Dear Jay,
We don’t know each other, though I’ve known of you and your work for some time. Like many others, I recently read your “How I’m Losing My Love For Israel” in the Forward. Because you write so articulately, and because your column has attracted such widespread attention, I’m taking the liberty of responding.
The truth is, you and I agree about a lot. We’re both worried about some of what’s happening to Israeli society. We’re both tired of all the equivocating (though probably for different reasons). We’d both love some real leadership around here. We’d both like peace. And we’re both exhausted.
That exhaustion is the first reason you give for that fact that your “love [for Israel] is starting to wane.” But frankly, Jay, when you began to write about your exhaustion, I began to lose you. For, I have to confess, I don’t see the connection between exhaustion and losing love, or between exhaustion and committing oneself to what’s right and just.
I suspect that the Partisans were pretty exhausted, and they might even have debated some of their own tactics; but those were the least of their problems. Their main worry was that evil might triumph and transform their world into an uninhabitable hell, and their bone-aching fatigue notwithstanding, they committed their lives to making sure that human freedom survived those who wished to eradicate it.
The GI’s who slogged their way across Europe, up the cliffs of Normandy and across the frozen, bitter winters of that blood-soaked continent, were pretty exhausted, too, I’d imagine. Yes, many of them were kids, following their orders. And many of them were probably distraught that innocent Europeans were getting killed by the thousands in the process of saving the west. But many, I would also like to believe, knew that what they were fighting to preserve was infinitely more important than their own personal exhaustion or the tragic innocent losses that war always entails. Or even their own lives.
That clarity of purpose was, in the end, why we won, and why you and I live in democracies where we can write and say whatever we like. Had the Partisans and those GI’s given in to their fatigue, would you and I have the very liberties we so easily take for granted? I doubt it.
So, yes, we’re exhausted. And, if you’ll forgive me, I suspect that those of here are more exhausted than are those of you over there. Life here is conducted under a pervasive cloud of exhaustion that my most of American friends simply don’t comprehend. It’s the exhaustion that comes from coming home at the end of the day and finding on your door a diagram distributed by the Home Front Command showing you how many seconds you have to find shelter if a missile should be aimed your way. What do you do with that information? Ignore it? Or put it on the fridge as the sign instructs you to, so you can live with the looming warning every time you go to get a glass of OJ?
But that’s really the least of it. The real exhaustion here comes from sending a smart but relatively naïve nineteen-year-old daughter off to the army (in Intelligence, in this case) and have her begin to learn things about Israel’s enemies that she will never be able to discuss. The exhaustion comes from the hollow look of an unfathomable sadness in her eyes when she’s home, from her bewilderment at the evil of which human beings are capable – an awareness a young woman shouldn’t have at that age. And you grow exhausted because you want to take care of her, to protect her. But you can’t.
You can’t take care of your kid because this is Israel. Because she can’t tell you what she knows. She can’t talk to you about the human capacity for hatred that she now confronts every single day. And because this is Israel, you can’t take of her – because here things are reversed. She’s out there taking care of you. So you get into bed each night knowing that you’ve sacrificed a part of her innocence and her youth on the altar of your beliefs and ideology, and you wonder, each and every day, if what you once thought was a noble life choice might have been the most unfair thing you ever did. That, Jay, is more exhausting than I’d ever imagined it would be.
She’s out of the army now. But her brother’s not. And there are those days, only once every few months, when I’m either leaving the house in the morning to go to work or coming home at the end of the day, when on the sidewalk outside our building are two IDF officers, and it appears that they’re walking to our entrance. Then comes that split second moment of breath-stopped horror, the fear that they’re coming to our house, bearing tidings that would be wholly unbearable. It’s only happened three or four times, but it’s enough. They walk past the building, Jay, barely even nodding to me because they’re in the middle of a conversation, unaware that I’ve even noticed them. But I’m a mess. Drenched with sweat. Shaking slightly. Knowing that the rest of the day or the evening is going to be a utter waste of time.
And at moments like that, you want to call your kid. Not for anything in particular; just to tell him that you love him. That you miss him. That there really isn’t a moment when you’re not thinking about him, or praying that he’s OK.
But you can’t. Because he can’t use his phone. Because he’s busy. Because he’s out there protecting his parents. And his brother. And his sister, who used to protect him. Simply because when he was a very little boy, we decided we wanted to live here; and now he’s out there, doing this, year after relentless year. Loving Israel is exhausting, Jay, you’re right. But really, it’s way more exhausting here than it is over there.
So the real question isn’t whether or not we’re exhausted – lots of us are tired. (I keep this picture 
on my desktop for those moments when I feel exhausted … to remind myself that no matter how tired I am, there are people out there (this is not my kid) who are way more exhausted than I am.) The real question, I think, is not whether we’re exhausted, but rather what we do with our exhaustion. What makes all the difference is not our fatigue, but what keeps us going when our tank feels empty, when it feels like all that’s left is fumes.
Like you, Jay, I know that I was raised on an image of Israel that doesn’t really exist. Maybe it never did. Like you, there were open fields in Jerusalem that I used to love (for you, it was Churshat Ha-Yaraeach) that are now filled by large apartment buildings. But when we lived in the San Fernando Valley in Los Angeles, our older neighbors used to reminisce about the days when our neighborhood had been all orange groves. Did they stop loving America because fields got built on? I didn’t sense that. When we live in America and watch fields get built up, we sense progress. But when it’s a field in the Israel of our youth that’s now gone, we feel betrayed. What’s that about? Maybe it’s time we all moved beyond puppy love and ventured into something more mature, a sort of love that knows that the object of our love cannot, and should not, remain unchanged year after year, decade after decade.
Like you, Jay, I am concerned about some of the injustices that Israel commits. But unlike you, I could never be “more relaxed [in Berlin] than in Jerusalem.” You wrote very compellingly that you felt relieved that though there was political baggage in Berlin, “none of it was mine.”
But you know what I love about this place, Jay? I love that all the political baggage is mine. The Palestinians. The Israeli Arabs. (Some of) the Haredim. A collapsing educational system. Murders on the streets with a constancy we never used to have. A nation of roads and drivers that kills many more Israelis than our enemies do. That’s all my baggage.
But living here, my baggage is also the sight of young secular and religious Israelis going from restaurant to restaurant, inspecting not their kashrut, but how they treat their workers, and depending on what they find, giving them a “social kashrut” certificate. It’s the sight of many hundreds of people coming out to hear Rabbi Benny Lau on the Shabbat afternoon before Yom Kippur in a synagogue that couldn’t begin to accommodate them all, because, they knew, he would be the one guy in the city among all the derashot that afternoon who would tie whatever he was saying to a vision for a different kind of society, and call on them to do something about it. Living here is about spending a morning on Sukkot, going to the Church in Kiryat Yearim and joining a capacity crowd of Jews and Christians, largely secular but also some people wearing kippot, listening to the choir perform Bach motets on precisely the spot where the Ark of the Covenant once rested. It’s about the vision of people who, no matter what CNN will tell you, really can live with people who are different from them; it’s about a blending of the ancient past and the complicated present, of setting aside the equivocations of which you write so articulately for a beauty about which you say very little. Living here is about feeling the pulse of people who still have hope, who desperately want to build something different here, and who would never dream of saying aloud that they’ve given up.
Which is why, Jay, I can’t imagine leaving this place, and angry as I sometimes get, I could never write about losing my love for what we’re building here. Because I know that this is our last chance, and I know without a shred of doubt that the robust Jewish life that exists everywhere – in Manhattan as well as in Los Angeles, in London no less than in Johannesburg – exists because of Israel. Two generations ago, Jewish life in America wasn’t the Jewish life that you and I were raised on. It wasn’t nearly so secure after the war. And though 1948 made a bit of a difference, the secure and self-confident American Jewish life that you and I take for granted really emerged in 1967, when Jews around the world finally stood tall because they were no longer the objects of history, but were now the shapers of their own destiny.
Would that 1967 war prove to have a very complicated aftermath? Yes, it would – we’re still trying to figure it out. But it changed everything, Jay, for me and for you. For my neighbors and for yours. I can’t imagine a world in which I’d want to be alive in which this country didn’t exist; which is why I’m constitutionally incapable of saying that I’m losing my love for it.
That’s the real difference between us, Jay, and it’s the reason that your exhaustion leads you where it leads you, and mine leads me to dig in my heels. You write that as you notice your love starting to wane, you feel a “sadness that accompanies the end of any affair.”
That’s a fascinating metaphor. Because at the end of an affair, most people put their lives back together by telling themselves that despite the pain of the moment, there will be someone else. “A lot of fish in the ocean,” we told each other in college when relationships broke up, which was to say, “she’s not the only one out there, and she’s not the last one you’ll love.”
Which may have been true of our youthful relationships back then, but it’s not true of Israel. This is the only one. This is the last chance we get. We lose this, and the Jewish people heads into dark, uncharted territory that I don’t think you or I can begin to imagine. You yourself wrote that you “still awed by the tkuma, the resurrection and rebirth of my ancient people.”
You’re absolutely right. This country is the very foundation of the resurrection and rebirth of our ancient people. Given that, how dare we not love it, even with all its faults? Is love Israel exhausting? Of course it is. Does it require lots of equivocation? Yes, it does. Is it very unpopular in lots of circles? No question.
But it’s bigger than me. And it’s bigger than you. It matters more than all of us. So given that, I don’t think we have a right to exhaustion. Or, if exhaustion is inevitable, then the only thing I think we have a right to is a few hours of sleep, until we get up the next morning, roll up our sleeves and get to work again.
Because loving Israel isn’t like an affair. It’s a totally different thing. In a relationship, the person I love and I both matter – more or less equally, I guess. But not here. In this, I don’t matter. You don’t matter. Only justice matters. Only the future matters. Only the Jewish people’s survival matters. And without this place, there is no future, no Jewish people.
Given that, what’s the alternative to a deep and abiding love? I can’t think of one. So tonight, I’m going to roll up my sleeves and head off to shul. I’m going to put the news out of my mind, and for a few hours, I’m going to forget about the equivocation, about the fatigue. I’m going to hold on to my son, the one kid still left at home – and when the singing starts, I’m going to dance.
Shabbat Shalom, Jay, and Chag Same’ach.
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Tags: Army, culture, Israel, Israeli, life, Zionism
Dr. Daniel Gordis is Senior Vice President of the Shalem Center, where he is also a senior fellow. The author of numerous books on Jewish thought and currents in Israel...
The Jewish State must end, say its enemies, from intellectuals like Tony Judt to hate-filled demagogues like Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. Even average Israelis are wondering if they wouldn't be better off somewhere else. 
[...] – A raging debate between The Forward’s Jay Michaelson and the Shalem Center’s Daniel Gordis centers on the question of how we perceive Israel as a Jewish state and as our state. Michaelson [...]
10/25/09
Dear Rabbi Gordis:
Your response, “No Right to Exhaustion,” to Jay Michaelson’s recent column, “How I’m Losing My Love For Israel,” prompts me to contact you again.
First, some background: I had found certain of Rabbi Robert Gordis’ writings meaningful, and so you can imagine my pleasure when Rabbi Daniel Wolpe recommended from the bimah your book, If A Place Can Make You Cry: Dispatches From An Anxious State, which led me to follow your further periodic internet dispatches. I contacted you when Ehud Goldwasser and Eldad Regev (before we learned of their murders) and Gilad Shalit were captured, and Gilad’s welfare and, baruch hashem, safe return to his family are in my prayers and my thoughts.
The issues you and Jay Michaelson are engaging are important ones; I think that the attached op-ed piece by Daniel Sokatch, “Support for Israel comes in a multitude of voices,” is a thoughtful contribution to this discussion.
B’Shalom,
Morty Miller
Kissimmee, Florida
Op-Ed: Support for Israel comes in a multitude of voices
By Daniel Sokatch • October 15, 2009
SAN FRANCISCO (JTA) — The upcoming J Street conference will bring a thousand American and Israeli progressive thinkers and activists to Washington. Titled “Driving Change, Securing Peace,” the conference comes at a critical moment because dramatic as it may sound, we are in a battle for the future and soul of Israel. And despite the concerns of some in our community, Israel is strong enough to withstand free and fair debate about its most significant issues. Indeed, it is only through such debate that these issues will be resolved.
The J Street conference offers an opportunity to discuss the serious issues affecting Israel and the U.S.-Israel relationship, to air out the controversies and to have the conversations that are avoided too frequently by mainstream Jewish organizations. It also will facilitate the building of connections and synergies among the disparate pro-Israel, pro-peace and pro-democracy groups in Israel and the American Jewish community.
The timing is critical. President Obama’s commitment to restarting the peace process, and his understanding that Israel must change its de facto support for the settlement enterprise, has changed the political dynamic between Washington and Jerusalem.
Despite the overwhelming support of the majority of the American Jewish community for this approach and for President Obama in general, most Israelis do not trust this administration to advance Israel’s interests. The growing rift between the two communities does not bode well for Israel and its relationships here.
The pro-Israel, pro-peace, pro-democracy camp can serve as a bridge between the American Jewish and Israeli communities at a time when such a bridge is sorely needed.
As incoming CEO of the New Israel Fund, the leading organization committed to equality and democracy for all Israelis, I am alarmed not only by this rift but also by leaders in Israel and the American Jewish community who seem determined to repel all criticism or even thoughtful debate about the deepening tension between security and human rights imperatives in Israel.
Initiatives launched by the current Israeli government — including legislation that would require a McCarthyesque loyalty oath of all Israelis, and attempts to discredit and delegitimize the country’s human rights groups (of which we are a leading funder) — seem designed to erode civil society and further marginalize Israel’s Arab citizens.
Add to this the continuing Orthodox monopoly on religious practice and personal status issues, and the growing economic and educational gap between the haves and have-nots in Israeli society, and you have a recipe for potential disaster that should be of great concern to all of us who love and treasure Israel.
J Street, which has added an important new voice to the Washington policy equation on peace issues, understands that the “internal” Israeli issues that NIF works on are anything but. Israel’s record on social justice has a profound impact on its international standing. Countries that deny equality to their indigenous minorities sacrifice their moral standing in the eyes of the world and their own citizens.
A foreign minister who heads a party that consistently narrows the definition of citizenship and equal rights is properly regarded with suspicion by the leaders of other democracies, American and European. And a quasi-theocracy that uses one fervently Orthodox standard to define Jewishness – when Jewish identity is the raison d’etre for the state – raises hackles among the overwhelming majority of Americans and others who believe in the separation of religion and state.
Social justice and human rights issues in Israel also are crucially relevant here at home. The growing indifference of many American Jews, particularly young Jews, to Israel is directly related to their concerns over the occupation and the seeming indifference of some Israeli governments to basic democratic values.A Jewish community that voted overwhelmingly for President Obama; a community that proudly takes leadership positions in American progressive institutions and causes; a community whose record of concern for social justice and civil rights in the United States is second to none – this is not a community that will turn a blind eye to ultranationalism, extremism and intolerance in Israel.
Simply put, if American Jews cannot find a way to love Israel and help fix its flaws, if there is no role for the millions of Jews who want Israel to live up to the dreams of its founders, the American Jewish support that Israel depends upon economically and politically will continue to wane.
The New Israel Fund and the other progressive groups that will meet at the J Street conference are unabashedly pro-Israel, and we provide the means for American Jews to support Israel in ways consistent with their progressive values. We know there are too many voices on the left, both in the United States and worldwide, that are unquestionably hostile to Israel no matter what it does. We are the most obvious rebuke to the notion that support for Israel is a right-wing phenomenon, exemplified in the U.S. by evangelicals and neo-cons.
We are the bridge between a largely progressive American Jewish community and millions of Israelis seeking a way out of political stalemate and moral quandary. The quest for a humane, just and equitable Israel is the most pro-Israel act imaginable, and as we partner with J Street and other progressive organizations to amplify our voices, we expect that more and more, our voices will be heard.
(Daniel Sokatch, founding executive director of the Progressive Jewish Alliance, takes over as CEO of the New Israel Fund on Oct. 19.)
Dr. Gordis,
I just got to reading this now. A superb piece and although I am reading it a few months later, this type of work remains relevant for generations.
Kol hakavod!
Thank you
Very moving and well written. Thank you!!!
From an exhausted olah of 30 years, a mother of 4 sons (now reserve soldiers), a grandmother of 7 no doubt future defenders of the State of Israel, I salute and thank you for putting into words what I, and so many of us, feel deeply in our hearts and souls. The motivation behind our Aliyah from England was, ‘how can I sit comfortably at home whilst other mothers send their children off to fight for the continued existence of Israel, which we all then depend on and benefit from?’ The expression, ‘the buck stops here’, resonated until there was no choice but to listen to the voice within that stated clearly there was only one way to live with our consciences. We may have had reason to momentarily question our decision over the years, but we have never regretted it.
For all those who seek a bigger meaning to life, a feeling of belonging to and mattering to a part of the history of our people, then this is it.
Rabbi Gordis, please continue speaking so clearly for us.