Reflections of the President & CEO and Guest Contributors
By Dr. Misha Galperin, President & CEO, Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
My first ever Passover celebration was in the home of Cuban Jews who escaped Castro’s revolution a dozen years before my family and I arrived in Los Angeles as refugees from Ukraine in 1976. They told us the story of their Exodus, and we told them the story of ours, and together we retold the original story of liberation around the Passover table. It is tradition to retell the ancient story as if it had happened to us. It did happen to us. And to them
The Exodus story is, of course, not a story of individual freedom, but that of a birth of a liberated nation—the first People to be redeemed from slavery and led to the Promised Land.
For the “Jewbans” and the Soviet Jews having their own Exodus moment, we thought America was the Promised Land. Turns out lots of Jews whether they came to America or were born and raised here thought so too. And it was—not just for the Jews but for wave after wave after wave of immigrants from every corner of the world and their progeny. Except, of course, for the people who were brought here as slaves, many who came to identify with the story of Exodus; Go Down Moses became a popular African American spiritual—a song of hope and freedom—with the lyrics “Let my people go” reverberating a through-line from ancient history.
But here we are in the post-October 7th world where the very existence of the Jewish People and their ancestral link to the original Promised Land are under assault—physically and emotionally. Where Jews not in ancient Egypt but at this very moment while I am writing this, and you are reading it, are held captive by terrorists. We fear for them but have hope because we must. They feel like our own mothers, fathers, grandparents, aunts and uncles, siblings…and our own children. This year at Passover not much of the Exodus is left to the imagination.
Jews believe in and insist on hope in the most dire of circumstances. We open the door for the prophet Elijah during the Seder and leave him a cup of wine—a cup waiting to be drunk, like the empty places at the table many will setting for the hostages this year—in a declaration of hope for the redemption of humanity.
A different kind of declaration of hope was made just a stone’s throw from our doorstep at The Weitzman. Sitting on Independence Mall in view of the Liberty Bell with its inscription from Leviticus: “Proclaim Liberty Throughout The Land and to All Its Inhabitants Thereof”, the Weitzman Museum keeps to the vision and values of the Hebrew Bible and ideals enshrined in the Declaration of Independence, codified across the street nearly 250 years ago “to insist that all human beings are created in the image of God and are, therefore, unique, infinitely precious, equal and entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Encouraging debate “for the sake of heaven,” not for the sake of vilifying the other when you disagree with them. These and other contributions to our civilization are what my friend and colleague Dr. Erica Brown and I described in our book The Case for Jewish Peoplehood back in 2009 as to who the Jewish People are: an extended family with a mission to improve the entire world.
At Passover we celebrate freedom and the creation of the Jewish People, the Jewish Nation. The Weitzman’s quest to become part of the Smithsonian Institution is a symbolic act to declare that as Jews, we are part of this American nation. That our national museum of American Jewish history needs to be an integral part of the nation’s museum system alongside the African American, Native American, Latino American, American Asian Pacific Islander and other such museums to come. It is our fervent hope that America will continue to “give to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance” as George Washington’s letter to the Hebrew Congregation of Newport, Rhode Island declared in 1790 (and which is the cornerstone of our core exhibition).
Let us celebrate the Festival of Freedom and keep our hope for better future for all alive and well.
Chag Pesach Sameach!
© 2024 Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
By Dr. Misha Galperin, President & CEO, Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
As far as Jewish holidays go, Purim, which begins Saturday night, has quite the party animal reputation, often filled with alcohol-fueled revelry (for the adults) and children in costumes as we raucously join together for the annual Megillah reading—the scroll of the Book of Esther. It’s also marked by giving gifts to those in need.
What is it we’re celebrating? You guessed it: the survival of the Jewish people from would be mass-murder. A recurring theme throughout Jewish history.
In the Book of Esther, the evil royal advisor, Haman, manipulates gullible King Ahasuerus into decreeing the massacre of all the Jews throughout the Persian empire. It is tradition to get loud during the reading, drowning out each recitation of Haman’s name with hoots and noisemakers.
The massacre would have included the King’s own wife, Queen Esther, and her cousin Mordechai. When we meet Mordechai in the story, we read he was among those who had been exiled following the destruction of the First Temple in Jerusalem. In the Ashkenazi Jewish tradition, the tone of the retelling shifts into the mournful tones of the Book of Lamentations. Like ominous chords in a movie soundtrack, it stirs a disquiet, reminding that the survival of Jews and of the Jewish people is imperiled.
This year, as we look toward Purim, we can’t help but be reminded of the destruction and profound loss in Israel just five months ago, on October 7, which energized an already-rising tide of antisemitism in America. We are reminded that Haman is no mere storybook character, but an archetype that lives on—and threatens—in our own time.
There is a chilling exchange in the Megillah when Mordechai charges Esther to intercede with the King. Esther demurs, fearing for her own life. Mordechai warns her, “Do not imagine that you, of all the Jews, will escape with your life by being in the king’s palace. On the contrary, if you keep silent in this crisis, relief and deliverance will come to the Jews from another quarter, while you and your father’s house will perish.”
And so, we are not silent.
We are proclaiming our support for Israel on our building and website, sponsoring speaker series on antisemitism in conjunction with the University of Pennsylvania Katz Center and with Gratz College, developing a school curriculum countering antisemitism that is being piloted in California and Pennsylvania, initiating training programs for the Philadelphia Police Department, and more—locally and nationally. And right now, we are exhibiting paintings by Philadelphia artists of all the October 7th hostages, an installation that is drawing national attention; it is truly something to see.
Purim is a time for noisemaking. We are making noise. We hope you will as well.
Purim is here to remind us that we have always overcome our trials, and that we will again. And that is something to celebrate. Happy Purim.
Chag Sameach.
© 2024 Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
By Dr. Misha Galperin, President & CEO, Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
As I light the first Hanukkah candle tonight with my family, I will be thinking many things.
I will be treasuring all I have and holding it close. I will also, like many of you, be thinking about my child on a college campus facing unprecedented antisemitism. I will be thinking about my grandchildren and wondering in what kind of world they will live. I will be thinking about boycotted Jewish businesses (from one of which I have purchased my sufganiyot!). And I will be thinking about my friends and our collective extended family in Israel—the hundreds of Hanukkah tables shattered by trauma or missing loved ones who have been brutally murdered or are still held in captivity. A story too familiar in Jewish history.
Jews glibly summarize Hanukkah—and most Jewish holidays— with, “They tried to kill us, we won, let’s eat.” That rings both uncomfortably hollow yet staggeringly relevant this year. What will history write about this moment, as enemies once again try to kill us? The story of Hanukkah reminds us that Jews have always been strong in the face of those who would seek to destroy us. It reminds us that we will, again, prevail.
We have always been resilient in the wake of terror directed at the Jewish community.
We have always continued to shine brightly against the darkness of hate.
We shine brightly by being proud of our Jewishness and our heritage. Whether we light candles on Shabbat, or spin the dreidel at Hanukkah, or wear a Star of David necklace—we make sure that Jewish life and culture continues in our own ways.
We are seeing that at our own Museum Store where, after the October 7 attack on Israel, sales of ritual Judaica and wearable Jewish symbols skyrocketed. We are a community gripping tightly to our heritage and identity, fiercely determined not to let anyone take it from us.
The tradition of placing a hanukkiah in the window during Hanukkah is rooted in Jewish law—it is a commandment and a mitzvah to light the candles for others to see, to proudly and publicly share the light.
So, this Hanukkah, as you light your candles or wish a friend “Happy Hanukkah,” be proud. Be resilient. Shine brightly in the darkness for the world to see.
Chag Sameach
© 2023 Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
By Arthur Sandman, Chief of Staff, Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
In 1983, I made my first trip to Israel for my brother’s wedding. Newly-married ourselves and traveling on my parents’ largesse, we used the opportunity to buy items that we treasure to this day—a honey dish, an etrog box for Sukkot, and a lithograph by an artist named Bruria Mann, portraying Jacob’s dream of angels ascending and descending a ladder to the Heavens. Imprinted on the lithograph is a verse from the narrative, from this week’s Torah portion: “The ground on which you are lying I will assign to you and to your offspring.” The picture hangs on our dining room wall, next to where I sit.
t’s been a few years since we have celebrated a normal Thanksgiving. Even last year, when it seemed the worst of the pandemic had passed, my wife woke up in the morning with Covid, and we spent the day packing her elaborate Thanksgiving meal into take-out packages for all of our guests to pick up and bring home. This year, again, she has been preparing a feast, and we hope our family and friends will sit together around our table tomorrow. But it still will not be a normal Thanksgiving.
The Pilgrims and Puritans who settled Massachusetts conceived themselves to be the New Israel, America the promised land, the “City on a Hill” as Governor Winthrop described in his famous sermon as he crossed the ocean on the Arbella. Jews never viewed it quite that way. Our City on a Hill—rendered ir al tilah in the Friday night poem Lecha Dodi—was always Jerusalem. But surely, America was the Goldene Medinah—if not the Promised Land, a land of limitless promise. On Thanksgiving, as with other immigrant groups, so many of us celebrate as Americans, embracing our national story. If on Passover, we view ourselves as if we had, ourselves, left Egypt, on Thanksgiving, we view ourselves as if we too had landed on Plymouth Rock. We believe this land, long inhabited by indigenous peoples and then settled by the Christian crowns of Europe, to be our own.
But this year, I know that my eyes will be drawn time and again during dinner to that picture on my wall. In the last week, I have walked by anti-Israel demonstrations in Philadelphia, reported two incidents of anti-Israel graffiti at our Museum, visited Nashville where another anti-Israel demonstration was taking place, and read countless musings and uncomfortable reflections on whether America is still a hospitable home for Jews. There are people who have concluded that we are reliving Germany in the 1930s—facing apocalypse, but too trusting or comfortable to heed the warning signs. Some would suggest that the only place a Jew can be safe is in Israel, under the protection of a Jewish army. It was easier said before October 7th.
Jacob dreams of the ladder and of God’s promise to him as he is fleeing from danger in Canaan—the hatred of his brother Esau—to seek uncertain refuge but fortune as well in his uncle’s home in Mesopotamia. It is in that same place where Jacob rested that night—that liminal space between Promised Land and land of promise—that we find ourselves this Thanksgiving. Danger there, danger here, too. We are suddenly so more aware that there is, in a sense, no here or there; the safety and security of Jews in America is entwined with Israel’s. We are suspended between.
“I will protect you wherever you go,” says God to Jacob. So angels ascend, and others descend, changing the Heavenly guard, as if the Torah anticipates danger everywhere, but also, how the security challenges of a Jewish sovereign state differ from those of Jews living in lands not truly their own.
This Thanksgiving will again not seem a normal one.
It can’t hurt to recall that it was President Lincoln, in the dark days of Civil War, who first proclaimed Thanksgiving a federal holiday. If in that terrible time, he could see cause to celebrate this country’s bounty, perhaps we can as well in these fraught days.
Danger abounds, but God’s protection is without boundary. I’m fortunate that I can turn my head to see Jacob’s ladder beside my holiday table, its angels descending to bring God’s protection to us, no matter where we are. And for that I give thanks.
Happy Thanksgiving.
© 2023 Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
By Dr. Misha Galperin, President & CEO, Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
I had a remarkable Tuesday.
I witnessed the Codex Sassoon being prepared for transport from Sotheby’s in New York City to ANU—the Museum of the Jewish People in Tel Aviv, where it will go on display in its new home.
Written by scribes on sheepskin parchment in the early 10th century, the Codex Sassoon is the oldest, most complete copy of all twenty-four books of the Tanakh, the Hebrew Bible.
This was a mind-blowing trip into the ancient past, and yet one so very much about the present and future.
My longtime friend, Irina Nevzlin, chair and benefactor of ANU, came from Israel, and Stuart Weitzman, our own benefactor after whom the Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History is now named, joined together to witness the Codex in person as it was prepared fpr travel to its once and future home.
Also joining me was my friend and colleague, His Excellency Ahmed Obaid Al Mansoori. Al Mansoori is the founder and head of the Crossroads of Civilization Museum in Dubai—the first, and so far the only, museum in the Arab world that exhibits objects documenting Jewish history in the Middle East and addresses the Holocaust.
Israel’s Ambassador to the U.N., Gilad Erdan, former Minister of Strategic Affairs, spoke about how the Codex represents Jewish history and culture, which has been the foundation of our civilization and the secret to the Jewish People’s survival. He described the significance of this moment and of this book for our lives today amid the rise of antisemitism and anti-Zionism, when some deny the Jewish People’s historical roots in the land of Israel and even Israel’s very right to exist.
H.E. Al Mansoori spoke of the significance of the text and of the Codex for Muslims who revere Abraham and Moses as prophets. He commented on the importance of learning the story of the Jewish People before talking about the Holocaust, so that the public can understand and appreciate Jews for their heritage, values, and contributions, not only as the victims of atrocities. He had made similar remarks—unprompted by me—earlier this week at the Eradicate Hate Global Summit in Pittsburgh where we were both speakers.
To have spoken about it again together in the presence of Codex Sassoon with the Chair of the Museum of the Jewish People and our own namesake on the eve of Simchat Torah was almost indescribable.
Simchat Torah—literally meaning rejoicing in the Torah—marks the conclusion of the High Holidays and the beginning of the new year, and a new cycle of reading the Torah from the beginning once again.
And here we were, standing before the oldest, most complete written Hebrew Bible, connecting us to ancient tradition and sacred text, rejoicing in the Torah as our ancestors have done, and as our American Jewish forebears have done since the first Torah scroll arrived in New Amsterdam in 1655.
I had goosebumps—as we all did—encountering the nearly 1,200-year-old treasure and reading the lines spelling out the Ten Commandments and the central prayer of Judaism, Shema Yisrael.
In my more than 40 years working in the Jewish world, I do not think I have ever experienced a more poignant, symbolic, and joyous event.
I have goosebumps even now recounting this story to you.
Chag Sameach!
© 2023 Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
By Arthur Sandman, Chief of Staff, Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
“On this day, the world came into being.”
But what a mess it is now. This Rosh Hashanah will be filled with talk—at dinner tables, in the pews, and from the pulpit—of democracy imperiled in America and in Israel; grinding war in Ukraine; epidemics of antisemitism, gun violence, and of course disease; and climate change.
There was a time when such talk was eschewed on Rosh Hashanah. In 1862, reporting that the Union Army was “repeatedly, disgracefully, and decisively beaten,” the New York Times also noted that the upcoming Jewish holiday services were “too solemn to admit of any reference to worldly affairs by the officiating Rabbi.”
And yet, “On this day, the world came into being.” How can we not take stock of its condition? So, in 1942, just nine months after Pearl Harbor, in the dark uncertainty long before an Allied victory over Nazi’s evil was assured, the New York Times reported that area rabbis in their sermons declared “that the sounding of the shofar was a clarion call to bend every effort to defeat the Axis.”
The difference in approaches of the rabbis of 1862 and 1942 spoke to the two dimensions of the Jewish New Year: its call to turn inward, redressing our personal frailties and failings, and its appeal to look beyond ourselves to repair the world.
Each of us stands alone in confronting our internal challenges, but together as Jews and as Americans, our potential to unite and to love, to fix and to heal is without limit.
As the year 5783 passes into 5784, may we all find forgiveness and goodness within, and may we, together, work to bring blessings to our world for freedom and for peace, for health and for sustenance, for safety and for happiness.
On behalf of our entire Weitzman Museum family—our dedicated Trustees, generous supporters, tireless staff, talented docents, valued volunteers, and loyal Members—to yours, we wish a Shanah Tovah.
© 2023 Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
By Arthur Sandman, Chief of Staff, Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
By now, so many of us are removed by generations from any exodus. Perhaps we need to rely a bit more on the intoxicating effect of the four cups to allow us to picture ourselves as having left Egypt. But whether we are immigrants ourselves or the descendants of those who came willingly or unwillingly, there is a fifth cup—the cup of Elijah. It is said that Elijah’s cup represents yet one more of God’s acts recounted in the next verse in Exodus:
I will bring you into the land which I swore to give to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob…
It is the verse that speaks of the final destination, of the realization of a promise. It is the verse to which none of us can truly fully relate. In the literal sense, it speaks of a specific land, of Israel. But even in the holy city of Jerusalem, Jews conclude their Seder with the prayer, “Next year in Jerusalem,” as if they are not yet there, for nobody truly is.
All of us yet await that promised place where all who are hungry can come and eat, where there is only peace, where hatred is no more, where our wish over the wine—L’Chaim, to life—is a prayer fulfilled, where none of us are slaves, for all are free.
On behalf of The Weitzman, we hope this Passover brings our entire family—our board, donors, staff, docents, volunteers, visitors, and friends—ever closer to the fulfilment of that ancient promise. Chag Sameach.
© 2023 Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
By Dr. Misha Galperin, President & CEO, Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
I wrote to you earlier this fall about the Jewish High Holy Days and the focus on both celebrating and reflecting seriously and intentionally.
Thanksgiving for me is a similarly sacred holiday, and my favorite American one.
For many immigrants like me, Thanksgiving is our favorite holiday because we feel a deep gratitude to be in this country in a way that many who were born here can’t necessarily appreciate in the way that we do. We come from places where freedom of speech and expression, and freedom of religion are not available. Not to mention turkey.
At a moment in history when so many of our fellow humans around the globe still somehow are suffering under repressive and violent regimes, and innocent communities are being attacked by neighboring dictators, I am engulfed in an all-consuming thankfulness that I now have an American story to tell, and that I have children and now grandchildren in this country to share it with.
This Thanksgiving, we may play backyard football and indulge in green bean casserole, but in my family as in many of yours, we also take turns around the dinner table offering our reflections on the year and sharing appreciation for our many blessings.
I’ve spoken with some colleagues and friends—and some of you—who, like me, had a year filled with both peak moments and great joy on the one hand, and deep lows and loss on the other.
Personally, it is with great relief that I share with you I am now cancer free. The gratitude I feel for my doctors, family, and my extended Weitzman family is overwhelming. With my hand on my heart, I thank you.
Please don’t misunderstand me: America is not perfect. This week, we mourn the victims of the mass shooting at the Colorado Springs LGBTQ+ club. Communally, the hurt and anger we have felt at the continual rise in antisemitic rhetoric, action, and violence has been overwhelming, too. It has been punctuated by moments of pride and solidarity with all those who stood up for the Jewish community, and feelings of immense disappointment and anger when there was silence.
Part of why I love my job with the Museum, and as a senior advisor to organizations like the Combat Antisemitism Movement is because my work is inherently about standing up for the Jewish community in some way, every day. Whether overtly working to fight antisemitism or educating a broad public about the intertwining and inextricably linked stories of Jewish and American life, I am doing my part—however small—to preserve Jewish heritage and carry it forward.
As we once again evaluate our personal scales, the balance in our lives, how we have treated ourselves, how we have treated others, how truly good it is to be together, and what we hope to manifest in the year to come, I offer you my gratitude, and wish you and your loved ones all the best this holiday season.
© 2023 Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
By Dr. Misha Galperin, President & CEO, Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
© 2023 Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
By Dr. Misha Galperin, President & CEO, Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
© 2023 Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
By Dr. Misha Galperin, President & CEO, Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
My Ukraine.
When I was becoming a US citizen, I was asked to put down my “Place of Birth” – to be recorded on my Naturalization Certificate and, consequently, on my passport. I was born and raised in the city of Odessa in the Soviet Union, the USSR (not the former Soviet Union, just the Soviet Union). The USSR was still very much a world power in 1988, despite Amalrik’s prediction in a famous book at the time (with an obvious homage to George Orwell) “will the Soviet Union Survive Until 1984?”
Nevertheless, I put down “Ukraine” as my place of birth. Ukraine, along with Belarus, did have its own seat and membership in the General Assembly of the United Nations while still being one of the Soviet Union’s 15 constituent republics. But my putting “Ukraine” down in my American citizenship document was a gesture of defiance of the legitimacy of the Soviet Union and of hope for the place I will always feel intimately connected to. I never quite thought of myself as a prophet but it turned out to be a pretty accurate prediction. At least until now.
I have to keep explaining to lots of people these days that I never thought of myself as a “Ukrainian Jew.” Jews in the Soviet Union were not Ukrainian or Russian or Georgian or Kazakh. We were just Jews. That was not a religious identification but an ethnic one. It was termed a “nationality” – equivalent to “Russian”, “Ukrainian”, “Belorussian”, “Estonian”, “Tatar” etc. It was the infamous “fifth line” in our Soviet passports and it was entered in all sorts of documents starting with elementary school rosters. But, once I came to the US, I was being referred to as a “Soviet Jew” or a “Russian Jew” or just as a “Russian”. We, Jewish refugees from the USSR, used to joke among ourselves that we were Jewish all our lives and became Russian when we got to America. We gave up our Soviet citizenship when emigrating (and paid through the nose for the privilege), but when I recently took part in the Kyiv Forum that celebrated 30 years of the establishment of Israel/Ukraine Diplomatic relations I mentioned that I would love to have Ukrainian citizenship in addition to my American one.
My family traces its roots to the town of Tomashpol in the Vinnitsa Oblast where my father’s family rabbinic tree was cut down with the murder of the entire family except for him in 1941, and to Germany where my mother’s family came from when the Russian Empire launched an experiment by creating the city of Odessa as a porto franco and welcomed all nationalities and religions to help build it, including Jews. My mother’s ancestors were physicians, engineers, and teamsters – the very ones described in Isaac Babel’s “Odessa Stories”.
I have been back to Odessa and Kyiv a number of times in the past three decades since the break-up of the Soviet Union so lamented by Vladimir Putin. It seemed to me that it was a pretty good thing and that Ukraine was moving in the direction of democracy, freedoms, and tolerance. In fact, Ukraine was grappling with its history of antisemitism and just passed a law criminalizing antisemitic actions as defined by the International Holocaust Remembrance Association’s (IHRA) working definition of antisemitism, joining 36 other countries that have done so already.
And now… my beloved Odessa, the beautiful Kyev, the industrial Kharkiv are being bombed because a former KGB agent wants to turn back time not just to the Soviet era, but to the Russian Imperial ambitions which outlawed Ukrainian language and literature in the 19th century, which forbade Jews to live anywhere but the “pale of settlement”, which organized pogroms and perpetrated blood libel, which bombed and massacred the Georgians and the Armenians, and occupied the Baltics and Poland. This former KGB agent claims to be “de-nazifying” Ukraine – as he seeks to depose Ukraine’s fairly elected (by a large majority) Jewish President.
And the world seems powerless. Just like it was when Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan were making their first moves in the 1930s. And China is licking its lips looking at Taiwan. And look at who endorses Putin: Syria, Venezuela, Cuba. I guess the end of the Cold War and the fall of the Berlin Wall was not “the end of history” after all. I do hope that the democratic countries will take this seriously and understand how the polarization and partisan infighting serves the purposes of the authoritarian evil players like Putin and Xi. And that we won’t fulfill Lenin’s prophecy that we will sell them the very rope that they will hang us on…
Evil must be confronted and fought. You cannot “negotiate” with those who will do anything to get and maintain power. You can only stop and defeat them. I hope we have the courage and the wherewithal to do what’s right – for Ukraine’s sake and our own.
© 2022 Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History
