Last week I led a group of students from St Andrews and the University of Cambridge to Kyiv, Ukraine. The delegation undertook the mission of gaining a better understanding of shared interests between the UK and Ukraine, gaining greater insight into defensive capabilities, and building enduring relationships with key figures in Ukraine's defence community. The group was briefed by over a dozen Members of the Ukrainian parliament, serving ministers, and hosted by the Ukrainian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and the British and Dutch embassies.
One of the most meaningful meetings was held at the beautiful Chabad synagogue in the heart of Kyiv. The Brodsky Choral Synagogue stands on the right bank of the Dnipro River, in a city once rich with Jewish life. The tragedies of the 20th century have left Ukraine with just a fraction of its original Jewish population, a not insignificant number of 50,000 to 100,000 Jewish Ukrainians, depending on how you measure.
Nonetheless, Jewish life still thrives in Kyiv. A handful of kosher restaurants serve the full range of Ashkenazi and Middle Eastern dishes, from cheese-and-potato varenyky to falafel and hummus in Israeli-inspired eateries. Walking around the Podil historic neighbourhood (an area of Kyiv that itself predates the Russian state), every souvenir stand offers Ukraine-Israel pin badges and some sell five-foot flags with the Star of David displayed in the centre and Ukrainian revolutionary colours behind. So much for Nazi Ukraine.
However, as our group walked up the steps of the Brodsky Synagogue, I was somewhat surprised to find three Ukrainian soldiers at the door, who asked our business and whether we were armed before escorting us in. Was the public display of a city where Jewish life was welcome just a facade?
We walked up several flights of stairs and were greeted by a table of sweet treats and cold drinks, a welcome sight after a long morning of meetings and a sleepless night of ballistic missile and drone attacks on Kyiv. Then we met the Chief Rabbi, Moshe Reuven Azman. For many in the group, this was the first time meeting a rabbi. And what a first impression! The meeting was particularly poignant given my position as a Policy Fellow at the Pinsker Centre; named after Leon Pinsker, the Zionist leader who spent much of his life in Odessa.
Azman is a looming figure who carries an air of grace, humility, and presence with him. The meeting was an informal one, with all delegates encouraged to ask whatever we wanted of Azman. It became very clear that his role is unique and unorthodox. Of course, he serves his congregation, but the role of the Chief Rabbinate of a country facing the existential threat of a nuclear neighbour occupying swathes of its territory has reshaped the job description.
Azman is a rabbi, for sure, but he is also a Ukrainian, a father, and a public servant. His adopted son, Matityahu, was killed during Russia's war of aggression. The rabbi and his wife had taken the boy in as an orphan two decades ago and given him a name drawn from the Maccabees; he died defending the country that had become his own. Like thousands of Ukrainian parents, Azman has paid the ultimate sacrifice of losing a child to this war.
As I look more closely around his office, I see the sparkle of medals and awards that decorate the walls and cabinets, alongside photos with Boris Johnson, Volodymyr Zelensky, and other dignitaries.
Someone finally asks him, "Rabbi, how do you work to dispel the Nazi allegations that Russia accuses Ukraine of?"
Here he pauses, before handing out his business cards, which contain a concealed second function as an SD card. Rabbi Azman makes music videos. He uses songs to advocate for his country's victory and to show the world the truth: that Ukraine is not a nation ruled by Nazis, but one where Jewish presence is infused into the very fabric of the country. One recent hit is entitled, "It’s time to crush the evil empire", and he wrote it, he asserts, for Trump's ears.
When asked about his relationship with the Ukrainian military, the rabbi stunned us yet again. Those soldiers who met us at the entrance to the synagogue, he told us, were not security. Rather, they were soldiers, non-Jews, who had watched the rabbi's viral YouTube videos and wanted to meet him. They were not guarding the synagogue; they were fans, here for a selfie. Yet, they felt a duty to ensure the synagogue was protected, and we presented it no harm. Once again, so much for Ukraine's "Nazi army in the East".
After another few minutes of conversation, ranging from serious geopolitics to banter between the rabbi and our Ukrainian fixer, a Defence Intelligence Colonel, it was time for us to get our own selfies with Azman.
Leaving the synagogue, I recalled our earlier stop at the Kyiv-Pechersk Lavra, the golden-domed Monastery of Eastern Christianity, where volunteers were clearing the rubble of Russia's latest display of "Christian civilisation"; a drone and missile attack that had set the cathedral alight. The question was no longer "Why does Russia accuse Ukraine of being a Nazi state?" but rather "How can we show colleagues and friends in the West that this is utter nonsense?"
And so, having been and having witnessed, the burden shifts. It is no longer for Ukrainians to disprove this slander to a watching world; it is for us, the comfortable and the unbombed to carry home what we saw and say it plainly: A country the Kremlin calls "Nazi" is one where soldiers queue to thank a rabbi; where his songs go viral on YouTube; where the Star of David flies on the same flag that marks a city under fire, fighting back. Here, Judaism means resistance and resilience; which is what scares the Kremlin most. That is the testimony we can offer, and it is enough: Moscow's lies do not survive contact with Ukraine or her people.
Amar Singh Bhandal is reading for an MPhil in Politics and International Studies at the University of Cambridge. He is a recent alumnus of the Hertog War Studies Program at the Institute for the Study of War’s Petraeus Center for Emerging Leaders and a Pinsker Centre Policy Fellow
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