By Howie Silbiger
The meeting stretched late into the August evening. Parents filled the chamber of the Beverly Hills Unified School District boardroom, some clutching notes, others just nerves. Outside, the boulevards of the city glowed with their familiar affluence, but inside, the arguments turned raw, tangled in history and fear.
On August 26, 2025, the five-member board of BHUSD voted on a resolution meant to counter antisemitism. It was not a narrow proposal. The text pledged to expand Holocaust education, officially recognize Jewish American Heritage Month, mark October 7 as a Day of Remembrance for the Hamas attacks, and adopt the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance definition of antisemitism. But one line overshadowed all the others: a commitment to display the Israeli flag on every campus each May.
The vote was narrow, three to two, and immediately polarizing. Trustee Sigalie Sabag, who supported the measure, delivered the most impassioned remarks. “This is a time right now that Jews are being killed and slaughtered on the street and threats are happening,” she said. “So enough, we need to stand up.” Russell Stuart, another yes vote, tried to defuse the politics. “The display of a flag during Jewish American Heritage Month is not a direct endorsement of the Israeli government,” he said. “It is a support for our Jewish students and the Jewish community.”
The symbolism mattered in Beverly Hills, where the Jewish community is among the largest in the country and where security guards at school entrances are already a familiar sight. Vice Mayor John Mirisch stood before the board and called the idea obvious. “This should be a no-brainer for a school district that represents one of the only Jewish-majority communities outside of Israel.”
Not everyone agreed. Board President Rachelle Marcus, who is Jewish, broke with her colleagues. “I can’t, in all good conscience, put something in front of the school that will add stress to our safety,” she said. “I just can’t do it.” Trustee Amanda Stern, also Jewish, voted no as well. “I love Israel,” she said plainly, “but I don’t think it belongs here.”
Outside groups quickly joined the fray. Hussam Ayloush, executive director of CAIR-LA, argued the resolution “conflates Jewish faith and identity with the political actions of a foreign government.” Jewish Voice for Peace–Los Angeles called the Israeli flag “a symbol of genocide” and insisted schools should find “better ways” to support Jewish students. The criticism suggested the measure risked alienating others and perhaps even endangering the very children it sought to protect.
A small but important detail was lost in much of the noise. The flags were never meant for flagpoles. The district clarified they would be displayed inside schools or on campuses during May, not raised alongside the Stars and Stripes and California’s bear. It was a symbolic gesture, limited to Jewish American Heritage Month. Still, once the image of Israeli flags on public-school poles entered the debate, the nuance disappeared.
Forty-eight hours later, it was over. Superintendent Alex Cherniss, citing his authority to act on urgent safety concerns, sent families a letter. “In light of heightened safety concerns around the displaying of flags on our campuses I have made the decision to take immediate action for the safety and security of our students,” he wrote. “Until further notice, no flags will be displayed on our campuses other than the flag of the United States of America and the flag of the State of California.”
The reversal shocked supporters. The resolution, debated for weeks and hailed as historic, had lasted barely two days. “When swastikas show up on my daughter’s phone, nobody calls it political,” one parent told reporters. “But when we try to show her that her community stands with her, suddenly it’s too political?”
The timing lent the clash added weight. The Anti-Defamation League had recently reported a 360 percent rise in antisemitic incidents in the three months following October 7, 2023, compared with the year before, and nearly 9,400 incidents nationwide in 2024, the highest ever recorded. For many in Beverly Hills, the flag resolution was a response to that wave. Its sudden collapse felt like another blow.
Others saw it differently. Critics praised the superintendent’s decision as a necessary check, preventing public schools from being pulled into geopolitical disputes. To them, Cherniss’s move re-established neutrality.
The truth of those two days is found in their brevity. For a moment, Beverly Hills schools had committed to a public, visible alignment with the Jewish state. For a moment, Jewish students saw their identity acknowledged in the most literal sense—by fabric on a wall. Then, almost instantly, the gesture was gone.
The scandal was not that the board dared to raise the Israeli flag. The scandal was that it folded so quickly, in a city that prides itself on its Jewish roots, wealth, and influence. In the end, Beverly Hills’ flag war was less about banners than about the precarious balance between symbolism and safety in an age of spiraling division.
