Amid rising antisemitism, the vivid language of Yiddish makes a comeback
CORAL SPRINGS, Fla. - The scenes were jarring, as intended, and meant to provoke fear: neo-Nazis parading in front of Disney World and crowding a highway bridge in Orlando, shouting antisemitic slurs, waving swastika flags, saluting Hitler.
Avi Hoffman has his own way of countering such hate. Armed with a laptop in his Miami suburb, he teaches Yiddish - a language that he believes is intrinsic to Jewish heritage and one that offers the soothing benefits of a bowl of grandmother's chicken soup.
"Verter zol men vegn un nit tseyln," says Hoffman, an actor who co-founded the cultural nonprofit Yiddishkayt Initiative, slowly reciting the proverb that translates to "Words should be weighed, not counted."
His students repeat after him from various parts of the country, delving into a world they only knew in snippets while growing up yet now see as central to their identity.
At a time when antisemitism is surging nationwide, Yiddish - once nearly wiped out by the Holocaust and assimilation pressures - is making a comeback. The interest is reflected in popular TV shows, theatrical productions, podcasts and an array of learning apps and online instruction that burgeoned during the pandemic.
The trends aren't directly connected, say those encouraging the revived interest in the language as well as other aspects of Jewish life. But for some, its growing popularity beyond mainstream terms such as "schlep" and "klutz" has become a kind of defiance against feelings of being perpetually under siege.
"We have to stand up because, you know what? We've already seen this movie," Hoffman said, alluding to the early 20th century prejudices that led to the Nazi Holocaust and the deaths of 6 million Jews.
Pride in Jewish culture is expanding in other ways, too, particularly among Generation X and Millennial Jews who fondly remember the blintzes and knishes that their grandmother once served.
In New York, a Brooklyn-based chef runs a "Gefilteria" website offering artisanal gefilte fish for sale along with cooking classes and catering that offer new spins on other Eastern European staples.
And upstate, the Borscht Belt Museum celebrates the golden era of the Catskills during the early to mid-20th century, when millions of vacationing Jewish families decamped during the summers to the far cooler patchwork of resorts and farm land 90 miles north of New York City that became known as "the Jewish Alps."
During that period, lionized in the movie "Dirty Dancing" and the TV comedy-drama "The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel," antisemitism was so rampant that Jews were barred from most hotels. The resorts were a refuge from that bigotry and became a cradle for live music and stand-up comedy that left a deep imprint on American culture.
The recent waves of antisemitism have coincided with increased donations, according to journalist Andrew Jacobs, who is leading the museum effort in the village of Ellenville. Its plans include a film festival and classes on how to make chocolate babka pastries.
"I think some Jewish people really feel motivated now to show and celebrate our culture," he said. "I hate to sound glib, but it's harder to hate people when you are laughing at their jokes."
Combating hatred and even violence can feel ever more daunting, though. Nearly 3,700 antisemitic incidents were reported last year in the United States, a 36 percent increase from 2021 and 82 percent higher than 2020, according to the Anti-Defamation League's Center on Extremism.
Certain groups "have entire podcasts where they replay all their activity and monetize it," said Carla Hall, the center's senior director of investigative research. "That's what is so concerning. When you're doing that form of entertainment - hate for entertainment - how far do you have to keep going to continue to build that following and keep them entertained?"
Florida has been a hot zone, with almost 40 neo-Nazi demonstrations since January 2022 and more than 100 instances of antisemitic fliers being left on residents' doorsteps. The incidents have intruded on the presidential campaign of Gov. Ron DeSantis (R), who has been criticized for not condemning them more forcefully.
During a campaign stop in New Hampshire last month, he was asked about a Ron DeSantis 2024 poster being spotted amid swastika flags and antisemitic banners at one of the demonstrations outside of Disney World. "Those are not true supporters of mine," he responded. "That is an operation to try to link me to something so that it smears me."
Rabbi Rachael Jackson, who leads the Congregation of Reform Judaism in Orlando, tries to reassure her families and remind them that many elected officials and law enforcement have denounced such ugly displays.
"We've had to be pastoral and reassuring that we're not there. This isn't Germany of the 1930s," Jackson said. At the same time, the reality is that her synagogue and many others posted security guards outside their buildings during Rosh Hashanah services last weekend and will do so again for Yom Kippur. "We have to be very cognizant that hatred is on the rise, that we're not making this up."
She views the renewed interest in Yiddish as a kind of salve, offering "peoplehood" and Jewish pride to those who need it. "You can find TikTok videos and Instagram people and Facebook groups that are creating this community," she said. "It's definitely something we're hungry for, and it's a way of combating antisemitism that doesn't deal with going to synagogue and talking about God."
Across the country, a "Yiddishland" cultural center in San Diego, raising funds to re-create an Eastern European shtetl, or village, that will double as an immersive hotel for guests, featuring Yiddish-themed breakfasts and a venue for Yiddish weddings. The two-year-old center already offers Yiddish classes, a Yiddish theater academy, klezmer music performances and a gallery with artifacts and paintings on Jewish themes by Yiddish-speaking artists.
Director Jana Mazurkiewicz Meisarosh said she created Yiddishland primarily out of a sense of nostalgia for a language that her grandmother spoke but that she didn't understand while growing up in Poland, an experience common to descendants of Holocaust survivors. Yiddish was largely phased out after World War II - many associated it with victimhood and defeat - particularly with Israel's embrace of Hebrew as its official national language. About 250,000 Jews in the United States speak Yiddish; most are Orthodox and consider Hebrew too sacred for everyday use.
"I started to ask questions: 'Why were we not introduced to this language and culture? Why were we only taught Hebrew in school?'" Mazurkiewicz Meisarosh said. "I would like Yiddish to survive. If not our generation, who is going to do it?"
Over time, she noticed that non-Jews were also visiting the center, including her 6-year-old daughter's African American and South Asian schoolmates. She realized Yiddishland's value as a tool to counter antisemitism.
"People fear what they don't know," she said. "If they can come here and learn, it's a powerful weapon. It has to become part of mass culture."
Some Yiddish vocabulary is already ingrained in that broader culture - words such as chutzpah (meaning gall), mensch (a good, decent person) and oy (often conveying exasperation).
But the 1,000-year-old language is infinitely rich, even whimsical. Several of the 15 students who joined a recent online "Yiddish Lite" introductory class laughed at the expressions shared by teacher Alan Davis.
"Menschen trakht aun Got lakht," he explained, means "Man plans, God laughs," while "a shanda aun a kharpa" translates into "a shame and disgrace," usually uttered when something disagreeable happens.
"My mother used to say that to me all the time, and I never understood what she was saying," Davis told his students from his home in northern New Jersey. "It's a good one to know. Oy, vey. A shanda aun a kharpa! What are you doing?"
As a child, Davis began teaching himself Yiddish to understand his father's off-color jokes. His class, offered through the Federation of Jewish Men's Clubs, is meant to invite beginners in through songs and stories.
The discussions don't address the worries of the day. Rather, they delve into the traditions and words that students learned while growing up in the 1950s and 1960s. "They're glomming onto something Jewish in the songs, in the stories, in the expressions, in certain Yiddish words. And this gives them a connection to their to their heritage," he said.
Several of the students in a class this month confirmed that as their motivation, admitting to some frustration over not being taught the language by their parents or grandparents.
"I see kids that are high school age who may speak Spanish or Korean or Chinese at home, and they're fluent," said Howard Kaye, who lives in Northern Virginia. "But the Jewish kids didn't speak Yiddish when they were in high school."
Renata Lantos was a young child when her family fled Europe during the Holocaust. She signs onto the Yiddish class from her home in Connecticut to hear her parents' voices again.
"It was my first language," Lantos said. "If we don't do something to preserve it, it's going to be gone."
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