It did this because religion was and is a powerful form of legitimation of the Zionist claim to Palestine. From to , Israel was ruled continuously by coalitions of the Labour and religious Zionist parties. Since the creation of Israel, the Orthodox rabbinate has had exclusive control over the question of who is a Jew. All personal matters, from birth to marriage to death, are in the hands of its representatives; Reform Rabbis do not get a look in.
In Israel, it is the rabbis who decide who is and who is not Jewish. In a survey by Pew Research Center , one of the more interesting yet least commented upon findings was that 46 percent of Israeli Jews saw themselves as Jewish first and 35 percent saw themselves as Israeli first, but 79 percent agreed that Jews should receive preferential treatment. This fundamental canard is at the root of Zionist propaganda. Israel is a Jewish state in so far as Jews are privileged over and above non-Jews.
However, Israel does not represent all Jews or even Judaism. How can this be so? South Africa was, by the same token, a white state for white people.
Does this therefore mean that racism and sectarianism are inherent to Protestantism? Or that apartheid is inherent to those who have white skin? Of course not, and likewise discrimination and racism are not inherent to being Jewish. The whole point is that we do not accept the Zionist narrative.
This is why rejection of a Zionist state does not involve the rejection of Jews and Judaism. When Zionism first arose, Orthodox Jews were fiercely opposed to it. The Jewish religion has changed in the past century just as the identity of Jews has changed. White racists and Zionists have long made common cause, Zionism was the favoured son of western imperialism.
Arthur J Balfour, the author of the Balfour Declaration , was also notoriously anti-Semitic and racist imperialist. If you're a human and see this, please ignore it.
If you're a scraper, please click the link below :- Note that clicking the link below will block access to this site for 24 hours. Recent controversies involving Black public figures and anti-Semitism show how a lack of intersectionality in combating such bigotry has furthered its vitriol. I was a sophomore in college at the University of Pennsylvania and was offered the opportunity due to my role in campus student government and politics.
The trip, which included an extensive weeklong itinerary across Israel, was intended to expose non-Jewish college leaders to the history of the country and why it was important for us to be invested in its safety. This would be one of my first trips abroad, and such an experience seemed hard to turn down. I was told by facilitators of the trip that it would help me understand how to be a better role model in the fight against anti-Semitism. I was reminded often how important it was for young Black leaders like myself to tell others within my community to have respect and empathy for the Jewish community.
In this case, I, the non-Jewish Black person, was being told by white Jewish people how to be an ally to them. When I landed in the Middle East, the trip was more complicated than that.
I would later see how such photo opportunities could be viewed as a form of voluntourism , given that we had more camera shots than conversations with the youth there. Despite some of the readings I did beforehand, we never discussed any of the sociopolitical issues in Israel outside of the threat of Iran. It was , and the world was on the edge of its seat over how a nuclear Iran under the leadership of then-president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad could spell dire consequences for Israel.
We never talked about racism, discrimination, or cultural clashes happening within the country. I would learn much later that my experience was indicative of broader issues within the fight against anti-Semitism — that the movement needed more intersectionality to combat racist tendencies in some parts of the culture.
But at the time, eight years ago, I was 20 years old and still a Black college kid trying to find my voice in largely white spaces. At that point, I still believed that education and opportunity were all I needed to thrive.
For my family of origin, we were white enough to have access to them. My family of origin could easily be Jewish and American. Each of us was welcomed into the Jewish communities where we lived and afforded full-fledged status. My own nuclear family cannot rely on our being comfortably accepted in all Jewish settings. For many Jews, we are a problem. When we walk through some Jewish doors we confound expectations. When she walked up to the table in the cafeteria during Passover that was serving food for those observing Passover, she was summarily dismissed and told it was only for those who observed Passover.
When my older daughter was 11, a man wearing a kippah approached her and asked her why she was wearing a Jewish star. Recently, my daughter told my husband that was the day she took off her Star of David, and she has not worn it again. While traveling in Israel with other American Jewish students, she was told how funny it was to them that she is Jewish. This type of impertinent questioning and intrusive commenting continues for both of my daughters. My own experience and commitment to Judaism is shaped by my own identity as a queer black Jewish woman.
I converted to Judaism because I fell in love with Judaism, Jewish community and Jewish ritual, and I wanted to be part of the Jewish people. I would not be treated by members of the Jewish community as an outsider. The reality, however, is that upon meeting me, Jews who are white will often ask me a myriad of questions: How are you Jewish?
When did you convert? That last one shocks and saddens me every time and yes, I have heard it on more than one occasion. These questions never seem to happen in a context of wanting to know me as a person.
When people start to ask me questions about my Jewish identity, I feel as if they are trying to assuage some type of uncomfortable feeling they have regarding my Jewishness. I rarely get to tell my Jewish story in a way that feels safe. All Jewish stories are complex and personal. As human beings, it is natural for us to be curious; but in my experience, among white American Jewry, this curiosity comes across as a level of discomfort on their part and is invasive at the very least.
I have often felt both physically and emotionally pigeonholed when I am confronted by this kind of questioning. One day I was invited to speak to a group of donors and board members in the Florida office. My job on that occasion was to explain some of the ideology of white supremacist and anti-Semitic organizations in the United States, and to encourage listeners to increase contributions that would be used to combat extremism.
At the end of my presentation, I told the folks in the room that right-wing extremism affected me both personally and professionally because I was partnered with a woman and I was Jewish.
After I outed myself as a Jew, the group had no interest in discussing anything else: How was I a Jew? After my talk, there was a meal—Chinese food, of course. I never got the chance to sit, eat and chat with most of the guests because I found myself backed into a corner by two tall white Jewish men asking me questions about my Jewish identity.
It turned out that one of the men was married to an Asian woman. They were parents of a biracial child, and he was desperate to learn if there were other Jews of color in this country. He had a hard time understanding how, why and under what circumstances I converted. He assumed that I should answer whatever personal questions he asked. This is not an uncommon experience for me.
One day I was at a retreat for rabbinical students. There were rabbinical students from every rabbinical school on the East Coast. The retreat also featured rabbis from across the movements. On the second day of the retreat, as I was standing in line for lunch, one of the rabbis started asking me questions about my conversion.
When we sat down to eat he continued his line of questioning. We were at a table full of rabbinical students, but he seemed focused only on me. I had never met this rabbi before, but the first thing he wanted to discuss was conversion. I told him that I usually like to get to know people before I disclose personal details. He responded that he loved to hear conversion stories, and converts often like to share their stories.
Afterwards, several students came up to me to tell me how uncomfortable they felt with his questions and thought I handled it pretty well.
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