My article in last week’s Jerusalem Post, in which I suggested that the Golden Era for British Jewry was over and it was time for them to consider their future, seems to have hit a nerve.
I have had literally hundreds of responses, most of them agreeing with the sentiments expressed. Jews from the US, Canada, France, Belgium, and South Africa also said that the same phenomenon of ugly antisemitism was rife in their countries too.
But there were two responses in particular which made me sit up and think deeply about their implication.
The first was from a man, named Chaim in his late thirties in the UK who I have known from the day he was born, who has himself suffered significant verbal antisemitic abuse since the latest war broke out.
He agreed with me that it was time to leave Britain, but “Where should I go?” he asked, before continuing, “I’m really not sure about Israel, I’m not sure it’s for me – where else can I consider?”.
This response shook me a little because I couldn’t answer him.
The fact is, unpalatable as it is, nobody wants us.
This is the same phenomenon that occurred before and during the Second World War – many countries closed their doors to Jewish refugees fleeing the Nazis, while others had strict quotas and very harsh criteria to fulfill before being allowed in – and we know how that ended.
Only this time it is different, because this time, we have somewhere to go. We have “Home” – The State of Israel which passed the Hok Ha-Shvut (The Law of Return) on Theodore Herzl’s birthday, July 5, 1950.
The criteria applied were, with a delicious but tragic irony, those used by the Nazis: anyone with one or more Jewish grandparents and their spouses were given the right to come to Israel and acquire Israeli citizenship.
From that moment on, we, the Jews of the world knew, and know now, that we have a Home.
As Robert Frost, the American Poet, wrote as early as 1914: “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” So, Chaim, my dear friend, where should you go? Come Home to the one place that unequivocally welcomes Jews.
AND THIS brings me to the next response which stopped me in my tracks. This was from the very intelligent and insightful editor of this column.
The privilege and struggle of being a Jew
She complimented me on my article (which was nice!) and then asked, “Why is it so hard to be a Jew?”
Of course, she was not the first Jew in the world to express this sentiment. This millennia-old question has plagued our people since the first Jew trod the earth.
The term Ivri or Hebrew, attributed to our Patriarch Avraham, originates from the idea that he stood apart from the world, recognizing the One God amid widespread polytheism.
From then on, it has been the Jew’s destiny to be “different” from the rest of the world.
And that is the answer to the question – it is hard to be a Jew because we are different and being different is a hardship, a burden, an opportunity for others to treat us as scapegoats for the world’s problems.
When you stand out from the crowd, you are under intense scrutiny and your every action is pored over and analyzed. When you are different as a kid, you are the subject of bullying and teasing, or worse.
As an adolescent, If you don’t fit in with the milieu, you may be ostracized, and excluded. In adult life, being different can lead to fewer opportunities at work or in social scenarios.
All of these negative feelings and connotations around being different have applied to the Jews for over 2,000 years. Jews have, at various times in history, tried not to be different, to blend in, to assimilate, only to have the door of acceptance slammed in their faces, because at the end of the day, you’re a Jew, like it or not.
The assimilated, cultured German Jews ended up in the same place as the conspicuously distinct shtetl Jews from Poland and Lithuania. A Jew is a Jew, regardless of the attempts to blend in. So it has been our lot throughout history to be different and, yes, to suffer for it.
But that’s not the whole story: While being different can be tough, it is also a privilege, a responsibility, a character-building, strength-inducing life experience, which gives deep meaning to existence on this earth.
When you are different for a reason – because you have a faith, a history, a people to be part of, and a rich culture to cling to, then it is no longer being different – it is being unique.
The more the world rails against us, the more we are seen as different, and the more our resolve to be special surfaces.
Never is that clearer than today.
DESPITE THE very welcome support from the leaders of many Western countries, we know full well that we are different. As Jews, we are seen as different, and as Israelis, we are held to different standards. But that shouldn’t faze us, it should spur us on, encourage us, and strengthen our resolve to continue to be different and to be true to that very difference that defines us.
We are part of a nation stretching back to that very first Ivri, Avraham, the contrarian Hebrew. He stood alone, unwavering in his convictions, and his legacy is one of courage and determination.
That history, replete with its spectacular successes and heartbreaking failures; its times of profound joy and its times of unimaginable tragedy; that knowledge that, “YES! We are different – and proud of it!” This is the response to the question.
Yes, sometimes it can be hard to be a Jew, but always it is a privilege. We must never lose sight of that, because if we do, the world will remind us pretty quickly.
The writer, a rabbi, lives in Ramat Poleg, Netanya, and is a co-founder of Techelet – Inspiring Judaism.