I thought after living here for 32 years (this week marked our “aliyaversary”), I finally understood Israelis. But perusing the pre-election polls, I realize how little I know about my neighbors outside our insular Anglo bubble.

How is it that, three years after the October 7 failure of the entire military and political establishment, the current coalition is, in some polls, tied with the opposition parties and, in Channel 14’s pro-government poll, scoring a resounding win? That is not what I hear from friends and acquaintances in the ‘hood.

After October 7, it was widely predicted the coalition would fall – imminently. Indeed, the depravity of the massacre spurred a kind of dark hope for the future among those of us opposed to the relentless proliferation of hate and divisiveness that has been Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s key strategy to stay in power.

Yet, not only did the coalition serve its full term, but the narrative has been so twisted that Netanyahu’s Likud party has regained much, if not all, of its support.

Adding to this turnaround, inexplicable in southern Jerusalem, the anniversary of October 7 doesn’t seem to have moved the dial a bit. Voters made up their minds long ago. There’s little chance of committed Likud voters changing sides, even as new examples of corruption and disregard are disclosed daily.

How did we get to this place? The answer, sadly, at least from where I’m sitting, seems to be racism. You only have to look at the giant election billboards with the rhyme “Yamin or Palestine” (“yamin” means “right”) or the horrifically insensitive AI ad with the opposition party Yashar’s leader Gadi Eisenkot running to greet his dead son in a field only to pass him by to embrace Ra’am (United Arab List) head Mansour Abbas.

That message is outrageous on so many levels.

I spent two months hospitalized at Hadassah Ein Kerem Medical Center this summer. The institution epitomizes equality in this country. Some of the best doctors and nurses who cared for me were Arab Israelis. Fifty percent of all pharmacists in Israel are from the Arab sector. I never felt I was getting anything but the right treatment from the entire staff, even as they were pricking my tired fingers to make sure my glucose wasn’t spiking.

Earlier this year, I went to hear Naftali Bennett, who leads the opposition B’Yachad (Together) party, speak in an English-language event at Jerusalem’s Begin Center. When asked if the opposition should include an Arab party like Ra’am in a coalition, as he had done previously during the short-lived “change government,” he danced around a direct answer.

He would consider any party that affirms the right of the Jewish people to a state of their own in Israel, he implied, among other criteria. Ra’am has done this – and gone one step further, by adding a Jewish Israeli, Yoav Segalovich, as the party’s number two, with the specific mandate to fight crime in the Arab sector, an issue about which there should be consensus.

Eisenkot, pressured by right-wing goading, has stated publicly that he would not include any Arab parties in a future coalition, but if it’s between bringing in Ra’am again or returning to elections, I wouldn’t believe everything that’s said on the campaign trail.

At this point, I’ll reveal who I’m voting for: Bennett. His won’t be the largest party amongst the opposition. But Bennett has put together a series of detailed working plans to fix what’s wrong with this country, covering everything from transportation to education to the military.

His list includes skilled technocrats who have run ministries in the past and can hit the ground running. My hope is that, if Eisenkot gets enough seats and is able to form a coalition, he’ll put some of Bennett’s team in place as ministers.

And yet the opposition can’t seem to decide on a consistent strategy. Should it hammer away at government corruption and the threat of a renewed judicial coup? What Netanyahu knew or didn’t know on October 7? Should establishing a state commission of inquiry be the main talking point? Or can it harness the overwhelming fury of the non-Haredi population by doubling down on a proposed law to draft ultra-Orthodox yeshiva boys into an army that is tens of thousands of soldiers short.

Compare that to Netanyahu, whose anti-Arab messaging is unwavering.

One last indelicate thought: Why is Netanyahu still around? He’s 76 and presumably in ill health. He has a pacemaker and cancer (supposedly in remission, but he hid his treatments from the public, so why should we believe him).

I’ve seen pictures of Netanyahu lately. He’s so thin. I know, I should give him the benefit of the doubt (he must be exercising more). But I know better than many that when you’re faced with grave health challenges, you can shed a lot of weight quickly.

If Netanyahu lost the election, would that prompt him to accept a plea bargain in his criminal trial and leave politics to avoid jail? If so, why couldn’t he have done that already?

I’m not planning to leave Israel, regardless of the outcome. But my children might. My doctors might. Our tax-paying techies and overburdened reservists might. According to a Channel 12 survey, 23% of Israelis have developed contingency plans to emigrate if the current coalition continues its drive towards totalitarianism.

I pray that, in arguably the most consequential elections in Israel’s history, there will be a surprise surge that will shake the public out of its status quo slumber so we can begin to repair this country we all love so much.

Maybe then I’ll finally understand Israelis.

I first wrote about the 2026 Israeli elections for The Jerusalem Post.

Image of “Yamin or Palestine” billboard from The Jerusalem Post website.

{ 0 comments }

Mother’s milk

by Brian on October 9, 2026

in Cancer,Food,Health,Science

Imagine you’re not allowed to eat for a month.

That was my reality this summer when my medical team finally settled on a diagnosis that explained many (if not all) of my recent problems: a partial small bowel obstruction resulting from my terminal ileum being progressively narrowed by Crohn’s disease since my 20s.

In the end, it turns out that the simple act of eating that was what was causing me so much discomfort in my abdomen, which radiated to my lower back.

The conclusion was that I needed an ileoecectomy – surgery to remove the diseased part of my intestines (the ileum connects the large and small bowels). But by this point, I was so malnourished that the required operation would have been too dangerous. When I was finally hospitalized, I had lost 15 kg; my fingers had become so thin my wedding ring slipped off on its own, and my temples had hollowed out.

Hence, the introduction of TPN – total parenteral nutrition – a white liquid filled with proteins, fats, carbohydrates, vitamins, minerals, water and electrolytes that’s delivered via IV.

I joked it was the “mother’s milk” I never received from my own mom, who in the early 1960s, like many new parents of that age, was convinced by the pharmaceutical industry that breastfeeding was less healthy than formula.

To beef me up, I needed to receive TPN for some three weeks before the surgery could be scheduled. I was set up with “TPN-at-home,” only returning to the hospital a few days prior to surgery. A private company contracted by Hadassah, “Home Cure,” taught my wife, anointed Nurse Jody, all she needed to know to connect me 16 hours a day to the IV.

During this period, I was not allowed to eat or drink anything. I didn’t fight the recommendation – I needed to get this taken care of, so I could get back to some kind of normal life. I was already craving a burger from Crave.

Still, this raised all manner of questions about my – and society’s – relationship to eating.

Human beings in general – and Jews in particular – use food as one of our primary social lubricants. We get together with friends and family over a meal, at home, on Shabbat or in a restaurant. Holidays and celebrations are marked by food.

I clip newspaper reviews and save them for date night. I follow restaurant groups on Facebook and share tips on where to eat.

Eating serves as a tool for building community, shaping cultural identity and strengthening relationships. Research has shown that if we’re with someone who is eating a lot, we are likely to model that behavior and consume more than if we were dining alone.

Food books are big business. Jerusalemite Joel Haber has a delectable new tome all about the infamous Jewish Shabbat stew known by many its many local names: cholent, hamin, dafina, osavo, khalebibi and more.

There is, of course, ambiguity in all this abundance: As the world grows increasingly obese, GLP-1s like Ozempic and Mounjaro have become the hottest medications. By 2025, one in eight American adults reported using a GLP-1. “Off-label” vanity use has risen to over 30% among non-obese patients.

One of the great pleasures of traveling has always been experiencing new tastes. A solid palak paneer could compensate for the Delhi dive where it’s served. I was looking forward to our since-canceled vacation in Europe in large part so I could find the butteriest croissant in Paris or try Reykjavik’s famous sourdough ice cream.

When we first moved to Israel, the country was a culinary wasteland. Falafel and shawarma were the height of cuisine. But ethnic food? The best Jerusalem had to offer was Richie’s Pizza. The veteran Chinese place downtown wasn’t kosher, and Israelis hadn’t yet traveled the globe and brought back everything from crispy Vietnamese Banh Mi to spicy Ecuadorian empanadas.

For a month, the TPN was appropriately nourishing me, although without that same crunching, chewing and swallowing sensations. For much of the time, I was literally starving (albeit not to death). I was never entirely satiated.

The hardest part during the home TPN period was Shabbat. For the first weekend, I sat at the table with my family eating although I didn’t even have a plate. It was torture. After that, when we had guests, we’d visit in the living room, then they and Jody would continue downstairs in the kitchen, while I hid from the smells in my bedroom.           

Ultimately, my terminal ileum was removed, and the two ends of my intestines were successfully sewed together. Two CT exams showed no “leakage.” My gallbladder came out, too, for good measure.

If all had gone well, I should have been home in three to five days. But nothing with my body proceeds apace. I was hospitalized for another two weeks with infections, fever, sepsis and a whole load of antibiotics. The TPN continued. When I was finally allowed to eat, I contracted “ileus” – a condition where your bowel, after not having functioned or being manipulated during surgery, literally “forgets” how to work. The ileus made me vomit violently until it passed.

As I kept losing weight, I was eventually put back on TPN, although this time I was allowed to eat…slowly.

“You’re a very complicated case,” my doctor, the head of colorectal surgery at Hadassah, told me, trying to be reassuring. “You had lymphoma and all kinds of chemicals and radiation as treatment, then CAR-T. You have a background of Crohn’s. You were severely malnourished and pancytopenic,” a term to describe when all three blood cell counts – white, red and platelets – are depressed at the same time.

“You will get better,” he smiled. “You just need patience.”

I will have that hamburger someday. And when I do, it won’t be “to die for.” It will be to live for.

I first wrote about imbibing mother’s milk for The Jerusalem Post.

{ 0 comments }

Adam Sandler has a new movie on Netflix. He doesn’t star in it – he’s one of the producers – but it features his daughter Sunny in the lead role.

My wife, Jody, and I have been big fans of Sandler’s less slapstick turns – he was hilarious in “You’re So Not Invited to My Bat Mitzvah” (also on Netflix) and should have been nominated for an Oscar for his acting in “Uncut Gems,” not to mention his serious role in “Punch Drunk Love.”

So, Jody, and I were eager to see his latest, “Don’t Say Good Luck,” in which high school sophomore Sophie snags the lead in a musical called “Waitress.” The music is more “13” than Sondheim, but Sara Bareilles’ tunes are a joy to listen to.

The script, acting and music are all top notch, the run-time is short (just an hour and a half). The movie is billed as a “coming of age” story.

So, why was I crying like a baby through half the movie?

I apparently didn’t read the plot synopsis carefully enough in advance, because “Don’t Say Good Luck” is a tender, if occasionally obvious, weepie.

Sophie’s Gen X hippy-adjacent mother, Elizabeth, played with a bucolic effortlessness by Melanie Lynskey, has an unnamed cancer that’s too far advanced for treatment.

Sophie’s parents try to hide the news from her and her twin brothers, but Sophie’s father, Ted, has a bad habit of butt-dialing his daughter at the most inopportune times. Sophie hears the doctor tell her parents the bad news, along with their shocked, sobbing response.

Sophie alternates between trying to be a regular teenager – a “theater kid” with all the usual crushes on the wrong boys – while at the same time not wanting to leave her mother’s side as she declines.

I’ve seen plenty of films where a major character is suffering from cancer, but there was something so natural about Lynskey and Sandler’s performances that I felt I was watching a close friend or loved one – or more on the nose, I was watching myself.

Indeed, I deteriorated almost as quickly as Elizabeth last year before a last-gasp treatment – the miraculous CAR-T – stopped my cancer in its unforgiving tracks. This year, I’ve been dealing with all manner of new ailments: gallstones, a questionable liver, chronic bladder inflammation, a torturous bowel obstruction.

But that’s not why I couldn’t stop crying.

When one of the twins asks, “We’re still going to the beach house this summer, right?” Mom responds, “Of course, honey” – Elizabeth so desperately wants to live.

That triggered something in me: I do, too.

Want to live, that is.

Last year, when the first attempts at engineering my CAR-T cells failed and the clinical trial my hematologist tried to sign me up for flunked me out for having Covid, I was probably no more than two weeks away from dying.

And now I’m back in the same place: If the medical team hadn’t noticed how severely malnourished I’d become and started me on TPN (IV nutrition), I’d surely be dead before this piece could be published.

Moreover, what kind of quality of life have I had these past two years? What will it be like going forward? If I can’t do half the things that used to fire up my dopamine receptors, is it still worth fighting? Sure, my brain is fine, but I’d like to think I’m more than my ability to pontificate.

After seeing how painful Elizabeth’s descent is on her daughter Sophie, though, I know I don’t want that for my kids. And I don’t want that for me. Not yet.

I know I’ll never get back to 100% of my former self, and probably not 80% either. But 60% is better than the 30% I’m holding at today.

If I had gotten sick like this in my 20s, with a good 50 to 60 years left, presumably, these questions would be mostly moot. What’s a year or two to recover when you’ve got your whole life is in front of you? When you’re staring down your own mortality, though, even if that’s still 10 or 15 years away, what you choose to do and who you choose to do it with takes on a painful poignancy.

Would it be prudent to eschew all those exotic third world countries still on my travel bucket list, where the wrong food or a mysterious virus could knock me silly and where the medical systems are dicey? Is it time to trade Jakarta for Japan? Thailand for Taipei?

A friend told me about how his father got sick while visiting Israel from North America. He was hospitalized for months here and had to be transported home on a medically assisted flight. He spent months in a rehab facility but eventually recuperated fully.

He then died two years later.

Does that suggest I should take more precautions – or the opposite and do what I want because you never know when the clock will unexpectedly run out?

“Don’t say good luck,” Sophie tells her mom before she heads off to the audition that lands her the lead role in the play. Or maybe she’s foreshadowing her mother’s experience. When you’re fighting cancer, someone cheerily wishing you “good luck” seems incautious at best.

I’d like to believe my re-energized will-to-live is not just dumb luck, but the result of considered choices and considerable willpower.

Currently cancer-free, surrounded by friends and family and a career I love despite a host of genuine discomforts, my life has played out a bit like the song title from the band Third Eye Blind – it’s truly been a “semi-charmed life.”

I first reviewed “Don’t Say Good Luck” for The Jerusalem Post.

{ 0 comments }

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.

{ 0 comments }

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.

{ 0 comments }

Revisiting Chinese medicine

August 8, 2026

As my medical maladies started mounting up, I did something I never do. I turned to alternative medicine. Chinese herbs in particular. 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 […]

Read the full article →

Living in Limbo Land

July 26, 2026

“You look pregnant,” my daughter Merav joked upon seeing my belly. But with my belly full of either gas or fluid, either I needed surgery or cancer treatment was back as an opt

Read the full article →

The Baroness Rothschild: A theatrical review

July 11, 2026

Pannonica Rothschild, from a branch of the wealthiest family in the world, had a secret: she loved jazz. A review of “The Baroness Rothschild.”

Read the full article →

Ten years left to live

June 27, 2026

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?

Read the full article →

My curly hair

June 14, 2026

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 […]

Read the full article →