‘It never even occurred to me that the Jews were a people.” I had just finished speaking on Shabbat morning at a traditional shul on Long Island. The talk had been about the nation-state and its roots in the Book of Genesis. Along the way, I’d made some comments about the changing nature of American Jewish life today, and the much-reduced role that peoplehood now plays in American Jews’ sense of self.

After services, someone told me that members of the liberal synagogue across the street had come to hear the talk. Ouch. I’d been rather direct about the dangers of liberal American Judaism’s diminishing the role of peoplehood in Jewish life, and worried that I might have offended the visitors.

But it turns out that they were more intrigued than anything else.

One woman said that the idea that the Jews were a people had never occurred to her. Another person remarked that peoplehood was an interesting idea, but warned that if Jews are a people, “… you’re going to cut 40% of my congregation out of the picture.”

Almost without our noticing, American Jewish life is being dramatically redefined. Especially among the young and the liberal, American Judaism is being recreated in the model of American Protestantism.

Christianity is not about peoplehood. “The Christian People” is a meaningless phrase. Judaism, like Protestantism, has become a faith system, a purely personal – and highly individual – means of constructing meaning in our world.

Judaism as a faith system, of course, is nothing new. But from time immemorial, we have also seen ourselves as a people. From the moment that Pharaoh refers to the Jews as “the people, the Children of Israel” (Exodus 1:9), it is clear even to our enemies that Abraham’s clan has morphed into a nation.

FOR MILLENNIA, rank-and-file Jews understood this. We cultivated bonds of mutual obligation, even when we profoundly disagreed, even when our faith wore thin. Kol Yisrael areivim zeh la-zeh, all Jews are responsible one for another, the tradition has long insisted.

And it actually worked. It was peoplehood that got American college students to wage a relentless battle to free Soviet Jews, with whom they had virtually nothing obvious in common.

It was due to peoplehood that IAF pilots flew converted cargo planes into an Ethiopian civil war in order to save people of a different race, a radically different faith system and virtually no shared history, bringing them to Israel in Operation Solomon.

And it is peoplehood that has continually led American Jews – despite their absolute disinterest in making aliya and their profound differences with Israel about conversion policy and the peace process – to support Israel both financially and politically.

This move away from peoplehood will continue as intermarriage becomes more common. Flourishing marriages, after all, are possible even when spouses disagree about important issues. And therefore, in the logic of young American Jews, there’s nothing terribly illogical about my choosing to spend my life with someone who’s not Jewish.

After all, on a host of issues, I have my opinions and she has hers. So, too, in religious life. I have my synagogue, she has her church. I have my holidays and she has hers. I believe my beliefs, and she has hers.

But peoplehood? If I’m a member of a people, then there’s actually a yawning chasm between us. And since she has no interest in becoming Jewish, it’s Judaism – and not she – that must change. Consciously or not, I sense that Judaism must be redefined – as a faith system, a personal odyssey, as “my Judaism,” to use a problematic phrase now popular among American Jews.

As anything but a people.

YET WITHOUT peoplehood at the core of American Jewish life, devotion to Israel becomes a choice, not an instinct, as it used to be. Young American Jews look with horror at the suffering of Palestinians, and decide that this conflict is simply not theirs.

One of the founders of Fast for Gaza (www.fastforgaza.net) wrote recently that “unlike previous generations, [today's young American Jews] don’t necessarily understand their Judaism in traditionally tribal terms anymore. … Rather, they are increasingly viewing their Jewishness against a larger, more universal global reality. In short, to be a Jew and a global citizen is what gives them ‘goose bumps.’”

This writer himself admits – the new, personal, less “tribal” (i.e., less peoplehood-oriented) Judaism is more animated by global citizenship than by a sense of Jewish responsibility. (That’s why they fast for Gazans, and not for Israelis under Gaza rocket fire or for Gilad Schalit, I assume.) From afar, it would seem that there is little that Israel and Israelis can do to influence this seismic shift.

But the dangers to Israel’s security as a result of this change are obvious. Something must be done.

One idea for starters: Recent studies show that a quick trip on Birthright has lasting implications for Jewish identification, and dramatically lowers intermarriage rates, for example. It’s because in Israel, Jews encounter peoplehood, with all its problems, but also with its triumphs.

It’s time to take the Birthright concept and expand it. Two-thirds of Canadian Jews and 75 percent of Australian and French Jews have been to Israel, but about two-thirds of American Jews have never even visited. That has to change.

Even in this economy, there is more than enough American Jewish money to get the vast majority of American Jews to Israel, to witness first-hand the power of peoplehood and, perhaps, to transform the dangerous, emerging American Jewish sense that attachment to other Jews and their state is a relic of the past.

We know what’s at stake. Those people who never even imagined that Jews are a people are the men and women who in a generation will be running the federations, many of America’s synagogues and national organizations. They will be setting communal agendas and disbursing American Jews’ money. Either they will argue our case on Capitol Hill, or no one will.

We would be fools to imagine that we do not need those American Jews at our side. But we’d be equally foolish to believe that they’ll care one whit about us, unless we can restore peoplehood to the central value it used to be.

[Photo credit for "The Secret":  Zion Ozeri, at www.zionozeri.com]

From a strategic perspective, freeing Gilad Shalit in exchange for hundreds of Palestinians makes no sense. The hundreds of prisoners now in Israeli prison were captured in dangerous operations, many of them at a cost of other Israeli casualties.

The outspoken opponents of the trade, who claim that the freed terrorists will return immediately to terrorist activity and may soon kill more Israelis, could well be right about that, too. So, too, are those who fear that paying such a high price for Sgt. Shalit will only induce Hamas and Hezbollah to try to capture more Israelis, both at home and abroad.

The Shalit case is also a reminder to all Israelis that that many of the once apparently inviolable red lines of Israeli foreign policy are now much more blurred. Despite Israel’s stated position that it will not negotiate with terrorists, Israel is clearly negotiating with Hamas.

But the real news is that contrary to what many expected, or feared, President Obama assumed positions virtually identical to those of Israel’s political center — namely, that the Palestinians must renounce violence and recognize Israel’s right to exist, while Israel must cease settlement building and permit a Palestinian state to arise. Now, Benjamin Netanyahu’s problem is that it’s difficult to distinguish between President Obama and Tzipi Livni. And in Israel’s recent elections, Livni and her Kadima party won more votes than anyone else.

But the major “problem” that the speech poses for Israel’s leaders is that Israelis are finally going to have to make painful decisions about our future. No longer will Israel’s fractious politics provide a curtain behind which to hide. Will we abide a Palestinian state, or are we committed to the present stalemate as a matter of principle? Are we committed to keeping the West Bank (for reasons of security, history or theology), or are we open to withdrawing if a genuine peace accord is possible? If all Jews will have to depart the West Bank, what about Arabs in Israel? For years, we’ve fudged on these painful questions; with President Obama, that may no longer be possible.

Once Israelis grow accustomed to the new tenor emanating from Washington, we may see today’s speech in a different light. Barack Obama may or may not bring peace to the Middle East, but he may well force clarity, and perhaps disciplined policy, on an Israeli society that has long desperately needed it.

Attached was a note from Munir K., who had written to my friend asking for information about his erstwhile home on Graetz.  Dr. K., now a physician in the States, had lived on Graetz Street in the 1930’s and 40’s, and was wondering what had happened to his house. (For the record, Dr. K. gave me explicit, written permission to use both his letter and his name any way I wished.  I’ve used only parts of the letter, and not his name, simply to ensure that he’s not harassed in any way. )

Who couldn’t easily understand his curiosity, even his longing?  I took a camera with me to work one day, snapped some shots of the neighborhood and of the house in question,  and emailed them to him.  I introduced myself, explaining how his email had ended up with me, answered his questions about the neighborhood today, and wished him well.

He answered me almost immediately, thanking me for the note and the pictures.  But then his tone changed.  “I was shocked and appalled,” he wrote, “to see that the Israeli government granted rights of ownership to another individual of my home of birth to which I own title (my father willed it to me) without any consideration of who the original and legal owners are. ”  Like many of us, he has powerful memories of his childhood home, and I’d just unwittingly undone them.  “I have always maintained an image of a one-story red-tiled quality home with a beautiful garden as the one my father built and in which I was raised for the first ten years of my life. That image is now shattered in view of the … email and the photos you sent.”

It was one of those “road to hell is paved with good intentions” moments.  Had I been in his shoes, I’d thought as I took the photos, I’d want someone to do for me what I was doing for him.  But memory is treacherous territory.  It can nourish us, giving us a sense of where we’ve come from, or, it can ossify us, rooting us somehow in worlds which (however tragically) no longer exist and are gone forever.  And the choice between those two stances makes all the difference.

Sixty years had passed, but Dr. K.’s memory remained sharp.  “I was born on 8/28/1937 at the Government Hospital where Dr. Gmelin was the obstetrician. … The house across that road from us was owned by family friends, the Maloufs, who rented to it to German Jewish refugees, the Jafet family. … The house immediately next door to us (to the west) was owned by the brother of Dr. Itayyim, who was a government chemist. They stayed in their house till the late fifties. The Itayyims and Maloufs all ended up in Lebanon.”

His was clearly no ordinary family.  “My mother always prepared a formal four o’clock tea – we learned that from the British. We had a live-in maid, and my father was the highest ranking Arab in the British Mandate government. He was the Assistant Director of Education for all Arab government schools.”  One can understand his longing for that world of honor and privilege.  Who hasn’t read compelling and heartbreaking narratives by Jews about the lives that they lost in the 1930’s and the 1940’s?  And if we can weep at the latter, surely we should feel enormous pain for his lost world, too.

But here’s the rub.  Even this week, awash in Yom Ha-Shoah on TV and in the papers, we all read and listened to the accounts of people who lost everything – not just homes, but families – to the Nazis and to Europe’s murderous venom and hatred.  There were tears.  Recollections of indescribable suffering.  But these were mostly memories in which people celebrated what they’ve created since: families rebuilt, traditions perpetuated, a state that emerged from the ashes.  And they are memories that have accepted, even with all the anguish, what is gone.

Not here.  Dr. K. ended his note:  “I have very strong feelings about Palestine and my Jerusalem home. … My son-in-law is Jewish, and I have willed my Jerusalem home to him and my daughter (his wife). Isn’t there a Jewish prayer that includes this statement: ‘If I ever forget thee O Jerusalem….’  That describes my feelings.  … Do stay in touch.  Munir K.”

I didn’t stay in touch, I confess, though I meant to.  I didn’t write because I don’t know how to relate to his kind of memory.  It’s the sort of memory that makes demands that cannot be accommodated and ultimately condemns us to conflict.  It’s a form of memory that makes inevitable more losses of the sort we’ll mourn on Yom HaZikaron.  What I would have wanted to say was that we live in a country that, for all its many faults, uses its abundance of memory primarily to propel us forward, to give us a sense of what we have to (re)build, of what cannot be recreated or returned but that still ought to animate us.

Dr. K.’s is a gentle form of a very different sort of memory.  It yearns to restore the status quo ante.  It’s the American version of the Lebanese refugee with the keys to his erstwhile home in his pocket, or much worse, the enemies just across our border who will not rest until all their former land has been restored to them.  That memory, we’ve learned, does not accommodate new realities.  It almost invariably leads to war.

In the next couple of days, though, I’m going to force myself to answer him.  It will be a useful exercise.  Especially this week, we could all use reminders of how powerful, necessary but also dangerous memory can be.  I’ll write him and explain as gently as I can, that one of the things I love about this country is not only about that we remember, but how, and why.

Mar. 26, 2009
Daniel Gordis , THE JERUSALEM POST

It’s not every day that your 15-year-old son decides that he wants to hang out with you, so when he makes the offer, you grab it. Amazingly, he suggested that we go to the Biblical Zoo. Not having been there since he was very young, I was happy to oblige.
Toward the end of our few hours there, we happened upon a relatively new exhibit, the collared peccary. With no offense intended, it’s neither especially attractive nor, to my untrained eye, a particularly interesting animal.

But this is Israel, and even the collared peccary was cause for pause. For on this sign, unlike any of the others in the zoo which display Hebrew, English and Arabic, this sign had Hebrew and Arabic in the center, English on the side, and under them all, a brief Yiddish exclamation – “Dos is nisht a chazir.” This is not a pig!! One can chuckle at a sign like that, and say “Only in Israel! Or you can ask yourself what that sign actually reveals about Israeli society.

It means, clearly, that there is a population of Israelis, sufficient in size to merit its own sign, that does not speak Hebrew, English or Arabic, but rather knows only Yiddish. And that population, were it to think that this was a pig, would be very upset. To ensure that no untoward reactions were elicited by this new non-pig, the zoo has assured the haredi population, which visits the zoo in large numbers, that in keeping with Jewish tradition, there are no pigs in this pen.

Am I over-interpreting this? Is the notion that the zoo might be worried what some (yes, only some) of these people would do if they thought a pig were in the zoo far-fetched? I don’t think so. Ask the residents of the Anglo community who live in and near Ramat Beit Shemesh Bet, many of them newly-arrived immigrants, about their aliya experience. Listen long enough, and you will hear of a small but extreme group of anti-Zionist, extremist haredim in that community who are literally terrorizing them.

YOU WILL HEAR the story of the person who received a note in his mailbox saying that a television was observed in his apartment, and that if it were not removed immediately, the writer “could not be responsible for what might happen to your wife and children.” Ask them about Yom Ha’atzmaut celebrations in their neighborhood, and they will tell you about the religious customs of this group on Independence Day. They wear sackcloth, they fast and they read Vayechal from the Torah, the portion most Jews read on days of mourning. They will tell you that if you slow down at a traffic circle, the chances are good that one of the small children from this group of extremists will be sent scurrying into traffic to break the Israeli flag off your car.

And the police? Yes, they’re there. They buffer between the two groups to make sure that there’s no trouble. (The police did, however, take down the Palestinian flags that these Jewish extremists had displayed.) Ask these immigrants, who chose to leave America and to raise their children in the Jewish state, about the Friday night not long ago shortly after a haredi mayor was elected there. They will tell you about three religious (but not haredi) teenage girls who were attacked on the street by this group. Two got away, but one was trapped, thrown to the ground, kicked and abused, and it was only when a teenage boy from her own community ran to help her that she was whisked away by a few of the haredi women, taken to their apartment, given clothes and a stroller to make her look haredi, and then accompanied as she was walked home and back to safety.

And the police? They literally said to a friend of mine there: “They all look the same to us. Do you have any idea what do to?” And when names were ultimately provided them, nothing happened. Why? Because at the end of the day, the police know that these Anglo immigrants will cower in fear and watch the values of their homes plummet as others, who are now hearing about this, choose Modi’in and Hashmonaim over their neighborhood. These immigrants will not resort to violence. Not so the extremists, who burn garbage bins and otherwise make it clear that it’s not worth tussling with them.

Someone I know in that community told me this week that they’ve now organized informal patrols to walk their teenage kids on Friday night, so that they can come and go without being molested. It sounds a bit like Europe, doesn’t it? Exactly the condition that Zionism was meant to change, only now it’s happening here, and now the perpetrators are “Jews” (I use the quotes advisedly).

THIS HAS BECOME the season of “loyalty-talk.” It started with the question of the loyalty of Israel’s Arabs to the state – a question that is legitimate, important and extremely complex. But ought we focus exclusively on that one population to the exclusion of others even more open about their objection to Zionism and Israel? What about those who make life miserable for Israeli Zionists? What about the obvious non-loyalty and hostility of some of Israel’s Jews?

Loyalty cuts both ways. Citizens, to be sure, can be expected to show a modicum of loyalty to the democratic state in which they live. The olim of Ramat Beit Shemesh gave up everything to come here, and now many live in fear. There are enemies of Israel who are terrorizing some of Zionism’s best. That’s what the Yiddish sign at the zoo hints at, and what the Ramat Beit Shemesh stories make abundantly clear. And the state is not protecting them.

Who’s failing the loyalty test now?

Almost ten years ago, shortly after we made aliyah, we were sitting with our three young children having dinner. One of the boys, still getting used to the idea that his life was going to be very different in Israel, looked up from his food, and asked out of nowhere, “Is Israel still going to have an army when I’m eighteen?”

He was scared. But we knew that he had no reason to be. “Yes, there’ll be an army,” we told him. “But there’s going to be peace by then. By the time you’re eighteen, everything’s going to be different. You’ll see.” I still remember how certain we were, and how relieved he looked.

A couple of weeks ago, on the Wednesday of Hanukkah, Hamas fired more than 60 mortars and rockets at Sederot and the western part of the Negev. The number was high, but the situation wasn’t new. The kids of Sederot have been getting shelled for eight years, with a dramatic increase since Israel got out of Gaza in 2005. The next day, Thursday, I was supposed to go to Sederot to visit my friend, Laura, to see some of the work she was doing on a new movie (about the music scene in Sederot, in which her husband is a leading figure). Despite the horrible weather, it was still a (Hanukkah) vacation day of sorts, and I asked the kids if any of them wanted to come with me. Talia, now in law school, had class and a massive amount of work. Micha, the only one still in high school, also had too much studying to do. But Avi, home from the army for a few days, said he’d happily come – he and I don’t get lots of hang-out time together anymore.

My tour-guide wife was out of town, guiding a family in the north. I figured that I should check with her before taking one of her kids and her only car to Sederot on a week like that. But she didn’t hesitate for a second. “Of course you should go,” she said. “Remember how we resented those people who wouldn’t come to Jerusalem when we were the ones under attack. Just drive safely, and be careful out there. I’ll be home for dinner.” I wasn’t quite sure how one was supposed to “be careful” in the car if rockets started falling out of the sky again, but I didn’t press the point.

A couple of hours later, Avi and I were in Sederot, at Laura’s house. The city seemed deserted, but it was hard to tell whether that was because of the previous day’s barrage of rockets, or the drenching rain that fell all day. The skies were quiet. But even on a day when rockets didn’t fall, it didn’t take long to see how utterly surreal life there has become.

Laura had a great, gigantic publicity poster for a classic movie on her living room wall. “Great poster,” I said to her. She told me a bit about the store in Jaffa where she’d bought it. “Is it an original?” I asked her. “They had originals,” she said, “and I was actually tempted to get one. But then I realized that it’s kind of absurd to buy anything of value to put in your house when you live in Sederot.” I tried to imagine what it would be like to live not wanting to have anything of value, knowing that your house could be obliterated almost without warning, because you happen to live within rocket range of a terrorist state that has no territorial dispute with you, but simply doesn’t recognize your right to exist, and never will.

After chatting for a while and seeing some of the movie-in-progress, we decided to go out to grab a bite for lunch. On the way to the café, Laura pointed out the neighbor’s house that’s now deserted because the owner moved away after a rocket hit it. She pointed to the traffic circle where a young boy had his leg blown off a few months ago in a different attack. And so on.

But what struck me more than anything on the way to lunch was the playground. Even in the pouring rain, it looked just like a regular playground, with jungle-gyms, swing sets and the like. There was even a colorful cement caterpillar – for the kids to climb on, I assumed. “See the caterpillar?” Laura asked me. “It’s hollow,” she said. “And see over there? Those are the openings. It’s really a bomb shelter. When the Color Red siren goes off [indicating an incoming kassam], the kids can run from the other parts of the playground into the caterpillar and wait there until the rocket hits.” (I asked Avi, sitting in the back, to take a quick picture, despite the rain.)

On the drive back, Avi and I got a chance to chat. It was absurd, we both knew. What Israel was (not) doing was beyond immoral. States have an obligation to protect their citizens, and we weren’t doing it. That, undoubtedly, was the sentiment behind the graffiti that we saw, claiming that Sederot should “secede” [the actual word, tellingly, was “disengage”] from the “pathetic state.”

Why should children living in uncontested Israeli territory grow up being taught that in the playground, when the siren goes off, you run into the caterpillar, and hope that the rocket doesn’t kill any of your friends who don’t make it in time? For how many years does a State have a right to ignore the citizens whose children, at the ages of eight and nine, are wetting their beds all over again, the sheer terror of the siren reducing their entire childhood to a years-long nightmare? For how many years dare Israel do nothing, as hundreds of families, terrified that the rockets will hit in the middle of the night, all sleep in the same room? What does it do to a family, and to marriages, when elementary and high school age children have been sleeping in their parents’ room on the floor for years?

How do you educate kids, my friend Ahrele (the principle of the high school in that region) once asked me, when the siren goes off (sometimes several times a day), and hundreds upon hundreds of kids cram the high school hallways desperate to get to a protected room but can’t move because all the passageways are jammed with students? And then, minutes later, when it’s over, how are they supposed to sit quietly and start thinking about their history class, or focus on geometry? “We didn’t finish the job,” Ahrele once said to me and Elisheva during a dinner at his home a couple of years ago, the sounds of exploding shells in the distance punctuating our conversation. “We didn’t show them that we intend to live here, no matter what. Really, when you think about it, this is just the latest battle in the War of Independence. It’s the battle for our right to have a place to live.”

He was right, of course. It was absurd for us to tell our kids that they wouldn’t go to war. Because if the War of Independence was about making it clear that we intend to stay and getting our enemies to acknowledge that we, too, have a right to a country and a normal life, then we’ve yet to win it.

So now, we have to try again. Some progress has been made. For thirty five years, Syria, Jordan and Egypt have all refrained from launching military attacks on Israel. Because they love us? Hardly. It’s just because they know that we will obliterate them if they do. Even when Israel bombed a nuclear-reactor deep inside Syria, Syria whined but did nothing. They’ve learned their lesson. Maybe Hezbollah did, too, the disasters of the 2006 Second Lebanon War notwithstanding. At this writing, at least, in the first hours of the ground war, they’re staying out of the present conflict. One hopes that they’re smart enough to keep that up.

But Hamas hasn’t yet learned, and because of that, our citizens have been suffering for years. So there is no choice but to fight this war, and to win it decisively.

On the Shabbat afternoon after our visit to Sederot, Avi’s girlfriend, who was at our house for lunch, suddenly got called back to her base. That was our first inkling that the war was starting. The next morning, Avi went back to the army, but to a different base. And by Sunday evening (the last night of Hanukkah), Talia, in the first semester of law school, struggling with a massive amount of school work and finally just getting the hang of it all, had been called back to her unit.

Quite frankly, I expected some tears when she told me that she’d been called up. How would she keep up with school? The vast majority of her classmates hadn’t been called up, so it wasn’t as if school would be cancelled. How would she ever catch up? What, I figured she’d want to know, was going to happen to her grades?

But when we called her downstairs to light Hanukkah candles for the final night, there weren’t any tears. What I saw on her face was steely-eyed stoicism. There was work to be done, she knew how to do it, and they needed her. So she was heading back to the army.

Suddenly, I remembered the night, long ago, when we’d told her and her brothers that the wars were all over, that peace was on its way. For a moment, I thought that I should apologize to her, tell her how much we didn’t know back then, that I was really, really sorry that this is how it is. That Elisheva and I didn’t have to go to college like this, and that I hoped that she wasn’t angry with us for having made the decisions that now mean she does.

But by the time I thought of saying something to her, the candles were already lit, and we were up to Maoz Tzur. We got to the last stanza, and I had my arms around her and together, we were all singing:

Chasof zero’a kodshekhah
Bare Your Holy arm and hasten the arrival of some salvation
Avenge the vengeance of your servant’s blood from the wicked nation
Ki archah lanu ha-yeshu’a
For real victory is taking far too long
And there is no end to the days of evil

There’s nothing new in this whole story, I was reminded. It’s what Jews have had to do for generations to stay alive, and it’s what the younger generation now is being asked to do, again.

So I didn’t apologize. When we were done, she went up to her room to look for the uniforms that she’d packed away someplace last year, assuming that after three years in the army, she wouldn’t be needing them anymore. As she climbed the stairs, I thought again of the caterpillar. And of the poster that had to be a replica because the house might come down. And of the kids still wetting their beds. And of towns that have known only terror for years after years.

Our kids don’t want an apology. They’d be appalled if one were forthcoming. Because they understand, perhaps better than we do, that this simply has to be done. What’s at stake is not Sederot. What’s at stake is the question of whether Jewish sovereignty means anything. One can – and should be saddened by the loss of life in Gaza these weeks, on both sides. But we dare not let caring about innocent human life among Palestinians, or even more understandably, our dread of what the casualties among the IDF may be, blur the urgency of what we need to do.

These weeks, with the question of whether or not Jewish sovereignty means anything at all, there is really only one question. As Joshua said to the angel (Joshua 5:13), “are you for us, or for our adversaries?” Do you believe that Jews in Sederot have a right to live without bomb-shelter caterpillars in their playgrounds? Do you think that parents in that whole part of the country have a right to sleep in their own room by themselves, and that nine year olds should no longer wet their beds, night after night, caught in nightmares that will probably hound them for life? Do you understand that the only point of having a Jewish state is that Jews should no longer live – and die – at the whim of those who hate us just because we exist? Do you get that Ahrele was right? That we’re still fighting for the simple right to have the world acknowledge that we have a right to be?

There’s only one question, and it is Joshua’s. Are you for us, or for our adversaries? There is no place for mealy-mouthed equivocation calling for an end to the “violence,” for that is nothing more than a euphemism for more years of Jewish kids living in dread and Jewish sovereignty meaning nothing.

Israel could well become a horribly tear-soaked country this week. But thankfully, we finally have leadership that seems to understand that what is at stake is the question of whether having a state changes anything at all about the existential condition of the Jews. At long last, they get it – if Jews still have to live in dread, for the mere sin of existing, then there’s really no point to any of this.

So pray for them. Whatever you believe, or don’t, pray for the thousands of kids out there doing what the Maccabees did – risking everything so the Jews can survive. And remember, no matter how devastating the pictures that will inevitably emerge from the theater of war, that it’s all about something really simple. We say it, all the time, in our national anthem:

Od lo avedah tikvateinu … liyot am chofshi be-artzeinu
We haven’t yet abandoned our hope … to be a free people in our land.

That’s really all we want.

More than that, we don’t need.
But for less than that, we’ll never, ever settle

For me, the tears that flowed in Chicago’s Grant Park that night were beyond moving. One need neither forgive nor forget Jesse Jackson’s abhorrent comments about Jews and Israel to be deeply stirred by the sight of him weeping during Obama’s speech.

Like Jews, African Americans have known more than their share of suffering, and to see them transcend yet another barrier moved many of us precisely because in some ways their story is akin to ours. The authors of Negro spirituals who sang of getting out of “Egypt land” understood that, perhaps before we did.

Ultimately, though, the power of that day stemmed from the sense that America had recovered its purpose, had found once again the capacity to be about something. Whether one locates America’s purpose in Jefferson’s claim that “all men are created equal,” or perhaps in some notion that all people ought to be granted “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” America has long been about raising high the glass ceiling too often created by race, religion or socioeconomic class, among others. On November 4, at least for African Americans, that ceiling was raised dramatically, or perhaps even shattered. Americans had good reason to be proud.

BUT I will confess to a bit of unease in the aftermath of the election. For both Israelis and many Americans tend to hold Israel accountable to American standards of liberal democracy, quality of life, city planning, civility and more. Israel may not always measure up, but America has become the de facto standard by which we judge ourselves and are judged by others. Eventually, therefore, someone is bound to ask, rhetorically and likely with little sympathy for the Jewish state: If the United States could remove race as a barrier to its highest office, ought not Israel do the same with ethnicity?

Could Israel ever elect an Israeli Arab as Prime Minister?

Like blacks in the US, Israel’s Arabs obviously deserve a fairer share of this society’s bounty than they have received. Per capita expenditures on infrastructure and education for Palestinian Israelis (as they prefer to be called) are too low, and bias against Israel’s Arab citizens can still be felt in far too many facets of Israeli society. There is much work to be done.

But the work to be done should not blind us to Israel’s very purpose. And Israel’s purpose is fundamentally different from that of the United States.

If, in a century, shifting demographics led Congress to become predominantly African-American, or Asian, or Hispanic, that change would simply be further indication of the flourishing of America’s vision, a sign that the scourge of racism had receded even further. It would be testament to the realization of America’s purpose, not its demise.

Not so, however, in Israel. For while Israel must absolutely strive to make race a non-issue (even among Jews, as with Ethiopians, for example) and to accord Israeli Arabs a significantly greater piece of the pie, we ought to be honest: If Israel one day were to have a Knesset in which a majority of the members were Arab, Israel will have failed in its purpose.

ISRAEL WAS established as the sole country in which the Jews could flourish as only a majority culture can, where they would shape the contours of their society and hone its collective narrative. The Balfour Declaration of 1917 spoke of the creation of a “national home for the Jewish people.” The British committed themselves to the creation of not one more democracy, or an experiment in post-ethnic multicultural coexistence (the Peel Commission of 1937 actually advocated moving populations to separate the Jews and the Arabs). Rather, the British advocated what it was that political Zionism had always sought: a state in which a people that had known countless horrors due to centuries of homelessness would finally have one place to call its own and in which to chart its own destiny.

That, quite simply, is incommensurate with a predominantly Arab Knesset or with a prime minister not committed first and foremost to Jewish flourishing.

Navigating this course will never be simple. To remain both Jewish and democratic, Israel will have to preserve a substantial Jewish demographic majority. That will require nuanced decision-making. Cultivating a nation-state that accords full civil rights to Israel’s Arabs even while it exists explicitly for the purpose of Jewish thriving will be a constant struggle. But it is a tension that Israelis, and the international community, will have to come to accept as both undeniable and inescapable.

Even as we admire America’s extraordinary accomplishment, we dare not allow ourselves to imagine that Israel ought to become a Middle-Eastern version of the United States. Two and a half centuries ago, Montesquieu observed that “each state has a purpose that is particular to it.” The United States has now taken one dramatic step toward fulfilling its original raison d’etre. Israel, though, has a very different purpose. Equality and civil rights must obviously be central pillars of this society, but they are not the “core business” for which this country was created. Israel’s central purpose is the healing, and flourishing, of the Jewish people. It is to those goals that Israeli society must be dedicated, and it will be by that standard that our success – or our failure – will ultimately be measured.

The writer is Senior Vice President of the Shalem Center in Jerusalem. His next book, Saving Israel: How the Jewish People Can Win a War that May Never End, will be published by Wiley in March.