Yes, it’s Our Homeland

In May, Talia Werber and Steven Goldstein, rabbinical students at the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College, withdrew from the school. They explained they couldn’t tolerate its anti-Zionist atmosphere; of 11 graduating Rabbis, “at least half identify as anti-Zionists or have been participating in anti-Israel protests and actions.” They felt deeply uncomfortable in an institution filled with “loud anti-Zionist sentiment among the student body and… (a) culture of silence and intimidation that dissuaded students from expressing any positive connection with Israel.”

Jewish Anti-Zionism is having a moment. Intellectuals tout the possibilities of “Diasporism,” a Jewish identity rooted in exile. A candidate for the Mayor of New York declared at his son’s bris that “we are thrilled to pronounce you a Jew without the Right of Return.” Anti-Zionist Jewish students are put front and center at campus protests calling for the end of the State of Israel. And at one small Rabbinical School, Zionist students no longer feel at home.

Anti-Zionism is not new. In the 19th and early 20th century, The Reform movement was deeply opposed to Zionism. The Pittsburgh Platform of 1885, which formulated the principles of the American Reform movement, asserted that “We consider ourselves no longer a nation, but a religious community, and therefore expect neither a return to Palestine….nor the restoration of any of the laws concerning the Jewish state.”

Early Reformers were deeply concerned with patriotism. After much debate, Jews in Western European countries received equal rights in the mid-19th century. Opponents of Jewish Emancipation argued the Jews were not loyal to their host countries; because of this, many acculturated Jews bent over backwards to prove their patriotism. To be a Zionist then conflicted directly with their desire to be a Frenchman or a German. (Today as well, to be a Zionist conflicts with being a “true” progressive.) They hoped they could simply blend in, and be a Jew at home and a German in the street. But then history happened.

By the early 20th century the world had changed. The turn of the century saw the Dreyfus Trial, The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, the Kishinev Massacre, the Beilus Blood Libel, and the rise of antisemitic parties. In hindsight, all of this antisemitism foreshadowed the Holocaust; and one assimilated Jew, Theodore Herzl, did see the handwriting on the wall. He recognized that it was time to seek a safe haven for the Jews.

There is a bitter joke told about a Viennese Jew, who in 1938, goes to a travel agency to buy a steamship ticket. “Where to?” the clerk asks. “Let me look at your globe, please.” Every time the Jew suggests a country, the clerk rejects it. “This one requires visa, … this one is not admitting any more Jews, … the waiting list to get in there is ten years.” Finally, the Jew looks up and says: “Pardon me, do you have another globe?”.

Jews desperately needed a safe haven in the 1930’s, but tragically did not have one.

Israel is now that safe haven. Over the years, she has received Jews escaping from Iraq, Yemen, Syria, Ethiopia, and the Soviet Union. Even today, for Jews in France, Ukraine, Russia, and Venezuela, Israel acts as a security blanket for vulnerable Jewish communities.

However, some young American Jews know little about this history; and because they live in an open, accepting, multicultural society, they find it easy to think that Israel is an anachronism. In the 1940’s and 1950’s, the argument that Israel is critical to Jewish survival was obvious; but that same argument has undermined Zionism in the 21st century. It may be time for a different story to be told.

We have that story. First, Israel is the holy land of Judaism. The vast majority of the Tanakh is about Israel; Abraham’s initial calling from God is to go to Israel. Half of the Mishnah is devoted to laws that are only observed in Israel. Medieval mystics write about the unique spiritual nature of Israel, a land where one is closest to God. The Ramban writes that the mitzvot are designed to be performed in the holy land; everywhere else, mitzvah performance is merely a rehearsal.

Israel is also a homeland. When Shmuel Yosef Agnon received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1966, he made the following remark in his speech:

“As a result of the historic catastrophe in which Titus of Rome destroyed Jerusalem and Israel was exiled from its land, I was born in one of the cities of the Exile. But always I regarded myself as one who was born in Jerusalem.”

This homeland is filled with Jewish history, with a new archeological discovery every day. It is filled with Jewish culture and is the place where the Jewish language, Hebrew, is spoken. It is a place where Jews feel immediately at home, and will most likely get advice from complete strangers.

Israel is a haven, a homeland, and a holy land for the Jewish people. But what makes the story of Israel compelling is something else completely.

During discussions over the possibility of a Jewish homeland under the British mandate, a member of the House of Lords asked Chaim Weizmann: wouldn’t Uganda be just as good? Weizman responded:

“That is like my asking you why you drove twenty miles to visit your mother last Sunday when there are so many old ladies living on your street.”

Love connects Jews to Israel. Other places might look the same, but as far as the heart goes, are not the same at all.

Centuries before the phrase “settler colonialism” was invented, Jews would kiss the ground upon entering the land of Israel. Rabbi Chiya bar Gamda would joyfully roll in the dust, and Rabbi Abba would kiss the stones on the Acre shore; in more recent times, visitors arriving by plane would bend down to kiss the tarmac.

Israel and the Jews share a love story that is 3,800 years old. Like all loves, it is an affair of the heart; it has both a hundred good reasons and none whatsoever at the same time. That is why brilliant rabbis would swoon like love-struck teenagers when they saw this land.

Some of the most beautiful expressions of this love come from the pen of the medieval philosopher and poet Yehuda Halevi. In one poem he wrote:

My heart is in the east, and I in the uttermost west–

….

In my eyes it is a simple thing to leave all the blessings of Spain – for

It is more precious in my eyes to behold the dust of the desolate sanctuary.

And so he did. As a 65-year-old man, Halevi made the journey from Spain to the land of Israel despite all the challenges and dangers of 12th-century long-distance travel.

Yehuda Halevi was in love. And so are many young diaspora Jews today.

Young anti-Zionist Jews might grab headlines; after all, the storyline fits the preconception of many journalists. But there is a profound love for Israel in the Jewish community, even among its youngest members. Nefesh B’Nefesh, which helps North American Jews make aliyah, had a 120% increase in applications after October 7th! The same has been true in other countries around the world. Despite the increased danger, young Jews around the world feel exactly like Yehuda Halevi.

Audrey, a young woman from Switzerland who was studying at an Israeli university, explained her decision to stay in Israel and make aliyah this way:

When the war broke out people asked me if I was sure I wanted to stay here. Especially since the war I am even more certain. I feel my special connection to the country, and with everything that is happening now, I just can’t go back to Switzerland. I feel at home here.”

Yes, it’s our home, and we love it. That’s why we are Zionists.

Rabbi Chaim Steinmetz is the Senior Rabbi of Congregation Kehilath Jeshurun in New York.