Posted on June 20, 2025
“One of the most painful issues to emerge in this war for Soviet Jewry in Israel is the burial of terror victims.”
I’m Alex Rif, Amitei Bronfman 2003. Poet, social activist and cultural entrepreneur. I have three kids and a partner, Daniel. I was born in Ukraine and immigrated to Israel in 1990 as part of the large wave of immigration from the former Soviet Union. I’m the founder of The Cultural Brigade, a social activist movement that has rebranded Russian-Israeli culture. I’m also the CEO and co-founder of The 1 Million Lobby, which promotes the rights and needs of Russian-speaking Israelis to policymakers.
We live in Tel Aviv, which has been heavily hit by the recent Iranian attacks. The nights have been very frightening, filled with sirens, deafening booms, and little children crying and asking questions that are impossible to answer. Now we’re staying with family down in the Negev and it’s quieter, for now.
We thought we were finally adjusting to one war, and then another front opened. Right now, we’re deep in the middle of it, trying to figure out how we can help—for example, many elderly people don’t have protected spaces in their homes and have trouble reaching public shelters. There are new immigrants who don’t know where to find critical information and are overwhelmed by a deep sense of uncertainty. We’re really hoping that soon we’ll see calmer days again, that all the hostages will return from Gaza, and that we’ll finally be able to sleep through the night again.
One of the most painful issues to emerge in this war for Soviet Jewry in Israel is the burial of terror victims. One such story is about John Aslanov. John and his brother-in-law Robert were both murdered on the morning of October 7 while fishing at Zikim Beach. Robert was halachically Jewish and John was not—he was what we call “Zera Yisrael” (seed of Israel), someone with Jewish ancestry who isn’t recognized as Jewish by religious law. Robert was buried in the dedicated Jewish plot for October 7 victims in Ashdod—a special section, beautifully arranged, with a commemorative sculpture and benches, all done very respectfully. John, however, was buried in a separate, neglected, godforsaken plot somewhere off to the side. It’s incredibly painful—for his daughter, and for the community.
And it’s not a one-off case. There’s the story of Alina Plachti, a young woman murdered at the Nova music festival who was buried in a non-Jewish plot despite having started a conversion process. There’s the story of the Kapshiter family: the father, Zhenya, who had served in the army, was not halachically Jewish; the mother, Dina, and the two children were. The entire family was murdered. The grandparents had to choose whether to separate them in burial or bury all four in the non-Jewish section. They chose to bury them together.
Israelis are being murdered for being Jewish—people who defined themselves as Jews, lived as Jews—but are buried in separate plots. So we at The 1 Million Lobby submitted a bill, together with a Knesset member from Likud and another who was then in the opposition, to allow for the burial of terror victims using the same halachic compromise the IDF found for soldiers, allowing both Jews and non-Jews to be buried together in the same plot, with no visible distinction—only a difference in burial depth. It’s currently just starting the legislative process, but what matters is that we submitted the bill, because these heartbreaking stories demand action.
This burial crisis reflects a much deeper issue that I’m exploring in my upcoming book, More Jewish Than You, coming out in September. The book is essentially a continuation of our podcast of the same name (יותר יהודי ממך), which gives a glimpse into the relationship—or more accurately, the complete rejection—between Soviet Jewry and the rabbinical establishment.
Many immigrants from the former Soviet Union arrived in Israel under the Law of Return’s “grandchild clause,” which allows immigration for anyone with at least one Jewish grandparent, even if they aren’t considered Jewish by religious law. This leaves them classified as Zera Yisrael—people with Jewish ancestry who are granted citizenship but not Jewish status, and are therefore integral to Israeli society yet excluded from key religious rights like marriage and burial.
In the podcast, we talk about how we encounter the rabbinical establishment: whether halachically Jewish and subjected to humiliating identity inquiries when trying to marry through the Rabbinate, or not halachically Jewish and barred from marrying at all. We also discuss the nitpicky and alienating conversion process, the status of descendants of Jews, and the threats to change the “grandchild clause.” The book expands on these themes—telling the story of Soviet Jewry’s complex relationship with the rabbinical establishment, our history, where we came from, and how it shapes both our present and our future.
These are just some of the unique challenges facing Soviet Jewry in Israel. And like the rest of Israeli society, we felt called to step up after October 7. We visit many families of victims and fallen soldiers who are immigrants or children of immigrants. These are shattered families—like every bereaved family—but they often have less community support and fewer social networks.
The number of fallen soldiers from the Russian-speaking community is heartbreakingly high. That’s why, in November—around Aliyah Day—we launched a memorial project to honor all immigrant soldiers and security personnel who fell in the war, from all over the world, not just from the former USSR. Seventy such soldiers have been identified; 57 families chose to take part in the ceremony. We honored each and every one of them, knowing how longstanding challenges can make it harder for these families to properly commemorate their loved ones. You’re unlikely to see a street, an assembly hall, or a scenic lookout named after an immigrant soldier. That’s exactly why it was so important for us to begin a meaningful memorial initiative—not only for Soviet Jewry, but for all fallen immigrant soldiers.
Our efforts to support immigrants in times of war didn’t begin on October 7. When the war in Ukraine broke out, we were deeply involved: we established an immigration absorption department, helped secure better salary agreements for Ulpan (Hebrew) teachers, worked to streamline the licensing process for doctors, and translated the government rights portal into Russian.
On a deeper level, it was crucial for us to show solidarity—to make it clear that in Israel, we are all brothers and sisters, and we stand together.
After October 7, one thing became painfully clear: we can’t go on as we were before. I wrote a long, soul-searching piece saying we all share responsibility for what happened. We sat comfortably in the third sector [non-profits and non-governmental organizations], avoiding the real mess. We didn’t get our hands dirty. Instead, we left the country in the hands of people who failed us. That has to change.
We need the most capable people to step into the public arena—into politics, government, and decision-making roles—to help shape Israel’s future. That’s what I’ve been trying to do ever since: to think seriously about how best to influence the day after, whether by joining a party or becoming politically active, especially on behalf of the 1.2 million Israelis from the former Soviet Union.
This post-October 7 reality has created space for new coalitions and collaborations, for deeper understanding—between, say, religious Zionists and Soviet Jews, who serve, sacrifice, and carry the national burden. This is a moment to redraw the map—to build new alliances between sectors of society that had long stood apart.
I also feel the Israeli center is gaining strength. For too long, it was politically orphaned—neither right nor left, and undefined. But now, organizations and voices are coming together, forming a critical mass. They’re starting to articulate what the center is, not just what it’s not—a vision grounded in national unity, responsibility, and unity.
That gives me real hope: a sense that we’re moving in the right direction, toward a ‘day after’ led not by a narrow, extreme government from either side, but by a broad coalition that speaks for the majority and makes important decisions for Israel’s future. The power of civil society gives me hope too. October 8th was both a failure and a triumph—it revealed just how strong and vital the third sector is. And now, many of those same forces are stepping forward, determined to lead, to influence, to enter politics. Politics is no longer a dirty word. To me, that’s a very good sign.
