How long have we been the “wandering Jews?” I imagine ever since Abraham, the very first Jew. His travels and travails are recounted in the Bible for all to see and our sages taught that the lives of our patriarchs and matriarchs would be a harbinger of the destiny of their descendants for generations to come.
And the wandering Jew has also been the wondering Jew. We’ve been forever wondering about who we are and how we fit in with the countries we’ve migrated to over the centuries.
I imagine it’s been one of the ongoing dilemmas of our people. There seems to be this perennial tension between our personal, spiritual identity and our nationality. At different times in history, this identity crisis has been more acute than at others, but it’s always been there to one degree or another.
When we lived in the glorious days of pre-Inquisition Spain, were we Jewish or Spanish? The question persisted through all our journeys across the continents—whether in Europe or Asia, Morocco or Mexico. And today, are we American Jews or Jewish Americans? I can even go to the extreme and ask if our brethren living in Israel are Israelis or Jews? Believe it or not, there have always been secular Israelis who describe themselves as Israelis and not Jews.
My friend Rami Sherman was one of the heroic commandos of the legendary Entebbe rescue mission of 1976. He told me personally that he was raised in a secular kibbutz, and that until he went on the mission to Entebbe and saved more than 100 Jews from Israel and all over the world, he never appreciated a sense of Jewish peoplehood. In Rami’s own words, “I flew to Entebbe an Israeli. I returned a Jew.”
It has never been easy to balance our personal spiritual identity with our national identity, our Jewishness with our nationality of the day.
The anti-Israel protesters and boycotters of the past few years accuse American Jews of dual loyalties while they are busy burning the American flag. How’s that for the ultimate hypocrisy?
Having grown up in New York, what is going on now is beyond belief. The insecurity of the Jewish community—not only in New York City, as many Jews there look with foreboding to mayor-elect Zohran Mamdani—across the United States is alarming. Synagogues being targeted, Jewish-owned shops besieged on Black Friday. The clothing store Zara is not Jewish-owned, but it does have a branch in Israel, so even that is on the BDS list.
Many American Jews consider themselves Americans first. So did many Germans when Adolf Hitler came to power. They were assimilated into German culture, served proudly in the Kaiser’s Army, but in the end were sent off to Auschwitz together with the bearded Polish Chassidim.
South African Jews, in the main, consider themselves Jewish first—possibly because of the changing governments and their dramatically different policies towards Jews and Israel.
What about Jews in England, France and Belgium? Are their attitudes changing of late with the political turmoil and the massive rise in antisemitism? What of Australian Jews, or our people in Russia, Ukraine, Argentina, Brazil and Venezuela?
Many, like in North America, have been swamped and overwhelmed by the dominant culture, which for many decades has been generally good to Jews and accommodating of their religious needs. The Melting Pot syndrome of old was very different to the focus on individuality today. Our grandparents and great-grandparents, who were immigrants, tried hard and were determined, even desperate, to become “Americanized.”
I submit that, by and large, Jews were incredibly successful in balancing their personal and national responsibilities. Historically, Jews were more loyal to their host countries than those countries were to their Jews. Famously, the Jewish contribution to America is nothing short of monumental in every area of life.
We have lived with the halachic imperative that dina d’malchuta dina—the law of the land is the law we must abide by. In synagogues throughout the world, we’ve always recitedprayers on Shabbat for the King, Queen, president and governments of the day, even when we may not have agreed with their policies.
What was, in fact, the secret of our success in juggling these seemingly contradictory commitments and loyalties? How did we remain faithful Jews and loyal citizens at the very same time?
This week’s Torah portion, Vayishlach, tells the story of our patriarch Jacob and his impending frightening encounter with his long-lost twin brother, Esau, who was threatening to kill him. Jacob sends envoys to Esau and begins his message with the words, “I have sojourned with Laban.”
Commentary points out that while Jacob was working for Laban in Haran for some 20 years, he still felt like a “sojourner,” a stranger. He never learned from Laban’s evil ways. And he was never quite comfortable and never felt at home in Haran. His home was in the Land of Israel. In Haran, he was but an outsider.
Jacob is our role model. Even in alien Haran, he never forgot who he really was.
Wherever we have lived, we have nothing to apologize for. We have been loyal citizens of every country. We have paid our taxes, served in their armed forces and contributed significantly to every place that granted us the right to reside there.
Yes, some of us became too assimilated while others may have been too isolationist, but it is safe to say that overall, we have managed to balance our faith and our nationality quite well.
Nobody accused Sandy Koufax of dual loyalty when he refused to pitch for the Dodgers on Yom Kippur during that famous World Series back in 1965. On the contrary, he was respected and admired for his commitment to his faith—not only by his Jewish fans, but by all of America. And, of course, he was a role model for millions of American Jewish kids, myself included.
We have never forgotten who we are wherever we have been. May we always continue to be loyal to our host countries, loyal to ourselves and loyal to our faith.