There is a sentence in the first chapter of Genesis that quietly overturned the political logic of the ancient world. We still live with the aftershocks, as well as recurring attempts to undo it.
Every ancient kingdom—Egypt, Babylon, Assyria, Sumer, etc.—was organized around the same premise: The individual was nothing; the collective, embodied in the king, the priesthood or the aristocracy, was everything. A peasant’s worth was measured entirely by his usefulness to the ruling hierarchy. The idea that a person possessed inherent dignity by virtue of being human did not exist. Value was assigned by the rulers and could be revoked just as easily.
Then came: “And God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him.” Not a king. Not a priesthood. Not a tribe. Every human being, without exception, was made in the Divine image. This did not describe the world as it was. It indicted it, and every throne in it.
Judaism did not stop there. It established laws around the insistence that the image of God was universal. Ezekiel 18 rejects the idea that children inherit the guilt of their fathers, and that the collective, clan, tribe or generation bears moral responsibility that individuals simply absorb by belonging to it. “The soul that sins, it shall die,” the prophet said, then spelled out at length that a righteous son is not condemned for a wicked father’s sins or a wicked son excused by a righteous father’s merit.
Roughly six centuries later, around 200 C.E., the Mishnah sharpened that principle into a sentence that still stops readers cold. Sanhedrin 4:5 states that whoever destroys a single life is considered to have destroyed an entire world, and whoever sustains a single life has sustained an entire world. Not a symbolic unit. A world, complete in itself.
Compare this to the Code of Hammurabi, often cited as a predecessor of Western law and even, loosely, the U.S. Bill of Rights.
Hammurabi’s code contained real legal protections, but not individual rights in any modern sense. It was stratified by class: awilum (high social class), mushkenum (dependent commoners) and slave. Each carried different legal standing, and even within the free classes, that standing ran exclusively through the male head of household. A wife, child or dependent had little claim of their own. As in ancient Rome, they were legally an extension of the paterfamilias who represented them.
Compare that to Ezekiel’s insistence that a son cannot inherit his father’s guilt, let alone be subsumed into his legal identity, and the difference is obvious. Hammurabi assigned value at the household level. The Jewish people’s revolution after leaving slavery in Egypt brought it to the individual level.
This is where Western individual rights come from. Not Athens, which prized the polis (city-state) over the citizen and had no problem with slavery or infanticide. Not Rome, which organized the individual entirely around household and state. It came from Sinai.
The Enlightenment knew this, even when it later tried to forget it. John Locke’s argument for natural equality rests on the “workmanship” idea: Human beings are the handiwork of God and therefore cannot rightly be owned or subordinated by one another, since we belong to our maker and not to each other.
The balance between collectivism and pure individualism is the Jewish inheritance.
That is imago Dei in secular dress. Historian Eric Nelson has documented how seventeenth-century political theorists who built the scaffolding of republican government went directly to rabbinic and biblical sources to do it.
This is also the root of classical liberalism and free-market capitalism, which hold that individuals—possessing rights prior to and independent of the state—may voluntarily trade and contract with one another. A market of coerced collectives cannot function; a market of rights-bearing individuals can. Both the liberal state and the free market rest on the same originally Jewish premise: The person, not the collective, is the fundamental unit.
Every one of these traditions—natural rights, republican self-government, free markets—is a loan drawn on that Jewish premise, whether the borrower says so or not. So, you’re welcome. What deserves an honest reckoning is how often that loan is disputed rather than acknowledged. It was disputed at least twice in the last century and again now.
On today’s progressive left, the Democratic Socialists of America and its fellow travelers have revived precisely the logic Ezekiel dismantled. Intersectional theory and its less academic partner, identity politics, treat individuals as interchangeable representatives of a demographic category, judged by group assignment rather than conduct. When that framework turns to Jews, it reliably reaches for the same corporate guilt model the Torah rejected more than 3,000 years ago: The Jews are seen as a collective oppressor class. Individual Jews are absorbed into a group indictment regardless of what any specific Jew believes or has done.
On the other end, currents within political Islamism run on a parallel logic, distributing honor and liability across family, clan and ummah (the world Muslim community) rather than individual conduct or conscience.
On the political right, a newer and more uncomfortable trend has emerged: Vice-President JD Vance, for example, owes an explicit intellectual debt to postliberal thinkers like Patrick Deneen, whose case against liberalism argues that the individual rights tradition itself was the founding mistake. A healthy polity, they claim, should reorient around family formation and the national common good rather than individual liberty as a first principle.
Vance’s own rhetoric, such as arguing that people without children have less of a genuine stake in the country’s future than those who do, reflects a worldview according to which political legitimacy is measured by contribution to the collective rather than by inherent individual standing.
Political commentator and podcaster Tucker Carlson has also spent recent years platforming guests who articulate explicitly collectivist, at times theocratic, visions of order hostile to pluralistic individual rights as a governing premise.
The far-left and far-right disagree on many things. But just as they converge on Jew-hatred, they converge here, too: The individual, as the basic unit of moral value, is something to manage, subordinate or discard in favor of something bigger, whether it is the proletariat, the ummah or the nation. Jews keep ending up as the friction point in all three versions, because Judaism is the origin of the claim of individual dignity that each collectivist project must erase to make its case.
Antisemitism is not merely a byproduct of these movements; it is their essence, the tell, the recurring symptom of a counterrevolutionary project. This project aims to drag societies back from the dignity of the individual toward the primacy of the collective, regardless of what the collective worships today: king, class or caliphate.
None of this is an argument against community, family or peoplehood. Judaism is intensely communal. It is a covenant made with a people, not a scattering of atomized individuals. But like the American constitutional order it helped inspire, Judaism was built to hold two things at once: real obligation to nation and world, and inviolable respect for the dignity of each person within it.
That balance, neither collectivism nor pure individualism, is the Jewish inheritance.
More than 3,000 years after Sinai, much of the world still hasn’t accepted the gift. It keeps trying to hand it back—dressed in whatever grievance ideology is fashionable—and calling that return a revolution. It isn’t. It’s a relapse.
