For the past few years, I have been struggling to comprehend how the October 7 Hamas-led terrorist attacks on Israel turned so many liberal and progressive groups against the Jewish state.

Ruth Wisse has an answer that deeply resonates with me. And she wrote about it nearly 35 years ago, in her 1992 book If I Am Not for Myself…The Liberal Betrayal of the Jews.

Haviv Rettig Gur and Ruth Wisse

Wisse, now 90, was a professor of Yiddish and Comparative Literature at Harvard University. A long-time political activist, she is affiliated with the conservative Tikvah Fund.

Wisse in a nutshell: Antisemitism has taken hold because it provides a convenient “organizing target” for a phenomenon that has taken hold of the left: “grievance coalitions.”

She reaches back to Nazi Germany to explain her thesis.

“Every country has problems and Germany at the time had lots of them,” she said on a recent episode of the Ask Haviv Anything podcast. “You’re unemployed? The Rothschilds have your job. You feel that other people are running the shops? Of course it’s because of the Jews. Wagner even said, ‘Jews are ruining music.’”

Wisse calls this “the politics of the pointing finger.” If you could identify a people that existed “in small enough numbers not to be a threat, but large enough to [be visible], that becomes the perfect organizing target for grievance and blame.”

Map that onto today’s reality.

At Harvard, “there are 33 different ‘grievance groups.’ They’ve been around for decades,” she claims. There’s the anti-war movement, “all the anti-capitalist movements, Occupy Wall Street, the rioting of the radical feminists.”

These groups were initially separate. “Then suddenly come the Palestinians who say, ‘Hey guys, we’ve got a flag, we’ve got a costume, we’re the number one grievance group. Follow us.’”

That gave the grievance groups their organizing target, exactly like in Germany 100 years earlier.

The same phenomenon is occurring among the often-bickering Arab nations of the Middle East. “Nothing else can build a coalition as easily as the coalition of forces against the Jews,” Wisse emphasizes.

As for the polemics at the United Nations against Israel over the years? “It had nothing to do with Israel. It was just for organizing.”

Antisemitism, as a result, needn’t incorporate the message “I hate Jews.” It can simply be “Who or what explains the injustice we all oppose?”

Using the Jews as an organizing principle is essentially “cost-free,” Wisse adds. Joining an actual anti-capitalist coalition might threaten your business interests. Joining a climate coalition could entail economic sacrifices. But hating Israel “just gets you headlines.”

Dara Horn, author of People Love Dead Jews, has a new book coming out with the provocative title, The Final Solution to the Jewish Question: A Love Story for the Living. In it, she argues that antisemitism is not just an organizing target but an outright “lie that is used to acquire or maintain power.

Dara Horn

Antisemitism is particularly sticky, she says, because unlike typical bigotries which view others as inferior, antisemites see Jews as especially powerful. Taking power away from privileged groups and giving it to marginalized ones doesn’t look like racism, Horn explains. “It looks like social justice.” The haters can then consider themselves morally righteous.

Those of us on the receiving end typically try to explain why the accusations aren’t correct.

Responding to specifics is always a bad idea, Wisse says. “Whatever you do, don’t defend. Never defend. Because the problem being articulated is not the real problem.”

If the accusation is “Israel is uniquely evil,” don’t respond with, “Look how extraordinarily virtuous we are.”

If we’re called settler-colonialists, don’t answer “Jews are indigenous.”

When we’re brushed off with the “genocide” defamation, it does no good to point out all the precautions the IDF takes.

“Once you step into that frame, you already are in the defendant’s dock of a show trial,” Horn warns.

It’s not that factual rebuttal is never appropriate. But rather than trying to demonstrate Israel’s liberal values, instead ask questions. Interrogate how “genocide” became a slogan, why the accusation has achieved such extraordinary currency, and why the Jewish state is so readily cast in this role.

In a 2014 video interview with Bill Kristol, Wisse insists we demand to know who’s the political entity that’s “asking the question and what right do they have to put Israel on the block here?”

“There’s so much more ignorance than malice out there,” says a surprisingly optimistic Horn, “and that is such an opportunity. This is absolutely a solvable problem. Most Americans are not fans of the hate movement. Most Americans are not interested in harassing their neighbors, vandalizing property or pushing people out of public life.”

Horn has created an educational program for middle school students – Jewish and not – she calls the Tell Institute. “A lot of what we’re teaching is how to understand when you might be being manipulated.

When Horn lectures on college campuses, inevitably, a student will take the microphone and scream, “Zionism is genocide.” But when Horn probes the student further, “they have nothing.”

They couldn’t tell you what Hamas would do if a “queer for Palestine” entered Gaza any more than they could identify which river and which sea animates the protesters’ chants.

“Complexity is exhausting. Moral certainty is exhilarating,” notes Nahum Kaplan on his Moral Clarity Substack. “Once everyone has been assigned a position, moral judgment becomes [simply] administrative.”

This is not a fight we can ignore, adds Sam Harris, neuroscientist, podcaster and creator of the app Waking Up. “When you look at what antisemites also hate, you find they hate everything that makes culturally rich, diverse, open societies possible. [Instead], they bring censorship, political repression, conspiracy thinking and the politics of dehumanization and scapegoating.”

Halting the use of antisemitism as an organizing principle for grievance coalitions is ultimately a necessary “defense of the moral and institutional architecture that makes free societies possible,” Harris concludes.

That’s an organizing target everyone should want to get behind.

I first wrote about antisemitism as an organizing target for grievance coalitions for The Jerusalem Post.

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Say yes

by Brian on August 22, 2026

in A Parent in Israel,Cancer,Health,Just For Fun,Music

In 2008, Jim Carrey starred in a romantic comedy called “Yes Man.” He plays bank loan officer Carl Allen who has become withdrawn and depressed since his divorce. A colleague suggests that Carl attend a motivational seminar that encourages participants to seize every opportunity to say “yes.”

Carl has, in the magic of the film’s mythology, entered into some kind of covenant with a higher power, where saying anything other than yes results in bad luck.

As he says yes to more and more requests (an unhoused man asks for his car, he says yes; he approves several requests for microloans at work and receives a promotion), Carl meets Allison and the two fall in love.

Hijinks ensue.

I’ve been thinking about this movie recently as I’ve been trying to adopt a similar attitude, albeit for a very different reason. Unlike Carl, I’m happily married but physically miserable. I get winded just walking around the block, and I’ve lost close to 10 kilograms from my already underweight post-CAR-T self (16 in total).

But I’m making it my policy to say yes to whatever I can; to not let my current disabilities keep me from taking advantage of life.

Holocaust survivor and psychiatrist Viktor Frankl wrote in his book Say Yes to Life in Spite of Everything that “what matters is to make the best of any given situation,” an approach he ironically dubbed “tragic optimism.” He’s not saying one must believe that all tragedy will disappear; it’s about ensuring that tragedy doesn’t get the final word.

Another Frankl aphorism: “Live as if you were living for the second time.”

Lucy Kalanithi, whose husband documented his battle with terminal lung cancer in the beautifully crafted memoir When Breath Becomes Air, shared during a TED talk the insight that “being human doesn’t happen despite suffering. It happens within it.”

Shortly before his death from cancer, neurologist Oliver Sacks collected a number of his essays in a book, Gratitude. Sacks doesn’t minimize illness; he simply refuses to let it be the whole story. “Above all, I have been a sentient being, a thinking animal on this beautiful planet, and that in itself has been an enormous privilege and adventure.”

Saying yes to the feeling of sadness or anger doesn’t numb the emotion; it helps it pass faster.

Over the course of a month, I said yes to two plays that our musician son, Aviv, was performing in (The Baroness Rothschild – see my review here – and a revival of the Broadway hit Guys and Dolls); downed a sloppy brisket sandwich at the Modi’in Beer Festival; and enjoyed an evening of dance from New York’s Peridance troupe, one of the few artistic groups to visit Israel since the October 7 Hamas-led massacres.

I shuffled into Kabbalat Shabbat services at Nava Tehila in Jerusalem; and gave my rapt attention to the words and songs of Angela Buchdahl, of New York City’s Central Synagogue, who spoke at Israel’s stunning National Library about her new memoir and the experience of becoming the first female Asian rabbi.

I haven’t been able to say yes to everything. During my recent hospitalizations, I missed four weddings, a performance by Ishay Ribo and Amir Dadon at Hutzot HaYotzer, and another concert by Aviv, who plays in a Phil Collins tribute band. I also had to cancel our highly anticipated family cruise to Iceland; I was simply not strong enough on the date of embarkation.

On the flip side, there are the grandkids. I can’t flip two-year-old Roni upside down or vigorously kick a ball with four-year-old Ilai (although we did play a relaxed game of tossing the frisbee through the monkey bars at the park), but I can still read to them and tell them stories.

When our own children were young, I had a tradition of making up “Frieda and Ernest” stories. I never knew what I was going to say before I sat down. Everything just flowed out of me in real-time.

“Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Ernest and his sister Frieda. They lived in a big house in Italy in a village at the top of a mountain in Tuscany with their Uncle Giuseppe.”

With the help of Uncle Giuseppe, Frieda and Ernest went on fantastical adventures all over Europe. There was a statue garden outside of Paris where the stone figures came to life and did battle with each other. Another time, Uncle Giuseppe invented a flying carpet that took in a panoramic view of the Colosseum in Rome.

I made one doozy of a mistake when I was telling those stories so long ago – I never wrote any of them down. I’ve forgotten most of the details of the hundreds of tales I came up with. But I see now that was never the point.

“Will you be able to tell us about Frieda and Ernest if we take a vacation together?” Ilai asked me.

“As long as I have a brain and it goes with me,” I replied.

Why keep saying yes? Because the alternative for me – waiting until I feel healthy again – could mean waiting forever. Life doesn’t begin after recovery. It’s whatever you can say yes to right now – even if today includes fatigue, lugging along a suitcase full of medication and maybe needing a nap afterward.

It’s also an antidote to the kinds of less-illness-defined excuses that are canon in Western society, such as “I’ll travel when I retire” or “I’ll spend more time with family when work slows down” or “I’ll be able to enjoy myself when treatment ends.”

Say yes to each of those now, not later.

That would be a good message to work into a future Frieda and Ernest story.

I first wrote about the power of saying yes for The Jerusalem Post.

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As my medical maladies started mounting up, I did something I never do. I turned to alternative medicine.

Chinese herbs in particular.

Roni Facetime with Saba in the hospital

I’ve had a love/hate relationship with complementary medicine. I’ve never gotten much out of acupuncture in the past. Massage feels good but doesn’t last. Homeopathy seems more Western than complementary but was devised before scientists understood germ theory, which makes me wary.

When I was in my 20s, I was more of a traditional medicine contrarian. I would readily turn to integrative specialists as my first stop. A well-known practitioner in Jerusalem, Dr. Buena de Mesquita, got me off the steroids I was taking for Crohn’s disease through slow weaning and changes in diet.

Later, while traveling in Japan, I visited an Israeli Chinese herbalist in the foothills of Mount Fuji. I dutifully brewed up his witch’s concoction every night – that is until I flew to Hong Kong, where the names and measurements of the herbs I needed were so different, I couldn’t figure out the sourcing and gave up.

I then went through a long period where I didn’t want to have anything to do with alternatives. That continued through my cancer years when, other than medical cannabis, for which I had an Israeli license, I stuck with treatments that had peer-reviewed clinical results: chemo and immunotherapy.

But now, with my body rebelling from post-CAR-T side effects, I thought, why not try again? If nothing else, I’d have an hour with a “big picture” doctor who would take in my whole story.

I found a specialist I’d read good things about in Tel Aviv. While not a licensed medical doctor, he tests all his tonics in the oncology department at Sheba Medical Center, Israel’s largest. That was enough science to persuade me.

He prescribed two concoctions made up mostly of mushrooms and berries I’d never heard of:  Astragalus, cordyceps, reishi, ligustrum, goji (lycium).

One was heavily alcoholic; both tasted foul.

I took the tonics diligently three times a day as he prescribed. I didn’t notice any vicissitudes in my body’s “qi.” But when I went to Hadassah for my monthly blood work, my liver enzymes were off the charts.

“Have you started any new medications since your last blood draw?” my hematologist asked.

“I’m taking a couple of Chinese herbal tonics,” I replied.

“Stop the tonics immediately!” the herbalist responded urgently to my WhatsApp. “They can affect the liver!”

I had specifically asked him whether the Chinese herbs he’d given me would interact with any of my meds or ailments. He reassured me they wouldn’t.

“Your blood work levels should come back down to normal in two to three days,” the Chinese doctor continued. He was right this time, although as of this writing, my liver enzymes remain slightly elevated. I’m grateful that, at the very least, he took responsibility for his prescribing error.

The blood work opened an investigation that led to a brand-new ailment: gallstones. An ultrasound revealed that one small stone had left my gallbladder and was lodged in my common bile duct, resulting in infection and fever. If it remained there too long, it could be fatal for an immunocompromised person like me.

The gallstone was removed swiftly via an ERCP, an endoscopic procedure where they send a tube with a camera and tiny scissors down your throat. Fortunately, I was sedated and asleep. Snip, snip and my gallstone was gone.

Over the ensuing ten days at Hadassah University Medical Center in Jerusalem’s Ein Kerem, I was given three different IV antibiotics three times a day.

Unlike a year ago, when I had no choice but to be in an isolation ward while getting my immune-depleting CAR-T, my hospital experience this time involved lots of moving around until I got to where I’d eventually end up.

I was first placed in general medicine in a renovated shared suite with a view but a roommate who snored like a smokestack. I was then transferred to the hematology ward, which had been temporarily moved to the Davidson Tower, as their regular home in the Sharett Building was undergoing renovations.

Internal medicine ward in refurbished main building at Hadassah

Unbeknownst to me, there was no room in the main ward, so I found myself in an overflow space with 10 beds, one bathroom and curtains – not walls or doors – separating me from my neighbors.

When a room opened up the next day in the main part of the hematology ward I took it; my new roommate didn’t snore, but he left the TV on all day and night. He preferred Channel 14 (Israel’s equivalent of Fox News).

Since this was the same department where I started my CAR-T journey in 2025, I’d befriended some of the nurses and was in possession of that most valuable Israeli Vitamin P – “protexia” (Hebrew slang for having the right connections). So, when nurse Hiba whispered to me that a patient in a single room was checking out and I could have it, we quickly moved my bed, chargers and suitcase.

Only then was I able to sit down calmly to eat Shabbat dinner with son, Amir, and daughter, Merav, in the observation space behind elevators with a commanding view of the Jerusalem Hills.

The saga wasn’t over yet. I was released, then a month later, re-hospitalized for a small bowel obstruction. Another 10 days of antibiotics (which turned out to be the same as I’d gotten for the gallstone) and discussion of surgery.

The serendipitous discovery of the errant gallstone reminds me of how my cancer was found back in 2018. I was having terrible stomach aches and finally had a CT scan done. We never found out what was causing the pain, but we did uncover the cancer.

Whether my uber-high liver enzymes were from the gallstones or the herbs, I learned one more thing: I’m never returning to that Chinese medicine doctor. It’s Western medicine all the way forward now, baby.

I first wrote about my latest experience with Chinese medicine for The Jerusalem Post.

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“You look pregnant,” my daughter Merav joked upon seeing my belly when my t-shirt rode up during a session of YouTube home yoga.

“That’s exactly how I feel sometimes,” I replied, even though I have no idea what it feels like to be pregnant. But my abdomen was bloated, round and surprisingly shiny. It made it hard to walk and breathe, as it impinged on my diaphragm.

The bloating had come on too quickly to simply be a matter of overeating. Plus, I still had the same emaciated visage I left the hospital with a year ago – everywhere but my belly, that is.

My gastroenterologist tapped around my tummy using his fingers like a contractor inspecting a wall to see if it’s solid or hollow.

“I can’t tell if it’s distended from gas or fluid,” he told me. “If it’s gas, then I think you may have a small bowel obstruction as a result of your Crohn’s disease. Get a CT tonight. You may need emergency surgery, too.”

He printed out a referral to the ER.

“And if it’s fluid?” I asked.

“Could be your lymphoma is back.”

My face fell.

“Or heart, kidney or liver disease.”

Small comfort.

By sheer coincidence, I had a PET CT scheduled for the very next day. That would tell whether it was cancer or an obstruction.

I went for the scan as planned, but the weekend was coming up, and my mind was spinning like our 30-year-old Maytag.

It was always going to be a losing battle

The choices in front of me were both rotten: surgery or cancer. An operation would be annoying, but it would probably resolve the issue fairly quickly. But with my chronically low platelets, my blood doesn’t clot well.

“You could die on the table,” my wife, Jody, said, giving voice to my worst-case monologue. (There’s a workaround: I could be given platelets via IV an hour before and during the operation.)

But if the cancer was back, would I even agree to do more treatment? This last year, which was supposed to be a “good” one with my lymphoma finally in remission, has been plagued with so many side effects, the thought of piling on more from additional cancer treatment that might not even work wasn’t particularly appealing.

I was mired in limbo land, convinced I had only days, weeks or maybe morphine-mediated months left to live. I stopped exercising – what was the point? For the next week, I barely left the house.

Jody asked me to write down my passwords for her. “Just in case.”

Ouch.

Life in limbo contradicts our Western “hurry up” culture where waiting is greeted more with impatience than equanimity.

A report from the American Psychological Association, conducted during the Covid-19 pandemic, dovetails with my present-day experience. It found that 32% of Americans struggled to make even basic decisions, like what to wear, when everything feels uncertain. Forty-nine percent said they found it impossible to plan for their futures.

Living in limbo imposes “a regimen of constant risk assessment,” notes Arthur Evans Jr., the APA’s chief executive officer. “Operating amid so much uncertainty compounds a general state of mental exhaustion.”

People who’ve been in similar situations report putting off social engagements, sometimes avoiding communication entirely because they don’t know what to tell people when they’re invariably asked, “How are you?” or tell you with glee, “You look good!”

Living in the grip of “When will the other shoe drop?” is not something human beings are wired well to handle.

On Sunday, after the weekend, I went back to my GI with the CD from the PET. He couldn’t tell if it was cancer, but he did say it wasn’t gas and I wasn’t obstructed. Probably “ascites,” the “abnormal buildup of excess fluid in the peritoneal cavity.”

Lymphoma was still on the table.

My hematologist assured me she’d look at the PET results before Wednesday, when she could discuss it during her weekly team meeting – reasonable from her end, but it just prolonged my torturous downward spiraling thoughts.

Redemption came at 9 pm by email. The PET CT was clear: There was no recurrence of cancer.  

She then added, reassuringly, “I told you that if we could get rid of your lymphoma, I would fix everything else.”

A month later, after many additional tests – including several ultrasounds and an MRCP (an MRI of my abdomen, I did a second PET CT. Maybe there was something developing that hadn’t been there previously?

The answer, blessedly, was once again no lymphoma.

I next had a total of 5.5 liters of fluid drained from my belly via a needle and collection bag. That pointed more definitively to “portal hypertension” emanating from the liver.

My next step is a “transjugular liver biopsy,” where a tube, camera and snippers are introduced via an artery in my neck, then threaded through the heart all the way to the intended organ, during which they’ll take an internal biopsy and measure any pressure that might be pushing fluid out of my blood vessels. This kind of procedure is much safer for someone like me than accessing the liver by surgery.

Scheduling the biopsy took another three weeks, during which time I was still bloated, low on energy and getting a bit panicked as our family vacation overseas was just a few weeks away. I needed answers now and – if a final diagnosis could be made – treatment.

As the delays mounted, I found myself wanting to assign blame. Did my GI really have to play the cancer card with someone like me who gravitates towards dire?

In the meantime, limbo land reigns supreme. Preliminary results seem to point to gas and liquid and a partial bowel obstruction – some Holy Trinity of stomach pain.

My hematologist used to point out to her colleagues when I’d come to Hadassah for checkups that I was her “walking miracle.”

I think a better description now might be her “moseying mystery.”

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Pannonica Rothschild, baroness from a branch of the wealthiest family in the world at the time, had a not-so-well-kept secret: she loved jazz.

Neta Plotkin as the Baroness Rothschild with Aviv Blum, left, on saxophone

The former Kathleen Annie Pannonica was born in 1913. She grew up in Hertfordshire, England.

When we meet her, it’s the early 1950s, and the baroness’s formal role was to smile at grand openings and accompany her husband Jules at various state dinners and meet-and-greets as the “pretty face” of the family’s money and status. Because she was a woman, she was barred from working in the family’s bank. Pannonica and Jules survived World War II in England and had five children.

Pannonica was increasingly frustrated by her restricted standing as a baroness (she could fly an airplane and joined the Free French Army during the war); at the same time she was also becoming obsessed with meeting Thelonious Monk, the era’s leading jazz pianist.

After hearing Monk’s “Round Midnight,” she abandons her children, husband and life as a socialite, and moves to New York.

That’s the set-up for a moving jazz-infused evening of theater by the Teatron Ivri (Hebrew Theater company) currently touring Israel.

During a visit to jazz saxophone great Charlie Parker’s infamous Manhattan jazz club, Birdland, Pannonica attempts to bribe the booster for Monk’s home address. He won’t give it to her but warns she won’t find him playing anywhere. Monk’s “not on the menu,” he snips.

An inebriated Parker then appears on stage and provides the baroness what she’s been seeking. When she finally meets the piano player, she learns that, because he was previously jailed for drug possession (covering for his student Bud Powell), he’d lost his “cabaret card,” the police permit which allowed musicians to work in New York clubs.

It’s a not-so-thinly veiled metaphor for the racism that stymied many Black jazz performers in the 1950s. Through her eventual public connection to Monk, the baroness was depicted repeatedly in the media as “corrupt.”

I would have enjoyed the plot and performances of “The Baroness Rothschild” in any case, but we made a point of seeing the show out of town (the Jerusalem performance had been canceled due to the Iran war in April) because our son, Aviv, plays saxophone in the on-stage band.

Aviv has had a remarkably busy career since he returned from New York a year ago after receiving his BFA in music from The New School. He plays a range of styles (klezmer, pop, disco, Jewish wedding music), is in a Phil Collins cover band formed by the drummer from Israeli rap superstars HaDag Nachash, but his first – and still true – love has always been jazz.

And that’s what this play is all about. At first, we only hear the band in the background, but when Pannonica visits Birdland, the curtains part and the band – decked out in period hats, vests and ties – are brought to center stage.

This is not a musical; the actors don’t sing. Neta Plotnik (who most recently appeared in the Netflix drama “Bad Boy”) plays Pannonica with tremendous emotion and poise. Gabriel Demidov is her husband Jules and Gil Weinberg is her brother, Victor. Parker and Monk are played by Ethiopian Israeli actors Adi Alamo and Aimos Alno, respectively.

The music itself was arranged and written specifically for the play by Yonatan Perlman (other than a tune that Thelonius Monk wrote specifically for Pannonica, and a Charlie Parker cover). The play is directed by Gadi Tzedaka and was written by his son, Yehonadev. At times, when the actor playing Charlie Parker attempts to use his saxophone on stage, it’s Aviv who’s blowing the actual horn.

I won’t be giving anything away – this is not a fictional piece by the Duffer Brothers but part of the historical record – by sharing that, in the show, Pannonica befriends both Parker and Monk, helping them financially, including paying for groceries and hospital visits.

Parker dies in 1955 in Pannonica’s hotel room, apparently overdosing on iodine – another scandal for the papers. Monk was busted on cannabis possession in 1958. This time, Pannonica takes the rap for him and was sentenced to three years in prison, although her family’s intercession results in the case being dismissed on a technicality.

Monk leaves his wife Nellie (played by Tovit Samai) to shack up with Pannonica. It’s left vague whether the two had a romantic relationship. Monk died in 1982.

Earlier in the story, Pannonica’s brother and husband both beg her to return to England, at the very least to raise her children. She refuses. Jazz needs her more. She lived in New York and later in New Jersey for 25 years until her death in 1988.

Despite my shaky Hebrew, I understood most the words: When dialogue is paired with vivid scenes (Jules shaking Pannonica, Monk being hauled off to jail by a capricious cop), you get more context than if you’re just reading in Hebrew.

Pannonica Rothschild befriended and supported more jazz musicians than Parker and Monk. Saxophonist Sonny Rollins said, “her story is our story…she realized that jazz needed any kind of help it could get, especially the musicians. But more than that, she was with us. We could go to places and feel like human beings.”

Miles Davis called her a “wonderful friend.”

On the other hand, political activist Amiri Baraka (formerly LeRoi Jones) condemned her as “a wealthy dilettante and a groupie.”

For more on this remarkable story, Hannah Rothschild, Victor’s granddaughter, wrote the definitive inside story, “The Baroness.” Also check out David Kastin’s biography, “Nica’s Dreams.”

The Baroness Rothschild will be playing at Israel’s Northern Theater, in Kiryat Haim, north of Haifa, through much of July and August, as well as slightly closer to Jerusalem, in Or Akiva, on July 30, 2026. It will continue touring and, hopefully, give Tel Aviv and Jerusalem residents an opportunity to delve into this captivating chapter of musical history.

I first reviewed “The Baroness” for The Jerusalem Post.

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Ten years left to live

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What would you do if you had just ten years left to live? How would that change where you spent your time and what you chose to do?

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Here’s one side effect I never expected after cancer treatments: curly hair. I shouldn’t have been that surprised: Hair growing back curly after chemo is a fairly common experience. My friend Laura Ben-David, who died in 2025 after a long battle with ovarian cancer, sported some lovely curls in her final days. My new curls […]

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One year since I nearly died

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One of the treatments I had in the last year – most likely the chemo I received prior to the CAR-T – did a real number on my bladder.

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