April 17, 2024

In the passover haggadah, we read of the wicked son, who scornfully asks, “What is this worship to you?”

To you and not to him, the Haggadah stresses. This is what makes him wicked. He has separated himself from the community. 

The wicked sons of today, however, preface their scorn for other Jews with a proud declaration of Jewish identification. 

They are anti-Zionist. They accuse Israel of genocide and liken the IDF to Nazis. They oppose Israel’s right to exist and defend itself. And they want you to know that they do all this as Jews.

When Jewish director Jonathan Glazer framed his condemnation of Israel as a matter of Jewish principle, he became the poster child for this new archetype. There’s also actress Cynthia Nixon (“as the mother of Jewish children …”); Chuck Schumer (“I speak as a member of a community of Jewish Americans …”); Wallace Shawn (“Jews say ceasefire now!”); and many others.

What motivates this “as-a-Jew” Jew? 

One answer is that they want Israel to act according to their own personal sense of Jewish values. The irony, of course, is that these are the same people who think Israel needs less mixing of shul and state, not more.  Nevertheless, they think the religious sentiments of Jewish noncitizens should direct Israel’s security policy.

Another answer would be that they think their Jewishness confers credibility. To be a Jew defending Israel is to be suspect of tribal bias. To be a Jew condemning Israel is to be a whistleblower. 

Others might choose to pathologize the as-a-Jew Jew, diagnosing him as a troubled sufferer of internalized antisemitism.

The as-a-Jew Jew pairs condemnations of Israel with references to Jewish identity because, for him or her, the two things are one and the same. To be a good Jew is to condemn Israel. 

The truth is simpler than any of these explanations. The as-a-Jew Jew pairs condemnations of Israel with references to Jewish identity because, for him or her, the two things are one and the same. To be a good Jew is to condemn Israel. 

This was made abundantly clear by a recent Washington Post essay written by journalist Peter Maass titled, “I’m Jewish, and I’ve covered wars. I know war crimes when I see them.” 

The essay begins with a confession: Maass is a “war-crimes reporter” whose “family bankrolled a nation that’s committing war crimes.” 

“My ancestors were key funders of Jewish immigration to British-controlled Palestine,” he writes. Later, we learn, they also raised millions for the nascent state of Israel during the War of Independence in 1948.

In other words, his ancestors helped rescue and resettle Jews during the most deadly chapter of our history, and when the Arab League attempted to finish off any Jews that Hitler had missed, his ancestors raised money to help them defend themselves. 

Some might feel proud of such a heritage, but Maass identifies this as a source of psychic tension and Jewish guilt, a term which increasingly refers to the sense of innate shame that all Jews are supposed to feel for the fact of Israel’s existence.

As anti-Zionist Rabbi May Ye stated in an interview with the Jewish Women’s Archive, “Naming that I was Jewish, for me, meant recognizing in the same breath that there was blood on my hands.”  

“Millions of Jews in America feel connected to Israel’s creation,” Maass writes, by which he means that millions of Jews in America are stained by this original sin. That can’t be changed — but we can do penance. 

“What’s a Jew to do now?” Maass asks. The answer: Stand “against any nation that commits war crimes. Any.”

He italicizes “any” as if his Jewish principles are so strong that they must come to bear even on the Jewish state. In truth, it’s not a matter of “even Israel” but of “only Israel.” I’m sure there are other countries that Maass has singled out for criticism. But I sincerely doubt there are any other countries whose very existence he opposes as a matter of religious principle. 

After some more offensive drivel (“The victims of genocide — which Jews were in the Holocaust — are not gifted with the right to perpetrate one”) he arrives to what might be said to be the heart of his essay — and the key to understanding the as-a-Jew Jews. 

“My Jewish identity was always a bit vague,” he writes. “When I was growing up, we even had a Christmas tree.” Later in life, when he saw that opposing Israel was increasingly recognized as “an act of Jewish identity,” he realized that this “felt right for him too.” 

Unlike the wicked son of the Haggadah, this new Jewish archetype turns out to be neither snide nor mocking, but rather shamefaced and afraid of losing his last connection to the rich Jewish heritage of his ancestors — the very ones whose heroic legacy of Zionist activism has caused him so much angst.

Matthew Schultz is a Jewish Journal columnist and rabbinical student at Hebrew College. He is the author of the essay collection “What Came Before” (Tupelo, 2020) and lives in Boston and Jerusalem.  

Sadly, I am updating something I wrote in 2003, when Palestinian terrorists were targeting Israelis, as they still are today. I suggest saying it at the beginning of the Passover Seder:

Once again, during this year’s Seders, we will celebrate our joyous holiday of liberation with heavy hearts. Even as we revel in our freedom, some of our brothers and sisters in Israel, both Jewish and non-Jewish, are in pain. This year, as in previous years, we must reclaim our symbols, remember our losses, reaffirm our commitment to Israel, to the Jewish people, and to a true peace, which allows Israelis to live with no threat against their lives, from near or far.

Over the years, and in this particular evil surge since Oct. 7, when the Palestinians turned toward violence yet again, too many have died, too many have been injured, and 245 were kidnapped, with 133 still not free or unaccounted for. Far too many Seders will have empty chairs: Missing husbands, fathers, brothers, sons; missing wives, mothers, sisters, daughters. 

How agonizing is it to know that they will never come home! How agonizing is to imagine them celebrating the holiday of freedom in captivity, simply because they are Jewish!

The Seder’s power comes from its ritualization of memory. It is a primal, sensual, literal service. The Seder plate, evoking the mortar used in building with charoset, and the tears shed by the slaves with salt water, helps us visualize the trauma of slavery. The physical acts of reclining, of eating special foods, of standing to greet Elijah the prophet, help us feel the joy of Yetziat Mitzrayim, of leaving Egypt. And, in an affirmation of the importance of peoplehood, we mark this special moment, not as individuals but as a community.

In that spirit, we cannot proceed with business as usual during these challenging times. We must improvise a new ritual that marks our present pain, that illustrates our vital connection with Israel and Israelis today.

Let each of us, as we gather at our Seders, intrude on our own celebrations by leaving one setting untouched, by having one empty chair at our table, as many of us have had in previous years. Although this year, as we lament kidnapped brothers and sisters, and mourn murdered loved ones too, we might consider two empty chairs.

Let us take the time to learn the name of at least one victim murdered since last Passover, or one victim murdered years earlier, one Jew who cannot celebrate this year’s holiday, one family in mourning, one family with an empty seat at their table and a hole in their hearts.

Let us take a moment to reflect on our losses. And let us take the time to learn the name of at least one victim murdered since last Passover, or one victim murdered years earlier, one Jew who cannot celebrate this year’s holiday, one family in mourning, one family with an empty seat at their table and a hole in their hearts.

Let us call out the name of Koby Mandell, age 13, an American immigrant murdered in May, 2001, whose father, Rabbi Seth Mandell, noted the empty seat at his Shabbat table and shared the pain of watching other boys grow up, watching their voices deepen, their shoulders broaden, their gaits quicken, even as his son lay dead.

Let us call out the name of Hadar Goldin, a 23-year-old soldier killed by Hamas in August, 2014 but whose remains Hamas holds in a cruel assault on Hadar’s family and civilized norms.

Let us call out the names of Rabbi Eitam and Naama Henkin, ambushed in October, 2015, slaughtered in their car’s front seat as their four children sat in the back.

Let us call out the name of Ezra Schwartz, an 18-year-old Boston kid enjoying his yeshiva “gap” year, gunned down at a traffic stop.

Let us call out the name of Awad Darawshe, 23, an Israeli medic working at the Nova concert festival this Oct. 7, who refused to leave, telling friends, “I speak Arabic, I think I can manage.” Hamas terrorists killed him as he bandaged a wounded concert-goer.

Let us call out the names of Ben Mizrachi, 22, originally from Vancouver, and Itai Bausi, 22, friends simply attending the Nova concert. As good Zionists and trained Israelis, Ben, who moved to Israel and served as a combat medic, and Itai, who was a Duvdevan commando, plunged into action, trying to save others. Killed in a hail of bullets, both are now buried in their beloved kibbutz, Kvutzat Yavne.

Let us call out the names of Sgt. Eden Alon Levy 19, Cpt. Or Moses, 22, and Lt. Eder Ben-Simon, 20, three Home Front Command soldiers who died saving over 90 recruits when eight Hamas terrorists stormed their base from the beach.  

And let us think for a moment, about a 10-year-old Bedouin girl, whose house collapsed just days before Passover, injuring her badly, because the Islamic Republic of Iran unleashed a barrage of missiles against the Jewish State, demonstrating that the intense hate against Jews and anyone in Israel, crosses the 1,157 miles separating Tehran from Jerusalem. 

As we call out these names, let us commit to some action to embrace the victims’ families. Moreover, let us build a friendship with Israel and Israelis, which is not just about politics and not solely about mourning.

And as we call out these names, unlike our enemies, we don’t call for vengeance.

Instead, as we mourn, let us hope; as we remember the many lives lost during this crazy, pointless war, let us pray more intensely for a just and lasting peace, and for an end to the global scourge of terrorism afflicting Jews and non-Jews.

Professor Gil Troy, a Senior Fellow in Zionist Thought at the JPPI, the Jewish People Policy Institute, is an American presidential historian and the editor of the new three-volume set, “Theodor Herzl: Zionist.”