My first session set the tone. Zvi Hirschfield, a Talmud teacher at the Pardes Institute in Israel, led a text-based discussion on whether it is Jewish to rejoice over fallen enemies. I had been circling this question ever since the outpouring of celebration after Israel’s pager attack on Hezbollah left me faintly sick.
Zvi Hirschfield's session[Missing Credit]
I wasn’t alone. Hirschfield recalled hearing a l’Chaim raised to the death of Hassan Nasrallah. He asked whether this discomfort towards celebrating the defeat of the enemy came from Jewish values or from modern moral instincts we’ve absorbed along the way.
The texts refused to give a clear answer. Some rabbis argue that we rejoice in the destruction of injustice, not in the destruction of people. Others warn against celebrating death outright. Hirschfield did not resolve the tension; he insisted we sit with it.
“We have texts and traditions that offer competing views and values,” he said. “We can’t just open a book and see how we’re going to behave. We ultimately have to figure out what the Jewish response is.”
That, in many ways, is very Limmud. Judaism not as a set of instructions but a conversation that requires participation.
After all that text, I hurried past DIY mezuzahs on each door frame and the vast array of books and prints for sale to a session on trance music festivals.
A mezuzah adorned with the trans flag[Missing Credit]
Ian Rowen, an academic and Burning Man representative, explained that Israelis are central to the global trance scene. Psychedelic trance, he said, traces back to Goa, where Goa Gil, born Gilbert Levey, hosted 72-hour DJ sets as a form of active meditation.
Rowen spoke about how festivals with this kind of music have tried to ban national flags to keep politics off the dancefloor, instead emphasising ideals of love, inclusion, and dance as ritual. But Burning Man’s principles, “radical inclusion and radical self-expression,” can collide.
“You might want to express yourself in extreme ways, so these things are often opposed,” Rowen said.
That tension between the individual and the collective surfaced again and again in sessions on Israel and Gaza, generational divides, interfaith engagement, and Jewish theology.
Tim Franks[Missing Credit]
BBC journalist Tim Franks approached the question from another angle. Speaking about his career at the corporation, he described how he once believed professionalism required leaving identity at the door. Judaism and journalism were to be kept “hermetically sealed.”
Writing his family history, The Lines We Draw, dismantled that idea. “What I am as a Jew informs what I am as a journalist,” he said, “and what I am as a journalist informs what I am as a Jew.” A Jewish sense of humility, of knowing how little one knows, is central to his reporting.
Respectful disagreement continued even in the most fraught sessions. During one session, Israeli Palestinian campaign group Standing Together, Palestinian Israeli activist Angela Mattar was asked in an anonymous question if she thought October 7 was “right.”
Mattar said the question made her feel “dehumanised” and Limmud co-founder Clive Lawton condemned the question, which he said went against “Limmud’s values of respect”.
But the most fraught session I have attended so far asked whether the Board of Deputies was fit for purpose. I’m not sure where else a discussion about the Board’s constitution would fill a room, but at Limmud.
Three deputies who had signed the Financial Times letter criticising Israel’s war in Gaza defended their decision and argued for reform. Some in the room were furious with them, while others applauded their letter.
Harriet Goldenberg criticised the Board for attempting to speak with one voice on controversial topics when “no such voice exists”. Philip Goldenberg said he wished the Board’s leadership would come and listen to criticism in the same way as they had. But all three seemingly defended the Board – reform, not replacement, is what they called for.
Much of the magic of Limmud happens in the evening, when music and art take over the festival. After a kibbutz-style dinner while chatting Middle East diplomacy with a Bahraini expert on the Abraham Accords, I dashed to a comedy gig.
South African comedian Nik Rabinowitz[Missing Credit]
“Any Litvaks in the house, say yeh!” shouted Nik Rabinowitz, the South African-born comedian whose family moved from Lithuania.
“Yeh!” the audience cheered.
The saying goes that we are all six degrees of separation apart. At Limmud, it is rarely more than one. I don’t think I’m related to Nik, though I have plenty of family with the same history and the same name.
This is a place where Jews of all kinds gather and discover that, despite disagreements and deeply held convictions, we are knotted together.
This year was the first time the sessions were livestreamed as well as in person, with around 100 people joining remotely. But it’s the in-person atmosphere – the chance to meet fellow Limmudniks and wander from room to room – that remains central to the experience.
One group who return year after year are the volunteers, who keep the festival running.
I spoke to a trio registering arrivals on Sunday afternoon. Gideon Levy is attending his seventh Limmud. The Finchley local, who belongs to both Hendon United Synagogue and the Masorti community Ohel Moed, loves the festival’s inclusivity.
“I feel there is a home for everyone here, and we can learn from every denomination. People aren’t coming to argue; they’re coming to connect, embrace, and learn.”
Gideon Levy, Georgie Friend and Rachel Peck at the registration desk[Missing Credit]
Georgie Friend, also from London, describes the festival as “the most important community for me.” She comes to “be exposed to new ideas and immersed in Jewish life.”
The third volunteer, Rachel Peck from Hebden Bridge, has been attending for well over a decade. “I keep coming back because I’m a small-town Jew. This is the only time I get to be in such a concentrated part of the community. It’s wonderful to be in a massive, egalitarian space.”
It’s easy to see why people return year after year, becoming a little more entangled in one another’s stories, and a little more open to hearing what others think. That surely must be what it means to be a Limmudnik.
There are still places on Limmud. To register, go to: limmud.org. To join the sessions being livestreamed, go to: https://limmud.org/festival/limmud-festival-2025-at-home/
