As a Jewish child in Israel, I heard stories from my great-grandmother about the violent harassment she suffered at the hands of Polish children in her village in the 1920s and 1930s. The children would chase after her and her Jewish friends, throwing rocks and yelling, “Go to Palestina!” My Moroccan maternal grandmother, meanwhile, spoke of violent rampages in which Muslim men would plunder the Jewish neighborhood in Morocco’s capital. My paternal grandfather, who grew up in Jerusalem in the 1930s and 40s, likewise told me of the beatings he received from Arab children. He was a member of the Jerusalemite anti-Zionist ultra-Orthodox community, but that mattered little; he was a Jew.
Stories like these, common throughout the entirety of the Jewish Diaspora, have played a key role in the development of an “us” versus “them” ethos—the idea that Jews will always be rejected by the world. Shaped by two millennia of persecution, pogroms, expulsions, and wanton discrimination, Jewish consciousness features a prominent isolationist streak—a sense that we are eternally separated from the non-Jewish world by a persistent, if always mutating, hatred toward us that we cannot fathom. As a result, many Jews have adopted the stance that it’s better to remain isolated and embrace an attitude of self-segregation, radical self-sufficiency, and, at times, aloofness. This is encapsulated in a well-known biblical description: “A people dwelling alone, not reckoning itself among the nations.”
Israelis have a complicated relationship with this element of Jewish culture. Zionism has within it a strong aspiration to “normalize” the Jewish nation, to make it, as a common Hebrew saying goes, “a nation like all nations.” This includes setting aside the mutually maintained and archetypal separation between Jews and Gentiles. Many Israelis are also deeply embedded in global—especially Western—culture. Israeli society differs from the contemporary West in fundamental ways, perhaps most notably in its focus on family, national history, and tradition, reflecting ancient elements in Jewish culture, and the varied settings in which it later developed. At the same time, the historical feelings of separation and distinctness have been greatly weakened by shared cultural mores and political principles, and even shared culinary, musical, and aesthetic tastes. It is difficult to maintain a sense of separation when one wears the same clothes, eats the same food, and reads the same books as groups classed as “the other.”
Recent events provide additional examples of factors that have eroded our historical sense of separation. American support following the Hamas attack in Israel on October 7th had a significant impact on Israelis in those difficult first weeks. It is rare for friendship and genuine human warmth to manifest on the international level; the show of unwavering and unequivocal support by American friends strengthened our sense of trust and alliance with the United States and its people. The clear opposition of Western democracies to the Hamas atrocities of that day deepened our sense of shared values.
At the same time, other circumstances have served to maintain and, in recent months, exacerbate this streak of Jewish isolationism. One oft-forgotten aspect of Israeli history is that most Jewish Israelis descend from families that were never truly emancipated by their non-Jewish neighbors. The Jewish diaspora in the West has, for two generations at least, enjoyed full emancipation, equal rights, and protection from discrimination and violence. For most Jewish Israelis, on the other hand, the most recent family memories of life among non-Jews in the diaspora are of violence and persecution. In Europe, the first half of the twentieth century was a period of rabid anti-Semitism, culminating in the Holocaust. In the Middle East, pogroms in such places as Iraq and Libya were followed by the harrying and expulsion of Jews by their Muslim neighbors.
In the collective memory of many Israeli Jews, the basic but significant corrective measure of dignified and equal treatment, from both non-Jewish neighbors and non-Jewish political authorities, never came to pass. For Ashkenazi Jews in the West, the trauma of the Holocaust was followed by serious changes in Western attitudes toward Jewish citizens. Most Israeli Jews never experienced a corresponding cultural shift among the nations that drove them out.
In this examination of Israeli isolationism, one must note Israel’s position in the international arena in recent decades. There is no doubt that the increasingly harsh treatment of Israel by Western elites has reinforced the isolationist streak in Israeli discourse and consciousness. One need not be supportive of Israel to see that the international treatment of Israel in recent decades has been rife with double standards and ignorance. The fact that the United Nations General Assembly has, since 2015, seen fit to condemn Israel more than the rest of the world combined (including Russia, North Korea, Iran, and other beacons of human rights) is truly remarkable. For those Israelis already leaning toward isolationism, the West’s increasing turn against Israel seems like proof that anti-Semitism has an unbreakable hold on Western society. Accordingly, they say, we would do better to go it alone, ignore the international community to the best of our ability, or at least ensure that we are not dependent on alliances and agreements.
But, in contrast to Israelis who have always been inclined toward isolationism, the West’s turn has arguably had an even greater effect on those Israelis more deeply connected with the West and its values. These sectors of Israeli society, widely and consistently exposed to European and American discourse, have increasingly despaired at being misunderstood by their non-Jewish equivalents. All that an Israeli tech worker from Tel Aviv wishes is to live a quiet and prosperous life comparable to that of a similarly educated French, British, or American citizen. They probably share a liberal approach to ethics and politics, as well as vacation and coffee preferences.
In contrast to his Western counterparts, however, the Israeli is forced to consider questions of survival, and perhaps to serve as an IDF reservist to ensure his family’s safety. Often, the situation in Israeli-Palestinian relations does not reflect his political views and aspirations, but circumstances larger than one individual—larger, even, than one generation—have forced him into this position. The fact that his Western equivalents choose not to see this, and instead elect to view him and his compatriots as violent racists, cannot help but fuel a sense of isolation and estrangement.
To put it in words I have often heard repeated with bitterness, in one form or another, Westerners have been spoiled with eight decades of relative peace and have forgotten the nature of war. In their blissful ignorance, they feel free to judge us harshly. Nothing could have emphasized this more strongly to Israelis than the incredible animosity of some Europeans and Americans in recent months, or their unwillingness to understand Israeli policy following the horrors of October 7th.
In contrast to their Western peers, Israelis live under the looming shadow of an existential threat, a reality that shapes the lens through which such matters are seen and lends them their significant weight. This threat fluctuates in intensity, of course, but it has been a constant of Jewish life in the land of Israel since before the founding of the state. Israel is the only state whose “right to exist” is an acceptable topic of debate in “polite society.” It is the only country that the West’s privileged intellectuals and youth can yearn publicly to destroy and find themselves lauded for their moral “righteousness.” October 7th and the multi-front war that followed it have naturally brought this sense of existential danger to the fore and intensified it. So, when a Cornell professor expresses his exhilaration at Hamas’s attack, Israelis don’t view him as merely offering an intellectual exercise in “postcolonial” studies and ethics. The stakes for us are high—life and death. In the face of this challenge, many Israelis would (not without reason) rather err on the side of mistrust and isolationism.
This brings me to the protests on American campuses. One can imagine a range of their possible consequences but be certain of none of them. I can assure the reader, however, of one direct consequence already in effect. The images of young Americans holding signs in support of Kataib al-Qassam, the military wing of Hamas that butchered, raped, and burned Israelis, are already fanning the flames of the Israeli isolationist sentiment and its proponents. Seeing images of young Americans marching down the streets of Manhattan carrying anti-Israel posters reading “By Any Means Necessary” sends a shiver down our spines and strengthens our sense of isolation. Hearing American students say that Hamas should not release the 120 hostages still held in captivity increases our sense of despair and distrust in the so-called international community.
Needless to say, these protests are only the latest in a series of recent events that have contributed to this isolationism. Events in Europe, both popular and on the political and institutional level, have also been influential. American actions, however, are of particular import in this regard. The “special relationship” between Israel and the US goes beyond cold interests and geopolitical considerations. An element of true comradeship, on a national, and often personal level, exists, based on shared values and an insistence on simple-hearted loyalty to the Good and the Righteous in the face of global cynicism. Perhaps more than anything, American friendship has shown the Jewish nation that isolationism is not the only alternative. American hostility, based on ignorance and anti-Semitic conspiracies, naturally has a devastating counter-effect.
The campus demonstrators of recent months, supporters of butchery and rape, might rejoice to read that their antics are causing Israelis of all stripes to turn inward and lose trust in Israel’s allies and simple human empathy. They have little authentic interest in furthering good in the world—for Jewish Israelis or Palestinians. No one between the river and the sea gained anything positive from the Palestinian atrocities committed on October 7th, and some students’ calls to repeat them reflect extreme cruelty, ignorance, and moral depravity. To those who do wish to see human flourishing for Israelis and Arabs alike, I say: these images from American campuses, and before that, from protests in Western cities, work only to fuel a feeling of distrust in the international community. They strengthen a sense that Israel must march forward alone. Forces within Israeli politics who lean heavily on despair and distrust—forces like the radical right-wing politician Itamar Ben-Gvir—are only goaded on by these events.
From the river to the sea, human flourishing will only be advanced through a nuanced and empathetic attitude to both sides. Radical stances that dehumanize one side, turning its babies into colonizers and marking them as legitimate targets for attack, do not advance freedom or justice. Quite the opposite. This is true locally as well as internationally. To put things more concretely, it seems clear that a solution to the current situation in Gaza will require a multi-national alliance to bring back security and stability. Again, this is as critical for Palestinians as it is for Israelis. It is also vital to securing any kind of long-term resolution. Encouraging isolationism in Israeli society—as students, politicians, institutions, and journalists in the West are doing daily—runs counter to any such developments.
Image by David and licensed via Adobe Stock.
