From Morning to Midnight, Immigrant Youth Visit 240 Congressional Offices to Demand the Dream Act, Say “This Is Our Home and Our Eyes Are Set On Freedom”
For Immediate Release
Bruna Bouhid | <a href="mailto:firstname.lastname@example.org">email@example.com</a> | 202.850.0812
Sheridan Aguirre | <a href="mailto:firstname.lastname@example.org">email@example.com</a> | 202.793.2267
Washington, DC – Early this morning, members of both parties moved to end the GOP shutdown without securing any protections for immigrant youth who are in grave danger. The votes followed a deal, crafted by Democratic Leader Chuck Schumer and Republicans, to use the plight of immigrant youth to secure commitments on other issues.
The lack of determination from Members of Congress was contrasted yesterday with the energy of immigrant youth who visited 240 House Democrat and moderate Republican offices yesterday over the course of 14 hours with one message: stop the political games and pass the Dream Act now!
Karen Martinez, 19, who does not have DACA but would qualify for the Dream Act, and resident of Washington State, said:
“Yesterday I felt worried and angry because I expected the Democrats to be as determined as we are to get the Dream Act passed. I never qualified for DACA protections and I currently go to a university that’s near one of the immigrant detention camps so I’m afraid to even go to school. I’m ready for a Dream Act to pass so that I can go on to become a lawyer and feel safe in the place where I have grown up.”
Greisa Martinez Rosas, Advocacy Director for United We Dream who would qualify for the Dream Act, said:
“Today, the world can legitimately wonder whether an opposition to Trump’s racist agenda exists in Congress. Democrats and moderate Republicans had leverage to protect immigrant youth but instead of protecting us, they used our suffering as a bargaining chip to get more dollars for other projects.
“The backstabbing by Chuck Schumer, betrayal by 73 House Democrats and Paul Ryan’s cruel games leave me, my sisters, and millions of immigrant youth at greater risk of being dragged to detention camps and deported. Speeches, crocodile tears and Facebook posts will not save a single life.
“Yesterday, over a hundred immigrant youth marched through the halls of Capitol Hill, visiting 240 House Democrats and moderate Republican offices for 14 hours to share our stories and demand permanent protection that does not harm our families and other immigrants.
“We fight because the lives of ourselves and our loved ones are at stake. Since Trump killed DACA, over 19,000 immigrant youth have lost their livelihoods and protections and 850 more become vulnerable each week. Millions of us have no protection at all and Congress has a moral responsibility to oppose Trump’s white supremacist plans to wipe us from the face of this country.
“Each day of delay means more ruthless deportations and a further erosion of our nation’s values. But we continue to fight because this is our home and our eyes are set on freedom.”
Tasneem Al-Michael, 18, who would qualify for the Dream Act and is a resident of Oklahoma, said:
“I am one of thousands of South Asian immigrant youth who need a Dream Act now to feel safe and to thrive. One day I want to start an arts education non-profit that benefits my communities.
“Congress knows about the Dream Act, they’ve seen our faces, and they know how to get it done, but they continue to lack the moral compass to make it a reality. This is our home and we’re tired of delays and promises without action.”
United We Dream is the largest immigrant youth-led organization in the nation, a powerful network made up of over 400,000 members and 48 affiliate organizations across 26 states. UWD’s vision is to build a multi-racial, multi-ethnic movement of young people who organize and advocate at the local and national levels for the dignity and justice of immigrants and communities of color in the United States.
Yet, while she was speaking, Democratic and Republican party leaderswere writing a budget deal
that would leave protections for immigrant youth out in exchange for dollars on other projects.
Our lives — and the moral compass of this country — are in real danger and yet Congress is playing games with both.
Speeches, empty promises and crocodile tears will not protect me or my sisters from deportation agents. Only votes from Congress can do that.
At a CNN town hall one year ago, House SpeakerPaul Ryan told my friend Angelica
that she would be safe, yet we now live in danger of being picked up and taken to detention centers by Donald Trump's Immigration and Customs Enforcement squads.
We are tired of speeches, tweets and promises that are not followed by solutions. This is especially true for Democrats and moderate Republicans who say that they support us when the cameras are rolling but repeatedly cave to Trump's bullying.
Earlier this week, the Senate's Democratic Leader, Chuck Schumer,crafted a deal
that, cruelly, will do nothing to stop the pain and the deportations. And Thursday night, Nancy Pelosi failed to whip her caucus to use its leverage to protect us, as 73 Democrats voted with Republicans for the budget deal and secured nothing from Paul Ryan.
In this leadership moment, where they had their opportunity to fight back against Trump's racist policies,the Democrats stood down
and the deportations continue to escalate.
They did this over the wishes of the American people. Polls consistently show voters across the political spectrum supporting citizenship for immigrant youth over the Trump administration's vision of mass deportation.
Immigrant youth and our allies in cities, towns, and states across the country have generated bipartisan, broad and deep support for passage of the Dream Act in Congress.
We have created the political and moral conditions for Congress to use its leverage to protect the lives of immigrant youth and stand up to Trump. The world now must wonder if there exists in Congress a resistance to Trump's unpopular vision.
As ICE and Border Patrol agents board buses and trains to ask citizens and non-citizens alike for their papers, as children are dragged to detention camps and thousands of immigrant youth lose their jobs and become vulnerable, one has to wonder what it will take.
The stakes are incredibly high. Millions of us have no protection from deportation at all and those who are now protected are becoming increasingly vulnerable. Since Trump announced last fall that he was ending the DACA program,more than 19,000 immigrant youth
have lost their protections from deportation, 850 more lose it every week and on March 5, Trump has decided that it will end for all of us. Nearly every day, I hear of another friend who loses protection.
Trump is killing DACA, putting me at risk, and now says he will only protect me if the country buys his plans to deport our families and end family immigration for all. It is blackmail — pure and simple.
Those who claim to stand in the way of Trump's racist policies give us only speeches. Just weeks ago at the Women's March, I watched former Democratic Vice Presidential nominee Sen. Tim Kaine speak of his admiration for immigrant youth to great applause. The women there chanted "Dream Act Now" but just days, later,Kaine voted to give up the fight to protect us
Immigrant youth, people of color, faith leaders, women and millions of allies are putting our bodies on the line every day to resist Trump and fight for a better and fairer country.
Leader Pelosi, House Democrats and the Republicans who say they stand with immigrant youth and the promise of Lady Liberty have a decision to make.
Will they use their leverage to save the lives of immigrants or will they continue to enable our abuser?
Israel Joshua arrived in New York in 1934, already established as a powerful voice in Yiddish literature. By the following year he had arranged to bring his younger brother over to New York, presenting him, on his arrival, with an old Yiddish typewriter on which I.B. Singer would write all his life, though it took him a while to get started on it. Of course, the true gift Israel Joshua had given Isaac, in facilitating his removal from Poland, was life itself. Their mother and younger brother, who was following through on the rabbinical path abandoned by the older brothers, died during the war.
In I.B. Singer’s Lost in America, he describes the paralysis of will that gripped him in his first years as an immigrant. He lived a precarious existence, both practically and emotionally, writing the occasional piece for the Forward, and also working once again at a job as a proofreader that his older brother had wangled for him. Isaac had written a superb book while still in Poland, called Satan in Goray and set in a shtetl much like Bilgoray, though transposed to the seventeenth century—which, in the case of Bilgoray, made little difference. The novel, dramatizing the lawlessness that seizes followers of the false messiah Sabbatai Zevi, spins the stark dualism between Orthodox adherence and moral anarchy that I.B. Singer would continue to work to such brilliant effect in so much of his fiction. But Satan in Goray had not received its due. In America, even more than in Warsaw, Isaac’s literary identity was largely defined in terms of “brother of,” and the effect on his authorial voice was devastating, muting it to the point of extinction.
Meanwhile Israel Joshua, though he had suffered the tragic loss of his eldest son, continued to flourish creatively. The vast horizons of the New World suited him very well, and the first novel that he published in America, The Brothers Ashkenazi, reflects the sense of expansiveness. Its ambition and its range were unprecedented in Yiddish literature—how exhilaratingly impudent to pull even Czar Nicholas II into its pages, rendering his embarrassing inanities in the language of the despised Jews! It called forth comparisons to Tolstoy. The critic Joseph Epstein wittily described it as the greatest Russian novel ever written in Yiddish. Translated into English and published by Knopf in 1936, it went to the top of the New York Times bestseller list, lingering there together with Gone with the Wind. I. J. Singer’s reputation had reached its zenith, and fans began to fantasize that the committee in Stockholm might cast its gaze on this Yiddish writer, who had made good on the Haskalah’s dream of cross-pollination between Jewish and secular cultures.
There was to be one more novel, The Family Carnovsky, tracing three generations of a Jewish family living in Berlin. The Carnovsky family originally hails from Lithuania. The father, David Carnovsky, is so ardent a devotee of the Haskalah that he relocates himself to the city of Moses Mendelssohn. Singer presents each generation of the family defining themselves less as Jews and more as Germans, an evolution that replicates not only the history of the Mendelssohns but also of countless other German-Jewish families. It is a subtle and complicated work, one which, like The Brothers Ashkenazi, is long overdue for reappraisal. Some have charged that it appears, appallingly, to blame the German Jews for the disaster that befell them, the Nazi vengeance meted out as a punishment for assimilationist excesses, but this is an absurd misreading. Granted, it was written in the early 1940s, before the full facts of the unthinkable were known, but the work is, if anything, a prescient deconstruction of the myth of race as it defines the stereotype of the Jew. The novel was published in 1943, with Maurice Schwartz once again producing an adaptation for the stage. And then, in 1944, Israel Joshua was dead, the victim of a massive heart attack at the age of fifty-one. Of A World That Is No More, which had been running in installments in the Forward, was published posthumously.
With the death of the elder brother, the mysterious languor that had held the younger’s literary talent in thrall was suddenly, miraculously, dispelled. Isaac was launched into a period of spectacular productivity that persisted unbroken until almost the very end of his four score and eight. Since some of his works, first appearing in Yiddish, were only posthumously published in their English translations, some joked that I.B. Singer was more prolific in death than are many breathing authors.
The first book to emerge was The Family Moskat, first serialized—as I. J. Singer’s books had been—in the Forward and then published as a Yiddish book in 1945. Its English translation came out in 1950 and was enthusiastically received. By 1950, of course, the magnitude of the destruction of European Jewry was recognized, and I.B. Singer’s novel was read—as, to a certain extent, the remainder of his career would be—through the lenses of that enormity. Richard Plant, reviewing The Family Moskat in the New York Times, wrote that “The scene he depicts is gone forever, and his novel may well be one of its monuments. Still, the novel, reminiscent of Turgenev and Balzac, stands because of its narrative qualities, its completely credible characters, its throbbing vitality.” Thomas Mann was also frequently cited as a literary forebear.
All this is true, but the most salient literary presence is the most obvious one. The Family Moskat is in such close literary dialogue with The Brothers Ashkenazi, that, as the late Joseph Sherman, wrote in a tribute to I. B. Singer published in Midstream in 2004, you must compare the two books closely “to see exactly what he is doing.” Sherman’s tribute underscores the way in which I. B. Singer, in carving out his unique standing as a Yiddish writer in world literature, would systematically minimize his indebtedness to the Yiddish tradition out of which he had arisen, issuing many statements emphasizing “the provincial and backward” writing of all Yiddish writers who had come before him, the sentimentality that precluded genuine artistry. “He got away with his facile disparagements,” Sherman observed, “because he was speaking to English readers who generally knew little about the Yiddish language and less about its literature.”
Of course, Isaac would never have perpetrated such self-serving prevarications had his brother lived. But a far more interesting counterfactual to consider is whether Israel Joseph’s longevity would have blocked Isaac Bashevis’s finding his eventual way to his extraordinary talent. Satan in Goray transposes Singer’s moral dualism to the safe distance of the seventeenth century; but The Family Moskat brings it very much home. He introduces, in the character of Asa Heshel, the first of the many stand-ins for Isaac Bashevis who will people his fiction, a would-be intellectual who languishes in half thoughts and daydreams, a libertine who never entirely sheds the invisible bindings of long abandoned phylacteries. Isaac told one of his earliest translators, Dorothea Straus, that he thought that women caught in adultery should be hanged. Shocked, she asked him whether he really believed this. “No,” he answered, “but I wish I did.” Behold Asa Heshel, and countless other I.B. Singer protagonists.
Perhaps it was not just the intimidating stature of the older brother that kept the younger brother’s powers on hold, but also the thoroughgoing rationalism—“logic, cold logic,”—which the younger brother needed to resist in order to bring forth his art. One can feel the fierce intellect rising off the pages of I. J. Singer’s works, the passionate engagement with historical currents that would send him striding out of the shtetl, without any nostalgic glances backward, prepared to take on the world and to assess it on his own terms. How much more overpowering must he have been in life, that older brother, and how difficult it must have been to take issue with him, to plead the other side, even within the private precincts of one’s own mind, where fiction can take fire only in the purity of perfect freedom to think and feel what one authentically thinks and feels. Hide from your own take on the world in there, and your fiction is doomed.
The acknowledgments page of The Family Moskat reads: “I dedicate these pages to the memory of my late brother I. J. Singer, author of The Brothers Ashkenazi. To me he was not only the older brother, but a spiritual father and master as well. I looked up to him always as to a model of high morality and literary honesty. Although a modern man, he had all the great qualities of our pious ancestors.” There is no reason to doubt this testament to profoundest love and reverence for the brother who had always facilitated his way. And yet—such are the dark mysteries of human nature, which I. B. Singer, of all writers, was prepared to acknowledge—it was only the death of the one brother that brought the genius of the other to life.
And so we return to the irony of introducing I. J. Singer by identifying him as the older brother of I.B. Singer, and most especially in the context of The Brothers Ashkenazi. The large-scale ambitions of this novel not only brought a new scope into Yiddish literature, its fluid plotlines carrying the heft of massive social and political forces, the collisions of its characters deftly tracing turbulent dynamics of history. Fraternal rivalry is itself—irony of ironies—one of the novel’s major themes. It is the competiveness between two brothers, twins separated not by nine years but five minutes, that fuels the outsize ambition. The implacable need that drives the central character, Simha Meir Ashkenazi, to leave his mark on the world is his habit of compulsively comparing himself to his brother, Jacob Bunem, the more physically prepossessing and charming of the two. Jacob Bunem’s acquisitions of love and riches seem to befall him passively, whereas Simha Meir must devote his every waking hour to achieving his dubious goal of becoming “king of Lodz,” a city whose unsavory devotion to the profit motive is the urban counterpart to Simha Meir himself. He is a textile manufacturer whose darting eyes are always looking for an opportunity for gain, and who ceaselessly scrawls figures on any available surface—tablecloths, napkins—enraging his exquisite little wife Dinele, who detests him.
The conquest of Dinele, who becomes Diana as her husband becomes Max, partly explains the rivalry of the brothers. Dinele had hoped that the arranged marriage forced upon her by her wealthy Hasidic parents would yield her the romantic figure of Jacob Bunem as a husband rather than his obnoxious brother. Like many Polish girls, even from Hasidic households, Dinele had been sent to study at a secular Gymnasium, where she had been a great favorite of her Gentile friends, and she finds the ways of the Hasidic men, even her own father and brothers, boorish, degrading, and alarming. (I remember my own father telling me how this rift in the sensibilities of Jewish girls and boys, brought about by their very different educations, was creating societal difficulties in the Poland he had grown up in, the worldly girls turning up their noses at the relatively uncouth yeshiva boys their fathers chose for them. Ironically, it was precisely because, as girls, their education mattered so little that the comparatively affluent among them were shunted off to Gymnasia, the smattering of kultur meant to make them more marriageable.)
Since Simha Meir is known as a Talmudic prodigy, Dinele’s father is willing to pay a small fortune for the dowry, which is what allows Simha Meir to begin his seat-of-the-pants scramble to fulfill his ambitions. “All Lodz spoke of Simha Meir’s victory,” I. J. Singer writes, after a particularly stunning series of betrayals that removes many of Simha Meir’s obstacles to dominance. “ ‘Shrewd as they come . . . smart as salt in a wound. The guts of a pickpocket!’ people said. In Lodz this was the highest possible compliment.”
Both Lodz, the manufacturing and commercial center of Poland, and Simha Meir, its would-be king, present a face of capitalism so disfigured by cunning, greed, and ruthlessness that the reader has no trouble imagining the author as a young man running off to Russia to witness the glories of Bolshevism for himself. Even Simha Meir’s father-in-law, Haim Alter, a warm if weak man, an ardent Hasid who hires only Jewish workers in his factory, is, as an owner, an unrepentent exploiter. He claps his soft hands to the Hasidic tunes that his weavers sing as they work, but he pays them so little that the candles he makes them pay for out of pocket as they work their intolerably long hours represent a major drain on their resources. If anything, Haim Alter emerges as even more despicable than Simha Meir, owing to the smarmy pieties with which he coats his avarice. These are capitalists as an ardent communist might render them—portraits rendered in vitriol.
And yet the fallacious inferences of class ideology that Israel Joshua learned so well for himself in the Soviet Union writhe on the page. Simha Meir is not only played off against his pleasure-seeking twin brother, but also against the almost sympathetic character (high praise in I. J. Singer’ s fiction!) of Nissan, nicknamed in Lodz, “Nissan the Depraved.” The son of a fiercely uncompromising rabbi, with whom Simha Meir, too, had studied, Nissan rejects his father’s world with a vengeance.
Yes, he hated his father, and along with his father, he hated his holy books that spoke only of pain and were steeped in morals and melancholy; his Torah, so complex and convoluted that it defied all understanding; his whole Jewishness that oppressed the human soul and loaded it down with guilt and remorse. But most of all Nissan hated his father’s God, that cruel and vengeful being who demanded total obeisance, eternal service, mental and physical self-torture and privation, and the surrender of all choice and will.
Yet this apparent rejection proves to be merely a form of substitution, as Singer relentlessly hammers home. The father’s avenging righteousness, too pure for pity, has been transferred intact into the son, along with a life steeped in morals and melancholy, an ideology demanding “total obeisance, eternal service, mental and physical self-torture and privation, and the surrender of all choice and will.”
This business of choice and will is at the heart of this complex novel. A tyranny of determinism pushes the characters along, excising the possibility of autonomy, even at those moments when the characters seem to be most forcefully asserting themselves as free agents. This determinism issues both from innate character, announcing itself from the moment of birth—the twins emerge from the womb crying in voices that prophesize their contrasting personalities—and from the larger historical forces relentlessly at work. Simha Meir, in particular, drawing from inexhaustible reserves of ingenuity and drive, serves only to demonstrate, by the very indefatigability of his exertions, the awful fatality and futility of human efforts in a world so thoroughly deformed by injustice–which he is eager to turn to his advantage.
The grandeur of Singer’s deterministic designs leaves his characters little room for self-reflection, narrowing their inner lives into dimensionless spaces. What defeats them is not their internal uncertainties and paralyzing dualities—as in so many of I.B. Singer’s portraits of human futility—but rather the inflexible joining of their innate characters with their historical circumstances. In one brief passage, a little masterpiece of the twisty tergiversations of self-deception, Nissan comes close to rethinking his politics. A demonstration planned for May Day has gone disastrously wrong. The workers, drunk and dangerous, quickly transition from humiliating a hated factory overseer to targeting specifically Jewish factory owners, and from there to beating up random Jews, who are fellow workers, their comrades by class. What was meant to be a demonstration of proletarian solidarity turns into a full-fledged pogrom—heads bashed, women violated, with the Polish authorities cynically waiting it out until the rage is spent. Stunned by grief and guilt at having aroused passions whose outcome he had not foreseen, Nissan briefly considers whether his presuppositions might be faulty:
Maybe man was essentially evil. Maybe it wasn’t the fault of economic circumstances, as he had been taught, but the deficiencies of human character. . . . He drifted off and suffered terrible nightmares replete with blood and carnage. Behind it all resounded his landlord’s words: ‘It shall be forever so . . . .’ Ungroomed, fully dressed, he lay on his cot for a day and a night as if in a stupor. He was roused by the morning sun shining as brightly as it could through the polluted Lodz air and dingy windowpanes. He no longer felt the despair that had consumed him, the apathy and loss of purpose. Instead, there surged within him a will to live, to restore himself, to forge something positive out of the tragedy and disappointment. Like his pious father, whose faith in the Messiah nullified all contemporary suffering, Nissan reaffirmed his faith in the validity of his ideals and pushed aside all negative thought.
Though I.B Singer, in his later attempts to distinguish himself from all previous Yiddish writers, often derided their sentimentality, his brother’s work is so starkly unsentimental as to run the risk of contracting a deadly aesthetic chill. A masterful rendering of the sweep of history, animated by indignation at its senseless cruelties, is all well and good; but a novelist must also swoop down into the living vulnerabilities of his characters and tear out our hearts. A novelist knows what utopians often forget: that human tragedies, no matter their scope, are suffered one life at a time and their ultimate meaning is irreducibly singular.
In the case of I. J. Singer, one imagines that the stench of sentimentality called forth much the same disgust as the stench of religion, making him loath to pull too hard at his readers’ heartstrings. Fortunately, he is artist enough to overcome the near-fatal fastidiousness, and, interestingly, it is often in scenes that involve women characters that he closes the distance, stripping naked the specific throb of the specific wound. The brutal wedding night of Dinele brings us so close to the living vulnerability of this girl as to be almost unbearable. So, too, does the death of a girl at the barricades and the effect it has on her father, Tevye, nicknamed by the workers “Tevye The World Isn’t Lawless,” Nissan’s comrade in arms, the fiery revolutionary crumbling into a grief-stricken father.
If fatalism hangs heavily over all the action of The Brothers Ashkenazi, it hangs particularly heavily over the Jews. The promises of a purely secular world, one that would erase the difference between Jew and Gentile, no doubt seemed to I. J. Singer a lie so outrageous that it would be funny if it were not so painful. After the pogrom, the wives of the Jewish workers berate their battered husbands who had been inspired to strike by Nissan’s preachings, “Didn’t you know it always ends up with Jewish heads bleeding?” I. J. Singer’s adventures in the greater world led him to much the same opinion as the workers’ wives of Lodz. It is not religious backwardness or economic conditions or political theories that are ultimately to blame. It is human nature itself that damns us, in I. J. Singer’s eyes. The possibility that Nissan can only glance at in his utter despair—the corruption mixed with human nature—is Israel Joshua’s conclusion.
Though it might always end up with Jewish heads bleeding, I. J. Singer does not exclude Jews from his cynical reading of human nature. In one section of The Brothers Ashkenazi, he mercilessly portrays the Jews of Lodz succumbing to their own instincts for xenophobia, quickly assembling prejudices toward the Muscovite Jews who pour into their city after Czar Alexander III exiles them from their homes. These Moscow refugees are more sophisticated than the Polish Jews, and are dubbed “Litvaks,” meaning those who come from Lithuania, even though they are not from Lithuania. Apparently, in Lodz, “Litvak” is something of an insult. The two groups quickly get to work dredging up enough differences to support their mutual disapproval.
Traditional Lodz Jews were outraged. The elder Litvaks wore short gabardines, derbies, and fedoras. The younger were clean-shaven. They didn’t sway at prayer. They were more like gypsies than Jews. It was rumored that they could cast spells. When a Litvak moved into a house, all those who could afford to moved out. The Lodz men wouldn’t include a Litvak in a quorum. The Lodz women wouldn’t lend a pot to a Litvak neighbor lest she render it impure.
As Mark Twain famously said, “The Jews are human; that is the worst that anyone can say about them.” Israel Joshua Singer would have concurred.
Toward the end of The Family Moskat, Asa Heshel, accompanied by a communist girlfriend with whom he is cheating on his long-suffering wife, Hadassah, visits the manically expansive friend Abram Shapiro, who has served as something of a (failed) surrogate father to Asa Heshel, taking the young man under his wing as soon as he arrives in Warsaw, another rebellious yeshiva prodigy eager to stretch his talents beyond the Talmud. And now it is the eve of World War II. The murderers are circling, and the communist girlfriend has been offering some warmed-over propaganda, blaming everything on the capitalists. Abram, who has suffered a heart attack and is staring at death straight on, has no more patience for nonsense, and stops her cold. “Just the same as the anti-Semites put the blame for everything on the Jew, that’s the way you Leftists put all the blame for everything on the capitalists. There’s always got to be a sacrificial goat.” In reply, the girl asks, “Then, according to your opinion, who’s to blame for the present crisis?” I have always suspected that Abram’s answer echoes words that Isaac had heard spoken by his late older brother, an answer that is a more accurate, if encoded, testament to the fierce truthfulness of the man than the pious dedication at the front of the book: “Human nature. You can call a man capitalist, Bolshevik, Jew, goy, Tartar, Turk, anything you want, but the real truth is that man is a stinker.”
Bad art, just like bad religion, sins against us by offering us false consolations. In this regard, let it be said that I. J. Singer’s art is sinless.
The Brothers Ashkenazi will be re-issued by the Other Press this fall.
Rebecca Newberger Goldstein is the author, most recently, of 36 Arguments for the Existence of God: A Work of Fiction.
Stephen H. Legomsky, a professor of immigration law at Washington University School of Law in St. Louis, said judges appear to be more active only because they are responding to the aggressiveness of immigration officials.