Act and Comprehend

By Ofir Haivry

Both Judaism and Zionism were predicated on the idea that human fulfillment can only come of correct action. Today’s confusion is the result of the exaltation of principle over deed.

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One may readily recognize in these lines the loss of direction which engulfs much of the Israeli public in our time. The diplomatic moves as played out by the last government—and especially the meaning attributed to these moves as they affect the future nature of the Israeli experience and consciousness—have stirred up ominous feelings regarding the future among many, and not necessarily only among political opponents of the Oslo accords. The source of this uneasiness lies in the special manner in which the Israeli experience and the Israeli consciousness are intertwined today.

The question of the nature of Jewish consciousness in Israel in our time is, at the very least, problematic. On the one hand, it appears that there persists a basic Jewish outlook and identity among Israelis: There is no Jewish community in the world (and it is questionable if there ever was) whose calendar and daily activities are so connected to Jewish symbols and history. Even the life-dangers and possibilities with which it is confronted are striking expressions of the integrity of Jewish history.

On the other hand, there are various manifestations of distance from essential Jewish symbols and frameworks: Growing hostility towards the rabbinical establishment and religious norms of conduct, astounding ignorance in subjects related to Jewish history and, especially, growing alienation from regions of the land of Israel over which there is political controversy. The causes of this condition are complex, but one can single out from among them two main elements, both of which spring from that same timeworn cause—the desire to find a shortcut to the orchard.

The first factor, heavily influenced by both Jewish and non-Jewish foreign cultural traditions, is the reinvigoration of the familiar messianic longing for the direct approach to the essence, for “real” content, which repudiates the seemingly tiresome and petty ceremonies of the way.

Throughout the early days of the Zionist enterprise, and in spite of the dominance of the practical side of building the state, there existed a strong and continuous stream of rhetoric—as mentioned, viewed today by many as having been essentially disingenuous—glorifying idealism and spirituality (for example, the myth-weaving around the figure of the supposed farmer-philosopher A.D. Gordon), which qualities were supposed to serve as psychological reinforcement for coping with the difficulties of the way.

According to the traditional Zionist leadership, the difference between the all-important deed and pretty but meaningless rhetoric was clear; and they differentiated between the two, calling the first—that which should actually be done—”Oral Tora”; while “Written Tora” referred to official plans drawn up for public scrutiny. Thus it was possible to issue divergent and contradictory declarations in an official and public manner: The state could be committed to territorial compromise such as that promoted in the Alon Plan (the “Written Tora”); but what really counted was the so-called “Oral Tora”—the actual creation of facts on the ground and the furthering of Zionist interest.

But when the need to contend with pressing practical problems—such as the construction of the state and wars of survival—began to slacken, matters of the spirit gradually began to be perceived as the essence which obviates the value of practical things. A new generation of Israeli leadership arose which forgot the “Oral Tora,” and so it was even natural that the “Written Tora” should now appear to them confused and incomprehensible. One example is that of the “New Man” that Zionism sought to create. This term was originally connected with the aspiration of renewing the ancient Israelite character, but it was at the same time unintentionally (and intentionally) tied to traditional socialist symbolism in order to enlist this symbolism as well in furthering the Zionist effort. With the uprooting of the traditional practical aspects of the Zionist path—in both its Jewish and socialist elements—it is no wonder that there are many in whose eyes the New Israeli is supposed to be nothing more than a negation of everything that is old, and the realization of the messianic idea: A man in whose eyes physical things are marginal—as opposed to the essence, the pure ideal, that holy of holies, “Peace.”

The second factor is a direct product of the flawed experience of the current Israeli existence. It is true that the experience of present-day Israel has indeed formed the consciousness that exists today among the Jewish people. But the experience in question is a fragmentary Israeli experience, mainly a coastal-cities experience of places like Ashkelon and Hadera, which is cut off from any practical or emotional connection to Hebron and the rest of the ancient Jewish hinterland. For if it is true that, in the words of the poet Shaul Tchernikhovsky, “Man is nothing if not the image of his native landscape,” the same certainly holds true for a nation, whose consciousness is also shaped in the mold of its native landscape.³¹

The homeland of contemporary Israeli consciousness is a place like Afula, Hadera or Rehovot, a city of the Israeli everyday, whose experience is composed of the local Burger Ranch franchise, an appearance by popular singer Avihu Medina, a Steimatzky book store, a protest by public-housing residents next to the main municipal office building and, just outside the city, two moshavim and two kibbutzim, one of which is in financial difficulties.

These familiar experiences are much closer to the average Israeli than the grave of the matriarch Rachel, which is found, in the best case, only on the periphery of his consciousness. As a result, the Israeli cannot conceive of a situation in which Afula and Hadera would not remain under Israeli sovereignty, while the same cannot always be said of places such as Shiloh or Bethlehem—despite the vastly superior symbolic and historical connection that these latter cities have to the Jewish people.

It seems, therefore, that the Israeli feels a place to be part of its experience not by virtue of its holy places, but above all because of secular matters which are close to him. Holy places and those who fight for them seem so removed that they become a target of hostility and contempt, while the sand of Afula and Hadera and a possible ecological threat to it are a source of identification. For this reason, it appears that the classic Zionist plan of action will be that which determines the outcome of the struggle for the heartland: The building of houses is still what determines the strength of the ties of most Israelis to their land.

In other words, the first trend suggests that the time for action (“Zionism”) has passed, and that the time has arrived for the actualizing of the New Israeli; while the second trend complements the first by defining this new man in the image of the landscape of the country as it appears today—an Israel whose geographic and spiritual heart is almost empty of Jewish population. The merging of these two tendencies is so strong as to give rise to a widespread public feeling that both the path and the profane have simply ended: We have reached a state of rest and security, and now it is possible to turn to the essence, the holy. Yet this essence is one which is derived from a fragmentary reality—a reality such as one would have by declaring the week over on Tuesday, and then trying to experience the Sabbath as though it had arrived.

Although there are without question many in the upper reaches of Israel’s social and cultural hierarchy who have undergone a complete conversion to this new faith, the great majority of the Israeli public—even when it has supported unprecedented diplomatic initiatives—cannot be said to have resigned itself to this shortcut to the orchard. Government ministers may pour scorn on the meaning of historical or religious sites, and the leaders of the cultural and academic establishment depict the patriotic connection to the land as fetishist and fascist, but the people still hesitate, at a loss as to how to respond to the government’s plans to cut them off from the heart of their land, and exchange the historical path on which they have traveled for the past century for something else.³²

In spite of the failure of its political, social and cultural leadership—and to this failure and its proportions one should dedicate a separate study—the Jewish people has not been so easily swept away by the promise of a shortcut and a “New Middle East”; and most people explicitly view pronouncements by the leadership in this spirit to be expressions of messianic delusion. It is no wonder that there are those among the leadership who feel the need to try to convince the public that their activities really do not constitute such a messianism; as the late Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin remarked of his policies: “I believe that what we are doing reflects real Zionism and not messianic Zionism.”³³

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