Red, Blue and White

July Fourth long made me uncomfortable with my Jewish heritage and its connection to Israel. I wondered how the notions of Zionism and Jewish solidarity I was raised with fit in with my American identity.

Ever since childhood, I have revered the ideals of freedom, justice and equality expressed in our Declaration of Independence. Although we are far from the “more perfect union” envisioned by the Constitution, seeing the Stars and Stripes flapping in the wind evokes the sense of playing a role in Lincoln’s “last best hope of earth.”

Israel’s flag also stirs my emotions. Earlier this year while visiting my wife’s Israeli family, I saw thousands of people waving blue-and-white flags while protesting their far-right government. The crowd’s love of country was palpable. The sea of flags elicited pride in the vision of  Zionism that the flag wavers and I shared. That vision, of a nation promising “complete equality of social and political rights to all its inhabitants irrespective of religion, sex or race,” was articulated in giant copies of Israel’s Declaration of Independence that protestors signed during the rallies.

I visit my Israeli relatives often. Once a group of cousins, knowing I had written opinion pieces about Israel, approached me over lunch.

“When you go back home you have to tell them what we face here,” one cousin insisted.

“Tell them about how I work in hospitals with Arab doctors,” another said.

“Tell them about the terrorism,” someone added.

I mumbled something about trying to be an even-handed reporter. They were active in organizations that criticized their government’s restrictive refugee policy and campaigned for politicians that opposed the West Bank settlements.  Yet they were desperate to have their country bathed in a positive light.

My cousins’ sensitivity towards portrayals of their country reflects a sense of unity that comes with being a Jew in the Jewish State. America has no equivalent bonding agent.

As Michael Walzer notes in his book “The Struggle For A Decent Politics,” American patriotism revolves around universal ideals of democracy and justice, which has encouraged us to export those ideals abroad. But our notion of nationalism revolves around multiculturalism — the hyperawareness of race, religion, ethnicity, and sexual orientationthat define our identities.

Regarding myself as a Jewish-American has allowed me to find my space within the American landscape. I regularly attend a Conservative synagogue, send my daughter to a Jewish day school, and am active in Zionist organizations. Expressing my religious heritage corresponds with my bedrock belief that respect for minorities is an ethical imperative, necessary to complete the unfinished American project.

My connection to Israel rests both on family and the tribalism that ties me to the Promised Land. I also grew up with the belief that Jews have a natural connection with each other. But a shared religious heritage is no guarantee of a shared worldview.

Most of my Israeli relatives speak excellent English and echo my disgust with the occupation. But our commonality has limits.

One time I debated a cousin about Israel’s bombing of Gaza. I saw it as unduly harsh, while he found it justifiable.

“We see ourselves as being on the defensive,” he explained, placing his hands as if to shield his face. “We are always on alert.”

The sense of danger my relatives live with was encapsulated for me during a video-call. Hamas was attacking Israel.

 “We hear missiles buzzing over our house,” my sister-in-law said.

“We haven’t slept in days,” my brother-in-law added.

They were visibly exhausted and uncharacteristically frazzled. This, I realized, is what it is like to be Israeli.

My younger relatives are proud of their IDF service. Their sense that Israel is under siege acts as a glue that I have no reference for. Despite my unfamiliarity with living in a society intertwined by religion and military service, Israel has added a previously untapped dimension to my religious identity.

In Jerusalem or Tel Aviv I feel a lightness that is unobtainable in New York. I shed the weight of America’s historical complexities and ethnic rivalries, and exist just as a Jew.

In Jerusalem or Tel Aviv I feel a lightness that is unobtainable in New York. I shed the weight of America’s historical complexities and ethnic rivalries, and exist just as a Jew.

Yet if I were to become an Israeli, rather than just a Jewish visitor, I would have to navigate a social code where religion, ethnicity, history and national identity play a far different role than they do in the United States.

In America I know my place in the cultural landscape. I can translate the relationships between races, and political loyalties into a language I speak. None of this translation is possible for me in Israel.

At my core I am an American, specifically a Jewish-American. By  encouraging my hyphenated identity, my country has helped facilitate my attachment to Zionism, even as I have come to realize how much I differ from Israelis.

Ben Krull’s work has appeared in The New York Times, Washington Post, New York Daily News and other publications.