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Rachmaninoff – artistic and human integrity

3rd Jul 2026

Rachmaninoff is one of my favourite composers. His music has followed me from my early years, through my life in Russia, Israel and Britain. His symphonies and concertos accompanied my nostalgic and lonely moments, heightened my senses, awakened my sensuality and imagination, and moved audiences as I sang his songs. I even created a show about his life, exploring his soul in exile.

But this blog is not about that.

In 1912, Rachmaninoff famously resigned from his position as vice-president of the Imperial Russian Musical Society in direct protest against antisemitic policies, after learning that a Jewish musician in an administrative role had been unjustly dismissed solely because of his religion. Rachmaninoff was widely known for his strong moral compass and lack of ethnic or religious prejudice.

By stepping down from such a prestigious position — one that answered directly to the Russian royal family — he took a profound professional risk to defend his Jewish colleague and stand against institutional discrimination.

To me, this makes him more than a composer. It makes him a moral symbol. A reminder that artistic integrity and human integrity cannot be separated.

And it leaves me asking a painful question: who will be my Rachmaninoff? Where are the Rachmaninoff’s of our time?

I want to believe they exist in today’s Britain. But the truth is, I don’t know.

For almost 1,000 days now, I have felt isolated, rejected by my industry, cancelled, and discriminated against by institutions, venues, and companies. Even those in the music world who are compassionate towards my situation often feel powerless to change it. Some suggest I renounce Israel. Some advise me to stay quiet. Some tell me to move…

And these are just some of the experiences close friends have shared with me: going to hospital afraid to reveal their name for fear of being recognised as Jewish or Israeli and harmed instead of healed. A rapper unable to say he is Jewish because he fears no one would want to work with him. A conductor telling me, “If you stop posting about Israel, I might consider hiring you.”

People afraid to wear the Star of David in public for fear of being spat on, beaten, or harassed. Being refused entry into a restaurant because they hear you speaking Hebrew or Yiddish. Venues refusing to book performances with Jewish themes, or rejecting artists simply for being Jewish or Israeli. Recording studios pretending to double-book after cancelling last minute. Venues hiding behind the guise of “safety concerns” when approached by Jewish or Israeli artists.

What does this tell us about our society? About democracy, equality, and fair treatment?

It tells me we are living in an environment where too many people calculate silence as safer than solidarity. And when silence becomes the norm, something fundamental begins to erode. It is like an abusive relationship: as long as the abused tolerates the abuse, the abuse continues. It grows stronger, bolder, more shameless. But the moment the abused stands up to the bully — and surrounds themselves with strong allies who refuse to look away — the bully begins to lose power, and their voice no longer dominates.

This is true in personal life, and it is true in society.

Hatred thrives when it is accommodated. Intimidation grows when good people retreat. And prejudice becomes normalised when institutions choose comfort over courage.

It breaks my heart to hear these stories. They are signs of a society willing to tolerate hatred, bow to intimidation, renounce its own values, and in doing so participate in the gaslighting of its Jewish minority.

And yet, despite everything I see and experience, for some reason I feel stronger in spirit. More unapologetic. More resilient. More determined.

I continue to learn new repertoire with the best coach from the Met. I run my own music summer festival. I teach. I coach women and men in leadership positions. I sing every day. I work to support the Jewish community in the diaspora. I fight antisemitism, with Israel in my heart.

The Jewish people are fortunate: we have Israel now. And despite our differences, we are strongest when we stop focusing on what divides us and put our energy into what unites us — why we are here, and what we are protecting.

I know there are Rachmaninoff’s out there. I still hope they will step forward from the deafening silence and speak openly against the hatred Jewish people are experiencing.

But until they do, I will be my own Rachmaninoff.

I will protect my integrity, my truth, and my community.

Link – I sing Rachmaninoff

Reflections on betrayal, the resurgence of antisemitism, and the fight for the light…

9th Jan 2026

As a young girl growing up in Leningrad, I often heard stories from my family and their friends about the Stalinist repressions. These stories were marked by fear, loss, and a sense of betrayal. I learned early that trust could be dangerous; in times of terror, neighbours, friends, and even colleagues could turn against you. A single accusation could lead to imprisonment or worse — you might never return.

One such story was that of my great-grandmother’s brother, a quiet, apolitical cobbler. One day, he was arrested on charges of treason and spying, despite having no political connections or ambitions. She was allowed to visit him a few times, and then, as was so often the case during Stalin’s abominable reign, he disappeared. No explanation. No closure. His fate remains a chilling reminder of the randomness of terror.

What I write here is not only a personal testimony but also a mirror reflecting the past and present, showing the terrifying continuity of fear, betrayal, and rising antisemitism. The parallels between Stalinist terror, Nazi persecution, and the current atmosphere facing Jews today are inescapable. In both past and present, one cannot trust neighbours, colleagues, or even institutions that once seemed safe.

Before leaving Russia, my great-grandmother said, “I have suffered enough. I want a better life for my grandchildren.” Her story is like many other Jewish stories around the world are intertwined and connected by what it means to survive — and to hope.

When I lived in Israel in the 1990s, I met a man who became a mentor and a grandfather figure to me: Manfred Vanson, the president of the B’nai B’rith Albert Einstein Lodge. In his early eighties when we first met, he was a lover of classical music and an extraordinarily intuitive pianist. His kindness, generosity, and wisdom were boundless, his belief in me unconditional. He became instrumental in my journey to becoming an opera singer in London and around the world. Born in Germany, he shared with me the painful memory of how, when the Nazis came to power, the people who once called him a friend turned their backs on him and his family. The coldness of betrayal was palpable. Friends, colleagues — people he and his family had trusted — suddenly became strangers. Manfred spoke of how people simply disappeared, with rumours circulating that they had boarded trains…

This is no longer a distant historical lesson; it is happening again, right now. I was in New York last autumn and visited the painfully simple, noble, moving memorial to the victims of the attacks on 9/11. Naturally the civilised world rallied round the USA at that time, offering support and solidarity. But the brutal massacre by Hamas on October 7^th 2023 brought about a very different public response; essentially victim-blaming, showing no empathy for the Jews, celebrating the death of Israelis, ignoring and questioning the legitimacy of those raped and mutilated. Supporters of the terrorist groups were allowed to march on the streets of London shouting antisemitic slogans and calling for the elimination of Israel. Historic antisemitic tropes that we thought gone 80 years ago, such as blood libel, have re-emerged. Jews have been attacked and murdered on streets, in synagogues, and on beaches.

Today, Jewish communities are living in mortal fear. Have you ever seen a Christian or Muslim school, church or mosque protected by armed guards day and night? I have only ever seen that outside Jewish schools and synagogues. Since October 7th, Jewish gatherings, even cultural ones such as public concerts, are often organized in secret, by invitation only.

In the world of music, where I once felt a certain measure of safety, I now see Jewish and non-Jewish friends and colleagues who speak up against antisemitism and/or against Hamas exposed to aggressive verbal attacks at workplaces and online. Friends, colleagues, and peers are now cancelling them with cold disregard — often with a smile, looking them straight in the eye. This betrayal cuts deeply.

Another man whose name I proudly associate with my journey is Henri (Hans) Moerel, the son of a Holocaust victim and a Holocaust survivor himself. Henri’s father, Salomon Moerel, was a physician who, under Nazi occupation, was forced to close his practice to “Aryan” patients. During the war, Salomon served as treasurer for the Dutch-Israelite Community of Tilburg, and through his connections, his family was temporarily spared from deportation. However, when the last Jews of Tilburg were rounded up in 1943, Salomon and his wife went into hiding, only to be betrayed and arrested in 1944. They were deported to Auschwitz, where they were murdered. Somehow Henri survived. He would never have children or a family and so left his money to a Foundation that supports music and musicians. In 2014, I was fortunate enough to benefit from “his” support in my Signum Classics album project ‘Surrender – Voices of Persephone’. It was my personal journey from darkness into light, exploring the three stages of womanhood, from innocence to maturity through operatic heroines. The support felt much more than simply financial: I felt as though I was being welcomed into Moerel’s family. Yet, extraordinarily, in 2025 I received a request from the Foundation to remove from my website any association with them, with threats of legal action.

This brings me to one of the most pernicious aspects of current antisemitism, the so-called ‘human rights activists’ who form the organization called BDS. BDS stands for Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions. Inspired by the noble struggle against South-African apartheid, it draws facile and erroneous comparisons between that regime and the current Israeli government, and uses that supposed moral authority to threaten organizations with dire consequences if they don’t cut ties with Jewish/ Israeli clients – it’s notable that many of their targets have had no actual connection to Israel.

Since October 7^th I have posted on social media to draw awareness to the humanitarian situation of the hostages, speaking out against Hamas for the sake of Palestinians, supporting Israel (though not necessarily its government) in its fight against terror, and condemning antisemitism wherever I see it. I feel an unshakeable right to speak my truth, to be proud of my complex heritage, and to condemn hate — wherever it comes from. Supporting Israel’s right to exist, opposing terrorism, and calling out antisemitism and supporting peace in the middle east is not controversial; it is a matter of moral clarity. I do not represent the Israeli government, I am not a politician, and yet I believe that my voice matters; in the sea of many voices against Israel and Jews, even my voice may make a difference. I believe in fighting for the light, in building from the ruins and being unapologetically vocal, proud and courageous.

This was, it seems, sufficient reason for BDS (or perhaps another similar organisation, I have no proof) to turn their searchlight on the Moerel Foundation, make the demand I mentioned above, and for them to cave in. Never would have I imagined that an organisation that uses the money left by a Holocaust survivor could try to airbrush a Jewish musician. It is deeply painful to realize that an organization built on Moerel’s legacy — a survivor who had lived through unimaginable horrors — would now contribute to the same culture of silencing Jewish voices. It is a betrayal on so many levels – of me as an artist, of Moerel as a benefactor, and of the inescapable fact of the Holocaust itself.

I am not alone in my fear. But I also know that I am not alone in my courage. Many around the world, Jewish and non-Jewish alike, are speaking up, resisting the normalization of antisemitism, and pushing back against the dangerous currents of hate masquerading as political discourse or “social justice.” Behind me stands the Jewish community, who, while maintaining a beautiful diversity of opinion and outlook, feel very strongly about the honour and the legacy of their Holocaust survivors and proud to protect their beloved Israel.

Manfred, the kind man who helped guide my career, never lost his belief in humanity. Despite the horrors he endured, he never stopped hoping for a better world. He used to say, “If only the Jews of the Holocaust could see what a magnificent country their children and grandchildren would build.” He meant – Israel. The only democratic, multi-faith society in the middle east. The only country where Jews can escape to when persecuted elsewhere in the world. I took great pride in knowing him and in being supported by his unwavering vision for a better future.

A walk in the woods: river, fear and ocean

27th Sep 2024

My favourite place to walk my dogs is Hadley Woods. As I enter, I feel as if I came into a temple. The trees above me create multiple domes and I can imagine a surrealistic painting of St. Paul’s Cathedral extended and mirrored above my head. I immediately relax, my senses sharpen and my lungs open. As I walk on tiny winding paths, observing the changes that occurred since yesterday my heart expands, I feel total bliss. I listen to the sounds of the woods, I look at the sky, the trees, fallen leaves, the earth and I try to notice and take in as much as I can.

As one would do in a temple, I pray, connect to God, my meditation witnessed by nature begins.

Today, my mind connects to the word ‘fear’ . I feel so safe in these woods, unaware of any dangers, connected to this place, trusting it. This is a completely irrational feeling, because in reality a woman is walking alone in the woods…what can go wrong? Should I be anticipating to experience something to go wrong?

Recently I read a poem by Khalil Gibran about a river trembling with fear before entering the sea. She has already made such a profound way flowing down from the peaks of the mountains. In her anticipation of a negative experience she is afraid of disappearing forever…

As a performing musician occasionally I connect to the fear of disappearing, being forgotten, and more recently – being cancelled because of my support for Israel and speaking up against antisemitism. My friends were warning me. Were they anticipating a negative experience?

As a woman, I often contemplate aging and how it affects my body, my looks. I question: what if I won’t be noticed any more, will I disappear? I already know the answer to these questions – Age is not counted in numbers, it is a feeling I have inside, a feeling of full acceptance and love wherever I am in my life.

As a mother, whose son will be leaving home soon to start his own life, I often contemplate on what it will mean in terms of our connection? What if I am not needed anymore? Another unknown on the list, which I can choose to anticipate to experience negatively or to live through it trustingly and see what happens.

I am not alone in these fears. My friends – musicians, parents among them, women of the same age – we talk about it, comfort and support each other. Balancing the fears with reality, hope and trusting our individual journeys. I am fortunate and grateful to have a tight group of friends, with whom I feel safe, thanks to their unconditional love, and a mutual fierce wish for me to be happy.

I come across a dead tree and connect to how quickly our minds are drawn towards possible negative, rather than possible positive scenarios first…

I examine further the ‘anticipating negativity’. I connect to the fear of disappearing, feeling small, when experiencing ridicule, shaming, disrespect, humiliation, bullying, gaslighting, as part of mental and emotional domestic abuse. I had a fair share of these experiences and in my current life I am observing it in different types of relationships around me. Partners, parents and children, co-workers, boss and employee, landlord and a tenant, a lodger and a landlord, a teenager and a parent, neighbours. Each individual situation, in their own experience equates in its magnitude to what is happening in the world right now.

Feeling all this sadness overwhelms me, I notice I start walking faster, as if trying to run away from something, I feel anxiety rising in my body and I have stopped noticing what is around me…I pause.

I find a bench under an oak tree and take a few deep breaths, slow down my racing mind, my fast-beating heart. Rain starts to fall gently on the leaves above me, the oak is protecting me. I take another breath and as I open my mouth to breath out – my grief comes out. Tears flood down my cheeks, I am sobbing. I start to feel a sense of relief, as if with each tear the pain is coming out. I learnt over the years to listen to my body and to take care of myself, by allowing my emotions to have an outlet. My favourite way is sharing it with another person or letting it out in the presence of nature. Writing this here, in my blog, on my website is my way to show a human, vulnerable side that enhances my Opera Diva persona.

I feel better, I am more present and here in the moment. It seems like the tears have cleared my vision. I notice the beauty around me even more acutely, it moves me deeply now. I become aware of my own inner beauty; it makes me feel fearless. I realise that the only ‘disappearing’ I need to be afraid of is losing myself…losing this awareness, this inner peace, this incredible connection to nature, to life, to people, to love, to gratitude, to this world, of which I am an important part of, to God in my heart.

I feel taller, my lungs are breathing easily, my heart has expanded and my mind is at peace. I want to sing now.

I don’t anticipate negative experiences. I am ready to face the unknown.

At the end of the poem the river realises that it needs to take a risk to enter the ocean, because only then the fear will disappear. Because it is not about disappearing into the ocean, it is about becoming the ocean…