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Cape Town’s ‘Daddy Ochberg’ legacy

By Michel Levine, Human Rights Historian

In the early 1920s, thousands of Jewish children across Eastern Europe were left orphaned – victims of war, pogroms, and violent upheaval following the Russian Revolution. As civil war raged between rival armies, Jewish communities became easy targets. 

More than 100 000 Jews were killed, hundreds of thousands were injured or displaced, and an estimated 150 000 children were left without parents – many traumatised, starving, and alone. 

These children had witnessed unimaginable horrors – the murder of family members, widespread disease, and desperate hunger. Some survived by hiding in forests or begging for scraps; others clung to small personal items or religious rituals as a way to hold onto a sense of identity and stability in a world that had collapsed around them. 

Into this crisis stepped Isaac Ochberg – a Cape Town-based entrepreneur originally from what is now Ukraine. Having emigrated to South Africa as a teenager, Ochberg had built a successful business career and become deeply involved in Jewish communal life, including helping to establish and lead the Cape Jewish orphanage.

Moved by reports of the suffering in Eastern Europe, he proposed an ambitious plan in 1920: to travel there himself, identify orphaned children, and bring them to South Africa to start new lives. It was a daunting idea – logistically complex, politically sensitive, and emotionally fraught – but one he felt compelled to pursue.

Why South Africa – and Cape Town?

Cape Town played a central role in making the mission possible. By the early 20th century, it had a well-established Jewish community with the infrastructure to absorb and care for vulnerable children. Ochberg believed the city could offer something rare at the time – safety, stability, and the possibility of a future.

With support from the South African government, led by Jan Smuts, permission was granted for approximately 200 orphans to immigrate. This was no small concession – immigration was tightly controlled, and strict conditions were imposed. The children had to be under 16, in reasonable health, and genuine orphans, and siblings were not to be separated. 

The South African Jewish community took on much of the financial burden, raising funds to cover travel, care, and accommodation. There were even debates within the community – some worried about the risks of such a journey or the reaction from wider society – but, ultimately, support prevailed.

The rescue mission

In 1921, Ochberg set out on what would become a months-long journey through war-scarred regions of Poland and beyond. Travelling between cities such as Warsaw, Pinsk, and Brest-Litovsk, he visited overcrowded orphanages and met children who had endured profound trauma.

Despite their suffering, many still behaved like children – curious, playful, and hopeful. Ochberg connected with them easily, earning their trust so completely that they began calling him “Daddy Ochberg,” a name that would endure for generations. 

Selecting which children could go was one of the most difficult aspects of the mission. With limited places available, Ochberg had to make heartbreaking choices. In some cases, he bent the rules – including children who were not strictly orphans or who were slightly older than allowed – determined to save as many as possible.

The journey out of Europe was itself extraordinary. The children travelled by train across the continent, often greeted at stations by local Jewish communities offering food and encouragement. From Poland they sailed to England, where they underwent medical checks before boarding a ship bound for South Africa.

Arrival in Cape Town

After a long sea voyage, the children finally arrived in Cape Town in 1921. What awaited them was a moment of profound emotion. Crowds gathered at the docks, waving banners and flowers, welcoming them with songs and tears.

For many of the children, it was their first experience of safety in years. One later recalled never forgetting the sight of Table Mountain emerging through the mist, or the overwhelming warmth of the reception they received. 

Building new lives

The children – who became known as the “Ochberg orphans” – were placed in local institutions such as Arcadia and Oranjia, as well as in foster homes. Many were eventually adopted into families, where they were given the stability and care they had long been denied.

From these beginnings, they went on to build full lives in South Africa. They entered professions, started businesses, and raised families of their own. Cape Town, in particular, became deeply intertwined with their story – not just as a place of refuge, but as a place of renewal.

A lasting Cape Town legacy

Today, the legacy of the Ochberg orphans is still strongly felt. Their descendants number in the thousands, forming a significant part of South Africa’s Jewish community.

The story is often retold at commemorations and family gatherings, where the memory of “Daddy Ochberg” lives on – not only as a rescuer, but as a symbol of compassion and action in a time of crisis.

More than a century later, his mission remains one of Cape Town’s most remarkable humanitarian stories – a reminder that even in the darkest times, a single act of courage can shape generations to come.


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Six generations at the shul

A long line of descendants of one of the founders of the Claremont Hebrew Congregation continues to honour the legacy of Reuben Newstead. Most recently, his great–great–great-grandson, Leo Minde, celebrated his bar mitzvah call-up at Claremont Shul ahead of his Bar Mitzvah in the UK at the end of March.

“Leo Minde, who lives in London, received his first aliyah at Claremont Wynberg Shul,” says Rabbi Matthew Liebenberg. This was especially memorable as he was able to mark his forthcoming bar mitzvah with his grandparents Irving and Ruth Friedgood, longstanding members of Claremont Shul, who were unable to travel to London for the celebrations there. His parents, sister and grandparents Barry and Linda Minde were there too.

For the family, the moment carried deep significance. “Witnessing the sixth generation of the Newstead family participating in a simcha at this shul – more than a century after the congregation was established by my great-grandfather was incredibly heart-warming,” says Leo’s grandmother, Linda Minde.

The connections with the shul run deep. Leo’s parents, Warren Minde and Sarah Friedgood, daughter of Irving and Ruth, were married at the Claremont Hebrew Congregation in 2012.

Reuben Newstead himself arrived in South Africa from Riga, Latvia, in the late 19th century while his wife, Sophia – travelling alone after saving for her passage – came from Mir, now in Belarus.

A devout man, Reuben was instrumental in establishing the first synagogue in Claremont, where Jewish residents had previously gathered for prayers in the Town Hall opposite the railway station. He served on the building committee that secured land in 1911 for the first synagogue in Grove Avenue (not the site of the current shul.)

His dedication to the congregation spanned decades, culminating in his appointment as Life President in 1935. His legacy remains visible today – from a memorial stone he donated in honour of a close friend, to a 1923 citation recognising the commitment of Reuben and his wife, Sophia, to the Congregation.

On the day of Leo’s aliyah, the beautifully illustrated and framed citation from 1923 was gifted back to the shul by a cousin, Charlotte Cohen, on behalf of the extended Newstead family. Charlotte recalled that, after her grandmother Sophia Newstead passed away in 1977, the citation was kept by her daughter, Dolly Immerman, and upon her death, given to her son, Jeffrey – before being passed on to Charlotte when Jeffrey emigrated to Australia. 

More than a family celebration, Leo’s aliyah was a moment of continuity – linking six generations to the same spiritual home, and reaffirming a legacy that has endured for over a century.


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Bnei Mitzvah: Mazal Tov!

Mazal Tov to the Temple Israel Bnei Mitzvot and their families.

Temple Israel http://www.templeisrael.co.za


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A profound art exhibition

Julian Resnick

Some random comments and moments in the Tel Aviv Art Museum at the tail end/the middle of a War.

JULIAN RESNICK writes from Israel


Israel is an extraordinary place to live in. 

Nothing works in the ways one would expect.

Who mounts art exhibitions during wartime?

We do.

Who goes to visit the Museum?

I do.

Why? 

Because this is the Jewish State we are fighting for: open-minded, diverse, inspirational, modern, inclusive, gritty. All of this is my Judaism.

Below are some random moments/thoughts/special and troubling moments from my visit to the Museum at the tail end of the war. (HOPEFULLY – when you read this, you will know whether it was the tail end or the middle of). Some are mine and some are the curators’. 

I start off in the major gallery of Contemporary Israeli Art, and this is how the curators tell me what I am going to see: Inflamed Nerve, the third chapter of the Museum’s Israeli art collection exhibition Material Imagination, is launched in the midst of the deepest rift that Israeli society has ever seen. The social, ideological, and religious polarization pounds in the exhibition like the throbbing pulse of the artworks and their evolving interrelations. After three years of display, the exhibition, which features works created here over more than a century, has been supplemented by some 70 new works by leading artists, some well-known, others making their debut.

The space dedicated to the poetics of fire, Blazing Movement, is charged – as before, and to an even greater extent – with a call for action, cementing our place in the East; floating in the Airship space are various manifestations of the disintegration of the private and public body; while the space of Promised Land seethes with a sense of detachment, exile, and nomadism.

No “Am Yisrael Chai”. No “Together we will be victorious”. It is all of those other words I used above, “openminded, diverse, inspirational, modern, inclusive, gritty.”

And then I walk into the photography exhibition by the prize-winning artist, Anne Simin Shitrit. I know this is going to be a challenge. The curator, “The exhibition are portraits of young men from the margins of society, captured on the brink of puberty and just beyond. Their socio-economic background seems self-evident – they share a distinctly local appearance. Their direct gaze into the camera captures a charged and complex moment in which alluring youthful beauty becomes a site of both fascination and unrestrained danger.” 

And who are they: Bedouin youth, Hilltop youth and young Moroccans in the Atlas Mountains in Morocco? She is a young visual artist born in 1994 in Jerusalem, now based in Paris. In her own words: “Through my work, I am searching for tenderness amid violence, sameness in unbridgeable difference, and islands of quiet within an immense and insurmountable pain. In my work, I am searching for a sense of home. Born and raised in Jerusalem, I grew up in an enclosed ultra-orthodox and anti-Zionist community to a Moroccan father and an Iranian mother. At 14 I left. Just as the streets were erupting with violence born from the second Intifada. Leaving home, and my religious upbringing put me in a constant state of existence between very different worlds. Now, as an artist, I am actively exploring my reality, researching the seen and unseen borders dictating our lives. A personal journey between West and East Jerusalem, the West Bank, and Morocco, between the present and the memories, my point of view as a woman who was born into a very masculine and violent environment and at the same time the discovery of compassion and passion (in/visible walls) movement between fear of losing and fantasies of being loved by them.”

But before I can see most of it, I am accosted by an elderly man standing in the middle of the room, ruling it like a king on an imagined throne. Does he remind me of King Lear? No, he reminds me of Richard the III. I loved studying the Shakespeare play in the Department of English Literature in UCT in the early 1970s. Some phrases spring in to my mind as I encounter a troubled elderly man, who I soon find out, is still suffering from PTSD from the Yom Kippur War of 1973.

These lines from Shakespeare jump into my mind as he rants on about the Israel he/we live in right now: 

“Now is the winter of our discontent:

“My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.
Perjury, perjury, in the highst degree;
Murder, stern murder in the dir’st degree,
Throng to the bar, crying all, ‛Guilty!, guilty!”

“But then I sigh, with a piece of Scripture
Tell them that God bids us to do evil for good;
And thus I clothe my naked villainy
With odd old ends stolen out of Holy Writ;
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.”

“You must see it, the video art piece,” he shouts at me.

“See what?” I ask him.

“The War Room, Nahal Oz,” he screams.

I go. 

It is awful

I want to leave the room.

But they were abandoned once before, on October 7th.

I can’t do it to them again, on April 17th.

My visit to the Tel Aviv Art Museum. At the tail end of a war. 

I hope.

So, I stay, metaphorically holding their hands, as they slip away.

We cannot abandon this place and allow it to slip away.

But how do we heal?

Possibly also by visiting musuems.


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A Day in the Life of a Social Worker at Jewish Community Services

By Amber Gordon, Social Worker

A social worker’s day rarely begins as planned. In social work, especially in a community as complex as ours, no two days are ever the same. The days are always unpredictable and that is both a challenge and the purpose of social work.

The day starts with the phones already ringing with a concerned family member, a client in crisis or a hospital discharge that wasn’t communicated.

The morning progresses with follow-ups, returning emails and checking WhatsApps and which inevitably includes reports to complete, tiles to update and progress reports to write. Behind each file and report there is a person, someone needing food assistance or transport, medical assistance, assistance with care home applications, financial forms or simply a check in to ensure that there is some stability in their lives.

As the day continues…

Home visits and client appointments are conducted. A home visit takes you to a place filled with memories but with a person that doesn’t have the ability to leave their house due to age or financial constraints. Some clients living alone struggle with their basic daily tasks and are assisted by the JCS care team. For many of our aged clients loneliness is their constant companion and a home visit isn’t only about rendering services but also about being present and just having a conversation.

The more complex cases take up more time in the day of a social worker, these cases are about survival, and families being stretched beyond capacity. These cases require more than companionship, they require empathy, they demand advocacy and coordination and often very difficult conversations about care, finances, parenting and long-term planning.

At any time of day or night, an emergency call will come in from a family member or CSO. These calls require immediate action and often take many hours to ensure that the community member receives the care they need and that the family members are communicated with. In between, other unexpected emergencies may come up – a client who hasn’t eaten in days, somebody not showing for an appointment that took months to book and a situation you thought was stable suddenly starts to unravel, reminding you just how really fragile an individual can be.

Afternoons are to complete the admin of your day s work, following up with hospitals, care facilities and family members. They are filled with phone calls to care facilities for clients that do not nearly meet the criteria of Jewish Community organisations.

And then there’s the emotional weight.

Social workers carry stories of loss, resilience, trauma and hope. Some stay with you longer than others. The ethical dilemmas, the systems that fall short, the moments where you question whether you’ve done enough. It’s a profession that asks you to hold space for others, even when your own capacity feels stretched.

Although Social Work has many hardships, there are also the wins – a client who finally receives the medical care they need, a successful job placement with Staffwise, giving the client a glimmer of hope, a small shift in mindset that changes a client’s trajectory in life. These small moments are what make it all worth it.

By the end of the day, the to-do list is never fully complete. There is always more to follow up on, more people to help. But there is also a quiet understanding: this work matters.

Being a Social Worker in the Cape Town Jewish Community means navigating a city of complex needs, wealth and poverty, hope and hopelessness, it is all about working in an imperfect system while still believing that change is possible.

And tomorrow, the phone will ring again.

If you require assistance, please contact JCS on 021 462 5520 or email info@jcs.org.za

Jewish Community Services website: http://www.jcs.co.za | JCS Facebook | JCS Instagram


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Shelley Kibel: inheritance and independence

Shelley with abstract work

BY KAREN MILLER

At first glance, the story of Shelley Kibel might appear to be one of inheritance: a life steeped in medicine and art, shaped by a lineage of artists, musicians and healers. Her great-uncle, Wolf Kibel, alongside Lippy Lipshitz, the subject of a current exhibition at the Jewish Museum, looms large in the family imagination. 

Her mother, Leonora Kibel, worked in mixed media and cultivated in Shelley a sensitivity to visual expression, while her father, Maurice, a well-known and influential paediatrician, was immersed in music through the synagogue, following in the footsteps of his own father, a chazan. Around her, art and music were not pursuits but atmospheres, conditions of being.  

A life shaped but not defined by traditions in medicine and art

To describe Shelley Kibel simply as the product of this inheritance would be to miss the point. Her work does not continue a tradition, as much as it quietly resists one. The family legacy is certainly present.  The home of her and her husband, Dr David Bass, is filled with their art, Wolf Kibel’s drawings and prints, and her mother’s work, but it serves less as a roadmap than as a kind of gravitational field. One senses both pride and a degree of intimidation in this proximity.  David is also a medical doctor, a musician and writer, and their two daughters are both in artistic fields. The connection to her great-uncle is indirect –  they never met. Still, his presence is felt, absorbed into the texture of her daily life. The result is not imitation, but a deepened awareness of what it means to find an independent voice within a crowded inheritance.

Medicine as a way of seeing

That voice emerged along an unconventional path. Shelley’s early ambitions leaned toward music; she played the flute and might well have pursued that discipline further. Instead, she turned to medicine, working as a general practitioner in England and later in Cape Town. It was here, in the clinical space rather than the studio, that many of the preoccupations of her later artistic work began to take shape. Her focus on holistic care, on the importance of communication, empathy, and an attention to the psychological and emotional layers beneath physical symptoms, suggests a sensibility already attuned to what lies beneath the surface.

After a twelve-year break from medicine, she was drawn increasingly to palliative care. The encounter with mortality, with fragility, and with the limits of intervention sharpened her sense of the human condition. Medicine, for her, was never merely technical. It was interpretive, relational, and deeply human. In retrospect,
it seems almost inevitable that this perspective would find another outlet.

From anatomy to abstraction

When she turned seriously to art in the 1990s, the transition was less a departure from medicine than an extension of it. Early studies involved drawing the human body, a natural inclination for someone trained in anatomy. But what intrigued her was not structure alone.
It was the energy behind what she observed, the invisible currents animating form. 

The result is work that is abstract and decidedly non-representational. Her paintings do not depict so much as evoke. the light behind the trees is the title of her recent exhibition at the Spin Street Gallery, It ran coincidentally and concurrently with the Wolf Kibel/Lippy Lipshitz exhibition at the Jewish Museum. In the works on show her focus shifts from the object itself to the forces that shape perception: feeling, thought, and something more elusive, perhaps spiritual. Her own words describe this orientation: “… (my art) reflects my inner experience…it is about birth, formation, creation, destruction and the transient nature of experience”. It is an art concerned less with what is seen than with what is sensed.

Another of her reflections points to the experiential aim of the work: “The idea is to let go of all expectations and allow light and colour to vibrate and shimmer through your being.” There is, in this, an echo of both medical and artistic practice, the suspension of preconception, the openness to what emerges. Themes of transience recur, but they are not bleak. Words, too, find their way into her practice. Poems often accompany her paintings, arising not as separate compositions but as extensions of the visual process.

A quiet thread of Jewish consciousness

The question of Jewish identity hovers, as it must, in a life so shaped by heritage. Yet Shelley’s art is not explicitly Jewish in subject matter. There are no overt symbols or narratives. Instead, the influence is more diffuse, embedded in what might be called an intellectual and emotional inheritance. There is an awareness of the ‘woundedness’ of Jewish experience, a sensitivity to history and its burdens.
But her focus remains resolutely individual. The work turns inward, exploring personal experience rather than collective identity. There is a subtle alignment with the idea of Tikkun Olam, of repair and healing. Both her medical career and her artistic practice can be seen through this lens. In one, she attended to patients at their most vulnerable; in the other, she engages with the broader questions of existence: creation, destruction, and the possibility of renewal. 

Legacy reimagined

In the end, Shelley Kibel’s work resists neat categorisation. It is shaped by tradition but not bound by it, informed by medicine but not reducible to it. What emerges is a body of work and a life that explore the spaces between disciplines, between inheritance and individuality, between the visible and the unseen. It is in these spaces, perhaps, that her true legacy lies.  


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Turning murder on its head

Reviewed by BERYL EICHENBERGER

Reviewed by BERYL EICHENBERGER

Listen to this Review:

There’ve been a number of recent crime novels where authors have relished telling readers how to ‘off’ those people they really hate. Not
to be taken seriously, they seem to be a fashion, guzzled by readers.

So, when celebrated author Sophie Hannah decides to take the opposite tack, we’re left with a combination of the curious, ingenious and the very original. The Opposite of Murder by Sophie Hannah dwells on those murderous thoughts you may have had, knew you’d never fulfil, but the planning, the detail, is revenge in itself. Perfection guaranteed, without the mess. 

So it is with Jemma, the rather perverse, now adult stepdaughter who has lived under her stepmother Marianne’s rule since a child.  The insidious stepmother from hell.  Molding, controlling, emotionally, psychologically abusive, meddling, Jemma has suffered over decades. Her father is under Marianne’s spell, even Jemma’s husband and child seem taken in. Until the last humiliating straw. Jemma has planned the perfect murder, time frame, diary entries, and a little help from a friend.

But – good sense prevails: she realises that, by reporting her intentions to the police, the murder simply can’t happen. As she sits at the local police station giving her ‘preventative murder confession’, Marianne is actually being murdered in exactly the way Jemma describes! As the chief suspect, despite her alibi, it’s a whirligig of clues – dipping, circling, diving – as bizarre as the concept, to find the perpetrator.  

Red herrings, cops with issues, secrets, hidden articles, lovers, marriage falling apart, dead-beat friends, anger, and buckets of revenge: Hannah employs all the elements – messing with your head, irritating at times, witty and wise and, I felt, a contradiction in terms. But I kept reading. Because I wanted to know ‘whodunnit?’ and, despite the long and winding road, that revelation was truly satisfactory, and unexpected, as one would expect. Hannah has a loyal readership who will love this.  

About SOPHIE HANNAH 

UK Jewish author, Sophie Hannah, is a best-selling author of crime fiction. Her books – published in 49 languages – have sold millions of copies worldwide. At the request of Agatha Christie’s family and estate, she is working on the new series of Hercule Poirot novels, referred to as ‘continuation novels’, a subgenre of the crime novel.


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Seeking Refuge: Reflections on Yom HaShoah

I was deeply honoured and privileged to deliver an address at this year’s Yom HaShoah ceremony in Cape Town. It is never an easy task to speak on such a day, but this year’s theme – Seeking Refuge – made it especially poignant, asking us to look not only at how the Shoah ended, but at the moments before, when escape was still barely possible.

Personally, one of the most moving moments   came afterwards at the tea. There I met Miriam Herzfeld. Miriam, who recently turned 103, arrived in South Africa as a young Jewish refugee from Germany aboard the Duilio in 1937. Her interview had been played earlier
on the screen during the commemoration – her testimony steady and unselfconscious.

At the tea, Miriam squeezed my hand and thanked me for telling her story. In that quiet moment – from generation to generation,
ldor v’dor – history ceased to be something spoken about and became something handed gently from one human being to another.
Bless her. Her presence brought the meaning of the day into sharp, living focus.

In my address, I spoke about how the Shoah did not begin with gas chambers, but with language, laws, and indifference – with propaganda, slurs, discriminatory legislation, and neighbours choosing to look away. By the time murder became industrialised, a moral collapse had already taken place.

The theme Seeking Refuge required us to turn our gaze back to the 1930s, to a time when German Jews still faced choices – unbearable, uncertain choices – about whether to leave, where to go, and how to make life-altering decisions with almost no information. Families packed suitcases and walked away from entire worlds, knowing they might never see their parents, homes, or communities again.

Some of those journeys ended here, in Cape Town. In 1936, the Stuttgart arrived carrying hundreds of German Jewish refugees who had already lost their livelihoods, safety, and sense of belonging. They were not adventurers, nor “economic migrants”, but people cast out by their own country. For them, refuge was the difference between being reduced to numbers and being allowed to live again as human beings. I also reflected on the fact that when we speak of “survivors”, we often collapse very different experiences into one word. Some survived because they escaped just in time; others survived ghettos, camps, deportations, starvation, and death marches. These are different paths, but they form a single, torn yet unbroken thread of Jewish life.

Cape Town is woven deeply into that thread. The refugees who found safety here went on to build families, institutions, and a community shaped by a fierce commitment to justice – informed by having seen what happens when law and morality are turned against the vulnerable. Their descendants live among us today, carrying both stories and silences: names never spoken, questions never answered.

As Chair of the Cape South African Jewish Board of Deputies, I believe that remembrance cannot live only in ceremonies, however meaningful. If we truly honour those who sought refuge – and those who never had the chance to do so – remembrance must shape how we live. It must mean standing firmly against antisemitism wherever it appears, and safeguarding the values for which, throughout history, Jews have paid such a terrible price.

Yom HaShoah is a day of mourning and warning, but it is also, paradoxically, a day of hope. That hope lies in survival, in rebuilding, and in moments like the one I shared with Miriam Herzfeld – reminders that, despite everything, the chain has not been broken.

May the memory of those murdered in the Shoah be a blessing and may the courage of those who sought refuge continue to guide us.

Cape SA Jewish Board of Deputies | http://www.capesajbd.org | Instagram | Facebook


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Windows open, eyes open 

Daniel Bloch

As winter approaches, temperatures will begin to drop. After an extremely hot summer, that change will be welcomed by many – though, if you ask my wife, she’d happily keep the heat a little longer.

Beyond the weather, we find ourselves hoping for another kind of cooling – one in the global climate of war, conflict and hatred.

We pray for an end to the war in Iran, and for a future in which the Iranian people can live in peace and prosperity. With the fall of oppressive regimes, we also hope to see the end of Hezbollah and Hamas’ reigns of terror, allowing the people of Lebanon, Gaza and
Israel to live side by side in peace and dignity.

Closer to home, there are signs – perhaps – of shifting winds. New leadership is emerging; the old corrupt guard appears to be stepping aside; long-neglected potholes are suddenly being repaired; and those who believed they were above the law are beginning to face accountability. Protests have quietened, and some previously vocal bad actors have gone silent. Are we witnessing a turning point? A cooling of the temperature? 

Only time will tell.

With local elections on the horizon, there is renewed hope that service delivery across the country will improve. South Africans – myself included – deserve leadership that prioritises the well-being of all citizens, not personal gain. And our community, like all others, deserves to live in peace, prosperity, and harmony.

Earlier this month, we commemorated Yom Hashoah, remembering the six million Jewish lives lost at the hands of the Nazis. Among the many powerful reflections shared, one young leader spoke about the idea of “windows”.

During the Holocaust, he said, those windows were closing – rapidly and decisively – until Jews could no longer escape the horrors that awaited them.

But he challenged us to think differently today.

How do we keep the windows of Jewish life open? Every time we attend a Yom Hashoah ceremony. Every time a young person finds their voice. Every time we stand up to hatred. Every time we remember our past and celebrate our traditions.

In a world where the temperature of antisemitism seems to be rising in some places and cooling in others, the question
is not what others will do – but what we will do.

As long as the window remains open, as long as we have the freedom to live as proud Jews, we must seize that opportunity. It is up to us to preserve our traditions, to honour our history, and to build our future.

We cannot wait for others to define who we are. We must step forward – together – as a united community. And as long as we continue to celebrate, remember, and live with pride and resilience, nothing will stand in our way. Not even those who spread hatred, lies, and division. 

Whether the temperature rises or falls is ultimately beside the point. We will continue to open the windows wide and seize the moment. And if it does get too cold – well, we’ll just put on a warm jacket.

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A Yiddish-speaking family on the train

Credit: PikiWiki Israel (Wikicommons)

The Cape Jewish Chronicle’s columnist JULIAN RESNICK recently wrote this on Facebook.

You have to love this place (I do). On the train to trendy Tel Aviv.

Sitting opposite me, speaking Yiddish, an ultra-Orthodox family speaking Yiddish. All of them, except for the tiny baby, speaking Yiddish. That is eight energetic children plus Mama and Tata, speaking non-stop in the Mama Loschen. I just recounted: 10 children plus Mama and Tata. Weird after hearing so many stories from the Holocaust on Yom Hashoah, in Yiddish-accented English
and Hebrew.

There was just a great moment when the father, the Tata, asked a question he did not want the little ones (late teens to around three months) to understand, so he used Hebrew!!! Great scene this as the Mama has noticed my smiles, how much I am enjoying the chaos, and she just looked at me with a lovely smile.

We can enjoy people very different from ourselves. What would they say if I told them I just bought two tickets to the ‘Peace Summit’ in Tel Aviv for later this month? They might ask whether there will be Yiddish subtitles.


  • For the current edition of the Cape Jewish Chronicle, click here.
  • Subscribe to the Cape Jewish Chronicle: R450/year, or R38/month via debit order. Simply email us at subscriptions@ctjc.co.za and click here for payment info.
  • The Cape Jewish Chronicle reaches over 6 000 readers monthly across print and digital platforms.
  • To book advertising space or discuss a custom package contact Adéle Gradner Mobile: 083 321 5222 | Office: 021 464 6736 | Email advertising@ctjc.co.za

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