Every night, often after crying himself to sleep, he dreams a sweet dream. His eldest son, brutally torn away from him by the evil forces, finally returns to his outstretched arms.
It has been four years since that bitter day. His life would never be the same. His young beerd whitened by worry and his forehead creased by pain. On that day at least ten years were added to his appearance. Who could have been so cruel to rob a father of his precious son?! Who could be keeping them apart for all these years?!
Not far away a young man is lying. In his disturbed sleep sweet visions are forming. He sees himself running towards a bereaved father. Evil forces had torn them apart. Now what he wants more than ever is to reunite.
“Come to me my child,” the dad’s shaky voice calls out, “for I have missed you terribly. I cannot bear the thought of you being alone!”
“Papa I miss you too,” the child cries back, “why don’t you come here to me?”
“My dear son, I would if I could, but how can I leave what I believe?”
“Father dear! Come see what I see; be here and be free!”
“Yitzchok! My precious Yitzchok! Why won’t you see what it means for me? I believe cuz I know and I know cuz I see. You have gone away and fallen astray: save your soul. Don’t hesitate!”
“Dad, how I love you! It is sweet where I stand. The sun shines and the stars smile! If only you could join me and we’ll live out life together! Free yourself: your chains have long been broken! Throw off your yoke: your master is long dead!”
“Neath you the fires are burning! You’re going under! Is this how I taught you? Is this why I had you?”
“Papa dear! You taught me to seek and I sought. Remember when you told me that for the truth one must die? Well, for the truth I lost you and death is not worse. I heeded your words; now when will you?”
“Yitzchok my eldest, I’d die for my faith. But you have let go and that pains me so! Woe to my eyes who have seen you this way! Why must my ears be working this day? You’ve abandoned your God and you refuse to come back; now you want me to leave the right track?!”
“Sweet dad! You are stuck in old ways and they are holding you back. You are better than this. The old times have passed; new days are upon us. Let go of the superstitious; don’t believe in the fictitious! Your inquisitive mind could have advanced the world: why are you wasting your talent on old myths and old laws?”
“My son listen to me. The festival is upon us; please make your dad proud. Drink some wine eat some matza. It won’t harm you if it won’t help!”
“I’ll do that for you, papa; you exist unlike God. I know that this means everything to you. But how can I be festive when you are still enslaved? If only I can free you from your own Egypt: your religion!”
“Oh, and here’s more. Promise this to me, that no bread or any crumbs will enter your lips on these eight days. Here! Take some food that your mum has prepared. She’ll have you eat that lest your soul gets cut off!”
My eyes are wet, a cheeky tear rolls down. I’m angry and heartened. I feel loved and rejected. Won’t reason redeem us after so long in darkness? How much more ignorance and folly must we inherit before we are free at last?! Why won’t they see, they won’t listen? They won’t read, they won’t learn?
These shackles should have been removed long ago! No gods, no angels, no heaven no hell! Just people and nature, just love and family.
Oh how I dream! Dad won’t you join me? Make mum stop her cooking; please you stop your praying. Just try it! Liberate your mind! Discover the world! Have no fear!
And I am angry. Angry at those who kept this lie going for this long. Angry at those who refused to see, to change, to adapt, to learn. Angry at the senseless stubbornness that caused all this pain; that tore us apart; that brainwashed our minds. Angry at this heavy sack of food that I’ll be carrying home. Food, prepared with love and fear and pain. Food that need not be eaten. Food that need not be prepared. Special food; holy food; food of superstition. Food of slavery, of bondage: bread of austerity and pain.
And my dad prays for me and I hope for him. My mum cries for me and I cry for her. My siblings miss me and I miss them more. They mourn me, so do I them.
My dreams are still sweet, so are theirs: our incompatible dreams.
(Note: I took minor artistic licences in the telling of my story. As it was intended as story sharing with moral lessons, I did not put emphasis on some of the nuances and complexities in charedi beliefs. All of the details are correct, but for a more objective picture some nuances need to be taken into consideration)
Tonight’s theme is “transitioning to one’s authentic self”. I am not sure what an “authentic self” is and I definitely haven’t found mine yet. But I can tell you about my transition: a transition from chassidic yeshiva boy, to secular university student.
My name is Izzy Posen. I am a second year physics and philosophy student at the University of Bristol and the founder and president of the Bristol Free Speech Society. As you can probably tell from the fact that I am speaking at a Liberal synagogue, I am not a chassidic ultra-orthodox Jew. But that is exactly how I spent the first twenty years of my life. How did I get here? Following is the story of my transition.
I grew up in the chassidic ultra-orthodox community of Stamford Hill, East London in a family of rabbis and Torah-scholars. My parents raised me to be a God-fearing Jew and hoped that I would go in the paths of my dad, grandad and many of my uncles and cousins to be a Torah scholar.
My community led a life insulated from the outside world, trying to guard themselves and their children from outside influences, considered profane and immoral. We spoke only Yiddish and read only Yiddish books published by fellow ultra-orthodox Jews. The themes were all about the righteous and the God-fearing. Not much general knowledge, history, or science made it in there. We had no access to TV, films, radio, or newspapers. The world was corrupt and we preferred to know about it as little as possible.
Instead of primary school, we attended Cheider. Cheider was like school, except that there was no secular education and corporal punishment was used to discipline us kids – oh, and my cheider was also illegal.
I didn’t like cheider. Not the hours of sitting and studying texts and not the constant hitting and abuse. When I would come home crying, my dad would tell me that he went through the same. ‘It is normal,’ I thought to myself. ‘This is just what childhood is meant to look like.’ I couldn’t wait for the day that I would no longer be a child and the big adults would no longer be able to abuse me. But I knew that I wouldn’t let the same happen to my own children.
When I turned thirteen I had my barmitzvah. From then on I was considered an adult and was going to devote every second of my day to the service of God and to the study of His Torah. Indeed, I started yeshiva, where I spent fourteen hour days studying Talmud and Jewish Law. But that wasn’t enough for me.
I wanted to learn about some of the things that weren’t in the Talmud. I wanted to know why rainbows form, why birds fly, why the world goes round. I was told that the answers to all of these questions are contained in the Talmud and that if I study hard enough they’ll be revealed to me. I did. They weren’t.
I had other questions as well. Forbidden questions. Why does the rest of the world think differently to us? How do we know that our way of thinking is right and their’s wrong? These were scary questions. Heretical questions. I didn’t dare ask them. But they bothered me.
As I grew older I grew more bold in the questions that I’d ask and in my quest for forbidden knowledge. I got hold of a dictionary and some English books and started teaching myself the language. Seeing my quest and thirst, my mom bought me some science books to read. Before giving them to me she’d kosher them by censoring out all heretical words, such as, ‘evolution’, ‘the big bang’, or any number greater than 6000.
When I was 18 I left home for yeshiva up North in Gateshead. Away from the pressures of my parents and my community, I started frequenting the library to quench my thirst in philosophy, theology and science. In yeshiva I also discovered the internet, which opened up for me a world and wealth of information. My faith didn’t last long.
It soon became evident to me that the Torah was a man-made document and did not miraculously appear on a mountain, that the Talmud did most likely not contain all scientific truths and that Ultra-orthodox Jews do not have a unique claim to religious truth. I knew that I wanted to go to university and I started planning my next steps. I was still in yeshiva when I stopped practicing orthodox Judaism.
An organisation called Mavar helped me integrate in secular society and catch up on my education. Working during the day to support myself, I did my studies in the evening. I did some GCSEs in my first year after leaving and a foundation course in maths and physics in the second year. In the third year I was studying physics and philosophy at the University of Bristol.
My family and community had rejected me as soon as I left and three and a half years later I am still not in touch with my grandparents, my dozens of uncles and aunts, hundreds of cousins and eight of my siblings.
Transitioning to secular society is a little like being an immigrant in your own country. I had to learn the language and cultural norms. But in addition to that, I discovered fifty percent of the population whom I knew nothing about: women. It took me a while to get the hang of modern dating culture. Last summer, three years after I left, I met my girlfriend. We’ve been together since.
My journey has taught me never to leave societal views unquestioned. The thing about frameworks of knowledge is that when you are in it, it is very difficult to see whether it is right or wrong. Growing up there was nothing more certain to me than the truth and rightfulness of my way of life. This is still the case for my former community members. They cannot see that what they believe in may not be true and right because they are on the inside. It is only from the outside of a framework that one can see how well it does or does not fit in with reality.
We all have frameworks of knowledge and morality. It may be our belief in science, in democracy, in justice. There is nothing wrong with having a framework. But my experiences have taught me that every now and then it is worth dipping out of the framework for a brief moment to examine it from the outside. We shouldn’t be afraid to be somewhat self-sceptical. We shouldn’t be afraid to be somewhat irreverent, somewhat sacrilegious and to question our own sacred cows.
Each and every one of us has some mistaken beliefs and we can never hope to be right about everything. What we can do though, is try to be less wrong. We can try to have as few false beliefs as possible. How do we achieve that? One way is to broaden our horizons, by meeting different people with different beliefs and values. This helps us to put our own beliefs in perspective and to perhaps come across different and better alternatives.
To this end I have founded the Bristol Free Speech Society at my university. We come together weekly to discuss a wide range of topics and to question our frameworks and entrenched beliefs. This, for me, is the ultimate heresy. It is not about the rejection of God, or religion, but about a general openness to challenge one’s own beliefs and to be sceptical of one’s societal frameworks.
In my journeys I also discovered the Jewish people. This may sound paradoxical, given that I left a Jewish community to secularise. But the community of my upbringing didn’t see themselves as part of a larger community of Am Yisrael. They excluded based on practice, beliefs and lineage. For them being Jewish was synonymous with being ultra-orthodox. It is only after leaving that I have discovered my people. My lovely, diverse and vibrant people. Jews of all beliefs and practices, of all shapes and colours and of all walks of life. I am proud to be part of the Jewish people. I am a Jew. A secular Jew.
Adam B. had some strongly held beliefs. He held them so strongly that he was convinced that he arrived at them by entirely rational means. Not that he thought a lot about how he arrived at these beliefs. But with every fibre of his body he knew that they were true.
Adam has a rival, Becca C. He knew that she disagrees with him strongly because he sees her get angry when he expresses his beliefs. But her views are irrational. They must be, since his are right. Becca would disagree, but Adam feels the rightness of his ideas in his body. He doesn’t feel Becca’s disagreement.
Adam knows that Becca has passions too. And he knows that when Becca seems angry, that’s because she is feeling something on the inside. But all of this is what Adam knows. He doesn’t feel it. His beliefs, however, he feels – with a burning passion.
Adam doesn’t just know that Becca is wrong. He experiences it. He cannot negate his own experiences. If Becca could talk, she would tell Adam about the experiences of her own. But Adam is deaf and Becca is mute.
Adam is angry at Becca, for she denies his own experiences. He is also scared of her, as her denial is contagious. With her very existence she makes him question his experiences. If his experienced truth is unreliable, then what is? It’s a scary thought. Adam therefore avoids Becca. Even just being reminded of her throws him into existential dread.
Adam doesn’t disagree with Becca; he lives a different kind of existence. And his existence denies hers and hers his. They cannot coexist.
Becca is not wrong. She is evil.
Welcome to my world, the space wherein I reside. It is a profoundly lonely place, although neighbouring it are many other worlds, as access is limited to me alone. In my world there is only one thing that matters and that is my own interests. However, surprisingly often those coincide with the needs of other worlds.
My world is a stormy and tumultuous place. Here battles, revolutions and natural disasters are common occurrences. There are no constitutions, base values, or core beliefs, although there are underlying persistent currents of zeitgeist which seem to evolve more slowly.
So let me take you on a tour around the perimeters of my world. I cannot let you in, but you may get a glimpse from the outside.
If you asked me what my prime goal and motivation in life is I would tell you that it is to discover as much of the general and universal truths as I can. This does seem somewhat consistent with what I have been doing over most of my mature life, however I do not know to what extent it is a fundamental driver, rather than a rationalisation of some deeper subconscious need.
This is especially a problem given that I do not even believe in the search for truth as a worthy ultimate goal. I do not believe that anything other than the pursuit after positive subjective experiences is worthy of being a primary motivation, although I do think that the most efficient way to achieve this primary objective is to focus on secondary ones. Thus, if I want to be happy and discovery makes me happy, I will get to my primary goal by focusing on a secondary objective, namely on discovery.
But what if I have gone astray and am worshiping a secondary goal like an idol instead of my true God, the primary goal? What if by my stubborn adherence to a specific secondary goal I am being blinded to more obvious and efficient ways to achieve happiness from which I am prejudicially closing myself off? Perhaps if I was not so insistent that it is discovery that needs to make me happy I would find happiness and fulfillment through some other easier route?
Mill commits this fallacy when he proves the superiority of man over beast or of the clever over the simple by appealing to the former’s refusal to turn into the latter even on reward of achieving greater happiness. The oversight here is that this refusal is irrational and stems from secondary-goal-worship. If achieving happiness is the ultimate goal, then being human is only advantageous insofar as it can form a secondary objective leading to the primary one. But choosing that over a direct route to the primary goal is confusing the means for the end.
Admitting that our ultimate goal in life is our own happiness may not be socially admirable, nor productive towards that very end, but as far back as in Plato compelling arguments are put forward arguing that no other ultimate goal is rational. The most that can be done whilst maintaining some sort of rationality is to extend that ultimate goal to other sentient beings too. Instead of one’s own happiness, one can strive for the impartial maximization of utility. This maxim may not be provable, but I think that it is defensible.
Besides for the discovery of general truths, forming relationships also makes me feel happy and content. They give meaning to my life. However, unlike the former, it happens through passive as well as active participation, which is why intellectual growth is my major explicit focus even though forming relationships is no less important.
In my world intellectualisation is prominent, but oftentimes I wonder how much my life choices are actually due to rational considerations, rather than to primal, psychological drives. I claim to be rational and I try to be rational, but I do not know to what extent I am successful. At least I am open to self-criticism and introspection, as I am aware that deeply ingrained beliefs must also be justifiable.
Sometimes when it comes to my very fundamental beliefs and core values it can be very painful to have them critically examined, as it feels like the rest of my epistemological edifice will crumble should they be shaken, but I never use that as a conscious excuse not to question them, although I suspect that there may be subconscious layers of defense surrounding them as a means of survival.
Talking of epistemological edifices, Hume discusses two kinds of philosophies. He talks about the common-sense philosopher who never ventures out too far in her arguments, maintaining close proximity to common-sense reality. She will address issues piecemeal and expand on them individually, so that all of her ideas are both self-contained and not too far from accepted reality. The second kind of philosopher, the one he calls ‘profound’, is the analytic one, who attempts to bring all knowledge into one coherent system of truths, each member of the system being consistent with the rest.
In order to achieve this the analytic philosopher must divert from common sense and give new meanings and interpretations to everyday objects of language and experience. But this comes with an inherent danger. Not only can one false assumption or premise lead the whole endeavor astray, but when that happens the philosopher has lost touch with common sense altogether, so that he is left wrong in a much more profound way than the common-sense philosopher can ever be. So whilst the common-sense philosopher does not come up with any profound revolutionary changes in thought, she also has less chance of going astray.
When I say this I think of Peter Singer. His profound analytical approach to ethics led to two famous positions, one which he is applauded for and the other which brought him much hate. His very utilitarian ethics that caused him to be a champion for animal rights is also what led him to do away with the idea of the sanctity of human life and to see infant euthanasia as the right course of action in certain circumstances.
The common-sense moralist would not come up with either of these principles, as they are not rooted in our evolutionarily inspired values. Singer however discovers profound principles, which if right are revolutionary and progressive, but if wrong have profound negative implications.
In my personal life I have followed Singer’s approach, basing far reaching and irreversible life choices on the basis of introducing consistency to my beliefs, even at the expense of deviating from common sense. As I know that my personal epistemology is nowhere near consistent and that the significant holes in it may lead to an overturning of my current beliefs, I am not sure what justified my moves. I guess that I have been moving up over gradations of coherence and that the state of my current belief system is so much more coherent than what it was that – even though it is not perfected yet – a move away from my old epistemology in favour of the new one was justified. Perhaps it is analogous to moving from an Aristotelian mechanics to a Newtonian one even if ultimately it is the Einsteinian mechanics that is true.
This leads me to an interesting thought that perhaps a Popperian approach should be taken to epistemology as well as to science. Perhaps the perfect epistemology is unobtainable and instead it is discarding the more mistaken one in favour of the less mistaken one that is how epistemology progresses.
In my world there are many beliefs. They are of two kinds: empirical and logical. For my empirical beliefs I try to rely on others, usually experts, to inform me about them. This is a difficult task, as whom to regard as an expert is in itself an empirical question. I therefore have very little certainty in many empirical questions, especially those around which there is lots of controversy amongst experts themselves. This reality leaves me with lots of room for skepticism, which can be very annoying when everyone around you seems certain and passionate about certain issues.
For the logical issues I usually form my own opinions, although they are always informed and influenced by the thinkers that inspire me. The meta-epistemology of how I can be reliant on my own opinions continually haunts me. Even to rely on others is to rely on your own judgment of their reliability, meaning that it is ultimately you who determines what kids of beliefs you will have. I do not know how we are justified in forming any beliefs in matters of controversy, unless we have the arrogance to consider our own conclusions superior. As with the empirical beliefs, this conundrum leaves me with much room for skepticism and caution. It can be very annoying, but I think that overall it results in much tranquility and moderation. The Pyrrhonians already claimed that this was the case.
In terms of conviction my beliefs lie on two axes: the passion axis and certainty axis. Although there is some correlation between passion and certainty, the axes largely retain independence from each other. Thus some of my beliefs with high levels of certainty have very low levels of passion and vice versa.
The factors that determine the certainty are mainly epistemological, whereas passion is impacted by psychological as well as sociological factors. If a certain belief has become the hallmark of a group with whom I have fundamental disagreements I often find it hard to join them in passion, even though I agree with them on that issue. For example, I share many of the core beliefs of the social justice movement, and yet I find it hard to express passion regarding those, since I abhor the philosophy and methods of this movement, specifically in their dogmatism and intolerance. This kind of sentiment is what is meant by identity politics. I play it even though I do not like it.
In my world it is the method of arrival at a certain belief that matters far more than the belief itself. I will often side with those who disagree with me against those who share my beliefs if I think that the former’s methods are purer. As an example, on utilitarian grounds I do not regard abortion as morally problematic, and yet I think that the argument against abortion made from seeing the fetus as a potential being is stronger than the fallacious claim sloganised as ‘my body my choice’. One may argue that the reason for why I feel more passionate about the theoretical, rather than the practical, aspects of this argument is because I do not have a stake in the matter. This is a reasonable argument. I am describing here how I do feel, not how I ought to feel.
This uneven distribution of passion often results in people misunderstanding my position, as they take my passion as proportionately representative of my beliefs, when in reality this is not the case, as I have just described. Another source of misunderstanding is when I defend someone’s right to an opinion and it is mistaken for an endorsement of that opinion. I can without contradiction fight for someone’s right to talk and when that right is granted them personally protest their position, believing that it is wrong. I would protest outside a holocaust-denying conference after campaigning to have them be allowed to hold it.
In my world there is always something going on. At any given moment there is some questions that preoccupy my mind and that I – perhaps unhealthily – obsess over. I want to share these newsbits as they occur and I intend to do so in the form of occasional blog posts. In this tour I have described some of my core beliefs and my general thought structures. They may change, but for now a lot about how I think and see things is given here. My world is one amongst many, but it is unique – as unique as your world is. There may be similarities between our worlds, but that does not diminish from their uniqueness, as my world is exclusively mine and yours is exclusively yours. I like my world. I hope you like yours.
Practical matters have always been a weak point for me and I have always tried to stick with the theoretical side of things. However, when it comes to talking about an issue as current and real as the Israel situation, the boundaries between theory and application blur, as every philosophy translates into another possible reality on the ground. Notwithstanding, I have nothing to offer in terms of practical solutions, just thoughts and musings.
I have touched in my previous post on the various streams of Zionist thought and their respective goals. Depending on what your Zionist agenda is, your vision of a State of Israel will be very different. If you are a Religious Zionist (i.e. your Zionism is motivated by religious reasons – not to be confused with the religious Zionist, who is a Zionist who just happens to be religious), then your Jewish state is most likely to be a theocratic state governed by traditional Jewish law. If you are a Political Zionist then you might be happy with a democratic, multi-cultural state, so long as it is governed by Jews, or by Jews as well, who can ensure that it remains a safe haven for the persecuted Jewish population – i.e. a state for the Jews.
However, for a Cultural Zionist like myself, a state for the Jews is not enough. The revival of the Jewish national consciousness must result in an ethno-national Jewish State, a place where Judaism and Jewishness flourishes, not as a matter of individual preference and freedom, but as the national cultural identity. If the modern State of Israel is the Jewish state, then its citizens are not ‘Israelis’, but Jews, and likewise, diaspora Jews are almost automatically citizens of this state who happen to be living abroad.
Having said that, you might think that I would be a believer in Israel’s “right” to exist, whether for natural, historical, or legal reasons. That is not the case. From an objective, outsider’s view, I do not think that either side is more right in the argument between Jews and Palestinians over the ownership of the land. This is a matter of dual narratives in which both sides have legitimate claims. (See what I have written about dual narratives in an article for the Jewish News/Times of Israel here.) All that I am doing is presenting my Zionist narrative, not claiming that it is the only one.
In spite of this, I may not think that Jews necessarily have a right to the land, but I do think that we have a claim to it. That is, alongside the Palestinian natives, we too have claims that cannot be dismissed. It is historical fact that the geographical area of modern day Israel/Palestine is the birthplace of the Jewish people and it is historical fact that the Jews, or proto-Jews had a sovereign kingdom in Judea and Samaria with its capital in Jerusalem until it was conquered and they were forcibly exiled. It is also true that Jerusalem and the land of Israel have remained in the Jewish national and religious consciousness ever since.
And now a word on the current situation in Israel. I am by no means a supporter of the current government and there are many things that it does that I think are wrong, and yet there is a difference between disagreeing and demonising. Israel currently illegally occupies Palestinian territories and I do not think that it should, but I still understand that it is not doing so out of malicious intent. There is a delicate security issue at stake and criticism through understanding and empathy is more effective and truthful than blind demonisation.
As for the claim of Israel being an “apartheid state”, that is an outright lie. All Israeli citizens, be they Jews, Christians, Muslims, atheists, Arabs, Bedouin, Druze, etc, are treated with absolute equality under the law with full rights and protection. During my visit to Israel I have spoken with Israeli Arabs and Muslims in East Jerusalem, Arad and Jaffa – none of them had a bad word to say about Israel. Of course for non Israeli citizens under occupation things are not great, but how do you expect them to be treated by a regime that they actively and oftentimes violently oppose? Do you expect them to have free movement in and out of a country that they self-profess to want to destroy?
By all means criticise Israel! Question its actions and question its right to exist, especially as an ethnically Jewish country, but stay away from two things: denying history and invalidating narrative, and blind demonisation – usually based on lies or a refusal to acknowledge complexity and nuance. You may think that it is wrong for Israel to exist on Palestinian land, but do not deny historical Jewish presence in the land and do not block your ears from hearing the Jewish narrative. You may think that the Israeli government is doing wrongs, but do not oversimplify a complex situation and do not buy into any report just because it validates your side of the argument. As ever, with nuance and acknowledgment of dual narratives, our discourse can become much kinder, more compassionate and much more productive.
And thus I conclude this series of Jerusalemite Thoughts. I have shared thoughts on nationalism, on Zionism and on the modern State of Israel – many of which were formulated during, or inspired by, my recent visit to Israel and the Palestinian Territories. I enjoyed writing this and I hope that you enjoyed reading it!
Amongst my many and multi-faceted identities, Zionism probably ranks highest on the list of misunderstood and/or misconstrued. For many, to be a Zionist is to be racist, colonialist, a Jewish supremacist and many similarly unpleasant things. Off course I am none of these and I go to great lengths to boycott anything that smacks of these ideas, to the point of refusing to recite certain liturgical prayers that have in them traces of traditional Jewish supremacy. Neither were any of the great Zionist idealogues and founders racist or anything of the like, an accusation of which would make them shudder.
Zionism is best understood as a historically contextual phenomenon, which was born as a response to the Jewish situation in Europe in the second half of the nineteenth century. As I am not a historian, the retrospective dissection of the complexity of historical stimulus for the development of Zionism is of minor importance to me. Rather, I am interested in the historical aspects that shape my identity today. (I allow myself to do this because I see Zionism as a narrative belonging to the realm of myth, rather than history and the significance of myth is in its meaning, not in its historical accuracy.)
The Jewish Enlightenment of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries left most European Jews secular and yet seen as Jews in the eyes of their non Jewish neighbours. The question that these Jews asked themselves was what it means to be a Jew without the Jewish religion. Zionism was to provide an answer to this question. Judaism was no longer to be seen as a religion, but as a national identity, one going back to its sovereign days in its national homeland Judah (in the geographical location of modern day Israel/Palestine).
(Of course for the political Zionist, Zionism was much more about solving the “Jewish Question” and about providing Jews with a safe haven from anti-semitism, rather than coming to solve a Jewish identity crisis. Likewise, for the religious Zionist Zionism was all about bringing about the fulfillment of God’s promise of the Holy Land to His Chosen People and about heralding in the Messianic age. The Zionism that I am describing here though is the Cultural Zionism of Achad HaAm, a secular ex-Chassid like myself, which – probably due to our shared backgrounds – speaks to me the most.)
Zionism is thus Jewish Nationalism, but not nationalism to be compared to, say, American Nationalism, or German Nationalism, for unlike those nationalisms which are by nationals already living in their national country amongst their national people, the Jewish nationalism of the nineteenth century was for a people that needed to be reminded of their peoplehood and that needed that nationalism if they were ever to achieve land-based nationality, i.e. statehood.
The culmination of the zionist quest came on the fourteenth of May 1948 with Israel’s declaration of independence as a country for the Jewish people. More on this in my next and final post of the series: Jerusalemite Thoughts – Israel.
(Image is of Achad HaAm, father of Cultural Zionism)