Jews who care about the survival of Israel should welcome the faith, the influence with Republican White House occupants, and the money supplied by the likes of preachers Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson, rather than turn it away, Chafets says.
Temple Emanuel was rockin\’ recently when it hosted the Temple Bryant A.M.E. Church Choir that performed with Emanuel\’s choir at a Shabbat Shira Service. The entire congregation and guests were on their feet singing and clapping in joyous rapture.
With more than 64,000 members, the American Library Association (ALA) is the oldest and largest organization of its type in the world. The group aims to improve the quality of libraries and to ensure equal access to information for all. This mission has included advocacy when libraries or librarians are in danger.
Israel Prize laureate Ehud Manor passed away in April but his beloved songs live on in the hearts of Israelis.
What books must every Jew read? What books are critical to informing your understanding of your faith, your culture, your people? With this issue, The Jewish Journal introduces a new weekly column: My Jewish Library.
There is a fierce anger at the core of Ruth Linn\’s work, the anger of a woman who suddenly and irrefutably discovers that the story she has been told by her Israeli teachers, Israeli society and Israeli culture from childhood onward regarding the Holocaust is but a partial narrative.
Benny Morris says he was always a Zionist. People were mistaken when they labeled him a post-Zionist, when they thought that his historical study on the birth of the Palestinian refugee problem was intended to undercut the Zionist enterprise.
Herb Brin, one of the most colorful writers and editors in the annals of Los Angeles Jewish journalism, died of congestive heart failure\non Feb. 6 at the Jewish Home for the Aging in Reseda.
It is summer, a long time ago, and I am lying on a terrace overlooking an ancient garden full of rosebushes and fruit trees. The days have been so hot, the asphalt on the sidewalk melts under my feet if I dare step out of the house. At night, the temperature drops. My sisters and I take the hose to the yard and stand there as the day\’s heat rises out of the brick floor in a cloud of white steam. My mother spreads our bed on the terrace, and we crawl into it, hours before we can actually fall asleep. We thrash about in the cool sheets that smell of dust, summer and lavender bleach; listen to the music that drifts up from our grandmother\’s radio downstairs; eat fresh mulberries we have picked from the tree in our own yard.
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