In The Myth of Sisyphus,Albert Camus posits one central question: In the face of an absurd, meaningless world, why not commit suicide? In answering, he attempts to imbue the affirmation of life with social relevance and moral content.¹ One might say, in a similar manner and on a daily basis, that the Zionist Jew both in Israel and outside of it is forced to answer existential questions such as: Why not remain in the diaspora? What is the purpose of making aliya? Or, for those who have made Israel their home, why stay, considering the hardship of doing so? Time was, the answers given by that Jew to these questions proved his commitment to the Jewish national project; so, too, did the answers invariably require him to engage in the hagshama (fulfillment) of the Zionist dream. Those who did not engage in it, for one reason or another, consequently lived with a sense of sin. These Jews felt the need to justify—to themselves and others—their failure to obey the imperative to which the entire Jewish people was obligated. In the diaspora, fulfilling this imperative was interpreted as a call to make aliya to the “land of our forefathers”; in Israel, on the other hand, it was interpreted as the need to encourage de-urbanization and agriculture, in order to transform the Jews from a nation of middlemen into one of laborers and farmers. This latter interpretation ultimately became the banner of the Zionist youth movements.

For today’s Zionist Jew, the situation is very different.

Indeed, the questions that troubled past generations are no longer applicable to today’s Zionists. Instead, Zionism has been transformed into simple ahavat Tzion, “love of Zion.” Jews living abroad need only feel affection for the people living in Israel in order to be called “Zionists”—a title, it should be noted, that no longer bestows honor on its bearer. Today’s Zionism does not require a person to fulfill the Zionist dream in Israel. Rather, all he has to do is develop a sentimental affinity for his poor brethren in the Middle East. Ever since the Yom Kippur War—which was perceived more as a defeat than a triumph, or certainly a grand victory like the Six Day War—“love of Zion” seems to be more about pity than a sense of pride. This is a new, very different kind of love.

To be sure, Israelis do not have it easy. They do not live in peace and tranquillity. They endure economic hardship and face constant threats to their security. By contrast, their brothers and sisters in the diaspora (especially in the United States) avail themselves of the good life. A donation to a Jewish federation has therefore become a kind of indulgence paid by sinners—albeit sinners who have long forgotten the sin. All that is left of their Zionism—and their Judaism—is membership in a Jewish community center. These centers have replaced the Zionist clubs of old, and even the synagogues (in fact, many synagogues have turned into de facto “community centers”). Moreover, special status is reserved for Israelis who have left Israel (known as yordim, literally “those who have come down”), preferring a comfortable exile to life in a frustrating (or depressing, as they like to call it) homeland. These emigrants prefer to fulfill themselves and their dreams elsewhere, where they are easier to pursue. They have lost faith in all the ideals that demand a Jewish sovereign presence in the Middle East. In their view, those who live in the diaspora yet read the Hebrew newspaper Yediot Aharonot and are active in Jewish and Zionist organizations out of some sentimental affection for their country of origin coupled with a hint of guilt, are all doing their part for the State of Israel. And if they also happen to sell Israel Bonds or teach Hebrew, thus making an honorable living off Zion, then—so the thinking goes—they should be doubly appreciated.

These yordim, whose children will soon forget where they came from, are considered model “lovers of Zion.” Nevertheless, they remain for the most part emigrants, merely ones who have preserved their ties to the Old Country in various ways. They are great fans of the Maccabi Tel Aviv basketball team, for example, or take pride in the bravery of Israeli soldiers. As I see it, however, they are less Zionist than those American Jews—most of whom are Orthodox—who feel a far deeper, spiritual connection to the Land of Israel. The best among the yordim are still sadly mulling over the question first asked by the hero of Ory Bernstein’s novel Safek Haim (“A Dubious Life”):

Most Israeli emigrants’ response to the question posed above is that their lives and those of their children are more important to them than nostalgic cravings for the “land of our forefathers” and their particular bit of mother earth. Many of them who have made a spiritual accounting of their choice either deny Zionist ideology and the Zionist narrative, or simply do not consider them obstacles to their decision to seek out happiness elsewhere.³ Anyone looking objectively at this situation cannot but ask himself: Is there any constructive response to those who have chosen the diaspora over Israel?