Stop Marching for 1948. Start Building 2048.

Every May, “Nakba Day” protests erupt across Western cities under the claimed banner of justice and liberation. Organizers describe them as commemorations of displacement and suffering. Yet listen carefully to the chants, read the signs, and study the ideology driving many of these demonstrations, and a darker reality emerges.

Nakba Day events are not about building a future alongside a Jewish state. They are about keeping alive the dream that the Jewish state should never have existed at all, and must be destroyed.

That is why the rhetoric so often revolves around “resistance until liberation,” “from the river to the sea,” and “globalize the intifada.” The message is unmistakable. The war of 1948 is not viewed as tragic history. It is viewed as unfinished business.

For 78 years, generations of the Stateless Arabs from Palestine (SAPs) and their supporters have been taught that the central injustice was not war itself, nor the suffering that war inevitably unleashed on all sides, but Jewish sovereignty. The catastrophe, in this telling, was that Jews regained independence anywhere in their ancestral homeland.

That poisonous premise has trapped both Palestinian Arabs and Israelis inside an endless cycle of bloodshed.

A movement built around the belief that Israel must someday disappear cannot produce coexistence. A political culture that teaches Jews are foreign colonial invaders rather than an indigenous Middle Eastern people returning to the land where Jewish civilization was born cannot produce peace. A worldview that refuses to acknowledge Jewish history in Jerusalem, Jewish ties to Hebron, or the sanctity of the Temple Mount to Judaism is rooted in antisemitism, not “anti-Zionism.” It is a deep “deformity” in Palestinian culture.

And so Nakba Day has increasingly become less a memorial to suffering than a ritual of perpetual war.

There is nothing wrong with mourning loss. Every nation remembers tragedy. The problem begins when remembrance becomes a doctrine that denies another people’s right to exist. To basic human rights. No peace movement can emerge from teaching generation after generation that coexistence itself is betrayal.

It is time to break that cycle.

Replace Nakba Day with Two State Day. A day dedicated not to reversing 1948, but to building 2048.

Imagine a new annual movement where Palestinian Arabs openly recognize that Jews are indigenous to the Land of Israel. One where activists acknowledge that Jewish attachment to Jerusalem did not begin in 1967 or 1948, but stretches back thousands of years. One where the Temple Mount is recognized not merely as a Muslim site built atop forgotten ruins, but as the spiritual center of Jewish civilization.

Imagine a Two State Day where Palestinian leaders finally say openly that Jews are not crusaders, not European interlopers, not temporary occupiers, but a people who originated in the very land they returned to.

And imagine Israeli Jews responding not with suspicion, but with an outstretched hand.

Imagine Israeli Independence Day celebrations where Muslim neighbors, Arab citizens, and Palestinians willing to embrace coexistence are invited to participate. Imagine Jewish speakers recognizing Palestinian suffering and aspirations, while Muslim speakers recognize Jewish indigenousness, Jewish history, and Israel’s permanence. Imagine both peoples publicly declaring that neither side is leaving and neither side’s history will be erased.

That would not erase either people’s narrative. It would humanize both.

The current version of Nakba politics freezes Palestinians psychologically in 1948, teaching generation after generation that justice means reversing history rather than building a future. It glorifies “resistance-violence” while discouraging reconciliation. It romanticizes intifada while Palestinians themselves continue paying the price in blood, corruption, isolation, and failed leadership.

This ideology has harmed Palestinians no less than Israelis.

Every year spent teaching children that Haifa, Jaffa, and Tel Aviv must someday be “liberated” is another year not spent building functioning institutions, economic opportunity, civil society, or genuine pathways to coexistence. Every rally that denies Jewish legitimacy hardens Israelis further against compromise and strengthens extremists on all sides.

The world has already seen where this road leads. October 7 was not born in a vacuum. It emerged from decades of indoctrination insisting that Jewish sovereignty itself is intolerable “in any part of Palestine” and that violence against it is inherently righteous “resistance. The cheering crowds in Western capitals after the massacre exposed how deeply this toxic worldview has spread far beyond Gaza, chumming for the anti-Jewish horde.

But history is not destiny.

Two State Day could become something profoundly different. A day not of denial, but of mutual recognition. A day where SAPs mourn losses without denying Jewish legitimacy. A day where Jews acknowledge Palestinian Arab suffering without questioning Israel’s basic right to exist. A day where both peoples reject the poison of perpetual grievance and choose coexistence over endless war.

The future cannot belong to people still marching psychologically toward 1948. It must belong to those willing to build 2048.

A future where Palestinian children are not taught that Jews are foreign usurpers, but neighbors with ancient roots in the same land. A future where Jewish children no longer grow up expecting every concession to be answered with more violence. A future where the Temple Mount is not a symbol of exclusion, but proof that the land carries the sacred history of multiple peoples.

Real peace will never emerge from chants demanding the disappearance of one side or the other. It begins only when both peoples recognize each other’s humanity, legitimacy, and permanence.

Abraham’s Tests and the Covenantal Land

In the Hebrew Bible, Abraham, the father of monotheism, is tested ten times. The biblical commentator Rashi (1040-1105) lists them out, and it is curious to line them against the ten nations that inhabit the land that God promises to Abraham.

10 Tests according to Rashi10 Nations in the promised land
Abraham hid underground for 13 years from King Nimrod, who wanted to kill him.Kenites
Nimrod flung Abraham into a burning furnace.Kenizzites
Abraham was commanded to leave his family and homeland.Kadmonites
As soon as he arrived in Canaan, he was forced to leave to escape famine to Egypt.Hittites
Sarah was kidnapped by Pharaoh’s officials.Perizzites
The 4 kings captured Lot, and Abraham went out to war to rescue him.Rephaites
God told Abraham that his offspring would suffer exile and slavery for 400 years initially four monarchies.Amorites
At 99, Abraham was commanded to circumcise himself and his household.Canaanites
Abraham was instructed to drive away Ishmael and Hagar.Girgashites
He was commanded to sacrifice Isaac.Jebusites

The Torah never tells us to match them one by one, but two of Abraham’s tests align so precisely with two of those nations that they reveal the architecture of the covenant itself: one in the flesh, one on the mountain.

The first is brit milah and Canaan, what we know of today as the bulk of the land of Israel.

When God first expands Abraham’s promise of land in Book of Genesis 13, He tells him to rise and walk it: Arise, walk through the land, its length and breadth, for I will give it to you.

Abraham walks the land before he owns it.

But in Genesis 17, when the covenant is deepened through circumcision, the order changes. God commands Abraham to mark the covenant into his own body and then immediately ties that mark to the promise of land: I will give to you and your descendants after you the land of your sojournings, all the land of Canaan.

The sequence is striking.

First Abraham walks the land. Then Abraham marks the flesh. The lesson is deeper than ownership. You cannot carry covenantal land unless the covenant is carried within you.

Before borders, there is obligation. Before sovereignty, there is submission.

The modern world treats land as politics—lines, armies, treaties. The Torah treats land as moral space. Canaan is not merely inherited geography. It is covenantal geography. And covenantal geography requires covenantal people.

Brit milah is the title deed, not written on parchment, but on the body itself.

The land of Canaan is not inherited simply because it was promised. It is inherited because Abraham accepted what the promise demanded.

Then comes the Akedah and the Jebusites, which takes place in Jerusalem.

If brit milah secures the land broadly, the Akedah secures its heart.

Abraham’s greatest trial takes place on Mount Moriah, where he binds Isaac and prepares to surrender the son through whom every promise was meant to continue. Jewish tradition identifies that mountain with the future Temple Mount, the site held by the Jebusites until King David captures it and makes it the spiritual center of Israel, 3,000 years ago.

That means Abraham’s greatest and final test takes place at the future center of Jewish history. That is not incidental.

Long before David purchases it, long before King Solomon builds the Temple, long before priests serve and pilgrims ascend, Abraham stands there and confronts the deepest truth of covenant: even the future belongs to God.

Canaan is the inheritance of the body. Its covenant is sealed in flesh.

Jerusalem is the inheritance of the soul. Its covenant is sealed in surrender.

One is broad territory. The other is concentrated holiness.

The land of the Canaanites – the land of Israel – is the essence of the covenant between God and the Jews; the land of the Jebusites – Jerusalem – is the center of that faith. These are lessons that God imparted to Abraham in the year 2023 of the Jewish calendar that anchors Judaism to this day.

Names and Narrative: Violence

Even a word as straightforward as “violence” can no longer be exchanged among people who strongly disagree.

On October 7, while Israeli families were still being burned alive in their homes, while women were being brutalized and dragged into Gaza, while children and grandparents were being taken hostage, the Democratic Socialists of America issued a statement expressing solidarity with Palestinians and calling for an end to violence.

Read that sentence again.

Solidarity with the side carrying out the massacre whicle simultaneously being opposed to violence.

Under any normal understanding of language, those two positions cannot coexist. Even if one sides with Palestinian Arabs doing the slaughter, one cannot deny that killing 1,200 people and taking over 250 people hostage is anything but violence.

Yet for much of today’s activist left, there is no inconsistency because violence has been redefined.

Violence is no longer judged by the act itself. It is judged by the political identity of the actor and the victim. Violence against the oppressed is evil. Violence by the oppressed is resistance.

That single inversion explains nearly everything.

It explains why people can chant “globalize the intifada” and insist it is not a call for violence. Because intifada, in their lexicon, is not violence. It is justice.

But words have histories. And intifada has a very specific one.

The fact is that the Second Intifada was not a symbolic protest. It was suicide bombings on buses, massacres in cafés, shootings in markets, families murdered at holiday tables. The later “stabbing intifada” turned sidewalks and bus stops into hunting grounds. The “car intifada” transformed vehicles into weapons aimed at civilians.

So when Jews hear “globalize the intifada,” they do not hear an abstract call for liberation. They hear a political tradition with a body count. They hear the globalization of a tactic that has repeatedly targeted Jewish civilians.

That is why the argument over this slogan so often goes nowhere.

Congressional committee on the phrase “Globalize the intifada” on June 24, 2025

One side hears history. The other hears ideology. One side sees violence in the act itself. The other sees violence only when the “wrong” people commit it.

The socialist-jihadi moral framework launders murder into resistance and terror into liberation, because the victims are placed on the wrong side of the political hierarchy.

October 7 exposed with horrifying clarity that while the massacre itself was monstrous, the reaction to it revealed something even deeper: a political culture that could look directly at burned families, raped women, butchered children, and kidnapped grandparents and still speak of “ending violence” while standing in solidarity with those who had just committed it.

And when Jews and decent people watch those same people – in the same breadth – call for following the charge of a young aspiring politician named Zohran Mamdani to redefine both violence and “peace” in the cause of annihilating the oppressor class, they have reason to fear.

The sanitation of violence against certain undesirable groups – Zionists for example – was voted into power in New York City. With easy smiles that come from people who have long internalized that eradicating “oppressors” is a noble cause in which bloody hands do not stain the oppressed.

Mamdani’s False Charge And the Echo of the Soviet Union

New York City Mayor and Democratic Socialist Zohran Mamdani accused a synagogue hosting a West Bank real estate expo of facilitating “illegal land sales” and “displacing Palestinians.” It was an explosive accusation, wrapped in the language of international law, designed to sound precise and morally settled. But the facts—and the law—are far more complicated than that charge suggests.

The first fact Mamdani skips is the most important one: the buyers are Americans.

Not Israelis being relocated by the State of Israel. Not civilians transferred by military order. Not part of a government-directed demographic campaign. Americans, acting on their own, voluntarily exploring whether to buy homes.

That distinction is the legal center of the argument.

The international legal objection to “settlements” rests largely on Article 49(6) of the Fourth Geneva Convention, which prohibits an occupying power from transferring parts of its own civilian population into occupied territory. The theory is about state conduct: a government moving its own people into disputed land.

That is not what is happening here.

Whatever one thinks of “Israeli settlements,” an American family independently choosing to buy an apartment is not the same legal act as a state transferring its civilian population. It is a private decision, made voluntarily, by people acting on their own behalf.

Brochure from Great Real Estate Event at Park Avenue Synagogue in New York City in May 2026

The second problem with Mamdani’s accusation is historical.

Much of the outrage centers on homes in the West Bank neighborhood of Gush Etzion, as though it were simply land taken from Palestinian Arabs after 1967. That telling requires erasing inconvenient history.

Jews legally purchased land in Gush Etzion in the 1920s and 1930s. Jewish communities were established there before the State of Israel existed. In 1948, those communities were attacked, destroyed, and their survivors expelled. These neighborhoods were not owned privately by Palestinian Arabs.

Even more, almost every single presenter at the event was marketing real estate inside Israel. As the event advertised on its opening page “from Jerusalem to Netanya, from Haifa to Eilat,” this was an event showcasing homes inside of Israel.

This event was not about “displacing Palestinians” as Mamdani charged. This was selling homes in the Jewish homeland to American Jews.

That 3,300-year old bond is at the heart of antisemites loathing Israel, much like Mamdani’s mentors in the Soviet Union attacking Zionists decades ago.

From Obedience to Devotion

Leviticus should end at chapter 26.

The covenant is complete: blessing and curse, prosperity and famine, exile and return. Bechukotai lays out the full drama of covenantal life and its consequences. The Torah even sounds like it is closing the book: “These are the statutes and laws and teachings that the Lord gave between Himself and the children of Israel at Mount Sinai.”

It feels finished.

And then there is chapter 27. Vows. Valuations. Tithes. Cherem.

It feels almost out of place, like an appendix attached after the ending.

Until you realize it is answering a different question.

For twenty-six chapters, Leviticus has written the script of covenantal life. It teaches what must be done: the sacrifices to bring, the boundaries to keep, the sacred times to observe, the society to build. It is the architecture of obedience.

But a script alone does not create a performance.

A script tells you what must happen. It creates the structure. What it cannot provide is the actor.

That is chapter 27.

After all the commandments have been given, after the covenant is written, the Torah turns back to the individual and asks: what will you bring that was never required?

Will you make a vow? Will you dedicate your field? Will you sanctify what still feels like yours?

That is why the book ends with possessions. Because ownership is where devotion becomes real. Your produce, your livestock, your property, your word itself.

That question feels especially modern. Ours is a culture of minimums—minimum compliance, minimum obligation, minimum sacrifice. We measure success by how much we can retain, not by what we are willing to dedicate.

Obedience is fulfilling what is required. Devotion begins when a person chooses to give beyond the minimum, to consecrate what he could have kept, to bind himself by a word he never had to speak.

That is the final lesson of Leviticus. Holiness does not end with obedience.

Obedience follows the script. Devotion begins where the script ends.

The Torah can command obedience. Only people can choose devotion.

Mamdani Is Coming For Yeshivas

When New Yorkers hear “private schools,” many still picture the old stereotype: elite Manhattan prep schools, hedge-fund families, sprawling campuses, and tuition bills that rival college.

That image is politically useful for progressives. It makes any fight over “private school funding” sound like a fight over privilege.

But in New York City, that is no longer the reality.

The largest private-school system in the city is not Dalton, Horace Mann, or Trinity School. It is the yeshiva system.

More than 100,000 students in New York City attend Jewish day schools and yeshivas (45% of the total in private schools), making them the largest single bloc in the city’s private education sector. Catholic schools, once the backbone of private education in the city, now rank second with 29% of the total. The political image of private education has not caught up with the demographic reality.

Buses in front of yeshivas in Brooklyn

And that reality matters.

Because when politicians like Zohran Mamdani talk about cutting back the flow of public money into private education, yeshivas are not a side issue. They are the center of the story.

The latest battleground is special education reimbursement.

These are not subsidies for luxury education. They are legal remedies for families of children with disabilities whose needs the public-school system failed to meet. Under federal law, when the city cannot provide an appropriate education, parents can seek private placement and reimbursement.

That system has grown dramatically in cost. Critics argue it disproportionately benefits families with the resources to hire lawyers, navigate hearings, and front tuition costs. And White families in particular.

The rising cost is a legitimate policy concern.

But the answer cannot be to jump to the conclusion that yeshiva kids are taking too much; it must be to evaluate the various needs of children and figure out how to provide for them.

Unfortunately, we are living in a time and with a mayor in New York City who prefers class and racial warfare and is portraying this as a matter of “equity” and confronting “private-school privilege.” It is not. It would primarily target students with special needs at Jewish and Catholic schools.

The charts are misleading because the demographics of public and private schools are dramatically different; There are 940,000 children in public school of which 43% are Hispanic and 23% are Black – generally in line with the disability figures above

It would hit communities that already shoulder the cost of religious education while also paying taxes into a public system they largely do not use.

It would hit families with children who need specialized services.

And it would hit institutions that serve as the backbone of Jewish continuity in New York.

Because yeshivas are not just schools. They are where tradition is transmitted, where Hebrew is spoken, where Torah is learned, where identity is formed, and where Jewish continuity is secured across generations. It is civilizational infrastructure.

And once government begins treating private educational alternatives as a fiscal problem rather than a parental right, the pressure rarely stops with one category. First special education reimbursements. Then transportation. Then security funding. Then textbooks. The pattern is familiar: reduce the supports, increase the burden, narrow the choice.

Zohran Mamdani built his politics around redistribution and expanding public provision. His next target seems to be thousands of Jewish children with special educational needs.

The End of Civilization

The defining moral line of civilization is simple: civilians are off limits.

Once that line breaks, atrocity is no longer an exception. It becomes a method.

Over the last five years, some of the worst deliberate mass killings of civilians have come at the hands of jihadist movements and regimes built on political Islam.

In Sudan, militias tied to the Rapid Support Forces slaughtered an estimated 10,000 to 15,000 civilians, largely from the Masalit community. Whole neighborhoods were emptied through organized murder.

On October 7, thousands of Gazans crossed into Israel and hunted Jewish civilians deliberately—families in their homes, young people at the Nova Music Festival, children, the elderly. Terror itself was the objective.

In Iran, the regime’s 2025–2026 crackdown on protests has left more than 6,000 civilians dead, according to rights monitors, killed for dissent against an Islamic revolutionary order.

Across Nigeria and the Sahel, Boko Haram and Islamic State West Africa Province continue village massacres, church bombings, kidnappings, and executions. Civilians are the intended victims.

These conflicts differ in geography and politics. Sudan is tribal and ethnic. Hamas is nationalist and religious. Iran is a regime. Boko Haram is insurgent.

What unites them is the same moral collapse: the civilian is no longer protected by being uninvolved. Civilian blood becomes a signal of conviction.

And here is where the West has developed its own moral blind spot.

For years, parts of the activist left have embraced an oppressor-oppressed framework so rigid that civilian status itself becomes negotiable. The first question is no longer who was killed, but who held power.

That inversion was laid bare after October 7, when elements within Democratic Socialists of America and allied activist circles framed the massacre in the language of “resistance” and “decolonization,” making slaughter politically understandable so long as it came from the “oppressed.”

The jihadist says civilians may die because ideology sanctifies it. The regime says civilians may die because dissent threatens power. The activist says civilians may die because power determines innocence.

Different justifications. Same result.

Once innocence becomes conditional, civilization becomes conditional too.

Because the moment civilians become fair game, everyone eventually becomes fair game.

An Open Letter to Commencement Speakers: Use Your Podium for Moral Clarity

To the commencement speakers stepping onto stages this spring:

You are about to speak at one of life’s defining moments. Graduates and their families will remember your words long after the ceremony ends. That podium carries weight. It should be used carefully.

And it should be used with moral clarity.

Do not praise the fashionable activism of the moment simply because it is loud, visible, and rewarded by the culture around it.

Do not mistake popular protest for courage. If you want to speak about courage, speak about the students who stood for Israel.

Speak about the students who defended Israel’s right to wage a just war against Hamas after October 7—the deadliest massacre of Jews since the Holocaust.

Speak about the students who understood that when a terrorist army invades a country, murders civilians in their homes, kidnaps children, rapes women, and openly promises to repeat it, the moral obligation of that country is defense. It is victory. It is the destruction of the machinery of terror.

That is what Israel is doing. And on campuses across America, students who have said so have paid a price.

Speak about that.

Speak about the Jewish students who have walked through hostile encampments and angry demonstrations to get to class.

Speak about the students who removed their kippot, hid their Stars of David, or stopped speaking openly because the atmosphere around them had become threatening.

Speak about the students who stood their ground anyway.

The students who wore hostage pins.

The students who defended the truth of October 7 when others rushed to justify it.

That is moral courage.

Real courage is not standing with a crowd chanting slogans. Real courage is standing when the crowd turns on you.

And that has been the experience of many Jewish students this year.

They have faced harassment, exclusion, intimidation, and hostility—often from classmates and sometimes with the silence or complicity of faculty and administrators.

That reality deserves acknowledgment. It deserves honor.

So if you are going to use your commencement speech to speak about justice, begin there.

To organizations like the American Federation of Teachers and the American Association of University Professors, who speak often about academic freedom and the right of educators to speak their conscience: prove those principles mean something.

Stand behind the educators who speak in defense of Israel.

Stand behind those who praise students fighting antisemitism.

Stand behind those who say openly that Jewish self-defense is moral.

Because if you defend speech only when it flatters your politics, you are not defending freedom. You are defending ideology.

Commencement should be better than ideology. It should tell the truth.

The truth of this year on campus is that some of the bravest students were the ones who stood visibly, unapologetically, and often alone with the Jewish people.

If you want to honor courage from the podium, honor them. That would be a commencement speech worth remembering.

Derek Peterson, chair of the University of Michigan Faculty Senate, speaks during the University of Michigan’s 2026 Spring Commencement at Michigan Stadium in Ann Arbor celebrating pro-Palestinian “activists.”

Palestinians Have Always Been Anti-American

For over twenty-five years, the Palestinian Center for Policy and Survey Research has tracked Palestinian political opinion. Through wars, peace talks, intifadas, and four American presidents, one pattern remains strikingly consistent:

Palestinians have never been broadly pro-American.

That may sound counterintuitive. The United States has spent decades mediating the conflict, funding Palestinian institutions, and pouring diplomatic capital into the region. If goodwill were built by investment alone, the polling should show it.

It does not.

PCPSR rarely asks, Do you like America? Instead, it asks the more revealing questions: Do you trust the United States as a mediator? Do you want American involvement? Do you believe Washington is fair?

Across twenty-five years, the answers tell the story.

Palestinians burn American and Israeli flags

After the collapse of the 2000 Camp David Summit and the violence of the Second Intifada, positive views of America’s political role sat around 20 to 35 percent. Negative views often exceeded 60 percent. America was seen less as a broker than as Israel’s protector.

That became the baseline.

The mid-2000s brought modest movement. After Mahmoud Abbas replaced Yasser Arafat, some Palestinians supported stronger American engagement. Yet the support was tactical hoping that Washington might pressure Israel. That did not translate into trust.

Then came the only real exception.

Barack Obama produced the highest pro-American opening in the polling record. In 2009, roughly 60 percent supported a stronger American role in negotiations.

Washington read that as goodwill. The polling suggests something narrower: hope that Obama would pressure Israel.

Even at that high point, majorities still believed America fundamentally favored Israel. The atmosphere improved. The structure did not.

By Obama’s second term, positive sentiment had fallen back into the 20 to 30 percent range.

Then Donald Trump recognized Jerusalem as Israel’s capital and trust collapsed into single digits.

In some surveys, roughly 90 percent rejected American mediation. The illusion of neutrality disappeared. America was no longer seen as merely tilted toward Israel, but openly aligned with Israeli claims to Jerusalem.

Palestinian Arabs burn American flag in 1998

Joe Biden lowered the temperature but did not restore trust. The numbers recovered slightly, climbing back into the teens and twenties.

“Regardless of how great the power of Israel, America, and the world may be, in the end they will disappear, while we are remaining.” – Fatah Central Committee member Abbas Zaki, April 2021

Then came the October 7 attacks and the war that followed. With Washington backing Israel militarily and diplomatically, Palestinian hostility surged again toward its floor: single-digit trust, overwhelming distrust.

The pattern is unmistakable.

When America pressures Israel, Palestinian approval rises. When America stands with Israel, it collapses.

For twenty-five years, Palestinians have periodically wanted America involved. They have never wanted America embraced.

Not under George W. Bush. Not under Obama. Not under Trump. Not under Biden.

The names changed. The percentages moved. The structure held.

America, in Palestinian political opinion, has never been a friend. Only a force—useful when applying pressure, hostile when withholding it.

After a quarter century of polling, that may be the clearest finding of all.

An American Jewish Blueprint

When Reality Changes

The first great strategic correction in Jewish history came in the hills of Judea.

In the early days of the Hasmonean revolt 2,100 years ago, Jews hiding from Seleucid persecution were attacked on Shabbat but they refused to fight on the holy day. Their piety became their vulnerability. The enemy understood the pattern and exploited it. Jews died because they would not defend themselves on the Sabbath.

Then came one of the most consequential rulings in Jewish history: if attacked on Shabbat, Jews would fight.

That was more than a legal adjustment. It was a civilizational doctrine. Reality had changed and Jewish survival required adaptation.

Hanukkah is remembered through oil and light, but before the miracle of the oil came the correction in strategy. The Jews who survived understood something fundamental: the law existed to preserve Jewish life, and Jewish life could not be preserved through passive fidelity to assumptions that enemies had learned to weaponize.

That is the enduring Hanukkah doctrine. When reality changes, Jewish strategy must change with it.

The Three Jewish Illusions

Jewish history has often been shaped by three recurring illusions.

The first is the illusion of piety without defense.

That was the lesson of Hanukkah itself. Holiness without strategic realism became a mechanism for slaughter. What began as faith became fatal passivity until Jewish leadership corrected course.

The second is the illusion of integration without power.

This was the great mistake of medieval Jewry and later German Jewry.

In medieval Europe, Jews often flourished under royal protection, economic necessity, and communal tolerance. These arrangements created stability until rulers changed, social pressures mounted, or religious hostility sharpened. Then the protections vanished.

The lesson was brutal: usefulness is not security.

German Jews carried that illusion to its highest expression. They were among the most integrated Jews in history. Patriotic, educated, prosperous, woven deeply into German civic life. They believed they had secured permanence through contribution.

Then came The Holocaust.

No Jewish community had climbed higher inside a host society. None fell faster.

Integration is real. It matters. It enriches Jewish life. It is insufficient.

The third illusion is hope without strategy.

The Bar Kokhba Revolt embodied this danger. Jewish sovereignty briefly returned, messianic expectations surged, and military ambition outran political reality. Rome crushed the revolt and shattered Judea.

Hope is essential to Jewish life. Hope detached from sustainable power becomes catastrophe.

The Jewish Paradox of Power

Jewish history presents a permanent paradox. Jews are vulnerable when powerless and Jews are vulnerable when powerful.

The accusation of Jewish power is one of antisemitism’s oldest reflexes. Jews have been accused of controlling kingdoms when dependent on kings, accused of controlling economies while confined to ghettos, accused of controlling politics while excluded from political life.

Powerlessness never prevented the accusation. Weakness has never protected Jews.

So the answer cannot be withdrawal from power. The answer is understanding what kind of power matters.

German Jews had social prominence but lacked defensive power. They had visibility, achievement, influence, prestige but did not control the institutions that would determine whether rights remained rights when political conditions changed.

That distinction matters now.

American Jews have extraordinary social prominence. In business, law, medicine, media, academia, and politics, Jewish achievement is immense.

But social prominence is not defensive power.

Success creates comfort. Comfort creates assumptions. Assumptions create blindness.

That is where Jewish history becomes dangerous.

The task is not to seek dominance. It is to build durability.

The American Jewish Doctrine

What does that mean in practical terms? How should American Jews position themselves in the current environment?

First, political power.

Diaspora Jews have often treated politics as secondary, entering political life through universal causes and only later recognizing Jewish interests. History argues for the reverse.

Jewish interests are legitimate political interests. Communal safety is political before it is physical. Before mobs move, laws shift. Before violence erupts, institutions bend. Before exclusion becomes visible, narratives are rewritten.

Political power means relationships with governors, mayors, district attorneys, legislators, police commissioners, school boards, university administrations.

It means voting coherently when Jewish interests are implicated.

Not because politics is everything but because politics determines what protections remain when sentiment changes.

Second, rights.

Modern Jewish communal life often leans heavily on allyship. Allies matter. Coalitions matter.

But allyship is rented. Rights are owned.

Diaspora Jews need to become more comfortable asserting rights directly.

  • The right to visible Jewish life.
  • The right to religious practice.
  • The right to define antisemitism.
  • The right to communal defense.
  • The right to political particularism.

Rights do not depend on approval. That is why they matter.

Third, communal resilience.

Jewish prosperity in America has created a dangerous temptation: assuming that integration reduces the need for internal communal strength. History teaches the opposite.

Strong Jewish life requires thick Jewish institutions.

  • Jewish schools.
  • Jewish civic organizations.
  • Jewish legal defense organizations.
  • Jewish security systems.
  • Jewish philanthropy directed inward.
  • Jewish media institutions.

Strong institutions convert prosperity into durability.

Capital moves. Institutions endure.

The First Signs of Danger

Jewish history teaches that violence rarely begins with violence. It begins with language.

Before pogroms, Jews become symbols.

Before expulsions, Jews become abstractions.

Before extermination, Jews become explanations. Parasites. Foreigners. Exploiters. Poisoners. Colonizers.

The vocabulary evolves. The function remains.

Language creates permission.

That is why Jews must take ideological shifts seriously before they become physical threats.

Universities matter.

Activist ecosystems matter.

Social media matters.

Political rhetoric matters.

Religious radicalization matters.

Institutional capture matters.

By the time violence arrives, the moral groundwork has often already been laid. Jewish history punishes those who dismiss rhetoric as harmless.

The Sovereign Difference

There is one structural difference in modern Jewish history that changes everything.

Israel exists.

For nearly two thousand years, Jewish history was entirely dependent on host societies. That changed in 1948.

For the first time since antiquity, Jews had sovereign power, an army, intelligence services, borders, and a place where Jewish defense was not dependent on the goodwill of others.

That transformed Jewish vulnerability. Yet diaspora Jews remain diaspora Jews. Their fate is still deeply tied to the health of their host societies. Or perhaps more complicated, become local stand-ins to attack policies for which they have no control.

Jewish history now has a sovereign center which points in two directions: an option for refuge for diaspora Jews and also an excuse for pogroms for local antisemites.

The Hanukkah Question

The question facing American Jews is not whether to adopt a wartime mindset. America in 2026 is not Germany in 1932.

Jewish life in America remains among the freest and most prosperous in Jewish history. The challenge is different.

It is to abandon passive history. To stop assuming that flourishing means permanence.

To recognize that strategic conditions can shift. To adapt before threats become kinetic.

That is the Hanukkah doctrine.

The Jews in those caves died believing they were preserving the law. The Jews who survived understood something harder. The law had to preserve the Jews.

That remains the enduring Jewish challenge.

Not panic. Preparedness.

Not militancy. Strategic realism.

Not permanent war. Permanent vigilance.

Jewish history has rarely punished the Jews for being too alert. It has punished them, again and again, for waiting too long.