that when the future of Israel as a Jewish and democratic state was hanging in the balance, their father took a stand.

For the sake of Zion, I will not be silent.

For the sake of Jerusalem, I will not be still. (Isaiah 62:1)

For the sake of a Jewish and democratic state, we are all here today.

Rabbi Elliot J. Cosgrove is Senior Rabbi at Park Avenue Synagogue.

In my 20’s I worked as a counselor at a Jewish camp in the Poconos. At services one particular Shabbat, I bowed at the appropriate times in the service.  (Mind you, I was the only one doing so).

A few days later, I was walking by a group of younger teens.  One whispered to the other (while pointing at me) “There’s that real Jewishy guy.”

What a comment.  And at a Jewish camp!!!

I laughed at it then.

I think about it now.

Yes, perhaps it was that real Jewishy stuff that made me want to be a rabbi.

But here’s the truth …  My hope this Holy Day season is that we ALL take pride in being “that really Jewishy” person, or part a really “Jewishy” family.

What does that even mean?  It’s not about keeping kosher (though I do want people to make informed choices when they eat).

And it’s not about observing all the laws of Shabbat (though I do want people to take Shabbat in their homes to the next level).

It’s about knowing in our core that being Jewish is important — and that we have no shame in wearing Jewish pride wherever we are.

Now – more than ever, I feel this as the legacy of our time.

Rabbi Hillel, the great rabbinic sage, asked three questions in our Mishna:

1. If I am not for myself, who will be for me?
2. If I am for myself only, what am I?
3. And if not now, when?^[1]

The Jewish community has been stellar with regard to questions two and three.

Question 2: If I am for myself only, what am I?  In other words, we need to be out there helping the world. We have so much to be proud of when it comes to how we have stood up for others.  Our role in gender equality, our leadership in civil rights, our support of LGBTQ rights.  We marched in Selma.  We lobbied for fair wages.  We protested in support of undocumented immigrants.

We give philanthropically to art and theatre, universities and museums.  We seek homes for those unsheltered.

And to Hillel’s question number three: If not now, when?  We can also be proud.  We don’t wait for someone else to take the first step.  Our people break barriers, separate the waters, and create opportunity.  We recognize that Justice delayed is justice denied, so we don’t sit back.

But that first question: If I am not for myself, who will be for me?

Friends, I think we could use some extra help here.  I suggest that we consider “Myself” to be “my people.”  If I am not for my people, who will be for us?

My hope this Holy Day season is that we ALL take pride in being “that really Jewishy” person, or part a really “Jewishy” family.

While we as Jews stand in line to support world organizations, who is standing in line to support Jewish organizations? Who is supporting Hillel? Who is supporting the Federation? Who is supporting the Jewish Studies departments? Who is supporting the ADL?

We are in a strange time as Jews in America. Historically, our dreams, our visions, our determination for a better world — they all helped build this country. But there are many, many institutions that are actively ignoring and erasing our presence.

I’ll go a step further – there are many institutions that are condemning our existence.

And yet — those on the extreme right and those on the extreme left — they seem to have one thing in common …. A disdain for Jews.

I believe that we need to step up as Jews and for Jews.

Last spring, I had an experience at a local bookstore.

I was delighted to see a shelf with books celebrating Arab-American Heritage Month. So much to learn!

But as I perused the books, I noticed that many had nothing to do with Arab-American life. Rather, they were about Palestinian life in the Middle East with vitriol against Israel.

I wrote the bookstore, suggesting that I could help curate books for Jewish-American Heritage Month (in May), books about the Jewish-American experience, and books that build bridges (while not ignoring the real issues among religions in our day).

I didn’t hear back.

At the beginning of May, I returned to the bookstore. It was Asian-American Heritage Month. Again, I was delighted. I then looked around for a Jewish-American Heritage Month display.

Nothing.

I wrote the bookstore again, volunteering to do a Jewish themed reading later in the month.

I didn’t hear back.

I wrote one last time. Finally, the owner contacted me.  She said she would be delighted to get my thoughts on important Jewish books prior to the Holy Days and suggested we connect in the summer. I responded right away that I would be thrilled to talk.

And so, we set about curating a list of books to display at the Village Well Bookstore in Culver City.

Yes, I was the Jewishy one making a little noise. And while at first I was apprehensive, I remembered, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?”

The next step is to be the Jewish voice in the room when it comes to Culver City (home to Temple Akiba) — ensuring our youth are not penalized because the school district continues to hold classes on Yom Kippur. We are committed to effectuating change — guiding the leadership to understand that Yom Kippur is not a holiday, but rather a Holy Day. It’s not a celebration, it’s not a day recognizing a hero or memorializing a loss or commemorating a victory.  It’s a day of pause and introspection and reflection.

More?  We then need to be the Jewish voice in the state when haters try to put forward the so called ethnic studies curriculum in California, which in its original form was anti-Israel and anti-Jewish.  They will continue to try. So we need to stand up.

All this is a reminder to have our radar on when we are out there in the world.  It’s a reminder to see with Jewish eyes, to experience with a Jewish soul, to feel with Jewish emotions, and to express with Jewish passion.

(And look, if the grocery store puts Matzah on the shelves for Yom Kippur, don’t be indignant. At least they are trying.)

I get it …  Standing up can be hard, and it can be scary.  Standing up comes with consequences.  And there will be times when we have to make a judgement call.  When do we stand up, and when do hold back? The book of Ecclesiastes reminds us, “There is a time for silence and a time to speak.”

With the recent increase of antisemitism, people have asked, “Is it OK to wear my Jewish star?” “Is it OK to hang my mezuzah?”  “Is it OK to wave an Israeli flag?”

My response?  Haters of Jews know who are Jews, regardless of what we say, do wear, or believe.

But let’s go a step further … Wearing that star, hanging that mezuzah, waving that flag … We don’t really do it to set ourselves apart. We do it to bind us together.

Let the year 5784 be a new chapter in how we all deepen our lives as Jews. Let’s allow the holiness of our traditions  imbue our choices with Jewish values and Jewish hope.  Let’s all become the Jewish ones in the room each and every day.

Allow me to share a final word from the incredible Maya Angelou: “… I not only have the right to stand up for myself, but I have the responsibility. I can’t ask somebody else to stand up for me if I won’t stand up for myself. And once you stand up for yourself, you’d be surprised that people say, ‘Can I be of help?’”