By Tal Bahar

Writer’s Block

Writer’s block. Many long months of constant and abundant writing that suddenly came to a halt. I could no longer transfer everything racing through my mind onto the page. But really, it didn’t happen in a single day. Because it isn’t only about writing. I could feel it approaching. But I chose to ignore it, until the barrier was placed before me and I no longer had the tools to move it. And how can I use my hands in moments like these, of flooding and overwhelm, for writing, when all they are busy doing is swimming, trying to keep my head above water?

Countless personal and national events, an overflow of thoughts, obligations, emotions. "While he was yet speaking, there came also another" — both the good and the bad. Every day brings new headlines, and it becomes impossible to disconnect from the news. And I couldn’t pick up the pen. But the time has come. To step out of the water, move the barriers with my bare hands, and let whatever comes out spill onto the empty page.

This will not be a historical article. Naturally (and also because of my personality), some history will most likely appear, of course, but that is not its purpose. The main goal, as you will soon read if you stay with me, is to examine the changing global narrative toward Israel, and the changing narrative we hold about ourselves. Its purpose is also to help me, your devoted Shlicha for only two more months, organize my thoughts.

History

During high school, I majored in history.

I’ve already written several times about that period, which was one of the most meaningful of my life. My friends never understood my “excessive” fascination (according to them) with the subject, but I never understood how one could not be. Maybe it was my tendency to become emotional over nostalgia, maybe it was simply my curiosity.

Since childhood, I remember myself reading, researching, and asking about things children supposedly aren’t interested in. Listening to old Israeli songs, admiring Yehoram Gaon, and proudly telling people from the age of five that he was my favorite singer (if you don’t know him, go listen immediately!).

And they say a good teacher is everything, so I must admit that I was fortunate to have excellent history teachers throughout the years. But one teacher, and if I’m not mistaken, I have already mentioned her before, truly changed my life.

There is always that one teacher who reaches your heart, whose lessons become far deeper and more important than getting a perfect score on a test.

For me, that was Ahuva. Ahuva Shaler instilled in me an excitement for history. An understanding that history is not merely lines in dusty old books, but patterns and narratives that shaped, and continue to shape, the world. That influences every individual and collective step, every assumption and worldview, written into human history or shaped by it. Suddenly, the feeling history awakened in me had a name: meaning.

Dr. Ahuva Shaler became one of the central figures of my later teenage years, someone who never truly left my heart or my thoughts after I graduated from the Israeli education system. Thankfully, not only memories remained from the relationship we built — the demanding yet compassionate, the deep and unique.

In 11th grade, when each student in our tiny class of only eight people chose a research topic, I chose to write about the involvement of the Cold War powers (USSR and USA) in the Middle East and how their interests were expressed in the Six-Day War. Ahuva gave me one of the greatest gifts of my life. One day, she handed me a white envelope and told me she thought I would love what was inside. I opened it and found a greeting card from 1968. Written in both Hebrew and English were the words:

“Hearty Greetings
And all good wishes
For your Happiness
In the coming Year”

When I opened the New Year’s card, I was astonished by its beauty. Before me unfolded a festive pop-up card, bright in color and meticulous in its illustrations, perfectly capturing the euphoric atmosphere after the Six-Day War. Citizens looked out from windows draped with flags, families cheered in the streets for soldiers marching with Israeli flags, children ran beside tanks and artillery, a building that looked to me like the Hurva Synagogue in Jerusalem appeared in the background, and planes and parachutes filled the sky — symbols of Israel’s resilience and glorious victory in that war.

At the bottom was written: “He that keeps Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep,” a verse from Psalm 121 that became extremely common in Zionist-military imagery after the wars, instantly recognizable to Israelis and immediately awakening feelings of patriotism.

I have carried that card with me ever since, as a reminder of a united Jerusalem, a united Am Israel, the IDF as a source of pride, and a feeling of national confidence and optimism.

For nine years, it has traveled with me to every corner of the world where I have lived. But a few weeks ago, that sentimental card, which until now had served as a physical historical testimony, suddenly became a witness to the transformation of the global and national narratives surrounding the State of Israel.

I found myself staring at it and wondering: why, in the late 1960s in Israel, would someone write a holiday greeting card in English if it were meant only for Israelis? Or maybe, it also intended for the international community?

And then it hit me.

I became so emotional. At last, feelings that had been racing through my chest and stomach for months suddenly transformed into thoughts and words. All because of a single greeting card that, for me, represents one thing, but for many represents the opposite.

The global story told about Israel in 1967 was almost completely opposite from the story told today. David versus Goliath. The few defeating the many. The IDF was a source of admiration, of love. Certainly, the card is filled with weapons and militaristic imagery, things many people today would immediately interpret as aggression. Yet, paradoxically and perfectly, there is also so much love, pride, and hope inside that same card.

Do you know the second name of the Six-Day War? “The War of Liberation.” Liberation. It’s almost impossible to believe that liberation was the dominant narrative of that war. Even though Israel tripled in size, liberation remained the global — but especially Israeli — narrative. Voices crying “End the occupation” existed mostly on the margins back then; voices that today have become part of the political and social mainstream.

Three years ago, I met a man I deeply respect. His religion is different from mine, his opinions are different from mine, but I know that love for humanity guides his worldview and choices. He once told me that as an elementary school student in the 1960s, his teacher gave the class an assignment: some students would dress up as Gamal Abdel Nasser, President of Egypt and leader of the Arab League, and others as Moshe Dayan, the Israeli minister of defense, for a classroom debate. Not only that, in the following days, he hung a poster of Moshe Dayan on his bedroom wall.

Today, based on my knowledge of him, I can safely assume that such a poster would no longer be found anywhere near his home. Not out of hatred for Israel, God forbid, but rather out of love for the weak and the victim. David and Goliath have switched roles.

The global consensus has changed. Aside from Israel’s most devoted supporters, who today in the world would still see the IDF as the embodiment of the dove of peace?

A de facto example of this was the global public reaction to the war with Iran that erupted this past February.

Do you think that if a joint U.S.-Israeli military campaign had broken out in the 1960s, we would have been met with worldwide sympathy?

The War with Iran 2.0

For months we knew tensions with Iran were rising once again. If you remember, during the 12-Day War, Operation “Rising Lion,” I was “stuck” in Israel. But this time, although I didn’t know exactly when it would happen, I knew that when the next war broke out, I would truly be stuck — in the United States, far from my family and my people in Israel.

Like everyone else, I followed everything from afar. The feeling was of bubbling ground beneath our feet. For many weeks, every Saturday night on Motzei Shabbat, I would run anxiously to my phone to see what had happened during Shabbat. Because a ceasefire in Israel is not peace; it is merely the station before the next war.

One Saturday morning, two missionaries knocked on the door. Tuck opened it half asleep while I continued getting ready for shul. They spoke to him about various gospels, and just before he finally tried to end the conversation politely, one of them suddenly asked: “Do you ever think about Iran?”

Tuck answered, “Yes. Every day. Why are you asking about Iran?”

“If you didn’t know, we’ve been at war since 1:30 this morning.”

Tuck rushed to update us, and within ten minutes we were already hurrying out the door. The familiar walk to synagogue suddenly felt strange and foreign. During wartime in Israel, I am used to always knowing where the nearest shelter is. But in America, there are no shelters. I am used to hearing military aircraft overhead. But here the sky was bright and calm, and all I could hear were birds. The air was pleasant. My thoughts were storming, and I desperately wanted to know whether my family in Israel was safe. See photo of Richmond  sky that morning.

And the day was beautiful. Beautiful, calm, and sunny enough that it almost felt impossible to imagine jets, missiles, soldiers, and civilians under fire two continents away. See photo of Israel sky that morning

If an American chose not to turn on the news, there’s a good chance they would not even know the United States had participated in the war. Aside from rising gas prices and flight costs, what daily challenges did the war bring?

When it first erupted, support for Israel inside Israel itself was almost entirely consensual. It felt as though there was hope for an end to almost fifty years of fear. But in the United States, the opposite quickly emerged.

Don’t think I was surprised. I understood everything already that same Saturday morning, when even I almost got swept into the illusion of imagined peace. Because it is so simple: “Far from the eye, far from the heart.” When people do not physically feel the existential threat or immediate consequences, it becomes much easier to think in theoretical terms. The war itself becomes theoretical. And then, in its place, come other theories. Conspiracy theories. Why now? What are the interests? Who benefits? Who is manipulating whom?

And once again, the State of Israel is in all headlines. I’m sure you can think of the loving descriptions you’ve seen online or in newspapers. And because the boundaries are so easily crossed, anti-Zionist and anti-Israeli rhetoric quickly deteriorates into outright antisemitism.

The Question of Supporting Israel

And now, we arrive at ourselves.

The Jewish people, across every corner of the world.

Lately, it seems that even the question of supporting Israel has become exhausting for parts of the Jewish diaspora. Many voices are asking to put an end to “blind support” for Israel. They do not mean ordinary support; they specifically mean blind support. According to them, the “blindness” that may have made sense in the months immediately following October 7 no longer makes sense today.

They long to return to the days before October 7. To a time when it felt “acceptable” to focus on other issues within Jewish diaspora life. To a time when it felt permissible to separate Jews from Israel. To a time when individuals could ask difficult and complicated questions without their loyalty to Israel being immediately tested.

And about that, I have several thoughts.

First— how can we return to October 6 if October 7 already happened? Why would we even want to go backward if we can instead draw conclusions, learn lessons, and grow from what was done to us and from what we ourselves have done since then in order to build a better future?

Second — questions are always legitimate. And this is not an empty statement, because both you and I know there is plenty to question, to say the least. It is important to ask questions. Necessary, even. If we do not ask, we will not know; and if we do not know, we cannot build strong opinions grounded in reality and facts.

In a land flowing with milk and honey, not everything is honey. Sometimes things happen that are the opposite of a source of pride. One of the most unique things about Israelis is that this complexity does not weaken our loyalty to the country. It strengthens it. Israel’s complexity intensifies our love for it.

And this idea is not a fantasy that can exist only in Israel. More than that, let me tell you something: it already exists within diaspora Judaism too. The world has simply made us afraid to call it by its name. “Zionism” has become a dirty word. A term of ridicule.

Sometimes I feel the world is trying to make us doubt our own moral instincts. Bringing us to a point where we genuinely feel we must apologize for self-defense, apologize for our successes, lower our pride, our self-love, our confidence in our path. Always searching for what is wrong instead of what is beautiful, good, and full of light in our remarkable homeland.

Even I caught myself, after spending a long time here, suddenly beginning to question what is “appropriate” to say and what is not. Which opinions are acceptable to hold and which are not. Increasing compassion for everyone else while reducing it toward ourselves. And this seems to have become the new consensus.

People ask to separate Jews from Israel — and it has an effect. Many truly believe there is such a thing as Israel without Jews, or Jews without Israel.

And do you know what the real absurdity is? Sometimes much of this exists only in our own heads. We also carry a narrative about ourselves. Intergenerational trauma functions like a bright red warning sign constantly telling us that everyone hates us. That we are somehow wrong. Even when, in reality, many people actually couldn’t care less.

And so, all this endless adapting ourselves to fit our surroundings, lowering standards in order to be accepted, often becomes nothing more than a product of the way we see ourselves. Someone once told me: “You are who you think other people see.”

As Theodor Herzl wrote in Altneuland:

“Judaism appears different today only because Jews have ceased to be ashamed of it.”

Have we already reached that starting point in the journey of our people?

The Giving Tree

When I was little, I didn’t like the book The Giving Tree. I remember feeling sad every time my mother read it to me before bed. The tree gave, and gave, and gave, sacrificing pieces of itself until nothing remained but a stump. The Giving Tree gave everything it possibly could. But was the tree fulfilled in its heart? Or was it simply a fool? Depends on whom you ask.

We Jews are, in some ways, a Giving Tree too.

Some would call that generosity naïveté. Others would call it love for humanity.

And so we, too, with endless generosity; a specifically Jewish kind of generosity, of charity and humility and tikkun olam, of loving others, of accepting difference, of gratitude and goodness even at the price of self-sacrifice. We slowly surrender a leaf of principle, a fruit of identity, a branch of values, a piece of stability.

So perhaps the connection between Jews and Israel is no longer essential. Perhaps we no longer need to call ourselves Zionists. Perhaps Israeli flags should be removed in order to make others feel more comfortable. A compromise here, another compromise there.

My fear is that the boundaries begin to blur. And one morning we may wake up and realize that all that remains is the trunk itself. Because I am certain the tree never imagined that would be its ending either.

And what happens when the compromises are no longer physical, but existential and identity-based?

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This is not an article of criticism. It is an article of thought. Thought about the future of diaspora Judaism. Thought about the future of the State of Israel. Thought about the connection between the two. Thought also about my own personal narrative, which has not left me alone since the last Thinking Jewishly session, when Shlomo Skaist and I explored this issue together with all of you.

I am placing before you, here on this page, the rawest version of what has been racing through my mind and stomach. So, if I am being honest, there is a strong chance that in a few weeks — or perhaps even days — I will reread these words and feel differently.

I invite you to Tal’s Take, the original version, for a conversation led by me on all this and more on June 23, from 6:45–8:00 p.m. at the Federation office. See more details coming soon on  RSVP details.