Here’s a question that I’ve heard posed on occasion, often from rabbis on Friday evenings: How did our people, displaced from our homeland for two millennia, scattered to the winds, maintain their inherent, recognizable, collective Jewishness? Was it the mamaloshen of Yiddish? Or keeping Shabbat (inevitably, the rabbis’ favorite answer)? Or perhaps even direct influence from Hashem, confirming once again that we are chosen?
All of these are worthy options and likely played a role in our survival as a people. And yet, cynic that I am, I prefer a much more prosaic answer: that we largely have been preserved by the hatred so many others have had for us. More plainly, I suggest that antisemitism, as vile as it is, has served as a sort of cellular membrane that has held our communal inner being together.
Counterintuitive, and somewhat disturbing? Yes. And yet, consider: for almost all of our existence as a people, the wolf has been at the door. Whether it’s worn Roman armor, an Inquisitor’s robe or a Nazi uniform, it has remained a constant presence. And most of us have responded accordingly, living as Jews openly when we could, and secretly when we could not. But living as Jews, regardless, with our own languages, cultures and beliefs.
It’s little surprise, then, that even when driven far from Jerusalem, the world regarded us as a people unto ourselves. In our grandparents’ time, ship manifests would list us as “Hebrew"—not German, Russian, or Polish. In his repulsive Dearborn Independent, Henry Ford continually referred to us as a separate race, apart from the rest of humanity.
Did this foster a sense of equality? Of course not. But did it reinforce our sense of peoplehood and distinctness? Absolutely. The disdain the world held for us, ironically, served as a phylactery to bind us together.
A good deal of this changed after the Holocaust. For once, the wider world was shocked and appalled by the scale of the atrocities that we had endured. Antisemitism suddenly became gauche amongst civilized people, and a Golden Age of acceptance began for us, especially in the West.
Of course, over time, this caused its own set of issues for us. With the wolf safely put down (or at least caged, far away), communal cohesion became less of a priority. Over time, “Jewish continuity"—highlighted by the threats of assimilation and intermarriage—increasingly became more of an issue.
Participation in Jewish institutions declined strikingly, leading to serious concerns being expressed about the long-term viability of the Reform and Conservative movements in the United States. However, a solution was on the horizon.
Time might not mend all problems, but it certainly resolved this one. After seven decades, the Shoah has been relegated to history. People no longer feel bound by the guilt and shock of the generations that preceded them. Antisemitism (often wearing the thinly-veiled guise of anti-Zionism) has roared back to historic levels. Welcome to Anatevka.
So what is the silver lining promised by the title of this piece? It’s simply this: We may be more conscious of being Jewish than in any other time in recent memory, but we’re also prouder of it as well. For most of us, the more the world denigrates us, demonizes us, and holds us to utterly indefensible double standards, the more we embrace our peoplehood.
The charge for us is clear: we must celebrate who we are and foster Jewish pride, resilience and strength. The time for seeking the approval of others has passed. We will focus inward, as we have for thousands of years, and make the world accept us on our terms, not theirs.
The wolf may be on the prowl once again, but it will learn that we are no longer easy prey. Am Yisrael Chai!
