Contemporary Jewries: Convergence and Divergence (Jewish Identities in a Changing World, 2)

Contemporary Jewries: Convergence and Divergence

Eliezer Ben-Rafael Yosef Gorny Yaacov Ro’i, Editors

BRILL

Contemporary Jewries

Jewish Identities in a Changing World This Series brings together contributions to the question of the unity versus conflict entrenched in the infinite variety of collective identities illustrated by Jews in this era. The books of this series investigate the principles, narratives, visions and commands which constitute in different places the essentials of Jewishness. They ask whether or not one is still allowed to speak, at the beginning of this new century, of one—single and singular—Jewish People. These investigations should yield an understanding of how far Judaism is still one while Jewishness is multifarious. The perspectives offered may draw from sociology and the social sciences as well as from history and the humanities, in general.

General Editors Eliezer Ben-Rafael and Yosef Gorny

Volume 2

Contemporary Jewries Convergence and Divergence EDITED BY

Eliezer Ben-Rafael, Yosef Gorny and Yaacov Ro’i

BRILL LEIDEN • BOSTON 2003

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Contemporary Jewries : convergence and divergence / edited by Eliezer Ben-Rafael, Yosef Gorny, and Yaacov Ro’i p. cm. – (Jewish identities in a changing world ; v.2) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 90-04-12950-2 (pbk, : alk. paper) 1. Jews–Identity. 2. Jewish diaspora. 3. Judaism–20th century. I. Ben-Rafael, Eliezer II. Gorni, Yosef. III. Ro'i, Yaacov. IV. Series. DSI43.C665 2003 909’-04924083–dc21 2003045207

ISSN 1570–7997 ISBN 90 04 12950 2 © Copyright 2003 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Brill provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910 Danvers MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

CONTENTS Acknowledgement ...................................................................... Introduction E B-R, Y G,  Y R" ..................................................................

ix

1

PART ONE

GENERAL PERSPECTIVES 1. Klal Yisrael: From Halakha to History Y G ........................................................................

13

2. Is the Jewish Diaspora Unique? G S ..................................................................

23

3. World Jewish Population at the Dawn of the 21th Century S DP ..........................................................

45

PART TWO

ISRAELI JEWISHNESS 4. The Meaning of Jewish-Israeli Identity D O ........................................................................

65

5. Israel and its Covenant: Religious-Zionist Thought S R ....................................................................

78

6. Israeli-Jewish Identities E B-R ..............................................................

93

7. The Significance of Israel in Modern Jewish Identities R G ...................................................................... 118

vi

 PART THREE

AMERICAN JEWISHNESS 8. Between Two Zions H L. F ............................................................ 103 9. Unraveling the Ethnoreligious Package C L ................................................................ 143 10. Identity and Identification of Jewish Baby Boomers C I. W .............................................................. 151 11. Jewish Continuity from the Reform-Judaism Perspective O S .......................................................................... 161 PART FOUR

RUSSIAN JEWISHNESS 12. Soviet Jewry from Identification to Identity Y R" ........................................................................ 183 13. The Meanings of Jewishness in Russia and Ukraine Z G ...................................................................... 194 14. Russian-Jewish Ethnicity: Israel and Russia Compared V K ................................................................ 216 15. The Dilemma of Russian-Born Adolescents in Israel M N .................................................................. 235 PART FIVE

JEWISH IDENTITIES IN WESTERN EUROPE 16. The Changing French Jewish Identity M W .............................................................. 255 17. Is the French Model in Decline? P B ................................................................ 266



vii

18. To be Jewish in Belgium These Days M K .......................................................... 282 PART SIX

JEWISHNESS IN LATIN AMERICA 19. Israel in Jewish Communal Life—South America Y G ................................................................ 291 20 Israel and Argentine Jews: Complementary or Conflicting? R R ...................................................................... 306 21. Argentine Jewry in a Period of Economic Crisis N L .................................................................... 335 BY WAY OF EPILOGUE 22. The Space and Dilemmas of Contemporary Jewish Identities E B-R ............................................................ 343 Glossary ...................................................................................... 360 Hebrew terms .......................................................................... 360 Specific notions ...................................................................... 361 Bibliography ................................................................................ 363 Contributors ................................................................................ 382 Index ............................................................................................ 385

This page intentionally left blank

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

This book is the second volume of the series entitled “Jewish Identities in a Changing World”. The occasion of this volume has been the Klal Yisrael First International Symposium held in Tel-Aviv in Winter 2001 around the themes implied by the title of this volume. We are indebted to the Tel-Aviv University, its Faculties of Humanities and of Social Sciences and its Cummings Center for Russian and East European Studies, for their support. We are also grateful to Professor Aaron Dotan, the Director of the Cymbalista Center for Jewish Culture, at the Tel-Aviv University, for associating the Center in the Klal Yisrael enterprise and hosting the Symposium. Other institutions sustained this endeavor which we want to thank, and among them, the Beit Berl College and the Ben-Gurion Heritage Center of the Ben-Gurion University of the Negev (Sde Boker). Also to be mentioned are the Weinberg Chair of Political Sociology and the Spiegel Chair of the History of European Jewry the respective incumbents of which are Eliezer Ben-Rafael and Yosef Gorny. Above all, we want to express our deepest gratitude to Mr Joed Elich, at Brill for his encouragement and hearty support as well as to Ms Anita Roodnat for her wonderful cooperation in the preparation of this book. The editors

INTRODUCTION Eliezer Ben-Rafael, Yosef Gorny, and Yaacov Ro"i This is a book about Klal Yisrael—the worldwide commonwealth of the Jewish people. It is based on the proceedings of an international seminar entitled “The Meanings of Jewry Today,” held at Tel Aviv University in January 2002. The reason for the title was the conviction of the editors of this book that the Jewish collective—Klal Yisrael—which has found itself at several critical ideological, political, and cultural crossroads over the past two hundred years, stands now at a new crossroads that is no less critical. The first crossroads was the Emancipation, which formally gave individual “ghetto Jews” an opportunity for civic equality as a means of integrating into general society. The second crossroads was reached when Jewish nationalists questioned, in secular terms, whether Jews really belonged to their surrounding societies. The third crossroads was the encounter with antisemitism and the tragedy of the Holocaust, which dramatically highlighted the principle that the Jews as individuals and as a group are part of national societies. The fourth crossroads was the establishment of the State of Israel, which, in a sense, altered the historical status of the Jews—“normalizing” their condition, so to speak, from a people without a homeland to a people with a “country of their own.” The fifth, present, crossroads is created by the worldwide expansion of multicultural ideologies and transnational diasporism. These various crossroads had contradictory effects on Klal Yisrael. Multiculturalism may have a centrifugal impact on Jewish society worldwide, while transnational diasporism may, on the contrary, have a centripetal impact on Klal Yisrael. Perhaps for the first time in its history, the worldwide Jewish commonwealth faces the possibility of genuine and complete normalization as Israel develops on its own as a Jewish state and the Jews outside Israel evolve as a diaspora similar in every respect to any other. The aim of this book is to explore whether one can still, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, speak of one Jewish people encompassing all Jews in the world and based on shared principles of collective identity. It is from this perspective that this book brings

2



together researchers of the Jewish condition in countries as diverse as Israel, the United States, Argentina and other Latin American countries, Russia and Ukraine, and France and Belgium. We are aware that important Jewish communities are absent—those of the United Kingdom, Scandinavia, the Netherlands, Germany, the countries of Eastern and Central Europe, and the Asian part of the former Soviet Union. Yet all in all, our spectrum covers the overwhelming majority of Jews throughout the world. In accordance with the purpose of this project, we wish to update what is meant by Jewish identity or, more precisely, what differentiates Jewish identities around the world. This investigation contributes, or at least aspires to contribute, to a comprehensive perception of Jewishness worldwide, considering the forces of convergence and divergence of Jewishness within and among countries, i.e., the forces of solidarity on the one hand, and of alienation—and even of schism— on the other hand. The discussion refers both to the content and contours of Jewish identities and to the question of the degree to which Jewish identities—however formulated—remain foci of identification within the various Jewish communities. Part I of the book presents three texts of general interest; together they form a theoretical introduction to the book. Yosef Gorny elaborates on the concept of Klal Yisrael, or the “Commonwealth of Israel” by showing that this notion was crucial in the work of the great Jewish historians of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries when they created the framework for all scholarly treatment of the history, culture, and society of the Jewish people and its ideological movements. From this point of view, Gorny examines whether these concepts are still relevant to Jewish society today. Gabriel Sheffer then discusses the issue of transnational diasporas as a universal phenomenon that is highly characteristic of our time, describes its specific features, and shows how Jews are an emblematic example of this concept. His contention is that ethnicity has become a fundamental aspect of contemporary society that necessarily has a feedback effect on the Jewish experience. To complete and document this introductory section, Sergio DellaPergola presents a general view of contemporary Jewish demography. The global Jewish population, he shows, grew by 782,000 in the 1950s, 506,000 in the 1960s, 234,000 in the 1970s, 249,000 in the 1980s, and 282,000 in the 1990s. The slowdown (until the 1990s) reflects a progressive decline in Jewish natural increase—the difference



3

between Jewish births and Jewish deaths—and a generally negative balance of accessions to and secessions from Judaism. Sociodemographic patterns that emerged in the late 1980s brought world Jewry to average annual rates of increase that, when viewed as a whole, mean virtually zero population growth. The only part of the Jewish people which does increase consists of the Jewish Israeli population that is characterized by a relatively high rate of natural growth as well as by the periodic absorption of waves of new immigrants. The day is not far that Israeli Jews will not only be the largest group of Jews in the world (this, actually, is quite imminent), but also the majority of the Jewish people as a whole (which is expected to occur in a few decades). It is against this backdrop that the additional parts of this book focus on major contemporary communities. Part II analyzes Israeli Jewishness. David Ohana starts this section off by focusing on extremist formulations that attack the heart of the prevailing versions of Jewish identity in Israel. He first describes the perspective that depicts Israel as a reincarnation of Crusader colonialism and sees the Jewish state as a means of exploiting and dispossessing the autochtonous (local) population. Later on, he analyzes the neo-Canaanite discourse in which far-right nationalism merges with the post-Zionist, secular left wing. Shalom Ratzabi turns to the roots of religious nationalism and the emergence of radical attitudes based on a priori deductions from the values and essential principles engendered by the meeting of the Zionist utopia and traditional Jewish assumptions. Ratzabi also insists on the importance of background factors, especially the impact of the Holocaust and of the Six-Day War. Eliezer Ben-Rafael broadens the discussion by surveying the major competing formulations of the Israeli-Jewish identity. He distinguishes between these formulations on the basis of the three axes of any collective identity: the perception of the uniqueness of the collective, the individual’s commitment to the collective, and the perception of one’s relationship with “others” who do not belong to the collective. Ben-Rafael then analyzes the conflicts between the haredim (“ultra-Orthodox”) and the secular community and between the National Religious and the secular over the uniqueness of the collective; the various ethnic divides in Israel with regard to the (direct or indirect) commitment to the national collective; and the ideological rift contraposing Zionism and post-Zionism over the relationship with “others”—that is, in the eyes of the protagonists, the

4



Jewish Diaspora, on the one hand, and the Arab population in the region, on the other. Ruth Gavison conducts, at this stage, an investigation of theoretical and practical significance, showing the crucial consequences of the creation of a Jewish state in Palestine for both Israeli and Diaspora Jewish identities. Her analysis leads to the conclusion that Israel’s very existence brings Judaism and Jewish identities to a new stage of both actuality and vulnerability. She contends that dialogue between schools of thought throughout the Jewish world, and between the trends prevailing in Israel and in the Diaspora, is the only means of guaranteeing that Israel will fully assume the role of the cement of the Jewish world. Part III discusses American Jewishness. Henry L. Feingold’s chapter seems to directly address Ruth Gavison’s question about the role of the State of Israel among world Jewry. The author of Zion in America, writing in the middle of the second Intifada and after the destruction of the World Trade Center, asks to what extent the survival of American Jewry depends on Israel’s survival and success; he comes to the conclusion that the predicament of the Jewish state actually strengthens American Jews’ allegiance to it. But his analysis also leads him to conclude that American Jewry, like Israeli Jewry, is in crisis, and that the two are interdependent. Charles Liebman summarizes the basic traits of American Jewish identities. The Jews’ perceptions of the boundaries of Jewishness, he says, vary from one community to another. Boundary changes take place in accordance with changes in the urban, middle-class cultural and political climate, on the assumption that the regnant cultural climate is necessarily consistent with Jewish continuity and survival. Religious observance and ethnicity remain closely intertwined, but the religion-ethnicity package has unraveled at lower levels of Jewish commitment. Chaim I. Waxman reports on patterns that he found among Jews who belong to the baby boomer generation and focuses on the distinction that has to be made between identity and identification. Together, Waxman contends, these issues shape the collective boundaries, and his data lead him to a description of the crisis of boundaries that he identifies in American Jewry. Ofer Shiff focuses more specifically on the Reform movement in the U.S., where it is probably the major force in the Jewish community. His study emphasizes the basic ambition of Reform Judaism, which is to harmonize universalistic and particularistic perspectives. These perspectives appear in a variety of forms at different times and places, but they all illustrate the same dialectic endeavor,



5

which consists of supporting and backing Jewish identity and Jewish values, while also pursuing the aspiration to integrate fully in society and to become totally Americanized. Part IV looks at Russian Jewishness, both in Russia and in Israel, beginning with an analysis of Soviet Jewry by Yaacov Ro"i. Ro"i shows how the first generation of Jews in the Soviet Union tried their best to marginalize their Judaism in favor of the new Soviet citizenship. The next generation—the generation of World War II and afterwards—experienced a return to Judaism under the influence of factors such as antisemitism, the experience of the Holocaust, and the creation of Israel. The third generation went farther, adopting Jewishness unreservedly. This generation was especially influenced by Israel’s victories in the 1967 Six-Day War. Following this analysis, Zvi Gitelman elaborates on the meanings of Jewishness in Russia and Ukraine after the fall of the Soviet regime. He shows how much these meanings still differ from the forms of identity that prevail in the U.S. or in Israel. Gitelman focuses on the ambiguity of the boundaries separating Jews from Christians in the former Soviet Union and on the prevailing uncertainty regarding the content of Jewishness, although—quite paradoxically—there is definitely a strong sense of identification. Vladimir Khanin takes a broad perspective, delving into the political institutionalization of Russian Jewish ethnicity in the post-Soviet states, Israel, and Western countries. He shows how the new Jewish communities build their infrastructure, providing the institutional basis for the political strengthening of elites. He points out the probability that “Jewish Russianness” will survive. Interestingly, Khanin recalls that the World Association of RussianSpeaking Jews was founded in Moscow in December 2001 by representatives of Russian-Jewish umbrella organizations from several countries, including Israel. Marina Niznick, focusing on the identity dilemma of Russian-born adolescents in Israel, shows how plausible is the retention of “Russianness” by the Russian-Jewish community. Research on the adjustment to Israel by immigrants who arrived in childhood with their parents shows that these adolescents do, in fact, follow a pattern of acculturation: they speak perfect Hebrew and tend to prefer it to Russian, and they identify strongly as Israelis. On the other hand, they are also eager to assert their particularism—including, to some degree, their linguistic particularism. Part V focuses on western Europe, and specifically on France and Belgium. Michel Wieviorka elaborates on the republican model that

6



offered French Jews emancipation at the price of transforming their collective identity. This model, however, was not entirely successful in eradicating antisemitism, as was bluntly demonstrated by the Dreyfus Affair. Later events, such as the war in Algeria and the immigration of a vibrant North African Jewish population, as well as the Six-Day War in Israel, brought about a revival of the communitarian principle. Recent antisemitism, in a context in which ethnocultural particularisms are becoming more and more salient, has become an additional factor in the reinvigoration of French Judaism. In this context, Pierre Birnbaum analyzes the multiple contemporary pressures that make the French model of Judaism fragile. This model, in his view, responded to the concept of “domicile,” and it is this model that has seen its foundations dramatically threatened by the revival of antisemitism in recent years—a set of processes that has pushed the Jews of France away from the country’s political center. Maurice Konopnicki explores the severe isolation that he believes threatens the status of Jews in Belgium today. He contends that antisemitism has regained the power to weaken the status of Jews as respected and recognized communities. Finally, Part VI looks at the case of Latin American Jewry. In the twenty-first century, says Yossef Goldstein in his study of Argentinian and Brazilian Jewry, Jewish existence depends on the inner development of sets of values and symbols and the cementing of relations with world Jewry and Israel. As a rule, religion plays a minor role in these countries, where Jewishness is mainly expressed by a twofold allegiance to the Jewish community and to the State of Israel. This latter aspect may, however, take on very different meanings in different Latin American countries. Moreover, these communities are gradually attributing more and more importance to North American Jewry at the expense of Israel. Raanan Rein further clarifies the nature of the complex relations between Argentinian Jewry and Israel. He focuses on the fact that solidarity with Israel has always been an axis of Judaism in Argentina, yet it has not prevented the emergence of conflicting interests and identity outlooks. As the standard-bearer of Zionism, Israel invariably calls for the immigration of Jews, but as the self-appointed leader of the Jewish people, it is also called upon to help Argentinian Jewry survive as a Diaspora community. Rein explores these conflicting standpoints from a historical perspective. Natan Lerner extends the analysis to the ongoing economic



7

crisis among Argentinian Jewry and articulates the basic related dilemmas that face world Jewish institutions, including the State of Israel. By way of Epilogue, Eliezer Ben-Rafael who accepts that many structural features are shared by transnational diasporas worldwide, also emphasizes that one must concede that each case is unique when it comes to the cultural, religious, and historical symbols that pertain to the collective personality of transnational diasporas. He then focuses, on the basis of the all-above, on the particular dilemmas of Judaism regarding the determination of the Jews’ collective identity that take on very different formulations throughout the present-day Jewish world. He concludes by stating the problématique of the contemporary space of Jewish identities, between convergence and unity, and divergence, division and split. In conclusion, one cannot avoid the—somewhat emphatic but still genuine—question: Quo vadis, O Jewish people? To find a reply to this query is one of the motivations behind this book and it relates to the meaning of present-day Jewry. This existential question concerns Jewry more than it does Judaism, since the latter, despite having been in a permanent process of transformation for the past two hundred years, has survived in its different and rival forms. In some respects, it has even undergone a revival in the past generation in the wake of the Holocaust. Jewry, on the other hand, is experiencing a crucial existential problem through its integration into today’s changing universalistic society, in a variety of patterns—as elaborated upon in the chapters of this book. Do these chapters answer that question, “Quo vadis?” We doubt it, but they do emphasize some fundamental aspects of the Jewish collective existence, including the belief in, and the ideal of, Klal Yisrael. It is in this context that one of today’s basic aspects of the Jewish experience is composed of relations between the Diaspora and Israel. In one way or another, Israel has become a center of political concern for the larger part of Diaspora Jewry. One may also suppose that even when the Arab-Jewish conflict finally comes to an end, Israel will remain a focal point of reference for world Jewry at large—and a fortiori when Israel will come to include a majority of Jews in the world. If this assumption is true, this book is not a eulogy of Klal Yisrael but the opening of a discussion focusing on the changing meaning of Klal Yisrael in our contemporary world.

8



These papers are arranged geographically in order to emphasize the comparisons and to delineate the centrifugal and centripetal forces that account for the variations in the Jews’ collective identities today. These concerns may be instructive for students of national movements, the sociology of religion, and transnational diasporas and (post-) modern ethnicity. In all these respects, the case of Jews may be illustrative, indeed.

PART ONE

GENERAL PERSPECTIVES

This page intentionally left blank

CHAPTER ONE

KLAL YISRAEL: FROM HALAKHA TO HISTORY Yosef Gorny Over the past two hundred years, due to general and particular Jewish historical developments since the French Revolution, both Jews and non-Jews have changed their perception of the concept Klal Yisrael (the worldwide commonwealth of the Jewish people) as it pertains to ‘Am Yisrael,’ the “People of Israel.” The direction of development in Jewish society is evident and well known: from a society defined unidimensionally according to the laws of religious tradition—despite certain differences in customs and practice—to a society characterized by multiple identities (religious, cultural, and political); from a predominately European society to one divided among three continents, America, Europe, and Asia; and from a society lacking political sovereignty to one in which nearly half of the members live in a sovereign Jewish state. These collective changes, prompted by both internal and external developments, were extreme in comparison to the history of other peoples, especially European peoples with whom most of the Jewish people had been living. Paradoxically, we may say that the ideas, political movements, and socioeconomic developments that molded modern European society—such as the Enlightenment, the Emancipation, democracy, Nationalism, Socialism, and Fascism—influenced the Jews, for better and for worse, more than any other nation (including the nonJewish Europeans themselves). Examples of this European influence on modern Jewish history include the momentous events that led to the establishment of a large Jewish center in the United States, the creation of a Jewish nation-state in Palestine, the disconnection of Soviet Jewry from the rest of Jewry, and foremost, the Holocaust. From the Jewish collective point of view, this process of change has had a dialectic character. It began with the French Revolution, which raised the question of how to define the collective entity of the Jews. Originally traditional and religious, this definition moved

12

 

in succession to the spiritual-moral, the national-cultural, the nationalterritorial, and, finally, the culturally pluralistic/ethnic definition of our day. The last phase in this sequence—the culturally pluralistic/ ethnic definition—may itself be the first stage of a new dialectic process in our understanding and definition of Klal Yisrael. This chapter, instead of analyzing the historical, social, and cultural developments that changed the Jews’ collective identify, discusses the Jews’ historical, ideological, and political self-awareness as a Klal Yisrael as they deal with these radical changes. It takes up two aspects of this changing situation: (1) historiography that treats Jewish history as that of one people, and (2) Jewish political activity that attempts to achieve a secure and dignified place for the Jews in their host societies. Both aspects were aware of the process of change in Jewish history that had created radical tension between the attraction of universalism and the particularistic braking forces of the past. The paradox of the continuation of Jewish unity in the Jews’ collective consciousness and practical activity amidst divisive social and cultural developments found significant expression in the works of modern Jewish historians who wrote comprehensive histories of their people from different points of view and approaches. The historians at issue include Isaac Marcus Jost (1793–1860) and Zvi Heinrich Graetz (1817–1891) of Western Europe, Simon Dubnow (1860–1941), Benzion Dinur (1884–1973) and Raphael Mahler (1899– 1977) of Eastern Europe, Salo Baron (1895–1989), who emigrated to the United States from Eastern Europe, and Shmuel Ettinger (1919–1988), of Israel. According to Jost (1882), the Jews were primarily a religious community in the process of integrating into an Enlightenment-molded society. Graetz (1891) saw the Jews as a spiritual-religious nation with a mission and a moral calling vis-à-vis the world at large. In Dubnow’s (1936) opinion, the Jews were a dispersed people that possesses a national idea despite their de-territoralization. They implement this national idea in communal organizations that relocate from one center to another in the course of history. Baron (1968) considered the Jews a social and religious collective entity. Dinur saw the Jews as a people motivated throughout their history by a messianic impulse directed toward Eretz Yisrael (the Land of Israel). Mahler understood Jewish nationalism according to its Zionist interpretation and postulated that it was a consequence of the objective

 :    

13

economic and social conditions that the Jews faced in their countries of residence. Ettinger (1969), who formed his historical outlook after the Holocaust and the creation of the State of Israel, found it difficult to find any ruling factor in modern Jewish history and stressed the tension between conflicting and contradictory factors. Thus we find three fundamental approaches toward an integral definition of Jewish identity. For Jost and Graetz, the Jews are a spiritual people; for Dubnow and Baron they are a social group with national and religious foundations; and Dinur and Mahler define them as a nation that maintains a relationship with its own national territory, Eretz Yisrael. Etttinger’s position falls between that of Dubnow/Baron and Dinur/Mahler. David Vital (1999) recently published a book entitled A People Apart: The Jews in Europe 1789–1939, about the political-national history of European Jewry during the period demarcated in the title. From this point of view, the book deals with Klal Yisrael as a political phenomenon. Despite the essential differences among the three approaches of these historians, each of whom considered his theory all-inclusive and recognized the developments that had occasioned change throughout all of Jewish history, they all accept as axiomatic the assumption that Klal Yisrael exists as a spiritual and historical phenomenon. Jost, Graetz, and Dubnow determined the identity of Klal Yisrael at a time when the Jews were a Diasporic people, while Dinur, Mahler, Baron, and Ettinger, who witnessed the destruction of the European Diaspora and the creation of the Jewish state, regarded Jewish existence as interaction between a sovereign territorial center and a Jewish Diaspora, much as had occurred in the Second Temple period. Thus, directly and indirectly, they defined the course of Jewish history as cyclical. The significance of such a course is a steady strengthening of the belief in the unity and uniqueness of Jewish history. In regard to the second aspect—the ideological and political—we may discern four modern approaches to the Klal Yisrael concept: one religious and three national. In the first, which includes the Reform and Conservative movements, an attempt is made to define Klal Yisrael in modern religious terms as an inseparable part of the humanistic, liberal, and progressive society that surrounds the Jews. The national foundation of this approach was not readily apparent

14

 

and even included reservations about any national aspect of Jewish identity. However, it continued to exist and was implicit by the very attempt to describe Jewish society as carrying its own special mission. The other three approaches are the Yiddishist movement, influenced by the national approach of Simon Dubnow; the Bund Party, which was Marxist; and the Zionist movement. Although they were not only mutually distinct but were also rivals, they had some common political and ideological underpinnings. All three were assertively national in their ideology and political tendencies. The Dubnowist Yiddishists negated the Bund’s Marxist proletarian class analysis but both movements regarded the Jews as a Diasporic people and championed the cause of cultural Jewish autonomy in Jews’ countries of residence. The Zionists considered the establishment of national Jewish autonomy in Palestine a condition for the continued existence and unity of Diaspora Jewry as Klal Yisrael. Thus, paradoxically, Zionism negated galut (exile) as a spiritual and doctrinal phenomenon but concerned itself with the continued existence of the gola (the Diaspora) as a national actuality. For this reason, at the Helsingfors conference in 1906 the Russian Zionists adopted a two-pronged approach, advocating the strengthening of Jewish nationhood in the Diaspora while building the national home in Palestine. As historical developments came to endanger the very existence of the Jewish people, this policy became the exemplar of the national interest of Klal Yisrael. With the approach of World War II, even Simon Dubnow recognized the historical “function” of Zionism. The Reform movement also revised its traditional principled anti-Zionist position and transformed itself into an ardent supporter of the building of the national home in Palestine. Only the Bund persisted with its isolationist refusal to cooperate with Klal Yisrael on this issue, even though at its peak during the interwar era, it was one of the main fighters against the upturn of antisemitism in Poland. Despite these differences, all carried the seeds of a shared awareness that the Jews are a worldwide people and that gola—whether a negative phenomenon as in the opinion of the Zionists or a positive one as in the opinion of the Reform, the Yiddishists, and the Bund—is a fundamental component of the very essence of the Jewish collective. One may ask today about the situation, following the Holocaust, with the State of Israel in existence and as Jews in free Western

 :    

15

countries are increasingly integrated into surrounding societies. To grasp the fundamental nature of the Jewish collective today, one may suggest examining the question by way of the sociological and cultural terminology that has gained ascendancy in current historiographic thinking and “confront” it with the traditional theoretical assumption that the Jews are an 'am 'olam—a universal people. At first glance, we may say without reservation that the Jews anticipated a number of global developments that characterize modern society. They were pioneers in the development of a transnational and transstate Diaspora. Even though they lacked a mother country, they established a supple framework of relationships among Diaspora communities in different countries. After the creation of the State of Israel, Israel-Diaspora relations became a prominent example of relations between ethnic minorities and their national homeland. The Jews formed as such a multicultural collective framework unmatched by any other nation. This may be because multiculturalism was an objective social fact for the Jews, while their sense of Klal Yisrael existed as a subjective collective awareness composed of a multiplicity of ideologies and identities. Objective social fact combined with subjective collective awareness to create a voluntary confederation of Jewish communities and centers that interrelated in economic assistance, political support, and cultural influences. On this basis, an imagined Jewish collective was constructed. The use of this adjective follows Benedict Anderson’s well-known phrase “imagined communities,” with emphasis on imagined as opposed to imaginary. From this point of view, taking into consideration the diversity that has characterized the collective Jewish experience in the world, the Jews in their “imagination,” i.e., their self-awareness, transformed themselves into Klal Yisrael. While neither imaginary nor unreal, this “community” is not similar to other nations. It arose against the background of a unique cultural, economic, political, and historical reality: the “community” was global in character and, as a consequence of the dispersion, did not have a common territorial, economic or even cultural foundation, as was the case with other nations that constructed their national identities. Paradoxically, because of this unique situation, the Jews’ authentic imagined collective consciousness was stronger than that of other

16

 

peoples. This leads us to conclude that as the internal and external changes that occurred in twentieth-century Jewish society gathered strength and intensity, especially after the Holocaust, the collective phenomenon of Klal Yisrael took on even greater importance. It is against this background that Klal Yisrael has had to confront two tendencies: centrifugal forces that attempt to “deconstruct” Jewish history and centripetal forces that struggle in various ways to strengthen Jewish identity on foundations of new and constantly changing conditions. The first of these tendencies is clearly universalistic in the totality of its values, principles, and doctrinal premises. It negates the very concept of Jewish national and even ethnic particularism. It recognizes the legitimacy of a Jewish religion that sustains relations among its believers around the world but negates any national relationship among them. Jews are citizens with equal rights in their countries of residence, including Israel, and no more. From this point of departure, this doctrine negates the ethnonational character of every country and defines nationality as a matter of citizenship only. This attitude stands in total opposition to both the traditional Jewish and Zionist approaches. The second tendency has a global Jewish complexion, i.e., it espouses the concept of an ‘am olam’ (‘world people’) that sustains its Jewish uniqueness despite dispersion and bases itself on global developments that help to strengthen relations between the transnational dispersions and their own land. In this way of thinking, globalization weakens the nation-state and strengthens transnational economic, ethnic, and cultural relations. This trend of thought helps, directly and indirectly, to reinforce the ‘am olam’ awareness. Although it may detract from the existential uniqueness of the ‘am olam’ consciousness, in return it grants it a universal “legitimacy” of sorts. Paradoxically, then, by investing the phenomenon with a general character it strengthens the particularistic nature of the Jewish experience by transforming the unique Jewish anomaly of the past into a general norm of the present. What had been abnormal has now become normal. By implication, the Jews’ universal existence is derived from their particularism and their self-awareness of their particularism allows them to exist universally. The two tendencies described thus far, the centrifugal and the centripetal, have conflicting political natures and leanings that base

 :    

17

themselves on different historical narratives in respect to the relationship, past and present, between ‘Am Yisrael’ (the People Israel or the Jewish people) and ‘Eretz Yisrael’ (Land of Israel’). The universalistic nature of the centrifugal tendency is translated into a political attempt to undermine if not negate the central or even unique position of the State of Israel in the Jews’ collectiveness. The aim is to expunge the Zionist ethos from the Klal Yisrael consciousness. There is little doubt that this tendency will gain greater resonance as Jews in Diaspora countries expand and intensify their general integration. Evidence of this is the transformation of “Holocaust remembrance” from a particularistically Jewish national observance into a universal moral event that is estranged from its historical Jewish background. The intention of many in this transformation is to weaken the moral and historical relationship between the Jewish Holocaust and the State of Israel and, thereby, to facilitate the integration of the Jews into the societies in which they live.1 Conversely, we also witness centripetal trends that are strengthening the collective consciousness of the Jews in Israel and in the Dispersion. This is evident in the intensification of National-Religious Zionist activism and the upturn in activism among religious nonZionists who have come to accept the State of Israel as a practical fact. It is also evident in the increased involvement of Jewish economic elites in issues related to Jewish education, the political convergence of the Diaspora Jewish establishment in support of Israel, and the publicly demonstrative sensitivity of Jews to antisemitic manifestations in countries around the world. The latest clear example was the unified public Jewish stance in opposition to racist political attacks against Zionism and Israel at the World Conference against Racism, Racial Discrimination, Xenophobia, and Related Intolerance (the “Durban Conference”). In view of this two-way tendency, which is neither imagined nor imaginary but deeply anchored in current realities, the question asked above should be rephrased: what is Klal Yisrael today, as it pertains to the collective consciousness of the Jews, and are we facing a new dialectic development that will redefine its doctrinal essence? From this perspective, Jewish historiography of the past hundred years offers us no answers. The Jews are not a nation dedicated to

1

See my book, Between Auschwitz and Jerusalem, in press.

18

 

carrying a godly concept of justice and morality, as Graetz believed, or a people that wishes to sustain its uniqueness even without its own territory in some form of national-cultural autonomy, as conceived by Dubnow, or a people characterized by their socioreligious organization as Baron claimed—since the Jews now have their own sovereign state, or a people motivated by the messianic impulse to return to Zion as Dinur claimed. Nor do Jews coalesce around their national territorial center in Palestine, in Raphael Mahler’s construction. It is even difficult to speak about a national politics of Klal Yisrael as Vital would have it, since most of the problems of concern to his approach disappeared due to the tragedy of the Holocaust and the triumph of the creation of the State of Israel. Thus, we now confront completely new historical narratives that directly and indirectly undermine the very concept of the existence of a distinct Jewish history. Modern Jewish ideologies, too, have become irrelevant in regard to the present Jewish reality. Traditional culture in its Reform and Conservative manifestations is limited mostly to American Jewry; nationalist Yiddishism in its Bundist or Dubnowist variations was destroyed during the Holocaust and has disappeared; and Zionism, which achieved its essential aims, no longer resonates in the hearts of most Jews and, as such, no longer represents the focal point of Klal Yisrael. Nevertheless, the Klal Yisrael consciousness that is needed today cannot but be historical and theoretical. The halakhic definition of the Jewish people no longer suffices, as it cannot include all or even most Jews. The Jews are a group whose civic status, cultural essence, and norms of religious belief no longer have a single definition. In view of the Jewish social and cultural reality after the Holocaust and the establishment of the State of Israel, the definition of who or what is a Jew cannot be that of the historian; instead, it must be historical. Instead of a Jew being defined by halakha (rabbinical law), he or she should be defined by history. Arguing by negation, one may define the “historical Jew” according to collective historical memory and experience. By this standard, a Jew cannot affiliate with any religion save the Jewish one. By so asserting, we preserve the historical continuum of the integration between religion and nationality of a people without a territory that is divided among various cultures in a changing society. Arguing by affirmation, any definition must be pluralis-

 :    

19

tic. “Pluralistic Jews” are individuals who possess multifaceted and numerous identities in beliefs, cultures, and citizenships. On the one hand, the Jews find themselves amidst an accelerated historical process of social change that has been continuing for over two hundred years. On the other hand, Jews are unified by the sense of some kind of relationship among them, a relationship sometimes influenced by historical crisis and sometimes prompted by the very desire to preserve and sustain Klal Yisrael. This relationship, which in our day connects the individual Jew with the Jewish collective, is personal and voluntary for some Jews and part of a civil regime for others. Jews in Israel live within a civil regime framework that has defined itself as being Jewish and, by so doing, obligates all of them. In contrast, only half of Diaspora Jews are affiliated with Jewish organizations by their own free will and choice. Both forms of individual attachment to collective Jewish settings, the one that is “enforced” by the state and the one that is “voluntary,” reflect the pluralistic existence of the “historical Jew.” In sum, we may say that the existence of the “historical Jew” as a pluralistic human being, as a consequence of social processes of normalization, accentuates the uniqueness of Jewish existence. The question is whether this uniqueness strengthens the individual Jew. Zionism has assumed responsibility for confronting this issue. Zionism is the most inclusive and comprehensive expression of historical Judaism; it blends the essence of the past with religious, social, political, and cultural changes. From this point of view, Zionism represents the most pluralistic model in Judaism. As a movement, Zionism has proven itself to be an active and successful political organization despite vast differences among its constituents. This is why Zionism has managed to fulfill in practice the dialectic formula of “the unity of opposites,” a formula unequaled in its ability to explain the concept of the “historical Jew” and to relate to questions such as “What are the Jews?” and “Who is a Jew?” From this perspective, we cannot but point out another paradox. The State of Israel was created as the state of the Jewish people as the people exists, with its variety, dispersions, and cultures. For the past forty years, however, the question of “Who is a Jew” has been an issue of raging political debate and public struggle in Israel. During that time, the status of new Judaisms in Israel has been the topic of a ferocious dispute accentuated by the political pressure of anti-Zionist

20

 

ultra-Orthodox elements. This has led to a momentous clash between the State of Israel, which declares itself to be doctrinally Zionist and upholds this doctrine in the Law of Return, and a political situation that has resulted in an anti-Zionist policy that, in effect, repudiates Klal Yisrael and splits the Jewish people. Thus, the deviousness if not the derision of history may render the Zionist State of Israel anti-Zionist. This leads us to a question both theoretical and doctrinal: can Klal Yisrael, in its present situation, continue to exist without a common doctrinal ethos? In other words, in the absence of a common territory, a common language and culture, and a distinct religious belief, can a unified self-awareness exist without a unifying ideology? Within the framework of this discussion, this question may be answered only empirically, by examining alternative Jewish ideologies that have existed in the past and present. I refer only to modernist movements and my criterion is the extent to which their outlook concerns itself with the Klal Yisrael concept. In this respect, I will discuss the movements in ascending order of concern. The first is Agudath Israel. Although this Orthodox religious movement has some modernist characteristics in the areas of organization, education, and political involvement, it developed among the mainstream Ashkenazi Jews and remains basically the same to the present day. The same is true of the Shas Party, a Sephardi version of Agudath Israel in terms of its modernist characteristics. The second is the National Religious movement, which transcended the Ashkenazi religious culture when it joined the Zionist movement and reached out to Mizrahi (non-Ashkenazi) Jews. However, its religious belief system still remains a framework that separates it from the nonreligious public. The third is the pairing of modern religious movements, the Reform and the Conservative. Although they aimed their belief systems at a broader public, from the sociological-cultural aspect they are identified mainly with the Jewish middle classes in the liberal Western democracies. The fourth is the Yiddish Renaissance movement, nurtured by the cultural ideas of Dubnow and the Bund that have been rejuvenated of late in Europe and the United States as a consequence of the multiculturalist ideology. Although this may be a praiseworthy development, it is nothing more than an “indulgence” of cultural fashion that is embraced by a very small group of people. The tragedy is that this culture has its intellectuals but lacks its people.

 :    

21

The fifth is Zionism. Although Zionism no longer commands political influence within the Jewish people, its basic foundational idea is as relevant today as ever because Zionism from its outset has had the most extensive and pluralistic ideology of all modern Jewish movements within the five currents of Klal Yisrael. Its leaders, from Herzl to Weizmann, Jabotinsky, and Ben-Gurion, transmitted the Klal Yisrael ethos on the same plane as they built Eretz Yisrael and the State of Israel. Thus, the vast majority of Jews gradually accepted Zionism in a process of changing historical circumstances. For this reason, Zionism managed to fulfill an important part of its aims and to perpetrate a revolution within the Jewish people that no other national movement has succeeded in doing. Klal Yisrael has no alternative to the Zionist ethos today and will have none until and unless an alternative ethos is devised in the future. However, Zionist ideology must adjust to the new Jewish situation, as it has adjusted throughout its history. The first necessary revision in traditional Zionist ideology is the explicit recognition that, after the creation of the State of Israel and the establishment of free Western societies, the Jews have evolved from an exilic people into a diasporic one. The two are differentiated mainly by the degree of freedom given to individual Jews to choose between their citizenship-homeland and their national homeland as their place of residence. The second revision is the understanding that the Jewish problem today is one of freedom and openness rather than the slavery and discrimination of the past and that, therefore, political exile has been replaced by a spiritual exile. If the greater part of the Jewish people still has the subjective will to preserve its uniqueness, then it becomes an objective phenomenon more suited to the Zionist ethos (as defined above) than to any other ethos. The third revision is the awareness that the existence of Klal Yisrael as an entity with collective characteristics is not dependent solely on Israel, which in fact is only an important element within Klal Yisrael. Therefore, to sustain Klal Yisrael it is necessary to construct a world Jewish “confederation” of sorts, in which every Jewish center will have its own uniqueness and relative importance. For Israel, this means a political, sovereign, cultural, and national uniqueness; for American Jewry it means a uniqueness reflected in its economic power and political influence; for Europe; it is a uniqueness of Jewish multiculturalism, and so on. Each of these centers has its own unique intellectual importance, and the influence of each within

22

 

the Jewish “confederation” will vary in accordance with changes in historical reality. From the standpoint of Klal Yisrael, however, the State of Israel as a center still possesses special characteristics in relation to the Diaspora centers. The first is Jewish political sovereignty, which gives Israel the ability to determine policies that influence Klal Yisrael, e.g., by enacting and applying the Law of Return, creating a Jewish commons or public space by general observance of the Sabbath and Jewish festivals, or actively nurturing a Jewish culture, especially the Hebrew language, to name only three examples. The second special characteristic, derived from the first, is that in Israel a Jewish culture is developing that contains a secular Jewish commons or public space alongside the religious one, while in the Diaspora the Jewish public space is more often religious (or at least pseudo-religious).

CHAPTER TWO

IS THE JEWISH DIASPORA UNIQUE? Gabriel Sheffer Main Issues and Questions The majority of Israeli and Diaspora Jews, most Jewish leaders and intellectuals, and many Gentile observers still regard the Jews, their Diaspora, and Israel as unique cultural, social, and political phenomena. Despite some profound changes that have occurred in historical and modern diasporas, including world Jewry—Klal Yisrael—as well as in host countries and homelands, including Israel, many observers maintain that traditional perception. The proponents of this view of Israel and Jewry stress six factors that purportedly have determined and perpetuated the unique features and status of the Jewish Diaspora and of its relations with its homeland, Palestine, and now Israel: (1) the extraordinary and unmatched historical persistence of the Jewish Diaspora, which has contributed to its ability to overcome the social, political, and economic calamities inflicted on it since the dawn of its historical existence; (2) the outstanding Jewish contributions to the development of the universal monotheistic religions—Christianity and Islam—and particularly the Jews’ “shared paternity” of the Judeo-Christian tradition; (3) world Jewry’s other contributions to the moral, cultural, economic, and scientific development of Western civilization; (4) the purported extraordinary influence that the Jewish Diaspora is capable of exerting on host societies and governments; (5) the recent revival and resurgence of several defunct diasporic communities in Western and Central Europe, such as those in Germany, Austria, and Spain, despite the long-term devastating results of expulsions and persecutions of Jews in these host countries, culminating in the Holocaust in the two first-mentioned countries; and (6) the unparalleled and continuous political, diplomatic, and economic assistance that certain Diaspora groups and organizations extended to the Yishuv (the pre-Israel Jewish community in Palestine) and have continued to extend to its successor, the Jewish state.

24

 

Moreover, the view of the uniqueness of the Jewish Diaspora, and of its relations with the homeland, the State of Israel, is so widely held that there exists a persistent image that the Jewish Diaspora actually established the Jewish state. Some even argue that without the Diaspora’s continuous political and economic support, Israel would have encountered immense existential problems. Those are only some of the arguments advanced by the proponents of the uniqueness of the Jewish Diaspora and its homeland. It is true that each nation and each diaspora, including the Jewish Diaspora and Israel, is unique in a sense. Nevertheless, when such entities are succinctly examined, similarities to other sociopolitical formations also become evident. Thus, although the features mentioned above are in fact characteristic of the Jewish Diaspora, in themselves they mean neither that world Jewry is an exceptional or “deviant” diaspora nor that its relations with the homeland are incomparable with any other set of relations. Thus, even a very fast and sketchy examination would show that the Jewish Diaspora shares various features with other ethnonational diasporas that emerged in antiquity and still exist. Such an examination would show that other diasporas have experienced similar historical developments and, consequently, exhibit similar traits and patterns of behavior to those of the Jews. In the religious sphere, too, other diasporas have contributed to the emergence and spread of universal religions; made significant contributions to human culture; and helped to shape economic and commercial practices that still persist. In the sphere of diaspora-homeland relations, most ethnonational diasporas extend substantial assistance to their homelands. Hence it becomes clear that in all these respects, as well as in others, the Jewish Diaspora has not been unique. This article reexamines these issues from a political-science approach. Its point of departure is the intention to examine the extent to which the Jewish Diaspora does exhibit features that resemble those of other ethnonational diasporas. It also examines whether and to what extent this diaspora fits the general profile of ethnonational diasporas that I have proposed elsewhere (Sheffer, 2002)1 and draws some general theoretical conclusions.

1

The following is the profile of diasporas that I have proposed:

    

25

Unfortunately, for lack of space the following analysis of the Jewish case is not buttressed by detailed information and data about the entire Diaspora or specific Jewish diasporic communities. Space limitations also rule out lengthy illustrations of the various features of other ethnonational diasporas. Therefore, the analysis here, meant to stress the idea of similarity between the Jewish Diaspora and other Ethnonational diasporas are the outcome of voluntary migration (e.g., Turks to West Germany) or expulsion from the homeland (e.g., Jews in antiquity or the Middle Ages). These entities are established after migrants voluntarily decide to settle permanently in one or more host countries. In most cases, the decision to settle permanently in a host country is made by individuals, families, and small groups after an initial period of adjustment in the host country. (On this essential issue, see Sheffer, 1995 and 2002). In these host countries, diasporas remain minority groups (partly because the Anglo-Saxon segment in Canada, for example, has become a predominant majority, it should be excluded from this category). In their host countries, diasporas preserve their ethnonational, or ethnonational-religious, identity and communal solidarity. Their identity and solidarity, based on a combination of primordial psychological/mythical and instrumental factors, serve as twin bases for the maintenance of their affinities (here I follow what may be termed a synthesis approach toward the sources of ethnic identity; for an example of such an approach, see Kellas, 1991). In these communities, relations among the diaspora elites and activist grassroot elements are constantly and avowedly maintained. These relations have cultural, social, economic, and especially political significance for the diasporas, their host countries, their homelands, other diasporic communities of the same origin, and other interested actors. This is also the essential basis of all organized activities of the diasporas. One purpose of these activities is to create and enhance the readiness and ability of the diaspora to preserve a continuous interest in, and cultural, economic, and political exchanges, with their homelands. Organized diasporas deal with various aspects of their cultural, social, economic and political needs in a way that usually complements, but at times also clashes with, the needs of host societies and governments. Diaspora communities adopt and try to implement coherent strategies, the most common being the communalist strategy (see Sheffer, 1993 and 2002). The emergence of diaspora organizations creates a potential for the development of multiple authority and loyalty patterns. To avoid undesirable conflicts with norms and laws established by the dominant group in their host countries, most diasporas accept certain social and political rules of the game in these countries. At certain periods in their history, however, the dual or multiple authority patterns generated real or alleged dual, divided, and ambiguous loyalties that may create tension between the diaspora and various social and political groups in the host country. Such confrontations sometimes lead to the intervention of homelands on behalf of their diasporas or to homeland intervention in the affairs of the diasporas themselves. Finally and most importantly, the capability of diasporas to mobilize members to promote or defend their own or their homelands’ interests in their host countries results in the formation of conflictual or cooperative triadic or quadratic relationships and exchanges involving homeland, diaspora, host country, and other interested actors. These relations have become an inherent part of international politics and influence the behavior of all parties involved.

26

 

such entities, will refer to several general features of world Jewry and other ethnonational diasporas that are agreed upon by observers of these entities and some scholars in the field of diaspora studies. The Jewish Diaspora and Other Diasporas—Some Commonalities Below are the main aspects in which the Jewish Diaspora clearly (that is, without any need for great elaboration) resembles most other ethnonational diasporas and that have explicit implications for the continued existence of this Diaspora. Forced and Voluntary Migration and a Consciousness of Exile Like all other ethnonational diasporas (but unlike “pure” religious, linguistic, or ideological diasporas, in which ideas and ideologies, rather than persons, migrate and eventually contribute to the formation of such non-ethnic entities), the Jewish Diaspora was created as a result of both voluntary and forced migrations to various host countries. This means that throughout their long history, including antiquity and the Middle Ages, the Jews dispersed not only because of expulsions but also of their own volition and due to their need or inclination to migrate. Thus, in a sense, the adjective “wandering,” attached to the noun “Jews,” is not a misnomer. Indeed, many Jews migrated, and still migrate, out of an urge to explore new spaces and to find greener pastures in new host countries. Hence, it is erroneous to describe the entire Jewish Diaspora as a galut (an “exilic community”). The need to reexamine this way of characterizing Diaspora Jews is especially salient because many Jews, and not only nonreligious Jews, do not share the exilic view about the nature of the Diaspora. Today, in fact, only a small minority of world Jewry regards itself as being in exile. Like many members of other ethnonational diasporas, most Jews regard their host countries as their permanent countries of settlement. From a historical perspective, it is clear that, like most of the ethnic entities at that time, even before the destruction of the First Temple and the formation of the Babylonian Diaspora (i.e., probably as far back as the eras of the Patriarchs and the first and second kingdoms of Israel and Judea), Hebrews/Israelites/Jews voluntarily migrated from what they regarded as their homeland and called Eretz Yisrael. During the earliest periods of Jewish history, Jews migrated volitionally to Egypt, Syria, Iraq, and far beyond. These

    

27

voluntary migrations were prompted by famines, recurrent economic depressions, internal social and political upheavals in Palestine, internal controversies and clashes, and, probably, an inherent curiosity that created an urge to wander to distant countries and eventually settle there. Such migratory movements out of their Middle Eastern, North African, Asian, and European host countries continued throughout the Middle Ages (Ben Sasson, 1969) and during the Modern Era up to the present day. In other words, like many other ethnonational migrants, “wandering Jews” continued to migrate from their homeland and from one host country to another due to a combination of their own calculus and expulsions. In the late twentieth century and to this day, most of these individual and group migrations, at the secondary and even the tertiary levels, have been voluntary rather than imposed. In certain cases, they occurred against the background of adverse conditions in the host countries (Sowell, 1995). In the 1990s, for example, this was the case with Russian and South African Jews who voluntarily migrated to Western Europe and Australia, respectively. However, probably the most striking examples of the voluntary nature of these migrations, the establishment of Diasporic entities, and the persistence of Jewish Diasporic groups and communities are the “return” of Jews to certain European countries and yerida (descent, in Hebrew), the emigration of Israelis from the Jewish state. Thus, older and younger Jews and Israelis have migrated and voluntarily settled in Spain and Germany, where for well-known reasons there were no Jewish communities until recently. It is also obvious that none of the yordim ( Jews who make yerida) has been expelled from their homeland. In fact, until the 1980s, successive Israeli governments, like some other homeland governments, made specific efforts to stanch such emigration. Hence, these migratory waves were voluntary, prompted by psychological, economic and sometimes political considerations. Consequently, although yordim may feel somewhat uncomfortable in their host countries, they neither regard themselves as exiles nor consider their lives outside Israel as exilic (Gold, 2002).2 Today, generally speaking, these migratory movements are regarded as “normal.” The motivations of these Jews and Israelis resemble those of many other

2 There are, however, certain exceptions. Out of dogmatic religious belief, some may feel that they are in exile for political and religious reasons.

28

 

non-Jewish migrants and diasporans—motives that are gaining legitimacy in homelands and host countries alike. Moreover, the implications for later stages of diaspora development are similar. Motivations for Migration from Homelands and the Diasporic Experience Contrary to a widely held view among laypersons, politicians, and scholars, information about the motivations for migrating from a homeland or, for that matter, from certain host countries are not sufficient for understanding the nature of diasporic communities, their organization, and behavior in host countries. This is true regardless of the migrants’ cultural, social, and economic background. That is, it does not matter whether diasporans left their homelands voluntarily or as a result of expulsion, whether at the time of migration from their homeland they were rich or poor, whether initially they intended to return to their homelands or to settle in host countries permanently, and whether they were well-versed in the homeland’s language, history, and traditions or only superficially acquainted with these cultural artifacts. In all cases, the nature of ethnonational diasporas, including the Jewish Diaspora, is formed and determined only in their host countries and in response to local circumstances. This means that in cases of hospitable host countries the chances of the establishment of diasporic communities that maintain relations with their national homelands are substantial. Permanent Settlement in Host Countries Consequently, most members of ethnonational diasporas—including Jews and yordim—make critical decisions about permanent settlement in a host country, joining an existing diaspora, or helping to establish one, only after they arrive in their host countries and against the backdrop of prevailing social, political, economic, and legal conditions there. Various surveys have shown that upon their arrival in host countries, few migrants are emotionally or cognitively ready to decide firmly whether they intend to live there permanently and whether they wish to maintain connections with their homeland (Krau, 1991, Gold, 2002). For example, few Palestinians who emigrated from Israel-occupied territories were ready to affirm upon arrival in their new host countries that they had left Palestine forever, that they intended to assimilate into the new host society, or

    

29

that they were inclined to integrate fully into these societies (Barghouti, 1988; Van Hear, 1998). Similarly, various studies have shown that few Israelis, Filipinos, and Koreans who voluntarily migrated to the U.S. were unequivocal about their permanent settlement there (Magnificio, 1988; Gold, 2002; Sheffer, 1998). Moreover, few migrants and refugees who decided to leave their homelands voluntarily for ideological reasons, such as Germans who migrated to the U.S. after the failure of the 1848 revolutions and, later, Russian, Chinese, and Cuban dissidents who left the Soviet Union, the PRC, and Cuba, respectively, in search of social and political freedoms, were driven by an ab initio intention to organize and join diasporic entities, on the one hand, or to integrate and assimilate into the new homeland, on the other. In other words, before making any firm decisions about their behavior in host countries, most migrants adopt a wait-and-see approach and many say that they intend to go back. Secondary and Tertiary Migrations from Host Countries The third feature of the general diaspora profile that fits the Jewish Diaspora concerns recurrent migrations of diasporans from host countries, a factor influencing the sociopolitical structure of the entire diaspora and the structures and patterns of behavior of diasporas at the local level. Occasionally, migrants leave their homeland with a particular host country in mind as their final destination but move on to another host country soon after arrival. Such secondary, and even tertiary, movements may occur due to legal or political restrictions on the migrants’ permanent settlement in host countries, economic and social difficulties, or political hostility. In extreme cases, these migrants or diasporans move again and again to third and fourth host countries. These are additional and mostly unplanned migrations of the same individuals, families, and small groups, or of their descendants. Recent examples are Russian Jews who, in the last days of the Soviet Union, were able to emigrate only to Israel. Some of them regarded Israel as an interim refuge only, their actual preferred final destinations being the U.S., Canada and Australia (Sicron, 1998; Gold 2002). Additional examples are other East European migrants (Russians, Poles, Ukrainians) who, in the wake of the collapse of the Soviet Union, headed for Central and West European countries. When they realized that local conditions in Germany, France or Britain, for example, were difficult or unfitting, they too

30

 

continued their sorrowful journeys to the U.S., Canada, Latin America, Australia, and South Africa. Decisions to Assimilate, Integrate, or Form and Join Diasporas Generally speaking, only when most migrants of a given ethnonational origin reach a host country where they can obtain permission to reside for longer periods, where they intend to reside permanently, and where they are welcome, do they begin seriously to ponder questions of personal and collective identity and issues of assimilation and integration. Wherever assimilation is socially and politically unfeasible or undesirable, the alternative to this major personal and collective option is to attempt to integrate into the host society and to join diasporic entities, if such exist. Where diasporic entities do not exist, migrants may decide to organize them. This particular juncture in the personal and collective histories of migrants is important not only in connection to the migrants’ involvement in the development of diasporic communities. For individual migrants and their families, as stated, it is a most significant watershed, marking their transition from the status of transient migrants to membership or affiliation in diasporas. The difference between these two forms of status lies in the fact that those who either have no prior intent to settle permanently in a certain host country, or later consider this country unfriendly and not welcoming enough, are uninterested in organizing or joining existing diaspora communities in these particular countries. Instead, they are interested in moving to another host country or returning to their country of origin. Thus, these persons do not face the assimilation vs. integration dilemmas that entail the creation of new diasporic communities or joining existing ones. Examples of collectivities that faced such dilemmas were the large waves of Irish, Polish, and Jewish migrants in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. These dilemmas prompted migrants to respond in three ways: returning to their homelands, establishing new diasporic communities, and contributing to the growth of other established diasporas. Minority Status in Host Countries Despite the growing numbers of migrants who eventually become members of diasporic communities, most diasporas, including of

    

31

course the Jewish Diaspora, have remained small minorities in all host countries. Minority status affects self-images, exchanges with host societies and governments, organizational structures, and patterns of behavior. Such minorities often face hostility, explicit and implicit discrimination, and social, political, and economic hardships in their host countries. The most decisive cause of such negative attitudes and hostile behavior on the part of societies and governments in host countries is the very “otherness” of diasporas, rather than the fear that these small communities will grow. In response, many diasporans try to adapt to main norms of behavior in their host countries, an inclination that affects their identity and identification. Identity and Identification This is one of the most significant elements in the formation and continuity of ethnonational diasporas. These two factors are extremely important in determining whether the Jewish Diaspora is similar to other ethnonational diasporas. Taken together, they imply that the readiness and capability of diasporan individuals and groups to maintain their ethnonational identity in host countries, as well as to publicly identify with a diasporic community and with their national homeland, are two crucial features of the general profile of all ethnonational diasporas. They correspond very closely with the Jewish Diaspora, too. Most observers (e.g. Gold, 1992) stress structural, social, and political environmental effects on migrants’ capability to maintain their identity and identify as members of a diaspora in a host country. This chapter, however, emphasizes migrants’ ability and readiness to make major decisions that substantially influence their behavior in these host countries. Thus, the critical formative stage in the formation of all diasporas, including Jewish diasporic communities, occurs after migrants overcome the initial shocks that relate to leaving their homeland or a previous host country. Only afterwards do they begin to cope with the overwhelming problems that arise when one settles in a new host country—acquiring the new language, encountering the hosts’ culture, successfully confronting the daunting task of finding permanent employment, renting or buying suitable accommodation, arranging education for children, forming social connections, and finding adequate support systems. Again, it is only after they overcome the hardships of initial adjustment to their new locations and solve the most immediate problems

32

 

of settling down in new host countries that Jewish migrants, like most other migrants, face the main dilemma—whether to opt for eventual assimilation, full integration, or maintenance of ethnonational identity. In addition to the need to resolve this crucial personal and collective strategic dilemma, the migrants must also make tactical decisions at this phase, especially if they expect to improve their economic and political conditions, since such improvements may in turn further facilitate their integration in the host society. These dilemmas and questions are aggravated and sharpened whenever diasporans become involved in mixed marriages and when the host societies offer tempting incentives and rewards, especially on the explicit or implicit condition that these persons must be ready to forfeit their ethnonational identity and begin the agonizing process of full integration. On certain occasions, such decisions may eventually lead to full cultural assimilation or partial acculturation, essentially meaning the forfeit of previous ethnonational identity, which is frequently a transformation so difficult as to be almost unattainable. At this stage of the migrants’ adjustment to the prevailing conditions in host countries, another issue may arise: how will host countries react to their inclination to assimilate? In some host countries, especially non-democratic polities that restrict the arrival and prolonged sojourn of migrants and guest workers and the establishment of cohesive diasporic communities, all the aforementioned dilemmas and issues are almost irrelevant for migrants. The reason is clear: governments of such host countries condone neither assimilation nor full integration. In Kuwait before the 1991 Gulf War, for example, Korean, Filipino, and especially Palestinian guest workers were permitted neither to integrate into the host society—let alone to assimilate—nor to establish permanent organized diasporic entities there. In fact, they were kept at bay as largely second-class citizens with hardly any entitlements whatsoever. The problem of how to survive was theirs to solve (Brand, 1988; Lesch, 1991). This, however, was not the end of their tribulations. Like Yemenites in Saudi Arabia and Egyptians in Iraq, during the Gulf War the Palestinians were expelled from Kuwait (Van Hear, 1993, 1998). In other host countries, the social and political environment may prove to be so hostile that even when host governments and rulers do not impose formal restrictions on the sojourn and activities of such persons and groups, migrants find it difficult to entertain ideas of assimilation and

    

33

integration, on the one hand, or of the establishment of organized diasporas, on the other. In any event, as noted, the decisions migrants make at this initial stage of residence in their host countries are of crucial consequence for them and for their kin in the homeland. Migrants in general, and especially Jewish migrants, make decisions concerning their future in host countries as a result of a complex mix of emotional, ideological, and rational considerations, determined by the primordial and psychological/symbolic elements of their ethnic identity, and instrumental considerations. When making decisions about their next steps, migrants take all these factors into account consciously and unconsciously, allowing them to affect these decisions and the strategies that they later follow (Connor, 1986; Smith, 1993; Kellas, 1995; Sheffer 2002). Thus, if properly categorized, most diasporas, including the Jewish Diaspora, belong to one group of ethnic minorities. This kind of identity, in which primordial and psychological/symbolic elements play a major role, leads diasporans to avoid intermarriage in order to maintain “biological purity”; it also provides similar historical memories about national founding fathers and past traumas. The diasporans’ common religion is an additional factor that facilitates the maintenance of their identity. Because homelands constitute an important element in such identities, core diasporans maintain close relations with their homelands and with other diasporic groups of the same origin. Hybridization The aforementioned critical characteristic of diasporans—maintenance of ethnonational identity—does not mean that diasporas sustain an immutable culture. Due to the new tolerance that democratic host societies exhibit toward ethnic minorities and diasporas, the influence of globalization and liberalization, and internal processes of change, diasporas are influenced by close and distant environments. In an inevitable response, they hybridize. This, however, does not mean that all diasporans are tempted to fully assimilate into their host societies and thus disappear. Like most other diasporas, the Jewish Diaspora is experiencing profound changes such as these and is trying hard to cope with them.

34

 

Mobilization and Organization Emotionally and cognitively based decisions by individuals and groups of migrants and diasporans that are aimed at maintaining ethnic identity are crucial but not sufficient for the establishment, maintenance, or revival of diasporic entities. A high degree of commitment and resolute operational decisions concerning active membership in communal organizations or, when these do not exist, strong inclinations to participate actively in establishing and operating these entities usually follow those initial decisions. Where migrants fail to make such intensive efforts to establish and maintain these organizations, diasporas can neither exist nor thrive in what, for them, are basically hostile environments. Hence, mobilization and organization that lead to the formation of established communal associations and institutions are essential features of activities in all diasporas. Although the Jewish Diaspora is highly organized, it is certainly not unique in this respect. Organization is probably the most vital feature that distinguishes between various types of transient migrants who reside in host countries for lengthy periods and members of incipient and mature diasporas. The Jewish Diaspora is known for multiple organizations that deal with almost all conceivable aspects of Jews’ existence in host countries (especially in the U.S. and Canada) and relations with Israel and other Jewish diasporic communities (on the organization of American Jewry, see Elazar, 1976; for a general survey of organized world Jewry, see Beker, 1997). Usually, however, only core segments of each ethnonational migrant group actually become deeply involved in the establishment of diasporic entities and the operation of their institutions. Again, the Jewish Diaspora, which resembles other diasporas in this respect, too, provides a good example of the existence of this structure of strong core and weaker peripheral groups (Liebman and Cohen, 1990; Steven Cohen and DellaPergola, 1992; Cohen and Horenczyk, 1999). During the initial period after their arrival in host countries, individuals or small groups of migrants—nuclear families, extended families, fraternities, and social circles—make critical decisions about their future behavior. The dynamics and timing of decision-making in these matters show that such individuals and small groups should not be regarded as passive but rather as active social and political actors who, to a great extent, determine and control their own des-

    

35

tiny. This feature challenges the accepted view of diasporas as nonparticipants in social and political developments. As soon as general and specialized diasporic communal organizations are formed, or as soon as migrants join existing diasporic organizations and remain members, these persons face the need to make additional personal and collective choices. They must also decide at this juncture about the main strategy that they, as individuals and collectively as a diaspora, will pursue vis-à-vis their host society and government, their homeland, and other dispersed segments of the same nation. Strategy Contrary to prevailing notions about social, political, and economic restrictions that host societies and governments frequently impose on diasporas, most democratic host countries give their core members more than adequate social, economic, and political maneuvering room. Therefore, these members are capable of choosing their particular strategy autonomously. The menu of available strategies is rather extensive, ranging from assimilation to various modes of accommodation to separation and, in the case of stateless diasporas, to advocacy of secession from the dominant and dominating society in the homeland. More specifically, this spectrum includes the following strategies: assimilation, acculturation, full integration, communalism, corporatism, autonomism, secession or separation, and irredentism (Iwanska, 1981; Smith, 1981, 1986; Weiner, 1991; Sheffer, 1994; Cazan, 1996). After the State of Israel was established in 1948, for example, most Jewish diasporic communities changed their main strategy. Before statehood, diasporic communities had provided active and sometimes aggressive support for an offensive strategy that was intended to secure national territorial sovereignty in a part of Palestine. This, in turn, involved the transfer of substantial resources to the Yishuv. The pre-statehood era was followed by a period of nationand state-building, which Diaspora communities continued to support with material resources. Later on, however, this strategy was replaced by a moderate one involving greater investment in communal maintenance and development in host countries. This transformed the Jewish Diaspora into a “normal” state-based one, like other established diasporas.

36

 

Communal Solidarity and Cohesion A variety of factors—memories of being uprooted from a homeland or a previous host country, initial hardships encountered in the new host country, the need to make critical decisions about settling there, the compelling necessity to decide whether to refrain from total assimilation, and the investment of efforts to establish and operate communal organizations—bolster solidarity among members of diasporic groups. In other words, solidarity in diasporic entities is not solely based on memories of or relations with the homeland. Often, such solidarity focuses fully on the host country, in view of prevailing conditions there and the diaspora’s efforts to cope with them. On the basis of such solidarity, core members of these groups attain a degree of cohesion. The Jewish Diaspora is no exception, of course. Despite divergent religious, social, political, and economic views and interests, core groups in the Jewish Diaspora evince a noticeable degree of cohesion. In this case as in others, sentiments of solidarity and group cohesion are founded on the combined primordial, symbolic, and instrumental elements of the collective identity. To ensure their survival, continuity, and prosperity, these unifying sentiments must overcome generational, class, educational, social, and ideological differences within the group. Otherwise, such diasporas disintegrate and ultimately disappear. Similarly, without a substantial degree of solidarity and cohesion, diasporas’ domestic and transstate activities would be almost impossible or futile. Furthermore, their collective identity and solidarity serve as the necessary twin bases for the maintenance and promotion of regular relations among diaspora elites, activists, and grassroots. These relations are of great social, political, economic, and cultural importance for the diasporas as well as for their host countries, homelands, and other interested parties. Nevertheless, solidarity and cohesion do not prevent profound political disagreements among diasporans. Socially and politically, most diasporas are not homogenous but rather pluralistic entities that are as divided as most other social and political communities. Occasionally, disagreements that reflect internal pluralism lead to internecine conflicts and clashes, on the one hand, and coalition building and cooperation, on the other hand. Be this as it may, members of those entities never know a dull political moment. These traits call for, and facilitate, intensive organized activities on the part of most diasporas, including the Jewish Diaspora. These

    

37

activities aim to create a basis for the maintenance of ethnonational identities, the promotion of further identification, and the enhancement of members’ willingness and ability to sustain a continuous abstract and practical interest in the homeland, and no less important, to strengthen actual cultural, economic and political exchanges with the homeland. Authority and Loyalty Most organized diasporas, again including the Jewish Diaspora, take care of their cultural, social, political, economic and diasporic needs in a manner that complements the services provided by host governments. There is, however, a flip side to this coin: the establishment of diaspora organizations, membership in these organizations, and activities within their framework create a potential for dual authority and, consequently, for dual, divided, or ambiguous loyalty to host countries and homelands. Such a development may result in conflicts between a diaspora and its host society and government, on the one hand, and its homeland, on the other. The Jewish Diaspora has, of course, been on the receiving end of such arguments and allegations. This diaspora, however, is neither the first nor the last to be accused in this respect. Similar assertions have been made about the Japanese, Indian, and Palestinian ethnonational diasporas, as well as many others. To avoid undesirable conflicts between diaspora norms and norms and laws set by dominant social groups and governments in host countries, most state-linked diasporas (i.e., those connected to a state in their homeland that is dominated by conationals) accept their host countries’ basic rules. However, during certain periods in the development of diasporas, real or alleged dual or divided loyalties, generated by dual authority patterns, may create tension between social and political groups in host countries and homelands, on the one side, and the diaspora, on the other. On certain occasions, but not always and certainly not automatically, such tensions and conflicts prompt homelands to intervene in host countries on behalf of “their” diasporas or to intervene directly in diaspora affairs. As I argue below, this aspect is particularly prevalent in the case of the Israeli-Jewish Diaspora.

38

 

Activities Communal cohesion and solidarity; recurrent problems facing diasporic entities in host countries; diaspora members’ wishes to support homelands; pressures on diaspora members, originating in homelands, to provide such support; and the sheer bureaucratic logic of the professionals in diaspora organizations all lead to diasporic engagement in a wide range of cultural, social, political, and economic activities. As noted, those activities are intended to meet certain basic needs of the diaspora that no other social or political organization can or wishes to furnish. Again, the Jewish Diaspora provides an excellent example; its highly organized and active communities have organizations that are involved in variegated activities. However, it is certainly not unique in this respect, since the Greek, Polish, and Chinese Diasporas, to name only a few, are also well organized. Diasporic organizations function on a number of levels—local diaspora communities, host society and government, and transstate relations (Miles and Sheffer, 1998). Of particular importance in this context, and therefore of particular theoretical and analytical interest, are exchanges between diasporas and their homelands. This is because, in addition to activities aimed at sustaining the diaspora communities themselves, diaspora exchanges involving assistance to homelands are essential elements in the raison d’être of the diaspora communities. The administration of such exchanges becomes difficult and cumbersome without the existence of elaborate if not labyrinthine intrastate and transstate networks. These networks facilitate the transfer of a wide range of resources to the homeland, to other segments of the diaspora, and to other states and organizations outside the host countries. The creation and regular operation of such networks are critical elements in the life cycle and activity patterns of all diasporas, including of course the Jewish one. Due to the vast range of their functions, the existence of these networks, which the host societies may regard as shady, may also become a source of trouble for diasporas, since their maintenance and operation may lead to clashes with various sectors of the host societies, including other diasporas. Certainly, connections maintained by means of these networks may prove severely upsetting to host governments, because it is usually through these networks that difficult questions about diasporas’ loyalties are asked. In extreme cases, host

    

39

governments may regard transstate activities as clear indications that the ethnic communities constitute fifth columns within the host country. This was the case, for example, with members of the German diaspora in the Middle East and America who, on the eve of World War II, joined the Nazi Party and provided the Nazi regime with intelligence and other services. In the 1950s, most Israeli Jews maintained such a perception of Israeli Palestinians. Recently, in the wake of the two Palestinian Intifadas (uprisings) (the first launched in the late 1980s, and the second in the early 2000s), the Israeli public and authorities regard Israeli Palestinians as collaborators with Israel’s enemies. Thus, the old image of Israeli Palestinians as a fifth column has been revived. Homeland-Diaspora Relations It is tenuous to assume that diaspora-homeland relations are always harmonious, consensual, and cooperative. In various instances, deep ideological disagreements, contradictory strategic and tactical views, and asymmetrical political and economic interests take shape and hurt national unity and cohesion. Consequently, these relations are far from immune to conflicts and clashes. Some of these confrontations may take an acerbic turn, as in the case of relations between the Cuban American diaspora and its homeland. This is the case particularly because some transstate networks that diasporas form and operate are linked to other nets that serve much more than the legitimate and peaceful interests of their diasporas and homelands. Therefore, one may understand why host governments become suspicious of all these networks. The essence of those suspicions is that diasporic networks serve as clandestine and relatively shielded conduits for illegalities such as international terrorism, supply of lethal weapons, money laundering, and mafia-type criminality. The existence and operation of these networks may also provoke clashes with international organizations such as the UN or Interpol, further complicating matters. Due to these aggregate characteristics, diasporas are predisposed to permanent conflicts with their homelands, host countries, and other international actors. The likelihood of such conflicts is closely related to factors that transcend economic rivalry with other groups in the host countries or absolute and relative economic and political

40

 

deprivation (Gurr, 1993). Primarily, these conflicts are caused by subjective cultural factors that relate to diaspora members’ identities. This predisposition is also associated with the complex patterns of divided and dual authority and loyalty that emerge due to diasporas’ existence in host countries and concern for their homelands. Although none of these factors is quantifiable, they noticeably affect diasporas’ strategic and tactical behavior. The resultant tensions and clashes between diasporas and other domestic and international actors attract the attention of media, politicians, and, especially, government officials, and may inflict damage and grief on all sides. Basically, however, organized state-linked diasporas, such as the Jewish Diaspora, are interested in cooperation with host societies and governments rather than in conflict and confrontation. In this vein, and as the Jewish case clearly demonstrates, diasporas are capable of making significant contributions to host societies’ welfare. Thus, they can, and in various instances actually do, serve as bridges between friendly segments of the host society, on the one hand, and their homelands and various international actors, on the other. Occasionally, these contacts bring significant cultural, economic, scientific, and political benefits to all parties involved. The analysis to this point has focused on the many important similarities between the Jewish Diaspora and other ethnonational diasporas. These commonalities demonstrate the legitimacy of the comparison and the validity of an attempt to predict main patterns of future development of this diaspora on the basis of other diasporas’ historical and current experience. Recent Processes Several recent processes point to even greater similarity between the Jewish Diaspora and many other existing ethnonational diasporas. For example, the growing legitimacy of pluralism, ethnicity, and ethnic diasporas, especially in Western democracies, has further diminished the tendency of Jewish and other diasporans to view their host countries as places of exile. Today, most Jews, as well as other diasporans, take their permanent residence and minority status in host countries for granted. Consequently, more core members of diasporas publicly identify as such. Thus, diasporans’ erstwhile inclination to avoid identification has been replaced by a greater willingness to

    

41

stand up, identify, and act on behalf of their community and nation. These developments have also enhanced their assertiveness vis-à-vis their homelands, meaning that they not only direct their assertiveness at the dominant host societies, host governments, and other ethnic groups, but also channel their activities toward their homelands. Those contradictory and often confusing developments have reinforced the need and inclination of core diasporans to deal actively with issues of assimilation and integration. In this context, some communities have put great emphasis on supporting needy diasporans, reaching out to mobilize interested members of these communities, and enhancing socialization and education. Insofar as these issues confront the Jewish Diaspora, especially American Jewry, they have been aggregated under the term “continuity.” Trying to ensure continuity has become a main vocation of the central organziations that the Jewish Diaspora and several other diasporas have established and operate. One of the main implications of this is that core members of diasporas are perceptibly more inclined than before to become involved in decision-making in both homelands and host countries, especially in policy contexts that affect their positions and interests. Diaspora Jews, for example, have become deeply involved in policy-making processes related to the interconnected issues that are captured in the question “Who is a Jew?” (the matter pertains to regulation of conversion to Judaism, the applicability of the Israeli Law of Return, and the granting of Israeli citizenship, among other things). Another interrelated major issue on the Israeli and the Diaspora public agenda is the connection between Jewish religion and JewishIsraeli nationality. The ongoing discussion of this issue touches upon theoretical, theological and practical matters all at once. Thus, it is of course connected to the aforementioned questions of “Who is a Jew?” and conversion. More practically, the debate in this case relates to the status and roles of the Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist movements in Klal Yisrael and, especially, in Israel. It is a particularly touchy issue in Israel due to the political power of Ashkenazi and Sephardi orthodox Jews, whose political parties vehemently oppose official recognition of these three movements. In the case of the Jewish Diaspora, these cumulative issues have had several broader implications and led to certain changes in the diaspora’s order of priorities. Thus, they have focused the attention

42

 

of the diaspora, and of interested Israeli organizations and groups, on the question of centrality in Klal Yisrael. While most interested persons and relevant organizations in Israel continue to press Israel’s case as the sole and undisputed center of Klal Yisrael and advocate the pledging of most human, economic, and political resources to its reinforcement, more and more Diaspora Jews assert that Israel and the Diaspora are more-or-less equal as centers and that attention and resources should be distributed accordingly. There is evidence that this shift has already occurred and has become legitimate. Thus, while the overall level of financial donations for Jewish causes has not declined by any substantial measure, the money transferred to Israel has diminished dramatically. Just as an indication, the proportion of funds raised by American Jewry that is transferred to Israel has fallen from 75 percent two decades ago to only about 20 percent today; similarly, while the numbers of American Jews who visit Israel and attend Israel-related functions and seminars have decreased, total attendance in such gatherings on Jewish issues has not dropped. Conclusions From both the historical/experiential and the theoretical/definitional perspectives, the Jewish Diaspora is neither an entirely unique case nor the only or ultimate archetypal diaspora. Hence, as indicated above, this chapter argues that the Jewish experience can and should be compared with that of similar entities and that conclusions drawn from the Jewish experience may be applied when more general theoretical frameworks are devised. Below are the most important and applicable conclusions that arise from such comparisons and from a realistic view of the growing “normalcy” of the Jewish Diaspora and its relations with Israel. First, the transformation and hybridization of Jewish identity will continue. In Israel, religiosity is mounting and the fundamentalist ultra-religious and religious parties are growing in membership, support, and political power; the opposite is true in the Diaspora. Therefore, in view of the global trend of secularization—a trend in which world Jewry is also participating—it seems that continuity and revival will not depend on the religious component of Jewish identity. Rather, to attract younger Jews and overcome the alienation

    

43

and apathy of many Jewish adults, the ethnic rather than the religious elements of Jewish identity should be emphasized. This is especially relevant in view of the greater legitimacy that ethnic pluralism and multiculturalism enjoy today in some host countries. Second, despite growing rates of intermarriages, assimilation, alienation, and apathy—processes that other historical ethnonational diasporas have evinced as well—relatively large and strong core groups of Jews will remain affiliated in most established Diaspora communities. Moreover, due to current migratory trends, some Diaspora communities (such as those of Canada, the U.S., and Australia) will continue to grow. What is more, revived communities, such as those in Germany and Russia, may also become important cultural centers. Third, it seems that culturally Israel has become a state that has lost the ability to fire the imagination and inspire spiritual and cultural revival in the Diaspora. In contrast, in this sphere interesting developments have been occurring in several Diaspora communities, such as those in the U.S., France, Germany, and even Russia. These communities, encouraged by the greater openness and tolerance of their host societies, globalization and “new politics” in general, are showing signs of cultural revival and enhanced revitalization. Thus, the pessimistic prognoses about the foreseeable demise of the Jewish Diaspora may have been somewhat premature. Fourth, Jewry, like other dispersed nations, should also be viewed as a coalitional transstate entity that transcends the boundaries of its homeland and host countries. Even today, it is already made up of autonomous communities that maintain a loose federative framework. This autonomous coexistence of the Jewish Diaspora is abetted by globalization and the communities’ internal dynamics. In view of current sociopolitical conditions, different agendas, and normative considerations concerning the communities’ needs, the federative nature of these relations should finally be recognized, internalized, and openly legitimized. In other words, the existence of several significant centers, rather than the Israeli-centric approach, should be accepted. Only on this basis may a more reasonable relationship between Israel and the Diaspora be established and maintained. Finally, there is almost no need to repeat that the recent terrorist attack on the U.S. has sent tremendous social, political, and economic shock waves through the entire world, to such an extent that many regard September 11 as a significant turning point in world history, after which the world will never be as it was before. Irrespective

44

 

of the accuracy or inaccuracy of these diagnoses and prognoses of global, regional, and state circumstances, the situation in the aftermath of those events calls for additional realistic review of the current state of world Jewry and its relations with Israel. Accordingly, as one of those who doubt that we are facing a totally “new world,” I argue tentatively that Jewry will continue to develop along previous lines, albeit with certain new emphases. Thus, in view of the Muslim insurgency, the general sense of uncertainty, and the sense of imminent danger resulting from the terrorist attack, some assimilated and fully integrated Jews may find their way back to Diaspora communities. For the same reason, more Jews may become involved and active in their Jewish communities, Jewish lobbies may intensify their activities, and relations among Israeli and Jewish organizations may be enhanced. Still, due to the deeply ingrained autonomous processes and general patterns of development described above, the main features of the Diaspora and its relations with Israel are not likely to change in any fundamental way. In sum, neither the current bleak predictions concerning demographic trends, which have cast a depressive pall over lay and religious activists alike, nor the ingrained belief in Jewish power that characterizes the thinking of other observers, accurately predicts world Jewry’s future. Hence, the outlook is neither gloomy nor rosy. Rather, the choices and actions of Jewish activists, professionals, and the rank-and-file will determine Jewish survival, continuity, and revival. These, in turn, will depend on a realistic analysis of the current situation, which should take place within the theoretical and comparative framework of diaspora studies.

CHAPTER THREE

WORLD JEWISH POPULATION AT THE DAWN OF THE 21TH CENTURY Sergio DellaPergola Introduction Since the early 1990s, world society has witnessed dramatic political, economic, and cultural change related to the process of globalization. Over time, but particularly since the end of the Cold War, interdependence among countries and societies gathered momentum amid shared involvement in strategic political and military interests, industrial relations, and international trade. The stunning expansion of international communication through the use of new technologies and networks, coupled with increased transnational migration, enhanced the spread of diverse cultural influences in important ways. These trends gave people opportunities and encouragement to take risks and respond in real time to similar economic, cultural, and security stimuli, despite physical distance. The socioeconomic growth that was related to these far-reaching changes occurred at very unequal paces between countries, among regions of one country, and across different social classes in the same locales. International and local tensions associated with unequal access to resources and opportunities have tended to increase in recent years. Concurrently, perhaps contrary to conventional wisdom, ideologies have been playing a greater, as opposed to a lesser, role. A diffuse search for meaning, only partly explained by dissatisfaction with material conditions experienced, has translated into a revival of religious and ethnic identities and generated further tensions locally and internationally. Two momentous examples are the resurgence of Islamic movements since the Iranian revolution of the late 1970s and the recurrent crises in the former Yugoslavia since the end of the Communist regime. The reshuffling of the world polity occasioned by globalization implies the reconfiguration of center-periphery relations and stronger

46

 

interrelations of dominance and dependency. At the dawn of the twenty-first century, global society, although sometimes depicted as featuring a “new order,” is better described as quite fluid, unstable, and unpredictable. It is against this general background that contemporary Jewish populations and communities have been developing worldwide (see DellaPergola, 2000). This chapter briefly outlines some of the major sociodemographic trends among world Jewry and explains some of their implications. Analytical Approaches and Definitions To study Jewish sociodemographic change, one first needs some conceptual grounding in the nature of the main variable of reference. We need to ask “What are the Jews?”—a question not to be confused with the more famous “Who is a Jew?” issue (see below). Jews are one group within a broader class of groups defined by religious, ethnic, or other cultural identities that are often categorized collectively as ethnicity. Recent debates point to three main approaches toward the basic nature and social role of ethnicity. In the particular case of the Jewish group, these approaches may be defined as: – consolidationist, in which Jewish populations are regarded as discrete objects for conceptual definition and empirical measurement; – situational, in which Jewish populations are considered groups that can be recognized and studied but not really quantified, since they are the variable and elusive product of ever-changing exogenous circumstances and endogenous attitudes; – manipulative, in which Jewish collectivities are viewed as essentially generated by the calculated interventions of elites or special interest groups and lacking serious claim to empirical reality, let alone legitimacy. The approach followed here is that Jewish communities in the Diaspora and in Israel, past or present, are significant targets for empirical investigation. Jewish populations are comprised of identifiable people, depend on specific criteria of inclusion and exclusion, feature definite perceptions of group boundaries and collective identity, and have unique and recognizable patterns of social and demographic composition and mobility. It is important to stress that Jewish populations change over time not only due to biological events such as

      

47

births and deaths (or, within a given territorial setting, as the product of migrations). The additional factor of acquiring, retaining, or losing relevant collective identities may play a fundamental role in the Jewish population equation, as it would in any other group defined primarily by a set of cultural, ideal, and symbolic criteria. This basic paradigm points to the theoretical and empirical foundations of scientific investigation and public discourse about the Jewish population. Thus, before we outline some of the main trends in Jewish population change over the last decades, we should give careful consideration to the issue of defining the Jewish population. In broad generalization, the perception of Jewish identification has undergone sweeping transformation in the course of modernity. While Jewish identity historically was and still is characterized by greatly different modes of expression, four main types of Jewish identification have emerged over time. In contemporary societies, these coexisting types may be described as (a) participation in an all-encompassing and exclusive Jewish religious community, (b) voluntary membership in a cohesive Jewish ethnocommunal group, (c) maintenance of a loose and unaffiliated individual relationship with Jewish culture, and (d) lacking even that faint last distinctive residue, yet being considered Jewish for lack of an alternative definition (see DellaPergola, 1999). The prevalence of these types has changed sequentially over time in an endless cycle. On balance, however, Jewish populations tend to show less of the first-mentioned types and more of the lastmentioned. Changes in identification reflect increased opportunities for equality, mobility, and interaction, eventually leading to greater acceptance of Jews on the part of non-Jewish counterparts in a general context of growing secularization. The spread of intermarriage (see below)—partly as a cause and partly as a consequence of these changing circumstances—has led to a growing number of families composed of both Jewish and non-Jewish members. Since it is based on the empirical materials of population censuses and sociodemographic surveys, the study of Jewish demography must consider various criteria for counting and defining the population in Jewish households. The concept of a core Jewish population includes all persons who, when asked, identify themselves as Jews or, if the respondent is a different person in the same household, are identified by him/her as Jews. This is an intentionally comprehensive and pragmatic approach. Such a definition of a Jew, significantly reflecting

48

 

subjective identity feelings, broadly overlaps but does not necessarily coincide with halakhic (rabbinical) or other normatively binding definitions. It does not depend on any measure of a person’s Jewish commitment or behavior in terms of religiosity, beliefs, knowledge, communal affiliation, or any other yardstick. The core Jewish population includes people of Jewish parentage who claim no personal Jewish affiliation or preference, provided they do not express an alternative affiliation. It also includes all people who converted to Judaism by any procedure or joined the Jewish group informally and declare themselves to be Jewish. It excludes people of Jewish descent who have formally adopted another religion as well as other individuals who did not convert out but refuse to acknowledge their Jewish identity. The enlarged Jewish population in the same households includes the sum of (a) the core Jewish population, (b) persons who have adopted another religion even though they may claim still to be Jews ethnically, (c) other persons of Jewish parentage who disclaim to be Jews, and (d) all additional non-Jewish household members (spouses, children, etc.). For both conceptual and practical reasons, this definition excludes any other non-Jewish relatives living elsewhere in exclusively non-Jewish households. Israel’s distinctive legal framework for the acceptance and absorption of immigrants, the Law of Return, further expands the possible boundaries of the analysis of Jewish demography and identity. The law extends its provisions to all current Jews, their Jewish or non-Jewish children and grandchildren, and the spouses of all the foregoing, thus defining a much larger population than the core and enlarged Jewish populations demarcated above (Corinaldi, 1998). The total potential size of the Law of Return population is quite difficult to estimate. Given the extremely marginal or alienated attitude of many non-Jewish descendants of Jews toward Jewish identification, it is reasonable to assume that the Law of Return defines more a theoretical concept, albeit a significant one for the Jewish discourse, than an operative population. To provide some idea of the effect of the different definitions on the size of major Jewish populations, in the U.S. in 1990 the core Jewish population was estimated at 5,515,000 as against an enlarged population of 8,200,000, including households without any core Jews— a difference of 49 percent (Kosmin, 1991). In the Russian Republic in 1994, the respective figures for households with at least one core

      

49

Jew were 409,000 and 720,000, a 76 percent difference. Since the 1970s, the gap between core and enlarged figures has been growing rapidly in Jewish communities around the globe, reflecting the increasing effects of assimilation, although in some countries, such as Mexico in 1991, the difference between enlarged and core definitions barely reached 5 percent.1 Clearly, issues of Jewish population definition are becoming increasingly complex over time and, more importantly, a common understanding about criteria of inclusion or exclusion may become more difficult to achieve for the Jewish collective. In this respect, Jewish population estimates for the present and projections for the future may create the impression of a clearly defined community, while in reality the group boundaries are tending to become more blurred, unstable, and overlapping with other identities. In any event, the estimates and projections discussed in this chapter generally refer to the core Jewish population concept unless otherwise specified. Jewish Population Size and Factors of Change Since 1945 In 1945, after the Holocaust claimed six million Jewish lives, the world Jewish population was estimated at 11 million. Over the next fifty-five years, world Jewry grew somewhat but at a growth rate that gradually slowed. In any case, the overall size of world Jewry has not even approached the pre-war total. It took about thirteen years to add one million Jews to the post-Holocaust total but another thirty-eight years to add a second million. In 2001, world Jewry was estimated at 13.2 millions.2 The world Jewish population grew by 782,000 over the 1950s, 506,000 in the 1960s, 234,000 in the 1970s, 49,000 in the 1980s, and 282,000 in the 1990s. The diminished returns (until the 1990s) reflected a progressive decline in Jewish natural increase—the difference between Jewish births and Jewish deaths—and a generally negative

1

DellaPergola and Lerner, 1997. Specifically, we do not deal here with concepts such as “Lost Tribes” or crypto-Jews that may have some relevance in long-term historical-demographic analysis. 2 The estimates reported here are meant to provide rough orders of magnitude only and in no way can be considered absolutely accurate or even definitive. Several of the estimates are revisions of previous works by ourselves and other authors.

50

 

balance of accessions to and secessions from Judaism. Sociodemographic patterns that emerged in the late 1980s brought world Jewry to average annual growth rates of 0.18 percent in the 1970s, 0.04 percent in the 1980s, and 0.22 percent in the 1990s, virtually zero population growth. One major contributing factor to these demographic trends was a generally lower “effective Jewish birth rate” than total birth rates in the same localities.3 This reflected not only moderate-to-low levels of fertility among Jews but also the rapid diffusion of marriages between Jews and non-Jews in Diaspora communities, particularly since the 1960s. The main consequence for Jewish population was the non-identification as Jews of a majority of the affected children. Another determinant of low birth rates, especially for Jewish communities in Europe, was a significantly distorted age composition resulting from high child mortality and very low birth rates during World War II. Indeed, the cumulative demographic consequences of these delayed effects of the Holocaust for Jewish population size were estimated as equal to or greater than those directly occasioned by genocide (DellaPergola, 1996). Since 1948, Jews have constituted a solid majority in Israel and small minorities in populations elsewhere. There are acute differences in the Jews’ demographic development in their majority and minority societal contexts. Israel’s population has been growing consistently, from approximately half a million in 1945 (Bachi, 1977) and one million in 1950 to over 5 million in 2001. The mass migration that followed Israel’s independence in 1948 prompted the numbers of Diaspora Jews to decline from 10.4 million in 1945 to 10.2 million in 1960 and an estimated 8.2 million in 2001. These major changes reflected the different effects of transnational migration, vital statistics, and Jewish identity. During the entire 1945–2001 period, the net migration transfer of over 2.2 million Jews from the Diaspora to Israel resulted in varying but generally large population increases in Israel and equivalent shrinkage in the rest of the world. Diaspora Jewry generated an estimated natural increase of 800,000 until about 1970. Since then, the balance of Diaspora Jewish births, deaths, and identification changes has been consistently negative, wiping out all 3 The “effective Jewish birth rate” includes all children identified as Jewish according to the core Jewish population definition (see below).

      

51

the previously accumulated natural increase. In Israel, in contrast, natural increase and, to a minor extent, conversions have augmented the Jewish population significantly. During the period of concern here, the total growth of Israel’s Jewish population, more than 4.5 million, was split in similar parts between a positive migration balance and natural and other population changes of domestic occurrence (DellaPergola et al., 2000). Since the early 1990s, the new circumstances that followed the disintegration of the Soviet Union allowed large-scale Jewish emigration to occur. In its course, people who had long been exposed to a significant process of assimilation out of Judaism either reassumed Jewish identification or professed it for the first time. Migration to Israel, the adoption there of somewhat higher levels of fertility, and the passage to a more explicit Jewish identification among immigrants from the former Soviet Union (FSU) through spontaneous rediscovery or formal conversion generated some increase in the rate of population growth in Israel and among world Jewry. World Jewish Population Distribution Primarily as a consequence of transnational migration (see below), the geographical map of world Jewry has undergone very significant change. The great majority if not the totality of Jews have left the Middle East, North Africa, Ethiopia, the FSU, Eastern Europe, and the Balkans. Other Jewish communities that have experienced significant long-term emigration include Latin America, South Africa, and, to a lesser extent, West European countries such as the United Kingdom. Apart from Israel, major recipients of Jewish migration in the West have been the U.S., France, Canada, Australia, and more recently Germany. In 2002, the Jewish population was estimated at 5.7 million in the U.S., over 5 million in Israel, over 500,000 in France, over 350,000 in Canada, 275,000 in the U.K., 265,000 in Russia, less than 200,000 in Argentina, around 100,000 in Ukraine, Germany, Australia, and Brazil, followed by South Africa (over 70,000), Hungary (over 50,000), and Belgium (over 30,000). Some 125,000 Jews lived in other countries that had collectives of 20,000–30,000 Jews, 110,000 lived in countries with 10,000–20,000 Jews, and a similar number dwelled in countries with smaller collectivities of fewer than 10,000 Jews (DellaPergola, 2001).

52

 

The overall effect of these changes has been a significant realignment and concentration of the Jewish presence, corresponding to the pace of development in more advanced societies. As of the beginning of 2002, 46 percent of Jews lived in North America, 37 percent in Israel, and 17 percent in other countries. A significant long-term correlation has been found among the size of the Jewish population, its share in the total population, its propensity to remain in a country permanently, and major indicators of the country’s socioeconomic development and quality of life. After many centuries in comparatively less developed and peripheral parts of the world system, in recent decades the Jews have been increasingly attracted by and associated with social forces that are typical of the world system’s more advanced countries. In 2002, 92 percent of the Jewish population (as against 15 percent of the world population) lived in the upper quintile of countries, which are characterized not only by higher standards of living—a development that is good for the Jews— but also by greater openness and exposure to competing cultural and identification models, which present the resilience of Jewish life with a greater challenge. As part of this process, Israeli society itself, beyond the unique cultural and ideological effects of its Zionist setting, rose during the second half of the twentieth century from a small and quite underdeveloped entity to a more serious and stable geopolitical and economic presence in the group of more developed nations. Israel’s capacity to attract immigrants and to retain residents has gathered much strength. A poor and struggling society upon its foundation, in 1999 Israel was ranked twenty-second out of 162 countries according to the United Nations Index of Human Development, which provides an overall estimate of national quality of life (UN, 2001). The social structure of Jewish communities worldwide also underwent rather dramatic changes in the late twentieth century. A massive tendency developed to concentrate in major metropolitan areas, in contrast to the much more dispersed geographical distribution in smaller localities in the past. In 2001, over 50 percent of Jews worldwide lived in only six major urban areas: Greater New York, Greater Los Angeles, and Southern Florida in the U.S., and Greater Tel Aviv, Greater Haifa, and the Jerusalem area in Israel. Two-thirds of Jews lived in about twenty large metropolitan areas. The general populations of these metropolitan areas were typified by very large size, density, heterogeneity, and transnational relations. These gen-

      

53

eral social features appeared to be most congenial with the changing socioeconomic stratification of Jewish populations.4 The latter, with some variation across countries, generally included high percentages of persons with college and university schooling. A massive outflux from older Jewish occupations in trade and manufacturing led to greater concentration in management and, even more intensively, in academic, liberal, and technical professions. The emerging social profile of world Jewry, with due attention paid to the inherent structural differences of the Jews’ being a majority of the population in Israel and minorities elsewhere, was one of significant similarity in social class and, possibly, in cultural outlook and political interests and behaviors. These transformations are among the most influential determinants of Jewish demographic change. Jewish Migration and the Global System Transnational migration is one of the major mechanisms of change in Jewish population size and distribution. Transnational mobility, apart from its role in reshaping the geographical map of world Jewry, has determined fundamental changes in the types of environments in which Jewish life has developed and thus affected the cultural perspective of Jews globally. Between 1880 and World War II, four million Jews, including non-Jewish family members, moved between countries—mostly between different continents, and nearly five million have done so since 1945. Over the past fifty years, this amounts to an average annual mobility rate of nearly 1 percent of the world Jewish population, a very high rate by international standards. The general thrust of these changes was a massive outflux from countries and societies where the Jews’ position had long been precarious and affected by discrimination to societies that offered a better balance of political freedom and socioeconomic opportunities. Over time, Jewish transnational migration developed in a typical wavelike pattern that reflected the predominance of crisis- or pushdominated determinants. Three major waves of migration occurred: in the early twentieth century, from Eastern Europe to North America;

4 Analyses that focus on regional Jewish populations, such as West European communities, reach similar conclusions. See DellaPergola, 1993.

54

 

after the establishment of the State of Israel, between May 1948 and 1951; and since late 1989 with the great exodus from the Soviet Union/FSU. The suddenness and annual variance of these migrations surpassed those commonly observed in large-scale migrations generally. Insofar as Jews were allowed to leave countries of origin and enter countries of destination, mobility rates from mostly Muslim countries in Asia and Africa and from Eastern Europe and the Balkans were very high. Migration propensities from the main recipient countries of Jewish migration—Western countries and Israel itself—were lower or very low, with long-term fluctuations that clearly reflected changing circumstances in each country of origin. During the 1948–2001 period, Israel absorbed nearly three million immigrants (including non-Jewish members of Jewish households), about 65 percent of Jewish migrants globally, with a range of 84 percent in 1948–1952 to 34 percent in 1983–1988 (DellaPergola, 1998). More than half a million individuals have emigrated from Israel since 1948, mostly in response to variations in the country’s pace of economic development and conjuncture. Considering Israel’s recurrent security vicissitudes throughout that time and its role in receiving and absorbing mass immigration, the rate of (re)emigration was rather low by international standards. The Changing Jewish Family Another major mechanism of change in Jewish population and community includes the complex of family processes and their consequences for population composition. In more developed societies, sweeping changes have affected the family in recent decades. Jewish communities anticipated the general changes in some respects but were slow to join the emerging new trends in other respects. While the family has long been the cornerstone of Jewish society, the conventional roles of marriage and procreation in the family have experienced unprecedented erosion in recent decades, concurrent with a tendency to greater individualism and the emergence of alternative patterns of behavior. The observed changes include deferral of marriage, higher rates of permanent nonmarriage, more frequent cohabitation, rising divorce rates, low birth rates, growing proportions of births out of marriage (the latter still uncommon among

      

55

Jews), increasing numbers of one-parent households, and increasing rates of intermarriage. Wide gaps emerged between Jewish family trends in Israel and among the rest of world Jewry. Around 1990, frequencies of mixed marriage surpassed 70 percent in Russia, Ukraine and in several smaller western Jewish communities, reached 50 percent in the U.S. and (based on older evidence) France, close to 40 percent in the United Kingdom, and probably above 30 percent in Canada and Australia. The increase in mixed marriage reflected the significant degree of social and cultural integration of Jews in surrounding societies. Despite the persistence of high levels of anti-Jewish prejudice in some societies, Jews were increasingly more accepted by non-Jews as marriage partners, and they in turn manifested diminishing opposition to intermarriage. A minority of out-married Jewish parents, evaluated at less than 25 percent in recent American and Russian data, preferred a Jewish religious or ethnic identity for their children, leading to major percentage losses in the potential size of the new generation. Children of mixed marriages generally grew up in a context of comparatively weak Jewish identification, while the propensity of the non-Jewish spouses to convert to Judaism tended to decline relative to the total number of out-marriages (DellaPergola, 1992).5 Divorce rates among Jews were lower than among the total population of the same countries, but the gap considerably narrowed in recent years reflecting increasing Jewish divorce. In Israel, a rather conservative pattern led to comparatively frequent and younger Jewish marriages, versus higher frequencies of postponement in the Diaspora. Only rare cases of marriage across different religions occurred in Israel, while divorce was less frequent in Israel than in the largest Jewish communities worldwide. Israel’s current and steady Jewish fertility rate of 2.6 children per woman was nearly double that observed for most Diaspora communities (0.9 to 1.7 children). These estimates refer to the average children born to all Jewish women, regardless of marital status. Significantly, affiliation with Judaism normally applied to nearly every Jewish child born in Israel. The Jewish population’s age composition provides a synthesis and reflex of the prolonged effect of these diverse demographic patterns. 5

For an earlier overview, see DellaPergola, 1992: 65–92.

56

 

The data on age for major geographical areas result from a systematic compilation of available sources complemented by hypotheses on similarity or dissimilarity with neighboring Jewish populations wherever direct information was lacking (DellaPergola, 1997). Higher birth rates followed by nearly universal Jewish identification of children resulted in higher percentages of children and youth in the Jewish population of Israel, and in the now nearly depleted communities in Muslim countries. Lower birth rates and the effects of out-marriage on the transmission of a Jewish identity to children produced markedly older age compositions among Jewish populations in Europe, Latin America, South Africa and Oceania, and extreme consequences in the FSU. International migration was an additional factor of aging for the sending countries, and of stability if not rejuvenation for the receiving countries. By 2000, while Israel included about 37 percent of world Jewish population, it hosted over 48 percent of all Jewish youth aged less than 15. The share of North America out of world Jewry was estimated at over 46 percent, but its share of Jewish children was 40 percent. Jewish communities in the rest of the world included about 17 percent of world Jewry but only 11 percent of total Jewish children. At the older end of Jewish population, Israel’s share of the worldwide pool of those aged 65 and over was 27 percent, 49 percent lived in North America, and 24 percent in the aggregate of other countries. These striking age-structural differences, and the underlying Jewish fertility differences jointly contributed to create the possible future demographic scenarios for world Jewry. Jewish Population Prospects Population projections are not prophecies. Rather, they provide indications of the implications of unrestrained continuation of current trends. The usefulness of projections rests more with the sharpened look they offer of the present than with insights they may offer of the future. Such caveat seems particularly appropriate in view of the already noted non-linear sociohistorical experience of the Jews during the twentieth century, particularly concerning international migration, in full contrast with the typical linear or quasi-linear assumptions of population projections. Yet it would be mistaken to ignore the indications of population projections altogether, since at least in

      

57

the short run, the relationship of a given age composition with the known patterns of mortality and fertility can be shown to be steady, with quite limited margins for variation.6 Looking first at Jewish population trends in the hypothetical absence of international migration, continuation of effectively Jewish fertility rates at approximately the current levels would result in a moderate increase in Jewish population worldwide from 13.1 million in the year 2000 to 13.8 million by the year 2020, and 14.5 million by 2050. Thus over a 50-year period, world Jewry would rise by 11 percent relative to its current size. This overall increase is the result of very different trends in Israel and the Diaspora. Due to its fertility above the level of generation replacement, Israel’s Jewish population would gradually increase to about 6 million by 2020, and slightly less than 8 million by 2050. By contrast and despite the ongoing increase in life expectancy, the current low levels of fertility combined with an already old age composition, would inevitably lead to shrinkage in the size of Diaspora Jewry in general and in each country and region in particular. According to the same projection without migration, the Diaspora Jewish population is anticipated to decline from 8.3 million in 2000 to 7.8 million in 2020 and 6.5 million in 2050. A plurality of the total Jewish population would live in Israel before the year 2020, and by the middle of the century the absolute majority of the world’s Jewish population. Projections incorporating international migration assuming continuation at its current levels show that the impact expected on Jewish population change is minor. As the major reservoir of the FSU tends to become depleted, the volume of Jewish migration is expected to decline unless dramatic changes occur in the situation of the large Jewish communities which as noted today live in relatively affluent and stable western societies. Reflecting immigration and the birth of immigrants’ offspring, Israel’s population by 2020 would be larger by 300,000, and the difference would cumulate to 400,000 in 2050, or 3 percent more than in the case of absence of migration. As against such moderate expected impact of migration, different fertility assumptions generate a significantly wider range of future 6 This section mostly relies on DellaPergola, Sergio, Rebhun, Uzi, and Tolts, Mark, 2000.

58

 

Jewish population scenarios. If we suppose a very moderate range of variation of –0.4 and +0.4 children as against current fertility levels, by 2020, Israel might have between 5.6 and 6.3 million Jews without migration, and 5.8 to 6.6 million with migration. By 2050, the range with migration would be 6.9 to 9.7 million. In other words, a difference of 0.8 children between the lower and the higher levels of fertility assumed would produce a high-low gap of over 40 percent in Israel Jewish population size. As to the total of Diaspora Jewry, according to the same moderately lower or higher fertility assumptions, it would range in the absence of migration between 7.3 and 8.3 million in 2020, and 5.3 to 7.8 million in 2050. The impact of international migration would lower somewhat the projected totals to between 7.2 and 8.1 million in 2020, and 5.2 to 7.5 million in 2050. It follows that in the case of a moderate lowering of current Jewish fertility levels, the projected total of world Jewry would be 13 million in 2020, and 12 million in 2050. In case of a moderate increase in Jewish fertility, the projected total would become, respectively, 14.7, and 17.2 million. In other words, the impact of slight variations in each or both of actual Jewish fertility and in the retention of children of mixed marriages will have a huge impact on future Jewish demography. The impact of migration, while not very significant in world totals, may become quite significant at the regional level. The impact of continuing emigration may be decisive in the FSU where by 2050 according to the projection without migration there may be about 100,000 core Jews, whereas continuing at current emigration levels the Jewish population would disappear altogether. In North America, the expected impact of a positive migration balance would raise the projected totals by about 150,000 throughout the period 2020–2050. Elsewhere the impact of migration would range between a few thousand to several hundred thousand. In spite of an expected decline in numbers in the longer term, North American Jewry, with a medium projected population of close to 6 million in 2020, would constitute an even larger share of the Diaspora than it does today. This is largely explained by the younger age composition of North American Jews as compared to most other Diaspora communities, including the larger ones in Western and Eastern Europe. Over the last two decades, large baby-boom cohorts were concentrated at central procreative ages. A second echo effect of the baby-boom might be seen around the years 2005 to 2020 as

      

59

large numbers of the children of the baby boomers may themselves reach reproductive ages. Significant demographic erosion will possibly affect North American Jewry only after the 2030s, as in the absence of migration it would decline to 4.9 million by 2050, and to about 4.5 million by 2050. Migration would raise the Jewish population to about 6 million in 2020, and 5 million in 2050. Since from the mid-twenty-first century the pace of decline in the size of the North American Jewish population will coincide with that of the rest of Diaspora Jewry, its relative share will remain unchanged. The Jewish population in European countries and in the FSU will experience a more significant diminution due to their older age composition and lower levels of fertility. Trends among Latin American Jewry and in Asia, Africa and Oceania point to a similar direction. Those communities are less overaged than European Jewry, but may have to rely more heavily on the consequences of international migration. Finally, it may be noted that because of higher fertility levels among Jews in Israel, a higher share of Israel out of world Jewry may also entail a somewhat greater demographic resilience of world Jewry. Conclusions and Implications Several powerful and consistent trends outlined in this chapter about the present and future of the Jewish population and society call for further analysis and an evaluation of policy implications. A growing amount of coherence has emerged between trends affecting Jews at the microsocial level of individuals and households, and at the macrosocial level of entire countries or even globally. Attention is called to the fundamental inertia and slow pace of change in sociodemographic trends. Change is always possible and, based on historical precedent, virtually certain to occur. In the meantime, however, the slow and continuous working of current trends is building up significant implications for the medium and longer run. Indeed, sudden and dramatic changes often were part of the Jewish experience, but in the given circumstances of Israeli society and world Jewry one would probably prefer rather uneventful times to the alternative. A number of critical implications follow. The first is that the demographic share of Jews out of total society worldwide and within any single geographical region is steadily

60

 

declining with a consequent reduction of the Jews’ ability to promote and defend their own interests in fear of a large and assertive competition. It is true that the quality of the complex of Jewish individuals, institutions and activities is a crucial factor not necessarily related to population size, but it can be demonstrated that quantity matters for a variety of processes and issues that may enable and support the quality of Jewish life. Jewish demographic trends, therefore, need to be addressed as a central topic on the Jewish public agenda. A second implication is that the changes generally observed among the Jewish population actually tend to affect quite differently various subpopulations whose identificational patterns are not the same. The more strongly identified and motivated segments of Jewish communities in Israel and worldwide tend to display greater resilience and some demographic growth, as against the recessive trends typical of the growing fringe of the weakly identified. The result may be a smaller but more intensely Jewish collective locally and worldwide. The problem is that precisely the same trends affecting the identificational balance within Jewish populations at large tend to stimulate internal conflict—namely, over the rules for admission and inclusion of individuals within the Jewish collective. Such ideational conflict is one of the most debilitating features on the current Jewish scene, and responsible efforts aimed at finding consensual mechanisms of discourse and decision-making should not be procrastinated. A third major concern relates to the prospective that Jews in Israel may become the plurality or even the majority of the world Jewish population. Clearly, Jews share their country with a large non-Jewish population—mostly Palestinians. Projections based on the evaluation of recent and expected population growth of Jews and Arabs indicate that Jews are bound to become soon a minority of the total population living over the whole territory between the Mediterranean and the Jordan river.7 In the event of restitution of most or all of the West Bank and Gaza, Jews would keep a substantial though declining majority of the total population. In the perspective of world Jewry, the inherent interest is that Jews represent a clearly defined majority of Israeli society, so that Israel may continue to play a central symbolic and institutional role for the global collective. To achieve such a crucial goal, the need to solve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict

7

DellaPergola, August 2001.

      

61

appears even more urgent in view of the sociodemographic trends of world Jewry reviewed here. A political-territorial framework needs to be finally negotiated and established in full awareness of the concessions that will have to be made to the opposite side. Those who feel that the state of Israel should keep to its ideal of a Jewish and a democratic society should consider the demographic projections and their implications with a sense of urgency, and strive to develop responsible policy solutions accordingly.

This page intentionally left blank

PART TWO

ISRAELI JEWISHNESS

This page intentionally left blank

CHAPTER FOUR

THE MEANING OF JEWISH-ISRAELI IDENTITY David Ohana The two most audacious—and heretical—assaults on Israelism, umbilically linked to Judaism via Zionism, have been the “Canaanite” narrative and the Crusader narrative. The Jewish-Israeli identity has recently been presented with a persistent moral challenge from these two different directions. On the one hand, the mythological construction of Israel as a new version of the Crusades has continued; on the other hand is a neo-Canaanite discourse: the right-wing religious neo-Canaanism of Gush Emunim (“Block of the Faith”) and the left-wing secular neo-Canaanism of the post-Zionists. The Crusader myth depicts Zionism as a colonialist phenomenon; the Canaanite myth casts doubt on the historical continuity of Judaism and Israelism and on the dialogue between them. Zionist political leaders since Herzl have often displayed an acute understanding of the role of myth in the nation-building process. The will to nationhood among a dispersed, powerless people like Diaspora Jewry had to be forged against a formidable array of obstacles, both external and internal. Not only did Zionism operate under difficult and frequently unfavorable conditions, both in the Diaspora and in Mandatory Palestine, but even after the creation of Israel its leaders have had to navigate in an intensely hostile and unenviable geopolitical environment. Moreover, before 1948 (and to a lesser extent since then) Israeli and Zionist leaders had to face considerable intra-Jewish opposition to the realization of their national goals. Under these adverse conditions, the establishment and consolidation of a coherent and distinctive Israeli identity has been a remarkable historical feat. It would have been virtually impossible without the ability to harness such potent “myths” as the ingathering of the exiles, the “upbuilding” of Zion as a model society, the creation of a new Hebrew or “Jewish” type, and an overarching vision of national redemption. The task was rendered even more complex by the relative lack of Jewish political experience during two millennia, the

66

 

tension between Judaism as a religion and the statehood ideal, the clash between nationalist particularism and universalistic ideals in Jewish history, and the structural difficulties of the Zionist movement (see Horowitz and Lissak, 1978 and 1989; Shafir and Peled, eds., 2000; Kimmerling, 2001). Even without the devastating blow of the Holocaust and the wall of Arab-Muslim hostility that confronted the new Israeli state, the challenge of constructing a viable Israel would have been formidable. To convert an urban-based diasporic people whose cohesion had already been significantly eroded by cultural assimilation into a “normal” nation, rooted in its own land and its Hebrew language, was a daunting task even under the most optimal set of circumstances. The ideological synthesis of Socialist Zionism and the driving myths that shaped Israeli society in its early years reflected many of these imperatives, constraints, and challenges. The emphasis on mamlakhtiut (“statism”), national security, unity, rootedness, pioneering settlement, and military virtues, as well as the priority attached to a “melting pot” ideology, seemed appropriate to the immediate imperatives of survival under adverse conditions. Similarly, the “heroic” ethos, so decried by current fashion, was in many respects a functional necessity for a country poor in natural resources, surrounded by enemies, and dependent on a high level of motivation, collective willpower, and implacable determination to re-root itself in its land. The dominant myths underwent a subtle shift after 1967, as territorial expansion and rule over a large Palestinian population created a new set of problems and dilemmas. The future of the occupied territories, questions of borders and ultimate national goals, the globalization of the Arab-Israeli conflict, and change in relations with the Diaspora became contentious and central issues in the Israeli identity.1 New forms of integral nationalism and religious fundamentalism related to the sanctity of Eretz Yisrael began to change the contours of the Israeli identity. The balance between the constituent elements of the Israeli collective identity were further affected by the erosion of the dominant Socialist-Zionist pioneering ethos in the early 1970s; the crisis of confidence in Labor leadership and military elites after the Yom Kippur War; the gradual rise in influence of Israel’s 1 See, for example, Ben-Rafael, E., 2001; Ohana, D., and Wistrich, R. (eds.), 1996; Ohana, D., and Wistrich, R., 1995; Deshen, S., Liebman, C. S., and Shokeid, M., (eds.), 1995.

   - 

67

underprivileged Mizrahim, who helped bring Likud to power in 1977; increases in settlement across the Green Line and violent confrontation with Palestinians in the territories; and the increasingly acute polarization of the religious and nonreligious segments of Israeli society. The erosion of domestic consensus and the increasingly harsh criticism and condemnation of Israeli policies abroad were two of the most obvious symptoms of malaise in the 1970s and 1980s. Inevitably, they too began to change the contours of the Israeli identity, the focus of its collective consciousness and memory, and the perception of Israel’s role in the world.2 It was in this context that the older nation-building myths, which had already lost much of their mobilizing power, were challenged. Israel’s international isolation and the successive traumas of the Lebanon War, the first intifada, and Israel’s unaccustomed passivity during the 1991 Gulf War provided important external stimuli for this fundamental debate about the means and ends, the goals, and the purpose of the Zionist enterprise. Alongside these stresses and strains, Israeli society was becoming increasingly Westernized in the 1980s—more materialistic, individualistic, and consumer-orientated. This de-ideologized environment provided much greater leeway for a plurality of identities, recognition of the validity of the private realm, and acknowledgment of the individual’s needs. A flourishing indigenous Hebrew-language culture and literary experimentation encouraged new freedom in addressing time-honored ideals and deflating established myths. The era of grand ideological syntheses appeared to be over and increasingly calls for “normalization,” manifesting a palpable war-weariness and a longing for “peace now” (as reflected in the movement of that name), could be heard. The Palestinian question could no longer be swept under the carpet in the 1980s and it increasingly impinged on the Israeli collective psyche as a problem that directly affected the identity of the Israeli people and state.3 Concurrently, belated awareness of the Holocaust—a process that had begun in the early 1960s—attained new heights and emerged as a dominant myth in cementing the national identity. The role of Holocaust awareness in the Israeli collective memory underlined the 2 See, for example, Gorny, Y., 1994; Ohana, D., 2001 (3rd edition); Ram, U., 1995; Elazar, D. J., 1986. 3 Rouhanna, 1997; Ezrahi, 1997; and Oz, Amos, 1998 (Hebrew).

68

 

degree to which the Zionist rupture with Jewry’s diasporic past was beginning to break down. The image of the Holocaust as the nadir of Jewish powerlessness in galut (exile) and the stigma attached to this image of the Holocaust yielded to an increasingly strong symbolic identification with this traumatic memory. The traditional Zionist contrast between tough, resourceful Israelis who make their own history and passive Diaspora Jews who went like “lambs to the slaughter” has been steadily muted. There is much less need today to dramatize the rupture with the diasporic past in order to create a foil to the exilic Jew. This erstwhile imperative has been replaced by a more realistic and humane approach toward suffering, less eagerness to embrace death in the heroic mold, and a much greater interest among Israelis in their personal and collective roots, which, after all, are planted in Diaspora traditions.4 In the more diversified Israeli society of the 1990s, the melting pot has been supplanted by a marked trend toward ethnic particularism, localism, and the cultivation of diasporic roots. The two thousand years of Jewish Diaspora are perceived no longer as a potential threat to the viability of Israeli statehood but as an integral part of Israel’s past, to be integrated into its contemporary history. Therefore, an Israeli identity divorced from its Jewish sources seems increasingly unlikely despite the tension that still exists between the Zionist aspiration and the reality of the Diaspora. In the 1990s, even the “ingathering of the exiles,” the ultimate raison d’être of Zionist ideology, has assumed new contours. During the past ten years, mass immigration from the former Soviet Union—approximately 1,000,000 immigrants in all—has transformed the nation in unexpected ways. The recent russophone immigrants, unlike the more Zionist-oriented wave of immigration from the Soviet Union in the 1970s, show little inclination to identify with Jewish religion and Israeli culture. Instead, they have created their own subculture in the midst of Israeli culture—an unprecedented phenomenon that, given the size of this immigration (17 percent of Israel’s Jewish population) is likely to continue in this generation (Leshem and Shuval, eds., 1998). Such tensions and difficulties are probably inevitable in the building of a sovereign society and, in their own way, are the imperfect

4 See, for example, Friling, 1998; Young, 1993; Yablonka, 1994; and Segev, 1993.

   - 

69

outcome of the very success of Zionism in accomplishing many of its original aims. On the eve of the Holocaust, Palestine was home to a mere 3 percent of world Jewry. Israel has ingathered one third of the Jewish people in the past fifty-five years and may well contain over 50 percent of the world Jewish population before this century is well along (DellaPergola, 1995). This phenomenal transformation was achieved under democratic rule (flawed though it has often been from the standpoint of the country’s Arab citizens) and amidst half a century of continuous siege and warfare (Liebman and Don Yechya, 1983). Such achievements are easy to overlook in the climate of fashionable cynicism, frustration, debunking, and self-denigration that has attacked many Israelis. For some time, Arab scholars, writers, and politicians have nurtured the mythical Crusader construction of Zionism and Israelism. The Zionist-Crusader analogy seeks to create an equivalence between the Crusader colonialism of the Middle Ages and “Zionist colonialism” and the Anglo-French variety. In the narrative of “the new Crusader phenomenon in Palestine”—one of several narratives that came to birth on the eve of the War of Independence—the Zionist enterprise is likened to the Crusades.5 “Just as the Arabs cleansed Palestine of the Crusades,” the narrative concludes, “so will they cleanse it of the Star of David.” In this narrative, Arab anti-colonialism is represented as a war of Muslims against Crusaders; the expellers of the Crusaders such as Saladin, Beybars, and Nureddin, who were actually Turks and Kurds, are regarded as Islamic heroes; the religious aspect of the conflict is played down and the national aspect is emphasized; a moral duality, generally structured on belligerent myths, is created between barbaric Crusaders and chivalrous Muslims; and a mythological construction of a Zionist-Crusader invasion—an ideological construction for present-day purposes—is made (Benvenisti, 2000: 299–303). The Crusader narrative depicts Zionism as a religious movement that subjects the local population to national oppression and economic exploitation. This alien-implant regime is said to have no culture of its own and to lack all national authenticity. Thus, this military vanguard of degenerate Western civilization will collapse as soon as it is shown a united front (Kedar, 2000).

5

Cited in Sivan, 1998: 18.

70

 

The Crusader narrative has an appeal that has lasted to this day. It is also a mythical Rashomon, in which each group fashions its own narrative. Historians have made it a Christian narrative with a beginning, middle, and end that is shifted to the Muslim Orient, or, as Joshua Prawer called it, a story of “Europe overseas.” For the religious, it is a parable and symbol of the power of believers, be they Christians who leave their territorial base to defend a spiritual homeland or Muslims whose unity of heart and sword defeated the Christian infidels after two hundred years of struggle. For modern Arab nationalism, it is a political myth that mobilizes forefathers in service of their heirs; here the historical episode becomes an inspiring paragon for descendants who were encouraged to expel the Jewish infidels from Palestine in the twentieth century. For Israeli patriots, it is a historical lesson that demonstrates the necessity of preemption (“To apply the remedy before the blow,” to use the rabbinical expression). For post-Zionists, it is a historical example of medieval colonialism and a foreshadowing of modern national colonialism. Finally, for fundamentalists it is a pretext for an assault on early twenty-first century globalization, modernity, and secularism. Each party to the conflict has its own Crusader myth (Ohana, 2002). At the dawn of the twenty-first century, the Zionist-Crusader analogy remains part of the new world-picture. The destruction of the World Trade Center has conjured up the specter of a crusade as symbolizing the obliteration of the Other in the name of a holy God who authorizes his annihilation. By calling for a jihad against the “Crusader-Jewish alliance,” Osama bin Laden packaged the motivations for global terrorism with the “Crusader” guilt of the State of Israel. On September 14, 2001, three days after the terrorist action in New York, the northern branch of the Israel Islamic Movement held its annual conference in Umm al-Fahm. The organizers of the assembly held on that occasion, titled “Al-Aqsa [Mosque] is in Danger,” placed the speakers’ platform in front of a billboard twenty meters high and thirty meters long, in which one saw Saladin approaching Al-Aqsa with his troops. Over the mosque, the caption “We’re coming back, Al-Aqsa!” appeared. The tens of thousands of people who attended the event were given copies of a sermon that the imam of Al-Aqsa, Manhe e-Din ibn Sachi, delivered on October 9, 1187, the first Friday on which Saladin worshipped in the mosque after its liberation from the Crusaders. The following was appended to the end

   - 

71

of the sermon: “Ibn Sachi gave this sermon of liberation. Who will give the next sermon of liberation?” Does the Al-Aqsa Intifada represent a turning point in the IsraeliPalestinian conflict, the point where it changes from a national conflict to a national-religious one? The new radical religious symbolism reaches its climax in the Zionist-Crusader analogy, which is rapidly becoming a myth and counter-myth among Israelis and Palestinians. The ways the Crusader narrative is presented embody the rival sides’ opposing intentions. The Arab side is cultivating a myth that bundles historical analogy with political attitudes and religious sermonizing (Maalouf, 1984; Asali, 1992), while most representatives of the Israeli side seek to divest the myth of its contents by using dry secular terminology, although many have nurtured a counter-myth that gave rise to a political narrative that they have mobilized in the service of their cause. This was well expressed by the writer Emil Fackenheim, who in the midst of the Al-Aqsa Intifada echoed the opinion of most Israelis: “The Crusaders came to Jerusalem but we returned to it. They abandoned it; we came to stay. They left behind ruins in the sand; we came to build them anew” (Fackenheim, 2000). The Crusader-Zionist analogy comes back to us today from another, surprising direction. The erstwhile claims of cause-serving Arab historiography have returned and appear as bon ton in post-Zionist historiography. Here is the point where Israel’s “new historians” link up with the post-Zionist ideology. These academicians regard the beginnings of Zionism and Jewish settlement in Palestine in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries as an instance of modern national colonialism.6 The Zionist idea as an extension of world colonialism, they say, is captured in an adage coined by Baruch Kimmerling to describe the post-Zionist avant-garde: “We’re a nation of settling immigrants who came together . . . to dispossess another people” (Kimmerling, 1994). The historian Ilan Pappe, comparing the Europeans’ attempts to settle Palestine in the Ottoman period with Zionism, uses an approach known as realistic symbolism, whereby one does not presume to explain phenomena objectively but rather to decipher them by means of the symbolism they contain. Some of the “new historians” who liken Zionism to a modern Crusade invoke the same strategy, thus

6

See, for example, Shafir, 1989; Kimmerling, 1983; Shamir, 2000.

72

 

revealing their post-Zionist or anti-Zionist ideological bias. Pappe himself made a remarkable contribution to this trend of thought with his article “Zionism as Colonialism,” in which he borrows the expression “quiet Crusade” from the German settler Hermann Hutte to characterize the beginnings of Zionist settlement in Palestine. It is truly ironic that Pappe concludes his article with a plea to scholars to be careful to use “neutral terminology” (Pappe, 1997). Concurrently, part of the National-Religious Right in Israel tumbled into a defeatist mood. In his December 2000 article “Unlike the Crusaders,” Israel Harel wrote, “Baath secular circles and other Islamic groups have prophesied for some time that our fate will be similar to that of the Crusaders. Judging by the strength and fortitude we have demonstrated in recent years, our spirit and behavior, the comparison is unfair to the Crusaders. They at least succeeded in persevering under the intolerably difficult conditions of deprivation, isolation, and insecurity of the Middle Ages for some two hundred years” (Harel, 2000). This is precisely what Yeshayahu Leibowitz meant when he predicted that the first yordim (literally “descenders” from Israel; the Hebrew term ordinarily denotes emigrants, and it is generally employed in a metaphorical sense) would be the settlers in the territories (Ohana, 1997). Harel considers the descent from the settlers’ Messianic vision of redemption so disastrous that he likens the Israelis to the Crusaders. Although this “colonialist” discourse is not new, the facts disprove the analogy that it draws. The Zionist settlement of Palestine took place without military or political assistance from any external state and thus did not resemble any colonialist movement (Aharonson, 1996). Zionism was not a religious movement but a national movement which saw the return to Zion as the modern expression of a people that wished to forge its collective destiny by returning to its historical sources. The Israelis created a rejuvenated homeland and established an identity between a large part of their collectivity and their country, developed settlement forms, science, and technology, became a majority in their country, achieved a clear national identity with its own culture, language, and creativity, and managed to maintain democratic governance under the most trying conditions that democracy can face—a protracted military conflict. Most important, Israelis never felt like strangers in their country and did not apologize for their national existence, viewing it as the historical real-

   - 

73

ization of a universal right supported by international recognition and not as an original sin. An allusion to the nexus of Cross (original sin) and Crusades (“Crusader-Zionist colonialism”) may be found in the post-Zionist ideologists claim that the Zionist original sin was not an actual misdeed that may be atoned for or corrected. One of their best-known theories is that the end of the Zionist enterprise was already implicit in its colonialist beginnings (Landers, 1994). The Zionist state embodies a metaphysical sin and its fate is as sealed as that of Christ. Liberation from this metaphysical sin can be obtained only by an act of self-immolation: the obliteration of the sinful Zionist entity and its transformation, in accordance with the post-Zionist vision, into a secular democratic state (a “state of all its citizens”). The Canaanite-Hebrew option has also been continually present in the Israeli consciousness. Since the early 1940s, when the activities of the “Committee for the Formation of Hebrew Youth” began and published the “Letter to Hebrew Youth” manifesto, was this radical-secular option part of the range of possibilities in the Israeli discourse. Canaanism was the boldest cultural challenge—at least in literary and intellectual circles—to Zionism, Judaism, and Israelism (Shavit, 1987). Its best-known proponent, Yonatan Ratosh, offered a comprehensive alternative that would uncouple the Israelism-Judaism connection and adopt only the elements of geographical affiliation. A place—the Semitic space—would replace “the Place” (a reference to the Heb. maqom, the Jewish God); peoples of the area who “lacked nationality” would undergo “Hebraization” and a complete severance from exilic Jewish history. Was Canaanism an attempt at an Israelization of the French national type, which defines itself as a synthesis of territory and language? It is no wonder that even the sabra (Israel-born) journalist and poet Haim Gouri recoiled from these Canaanite ideas. He, too, was unable to separate Ratosh, the wonderful poet of The Black Canopy, from Ratosh the ideologist. Canaanism denies the duality of Israeli Jews’ identity in the context of the return to Zion. As argued by Gouri (1983), Canaanism denies any connection or affinity between the Jew and the Hebrew and their dichotomization with relentless hostility invalidates any possible explanation of Jewish existence here. Making Zionism an enemy of the Hebrew renaissance makes Hebraism a shallow object of meta-history.

74

 

In the short history of the crystallization of the Israeli identity from the “Hebrew,” the “pioneer,” and the “sabra” (literally “Fruit of the cactus,” designates the Israeli-born Jew) to the atomization of the Hebrew image through an ever-increasing cleavage, who can guarantee that the Canaanite option has completely disappeared? May it be that its ultimate prescription—separation of Israeli citizenship and Jewish religion—is becoming so relevant that a complete schism between the homeland (the Hebrew or the Israeli) and the people (the assimilated Jew) will eventually succeed? Perhaps this will occur neither as a deliberate act nor in the hope of realizing a utopian vision but simply by force of reality, without the help of any ideological factor. Post-Zionism is a secular-leftist neo-Canaanist doctrine that adopts as its guiding principle—in a shift from history to geography—a nativistic conception that disregards the continuity of the history of a people that has, in part, returned to its land to fulfill its nationhood, and recognizes only those who reside there (Silberstein, 1999; Cohen, 1995). Underlying the post-Zionist ideology is the assumption of the existence of a local society based on a civil rather than a national definition: the state belongs to its citizens, not to history. Now that Zionism has completed its task by founding the state, one should remove its protective covering (repeal the Law of Return), de-Zionize the country, and from that moment on treat the result— a secular democratic state—as a “state of all its citizens.” According to the nativistic conceptions of the new identity, which give primacy to geography instead of Jewish added value, Israelis are formalistically defined as a collectivity of citizens living under a single roof. It is the place that defines us this way. Thus, the true significance of post-Zionism is a severing of the umbilical cord between the Israeli homeland and the Jewish people and its culture, between the country’s landscape and its history, between the language and its sources. “Post-Zionism,” said one of those responsible for this phenomenon, “means the denial of all claims of hidden threads binding together separate phenomena, of a special connection between the Jewish people today and yesterday, whether they are in Israel or in the Diaspora, between Israeli culture and its sources, and between the Hebrew language and its history” (Dan, 1995). Conversely, Gush Emunim espouses a religious right-wing neoCanaanism. In the messianic model comprised of the trinity of Tora (Bible), Land, and People, the Gush Emunim philosophy considers

   - 

75

the earthly locality as supreme. If post-Zionism makes connection with a place the sole entry on the individual’s identity card, Gush Emunim elevates place to sanctity and settlement to the status of myth, enshrining return to the ancestral land as the paramount principle. In its settlement and political activities, Gush Emunim seeks to restore the true model of a Greater Israel by replacing the Israeli frontiers of political compromise with a vision of the frontiers of Eretz Yisrael responding to the Divine Promise. This movement, which blended political theology with the Zionist myth of settlement, was based on the antecedence of the ancient Israelites relative to the current Arab inhabitants of the West Bank and Gaza (Aronoff, 1984). The “deterministic Messianism” of Gush Emunim carried a radicalization that was manifested in a changeover from the “historical necessity” doctrine associated with Rabbi Abraham I. Kook to a belief in activating history and anticipating the End of Days, as associated with his son Rabbi Zvi Yehuda Kook and the latter’s political Friend, the teacher, ideologue, and former Member of Knesset Hanan Porat (Ravitski, 1993). For Porat, Kfar Etzion—a pre-independence settlement destroyed in the 1948 War of Independence and re-established shortly after the 1967 Six-Day War amid great symbolism—is “an example in miniature, from which we learn not about itself but about the generality” of settlement in Eretz Yisrael (Land of Israel). This “small place,” Kfar Etzion, evokes the “large place,” Israel. The narrative of Kfar Etzion necessarily embodies the Jewish-Zionist-Israeli meta-narrative and embraces three messianic principles: return to Zion, ingathering of the exiles, and at"halta dige"ula (the beginning of Redemption, as manifested in practical development of the Land of Israel) (Ohana, 2002). This radicalization also marks a shift from the universal, metaphysical-cosmic aspect of messianism to its national-Israeli aspect and, thence, to the particularistic-territorial aspect of Gush Emunim. The radicalization represented by Gush Emunim’s doctrines has attracted historians’ attention. Jacob Talmon interpreted the messianic “anticipation of the End” of Gush Emunim as an obsession with visualizing the end of history within history itself. Uriel Tal, examining the phenomenon of mysticism being carried into reality, claimed that those who embrace the concept of political messianism believe that they are personal eyewitnesses to the beginning of Redemption, in the course of which messianism will be realized. This supposition reduces symbols to the level of reality, i.e., where a stone

76

 

or a piece of land was once a symbol of something sacred, they have now become sacred themselves (Tal, 1984). This debate is no less about history per se than about the religious beliefs of an Israeli movement. The focus here, however, is not on the Israeli-Palestinian or the Jewish-Arab conflict, which has commanded so much international attention from politicians, academicians, and media. It concentrates much more on the internal Jewish factors that have shaped the Israeli collective consciousness and national-cultural identity over the past hundred years—with all their pluralism, ambivalence, and contradictions. These myths, memories, and traumas that have shaped Israeli identity developed neither in a vacuum nor as the pure product of internal developments in twentieth-century Jewish history. All along they have interacted with forces in the external, non-Jewish world and have been profoundly modified by confrontation and conflict with the Arab-Muslim Middle Eastern environment. However, the Israeli identity has also inner historical dynamics of its own, and these have been disregarded for too long. The deconstruction of national mythologies is, of course, a perfectly legitimate and necessary tactic in attempting to understand any long-term historical process. It should be borne in mind, however, that a myth is something more subtle than merely an erroneous belief or dogma to which people cling against all historical evidence. Revisionist historians often naïvely accept the popular definition of myth as fallacy that can be disproved by logical reasoning or simple reference to historical facts. New documentation and reinterpretation of historical events on this basis are a normal and natural part of the evolution of historiography in any society. Demythicizing a past that has been invested with a quasi-sacred character, or noting that events that have been given unique significance by one generation may not retain this meaning for its successor, is equally natural. After all, most interpretations of history are to some extent based on an arbitrary selection of events and may easily take on a mythical complexion. Israeli history and historiography are by no means exceptions to this rule and, like historiography elsewhere, have inevitably been influenced by ideology. By the same token, the process of de-ideologizing this history and stripping it of its allegedly mythical aspects is not immune to similar objections of selectivity and arbitrariness. Is “revisionist” history, for example, any less susceptible to an ideological or political agenda, to the conscious (or uncon-

   - 

77

scious) desire to create counter-myths, than the very orthodoxy against which it rebels? Myths may perform many functions simultaneously. Not all of them are merely justificatory rationalizations of a particular status quo. They may indeed furnish existing social and political practices, a dominant elite, a social group, or an ideology with legitimacy. A myth may also be intended as a mobilizing agent that can galvanize commitment or identification with a cause, as has often been the case all over the world in the past two centuries. Above all, most myths are to some degree narratives that seek to anchor the present in the past. Viewed in this light, myths are a special kind of narrative, symbolic statements or frames of reference that invest a collective identity with meaning. More often, however, their significance lies in what they can tell us about the ways in which a particular nation, social group, or set of individuals seeks to organize its collective memory and establish a distinctive identity.

CHAPTER FIVE

ISRAEL AND ITS COVENANT: RELIGIOUS-ZIONIST THOUGHT Shalom Ratzabi The title of this chapter blankets a vast issue. Therefore, I limit my discussion to National-Religious (Religious-Zionist) thought as manifested over the past century. The theme of the discussion is that although the most powerful current in the Religious-Zionist camp bases its outlook on traditional Religious-Zionist thought, since the 1960s and particularly since 1967 some religious thinkers have begun to shape new concepts to determine the relationship between Israel and the Jewish religion. In my opinion, these religious thinkers feel that Zionist thought has not coped successfully with the entire postHolocaust Jewish experience. This failure is revealed in the belief that Zionist thought cannot satisfy the religious feelings of a generation whose most formative experience was the Holocaust and the establishment of the State of Israel. This is especially the case in view of the sequential occurrence of those events, i.e., the realization of the Jewish people’s greatest expectations, such as the ingathering of the exiles and the creation of a sovereign state (which, in practical terms, means the abolition of servitude to other nations—a crucial sign of the impending arrival of the Messiah only three years after the greatest catastrophe in Jewish history). Consequently, in Israel’s first decade and, in particular, during the anxious buildup to the 1967 Six-Day War and the period of euphoria that followed Israel’s victory, the entire Jewish people and its religious thinkers and theologians—Orthodox, Reform, and Conservative alike—began searching for new key concepts to shape their Jewish religious experience. In regard to the religious significance of the State of Israel, two main traditional approaches are dominant in the Religious-Zionist camp. One argues that Israel is a human institution, i.e., a state that was established to solve existential, political, and other problems that threatened the Jewish people as a collective. Today we may infer that this stance accepts as a premise that Israel is an ordinary state

   

79

and, therefore, should be treated like any other modern state. The second approach, favored by the Religious-Zionist mainstream, bases its Zionist worldview on the mystical national doctrine of Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook. Assuming that the messianic era is the end goal of Judaism, Rabbi Kook identifies Zionism with the core of Judaism. The reason is obvious: if the messianic era is a concrete aim that shapes Jewish life, it is self-evident that Zionism, which aims to ingather the Jews and reestablish Jewish sovereignty in the Holy Land, is the modern embodiment of the messianic course. Thus, Zionism is not a secular ideology but the very heart of Jewish religion. By adopting Rabbi Kook’s mystical Zionist doctrine, the Religious-Zionist mainstream perceives the State of Israel as a sacred instrumentality that has an important role to play in the messianic process (see also Ravitski, 1993). Neither approach draws a specific connection between the rebirth of Israel and the Holocaust. According to the first approach, the State of Israel is no more a response to the Holocaust than it is a response to other existential woes that have tormented the Jewish people in exile. One of the pioneers of this position was Rabbi Isaac Jacob Reines (Schweid, 1991). Apologizing for his cooperation with haredi (ultra-orthodox) and nonreligious Jews, he argued that the Zionist Movement is meant to solve the troubles of the Jews (tsarat ha-yehudim), not the troubles of Judaism (tsarat ha-yahadut). By implication, Zionism and its actions are wholly unrelated to cultural and religious-spiritual issues. Obviously, one who takes such an attitude toward Zionism and the Zionist enterprise cannot invest Israel with any religious significance. We may sum up these considerations by concluding that the Holocaust, like previous catastrophes in Jewish history, is contained within the frame concept of “troubles of the Jews” and not that of “troubles of Judaism.” Thus, the State of Israel, as the pinnacle of the Zionist endeavor, is an instrumentality that aims to enhance the Jews’ ability to survive in a non-redemptional world. Accordingly, needless to say, one should attribute religious meaning neither to the State of Israel nor to its actions. The second approach, based on Rabbi Kook’s mystical thinking, leads to the opposite conclusion: that the State of Israel does have religious significance and that we should recognize metaphysical significance in Israel’s very existence. Indeed, Rabbi Kook’s son, Rabbi Zvi Yehuda Kook, defined the State of Israel as a “Godly

80

 

affair” (Kook, 1987: 244–246) and considered Zionist history and Israel’s development a messianic process. Though he did not dare to describe the State of Israel as the embodiment of the redemption vision (Kook, 1967: 56), ostensibly, for him, the Jewish resurrection after the Holocaust is invested with obvious religious significance. The State of Israel is an important stage in the redemption process; the Holocaust is one of the most tragic expressions of the nonredemptional world. In accordance with this point of view, Rabbi Z. Y. Kook elaborated on Holocaust and Heroism Remembrance Day 1973 that the Holocaust should be construed not within the ordinary Jewish religious construction of sin and punishment but in view of the final aim, i.e., as a necessary stage in the process of redemption. Thus, he regarded the Holocaust as “a cruel cutting” (Kook, Sihot). However, even if there is a religious connection between the post-Holocaust rebirth of Israel and the Holocaust itself, it is not an exclusive one. After all, if this outlook were taken to its logical end, the Holocaust would have no special significance. It occurred, as had many other ordeals that the People Israel were fated to experience as they followed the path of galut and ge"ula, i.e., the process of exile and redemption. We may adduce, as stated above, that according to this point of view the Holocaust is but one link in a chain of results occasioned by the nature of the unredeemed world. That is to say, the rebirth of Israel and the Holocaust were necessary stages in God’s plan of redemption. Unfortunately, religious feelings and the very fact of the sequentiality of the Holocaust and the creation of the State of Israel do not allow people who are inspired by religious sensitivity to regard the Holocaust as a common event. Religiously sensitive Jews feel that the two prevalent attitudes toward the significance of the State of Israel do not take into account some of the most important events, such as the tragedy of the Holocaust, and other recent historical events in Jewish history. As noted, these feelings were already expressed in Israel’s first decade and became more intense shortly in the buildup to, and the aftermath of, the Six-Day War. This prompted some religious thinkers and theologians to begin searching for new conceptual keys, with which they might explain recent and contemporary historical events within their existential religious experience. Indeed, these prevailing approaches cannot cope with the very fact of the existence of the State of Israel, just as they cannot cope with the religious connection between the Holocaust and the rebirth

   

81

of Israel three years later. This inability is intrinsic to their nature and, particularly, to the historical situation that gave them their contours. As stated, these approaches are hardly novel. They were shaped and articulated in the formative years of the Religious-Zionist movement, maintained during the Mandate era, and sustained in the first decades of Israeli sovereignty. In those years, and especially in the early period of the Zionist Movement, National-Religious thinkers such as Rabbis Reines and A. I. Kook, to name only two, had to struggle with two difficulties. One was a problem in halakha, i.e., how to justify cooperation between haredi and nonreligious Jews. The second difficulty was theological: how to determine the relationship between Zionism and the messianic idea. Rabbi Reines solved these difficulties by placing Zionist activities on the level of the Jewish struggle for survival. Thus, he was able to treat Zionism as a national philanthropic enterprise. By so doing, he severed the Zionism-messianism nexus. He also redefined Jewish identity by adopting the general concept of 'amamut (peoplehood), which has religious, ethnical, historical and biological components. In this fashion, cooperation between religious and nonreligious Jews is justified at the philanthropic and national levels. Rabbi Kook surmounted the difficulties by adopting a mystical outlook. According to this way of thinking, as noted above, Zionism is not a new national idea culled from the arsenal of nineteenth-century national thought. Rabbi Kook viewed Zionism only as a new and modern expression of the messianic process. To explain the role of nonreligious Jews in this process and to justify cooperation with them by means of his mystical system, Kook offered a Hegelian argument: the “cunning of reason.” That is to say, the nonreligious Zionists think they are going to build a secular, socialist, and democratic state, but in fact they are merely God’s tools for the attainment of His messianic goal. Obviously, if we adopt this view, the State of Israel would lie beyond human judgment and ordinary halakhic concepts. “Eventually,” as Hartman writes, “who is to judge or appreciate a messianic process, which is only God’s enterprise?” (Hartman, 1990). The establishment of the State of Israel has created a new situation. Not only Jewish history but the Jewish people’s understanding of itself has been affected. The dramatic change in Jewish selfunderstanding occasioned by the establishment of Israel is clearly indicated by the fact that the key concept of galut, exile, has lost most of its significance. In traditional Jewish thought, galut (exile)

82

 

exists at two levels, metaphysical and empirical, and by means of this compound nature it has served as the principal concept in defining Jewish identity, destiny, and history. With the establishment of the State of Israel, this concept has lost its empirical meaning. After all, almost every Jew can move to Israel, and if Jews choose to live elsewhere they do so for no reason other than their preference. Moreover, the existence of the State of Israel has created a new halakhic (i.e. pertaining to Talmudic Law or Halakha) agenda. From the halakhic perspective, for example, the greatest difficulty before the establishment of the State of Israel had to do with the permissibility of cooperating with nonreligious Jews. Once the state became a historical fact, this question lost its relevance. A sovereign state, be it Israel or some other, imposes itself on its citizens and needs no acknowledgment of its authority. Thus, all Jews in Israel, religious and nonreligious alike, find themselves in the same political environment. It seems clear enough that the rebirth and existence of Israel have created a new situation that entails reexamination both by halakhic standards and in view of theological and historical considerations. Indeed, modern religious thinkers and even non-Zionist rabbis have taken a new attitude toward the State of Israel. Rabbi Avraham Weinfeld, for instance, states that the Jews now exist within a reality in which there is a state inside their Holy Land. This, he continues, means that no halakhic question exists. Ultimately, he explains, haredi Jews were not asked whether it was halakhically permissible to build it or not. All we can do now, he said decisively, is to clarify our attitude toward this state and this reality. However, he stated in summation, the normative sources that would inform such an attitude—the Bible, the Talmud, and the arbiters of halakha—neither set forth rules that relate to a modern state or any similar concept nor indicated whether haredi Jews should recognize or repudiate it (Weinfeld, vol. 1; see Ravitsky, End: 201–248)). By implication, from the halakhic perspective it is not worth wrestling with questions of the legitimacy of the State of Israel or the problem of cooperation between religious and nonreligious Jews against the background of the State of Israel. The state is a reality; Jews must treat it as they treat other circumstances that envelop them in life. From this point of departure, the religious Jew should manage his relationship with the state on the basis of halakha. The urgent question, then, is whether traditional Religious-Zionist

   

83

thought is still relevant. As I suggested above, the previous theological discourse about the legitimacy of Zionism was dominated by the messianic idea. However, if we examine the voluminous Jewish rabbinical and philosophical literature that was written from the Mishna to the spread of Lurianic Kabbala, we find a different tendency in regard to the goal of Jewish life. The messianic idea as presented in that vast literature, it seems, is mainly a postulate of belief, i.e., a tenet of creed. We find neither a commandment (mitsva) nor a rabbinical law (halakha) that was manipulated on the grounds of the messianic idea. At the most, we may point to customs (minhagim) that aim to preserve historical Jewish memories and reinforce hope for the return to Zion and the elevation of the earthly dominion to the dominion of heaven. Moreover, even Maimonides, who included messianic hope in his Thirteen Tenets, did not regard the messianic era as the end of Jewish religion. In the last chapter of his Hilkhot melakhim (Rules of Kings) devoted to the messianic age, Maimonides implies that he regards that era as an instrument that would create the best environment for the realization of the individual’s religious task. According to this view, the commandments are meant to create an optimal social environment, so as to protect people from themselves and each other, to assure justice, and to prevent disturbance. This aim, however, is only a tool for the attainment of the highest religious end, i.e., to make it possible for all individuals to live lives so well ordered that they can turn their focus from corporeal affairs and dedicate themselves to the life of the intellect. Thus, in the messianic era, all the needs of the individual Jew will be met and all his cravings will be stilled. Under such conditions, Jews will be able to devote all their vigor, energy, and interests to the highest religious goal, pure intellectual contemplation (Rambam, Mishne Tora: Chap. 12). As for the reason for this chain of arguments, I venture to say that until the spread of Lurianic Kabbala with its doctrine of “mending” (torat ha-tiqunim), Jewish religion was not a religion of salvation, as Christianity became. In other words, the messianic idea was not the yardstick against which Jewish religious life was measured. The goal of Jewish religious life was to make the individual Jew and the Jewish community holy, just as God is holy. According to this outlook, the means to this dual end is the Jewish people’s commitment to its covenant with God. Thus, it is not surprising to find that the Jewish messianic sovereign state, as Maimonides depicted it in Hilkhot

84

 

melakhim, is actually an instrumentality meant to facilitate the individual’s fulfillment of the religious task. Maimonides’ reasoning in not investing the messianic kingdom with religious value is obvious. Since the messianic era and the sovereign Jewish state are meant to realize religious needs, they cannot be a religious value or aim in themselves. The messianic era is a stage in which the People Israel will prepare itself for its eternal and supreme goal, which, in Maimonides’ thinking, is the Other World. The rationale of this outlook is that the People Israel is unable to attain its religious goal due to its enslavement. Here, in my opinion, lies the main failure of Religious Zionism. It seems indubitable that, in accordance with the nature of value generally and religious value particularly, the State of Israel cannot achieve religious meaning, either as a tool for the improvement of Jewish survivability or as a stage in the messianic process. For example, according to Rabbi Kook’s mystical doctrine, especially as elaborated by his son and his followers, Israel cannot take on religious meaning as a messianic tool. Even the Messiah, after all, is not a value in itself but an instrumentality meant to satisfy religious needs. Much the same is expressed in Rabbi Reines’ thought. Since ultimately Israel was founded to satisfy a need, it cannot be treated as having a religious value. It is evident to some religious thinkers, such as Emil Fackenheim and Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits, that if Israel had some dimensions of religious significance, as religiously sensitive Jews do feel, it could manifest them only on the basis of its religious functions or if it had itself been created as the product of religious impulses. This implies that the main way to invest the State of Israel with religious meaning is by considering the means by which it improves Jewish religious life or facilitates the performance of Jewish religious duties. From this perspective, we may assume that the question of the affinity between Israel and the messianic idea is not a useful topic for contemplation. These considerations, which have become frequent since the 1960s and particularly since the Six-Day War in the writings of theologians such as Fackenheim, Berkovits, Rabbi Soloveitchik, and Hartman may be summarized, generally speaking, by the sense that Jews should return to the traditional Jewish religious trend of thought. In other words, we should adopt as our worldview the notion that the aim of Judaism lies in the Jewish people’s commitment to their covenant with the God of history and of the world. Pursuant to this

   

85

outlook, the State of Israel should be appreciated through halakhic standards and its role in improving Jewish people’s ability to actualize its covenant with God as a “people of priests and a holy nation,” as the Biblical expression has it. Within this construct, the State of Israel facilitates the performance of Jews’ religious duties in at least two major ways. The first is linked to the halakhic perspective. Israel has created a new opportunity to broaden the halakhic scope and to renew halakhic creativity. Considering the complexity of Judaism as a religion that mandates the regulation of a Jew’s entire life, it is obvious that a Jew can fulfill these duties only in Israel. After all, according to the halakhic perspective, Jews are to build a holy community. This means that the commitment to their covenant with God includes not only commandments related to the individual’s spiritual life and proximate environment but also commandments that can be fulfilled only by assuming responsibility for the social, economic, and political aspects of life. Here lies the greatest and most difficult challenge that rabbis need to confront. Indeed, Berkovits, Hartman, and Leibowitz invested much effort in tackling this issue.1 The second benefit of Israel in the religious domain is related to the theological and historical perspective. It is well known that the Jewish religion encompasses, as Rabbi Soloveitchik put it, two covenants—one concluded in Egypt, the other concluded at Mt. Sinai. Jews must actualize their undertaking to God not only in their private lives but also in the communal setting. Moreover, their contact with God is based on the life of the People Israel as a collective. In regard to this dual covenant, it is clear that even a democratic secular Israel has an important role to play in upholding the covenant at Sinai. The covenant at Sinai contains many ceremonies, rituals, and religious rules (halakhot) that aim to reinforce the Egypt covenant, i.e., the one that is based on natural links such as lineage and shared history. Thus, in the religious effort of the Jewish people to preserve its unique experience we may grant the State of Israel an important role. By extension, we may invest the reconstitution of Jewish statehood after the Holocaust with religious meaning. According to this chain of thought, the establishment of Israel after the Holocaust should be 1 See, for instance, Berkovits, 1987: 49–91; Leibowitz, 1957: 98–229; Hartman, 1999: 235–246.

86

 

viewed as evidence of the resolve of the People Israel to carry on with its mission, even though the contents of this mission have been debated acridly. From the factual standpoint, then, we find thinkers such as Fackenheim and Berkovits, to name only two, who associate the religious meaning of the restoration of Jewish statehood with the commandment to remember (Zakhor). That is to say, Jews are to remember their history, which is engineered by God. E. Berkovits (1973) wrote in this vein. In reference to the existence of Israel and its relationship with the Holocaust, he does not speak about the messianic era. He did, however, regard Israel as the collective enterprise of the People Israel as a declaration of belief in the presence of God in His hidden abode, a matter that is unfathomable to us. On this basis he argues that the establishment of the State of Israel is important as a petah tiqva (gateway of hope) to the Jewish future. On these grounds, we may understand how Fackenheim found a nexus between Auschwitz and the Six-Day War (Fackenheim, 1968). For instance, he argued that the events of 1967 emphasize the Holocaust-Israel relationship. Only on the basis of this connection, he states, can we understand how a military victory was invested with religious meaning. Elsewhere Fackenheim declares that even if there is no religious or historical explanation for the Holocaust, we should not only discern a connection between the State of Israel and the Holocaust but should also act to make the connection inevitable (Fackenheim, 1974). In this context, the gap that Fackenheim stipulates between the messianic era and salvation is even more interesting. This gap is based mainly on the real and mythic history of the People Israel. Examination of Jewish history, Fackenheim says, may prove that the experience of salvation is “the most characteristic of all Jewish experiences” and the real aim in Jewish history (Fackenheim, 1997). Thus construed, salvation is “the sudden removal of a radical threat—a removal so astonishing that the more it is explained the deeper the astonishment becomes.” He goes on to claim that this salvation is related not to individual souls but to the whole Jewish people and Judaism. Continuing, he argues that “This aspect of the end of history [the salvation of the Jewish people] is not the messianic event that, as is hoped, will cleanse humankind at large of the evils of poverty and injustice, hatred and war.” To elucidate the deep meaning of this understanding of salvation, Fackenheim notes the similarity between the parting of the Red Sea and the SixDay War. Presumably one may relate to the State of Israel in the

   

87

way that one relates to the other sort of salvation that has occurred in Jewish history. In other words, without referring to the messianic idea, we may invest Israel with religious meaning in the context of the Jewish people’s struggle for survival. Fackenheim draws this kind of conclusion in regard to the establishment of State of Israel after the Holocaust: Salvation came once again to the Jewish people in our time, just as it did in previous times; this time, however, it came too late, and all that is new and unprecedented in the contemporary Jewish religious situation is due to this circumstance (p. 36).

Indeed, Fackenheim puts this differentiation between the messianic idea and the idea of salvation in reference to the religious ritual prescribed by the Israel Chief Rabbinate for Israel Independence Day. There is no doubt, he says, about the vast difference between the establishment of Israel and the salvation that Jews celebrate on Passover, Hanukka, and Purim. Each of the three last-mentioned, writes Fackenheim, commemorates an occasion on which: . . . catastrophe was averted, if but at the last moment. The Jewish people were saved. Coming as it did when it did, the State of Israel could save only the survivors” (pp. 36–37).

Thus, says Fackenheim, Jews would do well to celebrate Independence Day in the ritual manner set forth by the Rabbinate and to describe Israel as “the beginning of the growth of redemption” of the Jewish people, as the prayer composed by the Rabbinate stipulates. He adds, however, that “To celebrate Independence Day as we celebrate the festivals of redemption would be to give meaning to Auschwitz through the rebuilt Jerusalem, and this is impossible.” If so, we may ask: “Where is the religious meaning of Israel? What salvation does the State of Israel denote?” To Fackenheim, the answer is clear: had the State of Israel not been established after the Holocaust, there would have been a Jewish outflux that would have “dwarf [ed] anything known as ‘assimilation’” (p. 38). What is more, Who could blame them? Not long ago the world was divided into one part bent on the murder of every available Jew, and another that did not do all that was possible to prevent it, to stop it, or at least to slow the process down. . . . By what monumental affront could anyone . . . actually lecture to Jews on the duty to remain with their Judaism? Or to bring up Jewish children?

88

 

The State of Israel is the haven of survivors. It cannot save the onethird of Jewry that was murdered in the Holocaust. Thus, we may measure the State of Israel as we would measure the redemption at the Red Sea. However, if we regard the meaning of salvation as the elimination of radical threat, as Fackenheim does, we may construe the reconstitution of Jewish statehood as a salvation of sorts. After all, as Fackenheim puts it, the Jewish people and the religious condition of Judaism after the Holocaust would have been mired in “total demoralization [and] complete failure of nerve” if Israel had not been established. In sum, if we accept Fackenheim’s outlook we should indeed invest the State of Israel with religious meaning. We should bear in mind, however, that this religious meaning has nothing to do with the messianic process. To prove the point, it suffices to note that the only connection between Israel and the messianic idea, according to Fackenheim, is in the realm of hope. Discussing the intention and the meaning of the Chief Rabbinate’s Independence Day prayer, Fackenheim addresses himself to critics who describe the prayer as a mixing of two distinct traditional images, “the beginning of redemption” and “the growth of redemption” (p. 268). According to Fackenheim, this mixing is the consequence of the Jews’ unique situation after the Holocaust. The Rabbinate, says Fackenheim, knows there is no absolute guarantee that Israel will not be destroyed but believes that it will never be destroyed. This, Fackenheim explains, reflects the commitment of every Israeli who does not leave the country, every Jew who moves there, and the vast majority of Jews everywhere. “They all vow to spare no effort to prevent what could happen from happening.” However, he argues that they cannot make such a commitment “without that great quality that is essential to Messianism, namely, hope.” The messianic hope died during the Holocaust; only the establishment of Israel restored it. Thus viewed, and as noted, Israel is a sort of salvation. Even if it provides a haven for survivors only, it carries religious significance for the Jewish people at large because it allows all Jews to continue to hope for the messianic denouement. On the basis of such considerations, Fackenheim might have wound up this discussion by saying that not only the existence of Israel but that of the Jewish people as a collective is bound up in the realm of hope. Thus, he relates that, when asked by a young Westerner what the most important

   

89

thing would be for Jews to do if they were committed to Judaism but unwilling to move to Israel, he thought for a moment and replied: I thought of the Jews for whom salvation had come too late, and that salvation might come too late again. I thought of hope, of post-Holocaust Jewish hope, and of the world’s need of a Jewish testimony to hope. Then I replied to the young woman: Have one more child than you plan to have (p. 269).

Moreover, possibly in response to the haredi attitude toward the State of Israel, Fackenheim claims that even from the halakhic perspective we should agree that the rebuilding of Israel is the one and only solution to the Jewish condition after the Holocaust. He bases his argument on Igeret ha-shemad (Letter about conversion) in which Maimonides advises a Jewish community that would risk death by living according to the Tora to refrain from doing so. He adds, however, that a person who is forced to transgress the commandments in a given locality should not stay there. Instead, he should leave everything behind and “wander day and night until he finds a place where one can observe the commandments. The world is wide and large.” This solution, argues Fackenheim, was solid counsel through the ages. During the Third Reich, however, the world was not “wide and large” for Jews and even outright apostasy could not save their lives. Thus, concludes Fackenheim: Jewish ‘servitude to foreign power’ must come to an end, not in some unspecified future, but here and now; and what is needed to end it is not patience and waiting, and prayer only if it is accompanied by resolute action (p. 40).

The Orthodox rabbi and theologian D. Hartman stands on similar ground. He recognizes that Israel has created a new era in Jewish history and religion. He may agree with Irving Greenberg’s statement, in his famous article (see Greenberg, 1981), that the emergence of the State of Israel definitely marks a revolutionary turnabout in the course of Jewish history and a watershed in the religious situation of Judaism. In exile, one of the great tasks of the Jewish religion was to give dignity to the powerless. Furthermore, the duties of religious Jews and Jewish communities in exile were limited to prayer and learning. Now, God “became portable through having became embodied in the halakhic life of the community” and “by the personal lives of pious Jews whose actions made God beloved

90

 

of their fellows” (Hartman, 1990: 38). Thus, the establishment of the State of Israel should be viewed in the light of returning to the original, i.e., the Biblical, meaning of the covenant. To understand this approach, we should bear in mind that, according to Hartman, this original Biblical covenant: can be divided between moments when the reality of divinity is felt in a direct, personal way . . . and times when the focus of consciousness is on interpersonal, social, and political behavior, when the Godawareness recedes into the background and is felt as an organizing framework, but lacks the intensity of those mitsvot which express relational intimacy” (p. 37).

In this context, we should recognize the State of Israel as a tool that facilitates the restoration by the Jews of their ancient Biblical covenant. The meaning of this bond is that holiness should be attained in the fullness of human life, which encompasses not only the spiritual but also the political and economic fields. Therefore, by presuming a new appreciation of political responsibility, the existence of Israel allows the covenant to find its widest possible application in life. With this in mind, Hartman wrote elsewhere that under the new circumstances that the establishment of Israel has created, “No adequate solution for the development of halakha can be found without regaining an awareness of the wide range of values that inspired the development of this legal tradition” (Hartman, 1999: 242). In other words, in our modern religious situation, which demands the inclusion of the political and economical spheres, we cannot rely solely on the traditional halakhic canon. We must learn how to listen to the voice of mitsva, i.e., the category of revelation that precedes halakhic specification. Having consolidated this theme, Hartman summarizes his article, “Widening the Scope of Covenantal Consciousness,” with these words: The rabbinical tradition taught us how to develop a spiritual culture in isolation from the world. Our task is to develop a sense of covenantal holiness reflecting Judaism as the total way of life of a politically independent nation, but without fueling Jewish identity by appealing to Balam’s dubious blessing: “There is a people that dwells apart/not reckoned among the nations” (Num. 23:9) (p. 245).

By inference, such a view does not posit a religious connection between the establishment of Israel and the Holocaust. However, the existence of Israel after the Holocaust does have religious meaning.

   

91

The meaning lies in the Jews’ reentering the realm of history and taking responsibility for Jewish existence and an enterprise that widens the applicability of the covenant. On this basis we may understand Fackenheim’s adage, “Had a Jewish state not been founded then, it would be a mitzva to do it” (Fackenheim, What is Judaism: 269). Berkovits goes even further. Jewish history, he explains, neither began nor ended in Auschwitz. Thus, for both thinkers, the existence of the People Israel and the ingathering of exiles in the State of Israel are statements about the presence of God in the world, even if He is hidden from our view (Berkovits, After the Holocaust). The religious meaning of Israel is rooted neither in the state as such nor in historical events but in the intention with which the People of Israel approaches the fact of the establishment of Israel. And he ends by saying that the State of Israel was born when nothing else could redeem Israel, and the State of Israel is our petah tiqva for the future. In accordance with the relationship between the contemporary historical experiences of the People Israel and the religious meaning of the State of Israel, Hartman wrote: Israel is a powerful agency for the renewal of Jewish spirituality because it forces the individual Jew to use his or her historical tools. History can thereby become a shaping influence on Jew’s rediscovery of the depths of experience present in a life inspired by the Torah and Halakha . . . [Even] if we have not yet revitalized the covenantal commitment in Israel this does not invalidate my argument (Hartman, 1990: 101).

There seems to be an affinity between this view and Rabbi Soloveitchik’s thought. As Rabbi Soloveitchik points out in his essay Qol dodi dofeq (The voice of my Beloved is beating), Jewish identity is defined not exclusively by the covenant at Sinai but also by the covenant concluded in Egypt. On this basis, he analyzes the various responses of religious Jewry to Israel as indications that this Jewry perceives the Land of Israel in normative halakhic terms only, rather than by participating in the yearnings of past generations. These emotions are clearly outgrowths of identification with the wholeness of Jewish life and Jewish society, a traditional society, and the cravings in this matter are imbued with traditional values and expressed in terms inherited from them. The focus on the covenant in Egypt, however, remains crucial. In accordance with this viewpoint, we should perceive Israel within the framework of the covenant in Egypt, in which the covenant at Sinai is included.

92

 

In sum, this new theological trend claims that the religious meaning of any existential being or of any behavior is neither natural nor intrinsic, included or inherent in its very existence. Only the halakha can define something as a tool for the fulfillment of a religious value and only an activity inspired by religious imperatives and motives can have religious meaning. Thus, the individual and his or her religiosity lie at the core of the affair. However, as Rabbi Soloveitchik demands in his treatise U-viqashtem mi-sham (And You Requested From There) (Soloveitchik, 1979), the individual and the community must attain historical identification with the past and future, the fate and destiny, of the people. Thus viewed, the establishment of Israel can take on religious meaning only insofar as the state serves as an existential framework for the People of Israel. In a congruent vein, Hartman writes, “It is not only the Holocaust that brought us back to Zion, but also, and more important, the eternal spirit of Sinai— the refusal to abandon our historical memories and destiny” (Hartman, Many Rooms: 262). Any state, including Israel, is valuable only as an instrumentality. Therefore, when we speak about the value of the State of Israel, we should determine this value by judging how fully Israel’s existence enhances the fulfillment of the covenant at Sinai. We can and must refuse to see Israel as a component of the messianic process. Still, we should not ignore the fact that Israel has created a needed platform for the renewal of Jewish religiosity, since there all Jews become responsible for a total way of life in a land that anchors them in their historical roots. At day’s end, only in the State of Israel can the Jewish people bear witness to their commitment to their collective destiny in connection with their covenant with God.

CHAPTER SIX

ISRAELI-JEWISH IDENTITIES Eliezer Ben-Rafael Introduction As we enter the twenty-first century, we must ask ourselves whether the Jewish identities that were formulated in earlier stages are still relevant. Since the unprecedented events which transformed the Jewish condition during the twentieth century—the creation of a new Judaism in the New World, the Holocaust which decimated European Jewry and the creation of the State of Israel as a Jewish State, circumstances have again changed drastically. The Cold War, on the heels of World War II, split the world into two hostile ideological camps and produced escalating local and regional conflicts until the Soviet empire collapsed. By the end of the twentieth century, the West had attained unprecedented economic prosperity and witnessed the rise of an ever-expanding middle class. Technological progress in all areas of life, the growth of the metropolis, multinational corporations, intense globalization, the surge in higher education, and many other far-reaching developments have transformed the lifestyle, expectations, and aspirations of men and women throughout the Western world and beyond. During the same years, the Jewish world changed no less dramatically, and in some ways even more so, although it was a relatively quiet time compared with the previous period. Jews advanced in many Western countries, becoming part of the middle-class and making disproportionate inroads in social elites. For the Jews of Israel, however, things were different. Israel contended with a tumultuous Middle East, where the 1948 War of Independence was followed by Operation Kadesh (the “Sinai Campaign”) (1956), the Six-Day War (1967), and the Yom Kippur War (1973). The Palestinian problem became the focus of heightened international tension and persistent military confrontations. After the Six-Day War, in which Israel scored resounding victories over its neighbors in the Sinai Peninsula, the

94

 -

Golan Heights, and the West Bank, the Jewish state came to be seen as a regional superpower that was occupying and repressing a rebellious population. As Israel became increasingly isolated in the world, many Jews in the Diaspora also began to take exception to its actions. Others responded by redoubling their commitment to Israel. At the same time, ever since the first waves of modern Jewish immigration, a Hebrew culture that generated its own writers and thinkers began to emerge in Israel, as all newcomers adopted the language, be it enthusiastically or hesitantly. The new society of Jews developed its own patterns in all areas of life, displaying the greatest vitality in the creation of new symbols. Did these new forms represent new versions of Jewish identity? In 2001, Israel had a Jewish population of more than five million (out of a total population of over six million), only 10 percent smaller than the world’s largest Jewish community (that of the United States). According to DellaPergola (1995), within a few years, more Jews will be living in Israel than in any other country, and by the second or third decade of the twenty-first century it will be home to a majority of Jews worldwide. Jewish identity in Israel is thus understandably critical to the future of Judaism as a whole. However, it is by no means a homogeneous entity in terms of culture or even language. Ever since the period of Israel’s founders, the major force pushing for cultural unity in the country has been the “ingathering of the exiles” ideology, which aspires not only to welcome Jews from all over the world but to create a new national Israeli culture as well. A crucial element in achieving this objective was the resurrection of Hebrew as a spoken language and its adoption as the legitimate national vernacular that takes priority over other native languages, both Jewish and non-Jewish. While the successful transition to Hebrew was aided in large part by the efforts of the Haskala (the Jewish Enlightenment) in Europe, it was essentially abetted by the fact that Hebrew had been preserved in the collective memory of all Jews as the “original Jewish tongue” and the language of Scripture. Zionists in Israel could call on this awareness in their endeavors to turn Hebrew into a national language to be used for secular, everyday purposes as well as devotional ones. Obviously, the initiators of this change, the large majority of whom were from Eastern Europe, also had to adopt Hebrew for use in their personal lives even though they already had a shared language, Yiddish. By doing so, as noted, they became the first known group to replace their native tongue

- 

95

with another. Moreover, they actually had to invent its lexis and syntax to meet the demands of a new time and place and, thereby, to expose it to a plethora of influences, bringing it closer in nature to European languages as well as to Yiddish and Arabic (Chomsky, 1957). Thus, Hebrew became the central hallmark of the new society, symbolizing the unique Jewish experience in Israel as an alternative to life in the Diaspora and implying that this experience was superior to any other Jewish reality (Glinert, 1990). Here lies the source of Zionism as a new form of Jewish identity, creating a distinction between the “Jewish people” in general and the “Jewish nation” in Israel. Taken out of the exclusive hands of scholars and rabbis, Hebrew became the emblem of a new collective, each of whose members “breathed life into the language” over the objections of those who considered the use of the “holy tongue” for secular purposes an abomination. The linguistic revolution also served as a platform for implementation of the national integration ideology when mass immigration from numerous countries began (Bachi, 1974; Hoffman and Fisherman, 1972). This ideology, crafted by the founders under the influence of nationalist ideologies familiar to them from Europe, entailed the integration of all newcomers into one new homogeneous nation. The aspiration to ingather the exiles, qibutz galuyot, was thus sustained by the ideal of assimilating them, mizug galuyot. Nevertheless, the desire to achieve linguistic and cultural unity did not always result in unity. In fact, the models that sought to produce unity promoted new distinctions. The very call for unification implied recognition of the special status of those portrayed as worthy role models, the first- and second-generation “pioneers.” Furthermore, in Israel, as in any immigrant society where newcomers strive to sink roots, being “native” was a source of social prestige. It is the immigrants’ children who fulfill their parents’ lofty ambitions and ensure the success of their endeavors. In the Israeli case, the native-born also carried the bulk of the security burden and the armed struggle, reinforcing their image as the “salt of the earth.” Additionally, the pioneers’ sons and daughters were acutely conscious of being the offspring of people who had adopted a new Jewish national identity and of themselves as representing the “new Jew” who had never experienced life in the Diaspora. Consequently, they promoted their self-image as a special group. The fact that they were also a minority group for a long time, as more and more immigrants poured in,

96

 -

added to their luster. As members of an “elite” that prided itself on its eliteness, they created their own symbols, the most conspicuous of which was a typically nonchalant use of Hebrew that could be acquired only by being born “within the language,” that is, in Israel. In fact, elitist tendencies had existed in Palestine since the arrival of the first pioneers (Ohana, 1996). Back then, they were influenced by the Nietzschean myth of the “new man,” reconceived as the “new Hebrew.” Jabotinsky, the radical Zionist, was particularly fond of quoting Nietzsche. The Zionists linked the Nietzschean influence to their self-image as the antithesis of Diaspora Jewry. Many Zionists held that the Diaspora had destroyed all that was good in Judaism and invariably spoke of it in a derisive patronizing tone. Quite a few pioneers displayed a similar attitude toward Diaspora Jews who resettled in Israel. In their eyes, these people continued to bear the “stigma of the Diaspora,” unlike native-born sabras—literally, “prickly pears,” a positive label meant to indicate the essence of “Israeliness” that sprouted from the new form of life in the country. A central element of their elitism was the type of Hebrew that they created (Katriel, 1986). A “no-nonsense” language—a laconic style of speech that abhorred euphemisms and high registers—it underscored the connection to the Middle East by incorporating numerous Arabic words and encouraged a blunt, casual, and “natural” way of speaking. By so doing, it expressed repugnance for verbosity, protocol, formality, and sophistry, all of which were attributed to Diaspora Jews (Rubinstein, 1977). Sabra activities—hiking the length and breadth of Israel—belonging to a youth movement, spending time on a kibbutz, and serving in the army—produced new words that were unfamiliar to those who “didn’t belong” (Shamir, 1970). For a long time, entry into this elite was not easy for those who had arrived in Israel as youngsters but were not born there, those who had left the haredi community but still aligned themselves with various forms of religiosity, and Yemenite Jews who were long-tenured in Israel but continued to adhere to values of their community. Moreover, acceptance, even when offered, never dulled the patina of “nativeness,” if only on the symbolic level. This mainstream Israeli culture, however, has undergone profound change over the decades. The collectivist approach that prevailed before and in the first years of statehood has been replaced, due to demographic, economic, and political developments, by a much more individualistic model. Mamlakhtiut, the statist ideology that gathered

- 

97

strength in the 1950s and 1960s, stressed the need to move from utopia to nation-building. The notion of a “pioneer” was redefined to denote anyone who “contributed” to the state: not only farmers and settlers as in the past, but also professionals, public functionaries, and businesspeople. The country, born out of war and still afflicted by security concerns, reserved a place of honor for the armed forces and now placed great stock in a military career. Mass immigration, which tripled the population within a few years, brought a broad array of cultural groups that disseminated new perspectives and perceptions. Thus, a new social order came into being. Numerous myths were shattered in this new social reality, among them a central tenet of the pioneering ethos, the superiority of physical labor. Now higher education and professionalism were also considered legitimate pursuits. Concurrently, immigration and wars resulted in a constant strengthening of Israel’s relations with the Jewish world, which was now viewed as the country’s “natural partner,” in contrast to the anti-Diaspora mood that had been in vogue among Zionists years before. These economic, social, and cultural processes also abetted a drastic change that overtook the leading forces in society. As the middle class grew steadily and members of the “1948 generation” (that of the War of Independence) became bureaucrats, financiers, politicians, and businesspeople, features of Western consumer society made inroads. As this elite came to be defined in terms of its achievements, the meritocracy adopted a more formal standard language. Sources of communication gained in importance and the disdain for “foreign” languages disappeared. English became virtually a second language at all levels of education, professional life, and business, and fluency in that language was now an attribute of status. Even in this context, some signifiers of native culture persist today and can be discerned in patterns of speech, dress, and behavior, but their sources are now mainly the army, high school, the university, and pubs. Many Israelis who are identified with this culture at the start of the twenty-first century belong to the middle or upper class, but “nativeness” has inevitably lost a considerable chunk of its appeal since it now characterizes a relatively large sector of the population and no longer a restricted cohort. Paradoxically, this encourages no few individuals to preserve their own features. People who have not internalized the sabra version of Israeli culture (a version that is quite vague today), irrespective of where they were born, stand at some

98

 -

distance from this culture—voluntarily or otherwise. The modern Orthodox, for example, often reject the secular aspect of mainstream “Israeliness” and many immigrants from both Western and Eastern countries do not wish to repudiate their roots. In all, however, one may still speak of a version of Jewish identity that is conveyed by the strongest strata—sabras and non-sabras alike. This dominant version prolongs the national syndrome that was evidenced in the letters to Ben-Gurion: a national identity that expresses its singularity in secularized symbols and a new Hebrew culture and refers to a territory in which Jewishness is the feature that distinguishes Israel from the Diaspora. Just the same, even in Israel “How Jewish?” “Jewish in what way?” and “Jewish in what sense?” remain debated questions that, more than elsewhere, are part of a public agenda in which a variety of parties opposes the prevailing formulation. Hence, again one should speak of several Jewish Israeli identities rather than of one. The issues and forces involved may be distinguished in terms of the three aspects of collective identity that have served as our guidelines throughout this discussion: the singularity of the collective, in which religion plays a role; commitment to the collective and the role of narrower allegiances; and the place of the collective vis-à-vis world Jewry, as opposed to a relationship with the surroundings. The Role of Religion The first recognized and established distinction in Israeli society pertains to the singularity of the collective: the distinction between the haredim and the nonreligious. Ever since the first Zionists reached the country and established national institutions, the haredim have isolated themselves in their own communities. They used Yiddish as their language of everyday communication, and continued to develop their separate educational system. Devoting their greatest efforts to the establishment of “higher yeshivot” (religious colleges for adult men), they ignored the existence of the universities. Over time, however, despite this “monastic” tendency (Friedman, 1986), haredim could not remain altogether disengaged from IsraeliJewish society. Hebrew gradually seeped into families and communities until the younger generation spoke more Hebrew than Yiddish. Since haredi women do not attend yeshivot and often work outside

- 

99

the home in addition to holding family responsibilities, Hebrew became their major language of communication. Whether by choice or otherwise, Hebrew has gradually become the first language of the haredim at large, although Yiddish has not died out. This trend is abetted by the fact that haredim initiate contact with the nonreligious sector to promote their own specific interests (exemptions from the army for yeshiva students or housing assistance) and are determined to benefit from all facilities offered by the welfare state. These developments are tangible evidence that with the existence of a Jewish state, the haredim can no longer remain indifferent to government and isolate themselves within their enclaves. Furthermore, the nature of relations between haredim and nonreligious Jewish society also derives from the haredi definition of Jewish identity. As we have seen, haredim regard themselves as those who fulfill the true destiny of the Jew, i.e., service of God, which alone will bring about the redemption. This destiny, however, will be realized only when it is recognized by the entire Jewish people. Consequently, as the authentic guardians of Judaism, haredim cannot but pay heed to their status in society. Since the State of Israel exists and is home to an ever-growing proportion of the Jewish world, by their own convictions the haredim can no longer remain aloof from the rest of society. Moreover, since Israel is a sovereign state, the haredim may have a more direct and effective impact on Jews’ lives there than elsewhere, and the realization of this may give them further motivation to abandon their isolation. Last but not least, as the religious laws of purity and uncleanness are stricter in the Holy Land than elsewhere, they feel it their duty to become involved in public affairs. This orientation, held by a majority of haredim, is not necessarily understood by the nonreligious, who may regard the conspicuous markers of haredism—dress, rituals, esoteric interests—as expressions of their total estrangement from secular culture. This, however, does not prevent haredim from considering themselves an active and significant—indeed, perhaps the most significant—force in Israeli society. In their own eyes, this is evidenced by the fact that, unlike their counterparts in Antwerp, Golders Green, or Brooklyn, in Israel they use the official language of the country among each other, have their own political parties that participate in national politics, and are deeply involved in all spheres of public life. In this sense, the haredi community in Israel is decidedly “Israeli,” even as it remains an

100

 -

integral part of world haredi Jewry in respect to essential identity issues. The National-Religious community exhibits a different type of Israeli-Jewish religious identity. For years, the National-Religious have taken an active part in political Zionism as its “observant wing.” On this basis, the National-Religious leadership undertook to provide the country at large with religious services while developing settings that reproduced, in religious form, those of secular society: kibbutzim (collective settlements), moshavim (cooperative villages), a university, and so on. On the linguistic front, again in contrast to the haredim, they have always been among the most zealous defenders of Hebrew and were responsible for canonizing standard versions of religious texts for ritual use in countrywide settings such as the army, national ceremonies, and non-ethnic synagogues. This reflects their aspiration to make a unique contribution to Israeli national culture through their familiarity with traditional sources. At the same time, as an Orthodox community in which religious study is a prescribed ritual, they also acknowledge the spiritual authority of prominent rabbis. This sector, however, is also confronted by a fundamental dilemma. As a community that open professes to be part of mainstream society, the National-Religious declare their commitment to a flexible approach toward the nonreligious. However, their religious orientation defines the Jewish faith as the faith of the Jew, which this Jew should recognize as such. This orientation prompts them, like the haredim, to aspire to influence Jewish society at large. In the 1960s, this tension led to the emergence of a group of National-Religious activists (known as “the Young Guard”) who opposed the established leadership of their movement and its efforts to maintain the status quo in religious-secular relations. The Six-Day War and the occupation of areas such as Samaria and Judea, which are part of the Biblical concept of Eretz Yisrael, pushed the Young Guard to center-stage. Citing sacred texts that spoke of the land as having been promised to the Jews by God, the new leadership claimed that it was a religious duty to retain and settle these areas at all costs. This duty, they believed, should now become a central principle of national policy. This attitude gave birth to the Gush Emunim (Bloc of the Faithful) movement, alumni of the National-Religious youth movement Bnei Akiva, which worked feverishly to establish settlements. When right-wing parties rose to power in 1977, their endeavors gained momentum, as dozens of settlements were established across

- 

101

the Green Line (the pre-1967 border between Israel and its Arab neighbors). When Israeli-Palestinian negotiations began and the demand for the establishment of a Palestinian state alongside Israel came up, political contention with the national leadership over withdrawal from the territories intensified. This led to the emergence of ultranationalist groups within Gush Emunim, some of which became involved in underground activity that was sanctioned by their rabbis. This form of activity boiled to a crisis in November 1995 with the assassination of Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin. Unlike haredim, for whom religious law represents behavioral and moral principles, the political ideology of the National-Religious camp under the leadership of the Young Guard considers the collective to be singular in its overarching duty to fight for continued control of “holy land.” Here the Eretz Yisrael concept is more than the most important of the three aspects of Jewish identity, a hierarchy exhibited by all varieties of Zionism; it takes on an uncompromising mythical meaning that redefines the singularity of the collective in both cultural and spiritual terms. Champions of this approach are loath to accept any limitations whatsoever on Jewish settlement in the territories, a stance that inevitably engenders opposition. Yeshayahu Leibowitz (1976), for example, contends that this sort of nationalist-religious orientation represents an imagined world that draws from “sacred” descriptions of the Biblical kingdom of Israel, on the one hand, and from no-less-mythical depictions of a messianic future on the other. What is more, such political messianism cannot but foment tension with the rather large faction of the NationalReligious camp that continues to express the original wish of the National-Religious, to integrate into the national society rather than to lead it. The complexity of these issues, which involve religious cleavages within the Israeli reality, is rooted mainly in the significance of traditional symbols in the collective identities of Israeli Jews at large. Surveys indicate that most Israeli Jews do not dissociate entirely from the sources of Judaism. For instance, even many who define themselves as nonreligious celebrate Jewish festivals and observe no few rituals. The overwhelming majority of Israeli Jews observe the customs of lighting candles and having a family dinner on the Sabbath eve (Friday night), and no less than three-quarters of Jews fast on Yom Kippur, light Hanukka candles, and take part in a Passover seder. There is a broad consensus about the importance of circumcision,

102

 -

bar mitzva, and a religious wedding ceremony. A majority of respondents in all categories expresses such attitudes, albeit a smaller majority among the nonreligious than among the religious. In brief, a large proportion of Israeli Jews, transcending the share of the religious, equate Jewishness with Israeliness (Farago, 1989). Levy (1996) and Oron (1993) found that despite significant differences in the behavior of religious and nonreligious Israeli Jews, most identify strongly with the fact that they are both Jewish and Israeli. Some two-thirds state unequivocally that they consider themselves proud members of world Jewry. On the basis of these findings, some researchers (e.g., Liebman, 1997a; 1997b) claim that religion carries greater influence than one might adduce from the fact that a large proportion of the nonreligious public expresses disapproval of the religious parties. Levy (1996), however, cautions against this conclusion, showing that the same religious symbols that characterize the religious population are given mainly secular national meaning by the nonreligious. The differences, according to Oron (1993), relate less to behavior than to the fundamental attitude toward Judaism where the rift between the religious and the nonreligious is real. From the secular perspective, Judaism is more a national culture than a religion, and surveys reveal that at the cognitive level, Israelis believe the country is split between the religious and the nonreligious, with the two sides having conflicting interests. This feeling does not preclude the respondents’ tendency to fall into in-between categories in terms of behavior, i.e., “partly observant” rather than the extremes of “strictly observant” and “absolutely nonobservant” (Katz, 1997). This probably derives from the fact that many respondents accept behavior patterns of religious origin irrespective of their religious orientation. Another intriguing finding is the tendency toward a conceptual polarization of the definition of “Israeli” among the religious camps themselves. The National-Religious are the most extreme in identifying with this term, the haredim are the most reserved, and the nonreligious lie somewhere in the middle. This phenomenon conflicts with the fact that both religious groups stress, albeit from different perspectives, the primordial aspect of “Israeliness,” that is, Judaism, whereas the nonreligious are less definite on this question. These distinctions indirectly reflect the basic conflicts between nationality and religion in the Israeli collective identity. They also

- 

103

play a role in additional and no less crucial aspects of this society, foremost its ethnic cleavages. Ethnic Divides Ethnic divides, by their very nature, challenge our understanding of the meaning of membership in the collective and, by extension, what we have termed “commitment to the collective.” They ask whether and to what extent adherence to a society, when viewed as a whole, entails direct, immediate, and individual allegiance, independent of any other kind of allegiance, or whether it is in some way mitigated by loyalty to the ethnic community. In the Israeli reality, certain ethnic divides have been major factors in the social and political dynamics that have evolved over the years and have shown that members of the dominant culture are losing their grip on the leadership of Israeli society at large. Since the late 1970s, this group, the core of Israel’s middle and upper classes, has been suffering defeats at the hands of opposing elites that originated, within the framework of Israeli democracy, in sectors previously considered “marginal.” They include the Mizrahim ( Jews of Middle Eastern and Northern African extraction), later joined by immigrants from the former Soviet Union, who started to arrive in the late 1980s. Within a short time, Israeli Arabs also gained strength in the social and political arenas due to the multiculturalization of Israeli society and the Middle East peace process. While multiculturalization was primarily the outcome of the political strengthening of Jewish ethnic groups, it also gave the Arab minority a broader field in which to operate. The Oslo Accords of 1992 intensified this change by making this minority a pivotal element between Israel and the Palestinians. Underlying the ethnic rifts among Israeli Jews is a particular form of ethnicity known in Hebrew as the 'eda (pl. 'edot). An 'eda is a group whose members see themselves a priori as part of the broader collective but perceive this collective through the prism of their own singular understanding and symbols. Yemenite Jews, for example, who have always thought of themselves as part of the Jewish people, were thoroughly ready upon arrival in Israel to join the Israeli-Jewish collective. In Israel, however, they found that their Jewishness was different from others’ with respect to heritage, rites, language, and family patterns, to give only a few examples. Their immigration was

104

 -

motivated largely by their religious traditionalism, which gave them to understand that the establishment of a Jewish state in Eretz Yisrael heralded the era of redemption and that they privileged to join it due to their adherence, for generations, to customs and habits that they had always viewed as Judaism itself. Thus encouraged, the Yemenite Jewish 'eda refuse to abandon its form of Judaism—that is, their Judaism. According to this “traditionalist” Zionism, their religious fervor in the Diaspora had been as important as the efforts of the pioneers. Concurrently, however, Yemenite Jews in Israel also wished to adapt to their new surroundings and blend into the Israeli Jewish nation indistinguishably. Thus, they were amenable to new ways of life that, in their assessment, their new condition entailed.1 Later, by attending post-secondary schools or universities and taking up careers, the immigrants’ offspring became part of new social settings and were more exposed to the dominant culture in their environment. The more willing they were to forsake their traditions, the easier it was for them to “cross over” and join the middle class, which, although predominantly Ashkenazi, wished to sustain a nonethnic “Israeli” culture. Two factors abetted the integration of men and women of JewishYemenite extraction who had the capability for social mobility. First, the middle class, committed to the mizug galuyot (assimilation of the exiles) principle, was ideologically receptive to social integration insofar as it could rise to the occasion. Second, as an 'eda, the Yemenite Jewish population accepted the principle of assimilation as it believed the Jews to be “one nation,” even if many of them were unable to implement this ideology in practical terms (Ben-Rafael and Sharot, 1991). Even today, however, some forty percent of Mizrahi Jews in Israel continue to belong to communities that display features that typify low socioeconomic groups. In these communities, the poverty and inequality that set in when they first joined Israeli society in the 1950s and 1960s are being perpetuated. At that time, the establishment, so culturally remote from the immigrants, typically treated these groups paternalistically, settling them in peripheral areas where

1 In fact, the last of the Yemenite Jews who immigrated to Israel, arriving in the 1990s, could barely recognize themselves in their Israeli cousins, and several asked to return to Yemen.

- 

105

social opportunities were scarce. The immigrants themselves were deficient in a particular form of human capital, the predisposition to integrate into a modern economy.2 Due to their lack of mobility, many had little exposure to the dominant culture, reinforcing the tendency of Mizrahi communities to preserve their singularity and even promote new symbols.3 In time, these communities, in which the influence of religiosity and tradition persisted, produced a religious elite that became increasingly powerful. In the early stages, this elite won the support of the Ashkenazi haredim (mainly the “Lithuanians,”)4 who cast it as a haredi group. The Mizrahi elite embraced and has continued to maintain this image. It did not take long for the Mizrahi leadership to establish yeshivas under the tutelage of the communities’ own rabbis and scholars. Unlike their Ashkenazi counterparts, who operate within a population that distances itself from the nonreligious public, Mizrahi rabbis and students are an integral part of the community at large, particularly in low-status areas, due to the community’s conspicuously traditional complexion. Furthermore, and again in the context of their traditionalist environment, the leaders’ activities in the community are not limited to religious affairs alone. Rather, they include public leadership, as is typical of religious authorities in traditional societies. However, new patterns soon emerged. As Mizrahi communities became gradually less dependent on the Zionist Ashkenazi secular political establishment, they also became more capable of openly expressing their sense of disillusionment at having been socially marginalized. At this stage, the right-wing nationalist political leanings

2

This issue has been the subject of caustic controversy between the school of conflict sociology, represented by S. Smooha, S. Swirski, D. Bernstein, and many others, and theories about the concept of immigrant absorption, represented by D. Weintraub, M. Shokeid, E. Leshem and others who have investigated the social integration of immigrants. 3 As Weingrod (1990) shows, the hilula—a festive visit to the tomb of an individual whom the community considers a saint—has been gaining in popularity. Another example of this phenomenon is the Moroccan-Jewish Mimouna, the breadfestival that follows Passover, which gradually became so established that it now has the nature of a public holiday for all 'edot. In addition, the religious practices of the different communities are often preserved in the many synagogues that were established for specific 'edot. 4 The haredi scholastic—as opposed to the hasidic—elite, which traces its intellectual if not personal roots to Lithuanian Jewry.

106

 -

of this population, which were symbolically closer to their traditional ethnic cultures, also became apparent. Since the Right had been confined to the political opposition in Israel’s first three decades, support for it had the additional advantage of expressing conflictual feelings against the establishment that had shepherded the Mizrahim in their first steps in the country and was held responsible by them not only for the successes, but also the failures, of integration. In 1977, this process led to a political upheaval, creating circumstances that allowed the Right to attain power for the first time. With competition between Left and Right for political hegemony now taking place on a level playing field, the power of sectors that could ally themselves with either side gained unprecedented strength. This new reality led to an impressive rise in the number of Mizrahi Jews in various elite groups and shattered the long-standing public taboo against any attempt to establish a political party on the basis of 'eda, an act that would repudiate the “one nation” concept. The first feeble attempt of this kind resulted in the establishment of Tami (an abbreviation of “Jewish Tradition Movement”), a party founded by former activists in the National-Religious camp. It was followed by Shas (an abbreviation simultaneously of “Sephardi Tora Guardians” and “Six Orders,” i.e., the Talmud), a Mizrahi haredi entity that has carved out a firm place for itself in the political arena. Shas politicized the new Mizrahi religious elite under the leadership of its religious authorities and, by significantly increasing the proportion of religious representatives in the Knesset, established itself as a leading force in the religious sector in general. It now had the power to play on the religious-political as well as on the ethnic-political field. On the one hand, it presented demands typical of a disadvantaged socioeconomic community; on the other hand, it petitioned for cultural and legislative reforms that were religious in nature. What is more, under the circumstances now prevailing, Shas was able to become a force of substance within the government. The ultimate motivation behind the efforts of the party’s spiritual leader, Rabbi Ovadia Yossef, is, in fact, to make Shas the leading force in society. One indication of this intent is the systematic use of the term “Sephardi” rather than “Mizrahi,” although the former term actually denotes descendants of the Jews of Spain in the Golden Age of the eleventh century, a lineage that a majority of communities in the Middle East and North Africa cannot claim. Yossef contends that since Sephardi culture was predominant in the yeshivot

- 

107

of Palestine for centuries, only this variety of Judaism can truly be considered endemic in the Holy Land and, thus, it should be adopted by all Israeli Jews. What is more, Yossef claims, the Judaism practiced by the Mizrahi communities is closer than Ashkenazi Judaism to the Sephardi legacy. This proximity endows Mizrahim with a mission of countrywide significance, i.e., to lead Israel’s religious culture back to its “true” legacy, or, as the party slogan has it, to restore the tarnished luster of that legacy. This may be seen as an elaboration of the ideological foundations for the attribution of a central role to Mizrahi communities in Israeli society. However, it also demands from them a considerable sacrifice: they are to set aside individual rituals and texts in favor of those of their Sephardi brethren. In this spirit, Shas is working to introduce new forms of prayer and ritual in Mizrahi synagogues and centers that are willing to do its bidding (Leon, 2000). Immigrants from the Former Soviet Union The case of the Mizrahi/Sephardi ethnic groups has had a profound effect on immigrants from the former Soviet Union (hereinafter: FSU immigrants), who learned how ethnicity might become a basis of political power and how this power could achieve legitimacy by means of participation in governmental coalitions. Indeed, this sector has become increasingly powerful in recent years. Large-scale immigration from the USSR began in 1989, and by 2000 FSU immigrants made up 17 percent of the country’s Jewish population. It soon became clear that they wished to retain the cultural and linguistic values and symbols that they had brought with them, considering them an integral part of their identity. As these Jews are no less nonreligious than their predecessors from Eastern Europe, they do not speak of a “sacred legacy.” Indeed, they view their original Russian culture and language as marks of their being “cultured” and “cosmopolitan.”5 What is more, they have a strong desire to achieve political power and be involved in social leadership, and they view this ambition as entirely natural.

5 Although many languages were spoken and considered legitimate in the various republics of the former Soviet Union, Russian was the lingua franca throughout. Wherever they lived, even in remote republics, Jews belonged to the educated classes who knew and used Russian.

108

 -

FSU immigrants do not hesitate to familiarize themselves with the culture of their new homeland and become “Israelis,” as they perceive this notion. However, after three generations under a hostile Marxist-Leninist regime, they have a very limited knowledge of Judaism. Many of them acquired whatever knowledge they possess after arriving in Israel, when they were exposed to the Hebrew language and the Jewish festival cycle, both of which are signifiers of Jewish identity in Israel. From this perspective, FSU immigrants join the Mizrahim as a force for multiculturalism in Israeli society, although the marks of their singularity are non-Jewish rather than Jewish. On the other hand, many FSU immigrants have considerable cultural and educational resources and, according to their own self-image, belong to the middle class. This feature is reflected in their ambition for social mobility and their willingness to invest in the enhancement of their children’s human capital. Indeed, within less than a decade of the onset of mass immigration, many FSU immigrants found employment in various professions. These trends will undoubtedly become even stronger in time. If FSU immigrants maintain their desire to enhance their status as a distinct cultural group, they may become the first successful example in Israel of the American model of “white ethnics,” i.e., a middleclass community that sees itself as an integral part of society while stressing the singularity of its culture and identity in various symbolic contexts. There is abundant evidence that FSU immigrants are indeed moving in this direction: the large number of Russian-language newspapers and journals they have founded in Israel, the continued creation of Russian literature by immigrant authors, frequent public events that they organize, etc. This ethnic solidarity also explains the relative ease with which FSU immigrants have been able, within less than a decade, to produce a political leadership to represent their interests and develop independent political power, rather than joining existing parties. With the massive support of immigrants, the “Russian” parties that ran in the 1996 national elections won quite a few seats in the Knesset and even entered the governing coalition. In brief, while many socially mobile FSU immigrants will probably assimilate totally into Israel’s middle-class milieu, others may well be willing to retain some form of symbolic ethnicity. In contrast to the Mizrahi model of 'eda, which offers its own definitions of Israeli-Jewish identity, “retentionist” FSU immigrants will be prone to continue look-

- 

109

ing for an identity formula that will allow them to strengthen their Jewishness and develop their Israeliness without abandoning aspects of their Russian culture and opportunities to use the Russian language. As a group, their primary desire will be for the dominant culture to come to terms with the growing phenomenon of multiculturalism. Israeli Arabs The Jewish population in Israel is made up of numerous ethnic groups apart from FSU immigrants: Ethiopians, Anglo-Saxons (immigrants from Anglophone countries), Francophones (immigrants from France, Belgium, and Switzerland), etc. Many of these groups, however, are relatively small and of little public saliency as collectives. Another group is much more important and stands at a certain distance. Although not part of the Jewish population, it constitutes a major factor in the consolidation of the Israeli Jewish identity: the Arab minority, which accounts for 18 percent of the population and dwells in greater part (some 90 percent) in homogenous towns and villages. Similar to the Mizrahi community, here too there is a connection between cultural singularity and social disadvantage. Over 80 percent of Israeli Arabs are employed in the national economy, 60 percent as blue-collar workers, as compared to 29 percent of the Jewish population (Lewin-Epstein and Semyonov, 1986). This inequality is undoubtedly a product, among other things, of the Arab-Israeli conflict (Makhou, 1982). All jobs related to security and sensitive national issues are closed to Arabs and, in a climate of mistrust, or at best limited trust, Jewish employers in other fields as well often prefer to hire Jews. The social disadvantage of the Arab sector also derives from the fact that in 1948 they were a traditional peasant society, gaining their first experience of modernization only upon entrance into Israeli society (Horowitz and Lissak, 1989). Unlike Mizrahim and FSU immigrants, Arabs are recognized as a national minority and consequently have the rights that accompany this status. Arabic is the second official language of the country and the language of instruction in the Arab public schools and the Arab population maintains recognized political institutions, parties, associations, press, and literature in its own language. In keeping with the attitude of the Israeli establishment, the Arabs themselves are determined to preserve a collective Arab-Palestinian identity

110

 -

(Nakhleh, 1975). One consequence of this is that neither the Jews nor the Arab population in general encourage socially mobile members of Arab society—doctors, engineers, businesspeople, etc.—to integrate into Jewish society at the social level. They remain an integral part of the Arab community and often become its leaders. In this role, they also bring into the community the influence of the dominant culture, to which they are more exposed than others. By so doing, they reinforce Arabs’ tendency to acquire Hebrew as a necessity of life in Israel and as a means of access to the prevalent modern culture of this society in terms of employment, consumption, education, and public services. Without altering the contents of their collective identity, they have been narrowing the cultural distance between themselves and the Jewish population (Ben-Rafael and Brosh, 1995). One might assume that in an era of multiculturalism, the position of Israel’s Arab community has been eased, politically and socially, as it is now dealing with a less unified Jewish majority. Nevertheless, the Arab sector continues to present a challenge to the dominant culture, which has to contend with the conflict between the definition of the country as a Jewish state and the image of Israel as a democratic society. Ideological Controversies The third aspect of collective identity, the place and status of the collective vis-à-vis “others,” is also a source of conflict in Israeli society between two seemingly contradictory focal points of reference: the relationship with the Jewish world that gave birth to the Zionist concept of the territorialization of Judaism, and the relationship with the immediate Middle Eastern environment, of which the new entity is still fighting to become a part. The problematic nature of this dilemma became apparent in the early stages of the Zionist enterprise, when the term “Hebrew” was invoked to distinguish between Jews in the Diaspora and those in Palestine and to underscore the ancient historical link with the region. This distinction reflected a fundamental contradiction in Zionist ideology, which aspired to represent the nationhood of all Jews worldwide while affording higher moral status to those willing to renounce the diasporic endeavor and answer the call to “return to Zion.”

- 

111

As early as the 1930s, several intellectuals in the radical wing of the Zionist movement carried this contradiction to its extreme sequitur by urging Jews who had immigrated to Palestine to dissociate themselves from Diaspora Jewry altogether. They went so far as to renounce the label “Jew,” declaring themselves to be “Canaanites,” after the Biblical pre-Israelite inhabitants of the country (Shavit, 1984). The leader of this group, Yonatan Ratosh, insisted that the “Hebrew nation” should divorce itself from Jewish tradition forever so that it could “normalize” itself “in Zion.”6 Hillel Kook adopted a somewhat more moderate approach but concurred in the demand for total separation between the Jews in the Diaspora and those in Israel, if only to enable the young state to develop independently. All Jews could settle in Israel if they wished, but they would have to consider themselves “Hebrews.” However, the events as they unfolded—the Holocaust, the establishment of the State of Israel, mass immigration, and Israeli wars—dealt these trends of thought a death blow and forced the “Canaanites” to the fringes of public life, just as they heightened the solidarity of world Jewry with the State of Israel. Over time, paradoxically enough, the “Canaanite” stance, rooted in anti-Diaspora right-wing Zionism, ultimately joined forces with the anti-Zionist Left, which is more concerned with the Palestinian problem within and outside Israel. Boaz Evron (1995), for instance, a “Canaanite” of the first order, claims that Zionism at its inception was an ideology of power that sprang from the position of weakness of Diaspora Jewry. Over the years, the tables turned, and Zionism itself came to need the Diaspora to contend with its conflict with the Arabs. The key to unraveling this knot, according to Evron, is to place the national definition of Israel on a new basis, the principle of territory alone, like other countries. Only thus may all inhabitants of Israeli territory, without distinction, achieve equality. As long as Israel is defined as a Jewish state, the Arab minority will inevitably rebel and the Israel-Palestinian conflict will defy solution. Evron is not troubled by the danger to the future of Judaism that this attitude involves. In fact, he expects Jews everywhere eventually to assimilate into their surroundings in any case, save the haredim, who will continue to keep themselves apart. He appears insensitive 6 In 1951, Ratosh founded the Young Hebrews Center, whose organ, Alef, lobbied for a constitution that would prescribe total separation of religion and state and annul the established relationship between the Jews and Israel (Gorny, 1990).

112

 -

to the fact that by turning his back on Jewish history he depicts Israelis as a nation that lacks roots and separates them from their cultural wellsprings. He also ignores the reality that, fifty years after the establishment of the state and one hundred years after the birth of Zionism, Israel is still a society of first- and second-generation immigrants, making the question “Who is an Israeli?” as difficult to answer as “Who is a Jew?” Nonetheless, a growing number of Israeli academics and intellectuals have been calling for the “de-Zionization” of Israeli society (Ram, 1995). Yosef Agassi (1990), for example, claims that the evolution of Israeli society is leading it back to the ghetto model, exact what the original intent of the Zionist enterprise opposed. The only way to halt the regression, according to Agassi, is to promote the secular character of the country. The Israeli nation should be territorially based and socially and culturally pluralistic. Jews in Israel belong to the Israeli nation in the same way that Jews elsewhere belong to other nations. Accordingly, the Law of Return, which allows any Jew in the world to immigrate to Israel and obtain its citizenship, should be repealed and a distinction between religion and nationality should be introduced (Agassi, Buber-Agassi, and Brant, 1991). Yonatan Shapira (1996) seconds this prescription, contending that maintaining the state-religion nexus has always been in an interest of the nonreligious political elite, which, in its quest for legitimacy, finds religious and traditional symbols more “effective” devices for political mobilization than secular ideologies. This tactic, which has perpetuated the Israel-Diaspora link, has irrevocably distorted the liberal nature of Israeli democracy. While Agassi and Shapira refrain from directly questioning the essence of the interrelation of Jewish identity and Jewish religion, their remarks were cited in the harsh debates of the 1980s and 1990s that accompanied the emergence of “post-Zionism.” The term “postZionism refers to the demand not only for the “de-Zionization” of Israel but also for the “de-Judaization” of the Jews. Post-Zionists, unlike “Canaanites,” are critical not of Diaspora Jewry but of Israeli Jews who define their country as a Jewish state in contrast to “the state of all its citizens.” This camp focuses on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and places the blame for the hostilities on Israel and Zionism. It advocates the elimination of all reference to Judaism as the basis of Israeli national identity (Furstenberg, 1995) and contends, in the spirit of naïve materialism (Orr, 1994), that Judaism is essentially a

- 

113

religious belief and as such is fated to disappear—just as all other religions will presumably disappear in the wake of the advancement of science and secular culture. In other words, they believe that Israel will ultimately cease to exist as a Jewish state in any case. In the name of this conviction, “critical” sociologists and “new” historians attack colleagues—whom they dub “establishment academics”—who refuse to base their scientific and research efforts on political and ideological theories. Accusations of “conservatism,” “collaboration with the political establishment,” and “insensitivity to social inequality” (Shalev, 1996) are commonplace in the work of these academic “Red Guards.” The basic argument of this camp is that Israel was ostensibly created by driving the Arabs off their land, and this “original sin” is vile enough to invalidate morally everything that has ensued from it in Israeli society. These historians and sociologists see it as their primary function to debunk the Zionist myths and, as such, they actually function as “revisionists” who attempt to rewrite the history and sociopolitical development of the Jewish experience in Israel. They regard anyone who believes otherwise to be complicit in the various oppressions with which Israeli society is stained: of women by men, of non-Ashkenazi Jews by Ashkenazim, and of non-Jewish Israelis by Jews. In response, Lissak (1996) accuses these “critics” of sacrificing legitimate scientific research on the altar of the politicization of the scientist. He contends that Zionism, as a national liberation movement, is an outgrowth of the reality of the Diaspora, which it sought to change by resettling Palestine. Only from this perspective may the Zionists’ desire to establish an autonomous economy and society, distinct from the Arab population of the country, be understood. In a similar vein, Ben-Rafael (1997) shows that only the revolutionary nature of the Zionist enterprise can explain phenomena such as the adoption of Hebrew as the official vernacular of people who already had a common tongue. Furthermore, only the combination of circumstances and ideological inspiration could have given birth to a utopian experiment such as the kibbutz. The “critical” school remains unfazed by these arguments. Shafir (1996) insists that Zionism is simply a chapter in the history of European colonialism. He construes “colonialism” to include both the conventional meaning of the word, the domination and direct exploitation of a native population and its resources by an external power,

114

 -

and what is generally called colonization, the creation of a new social order that usurps an existing system. The common denominator of the two concepts is the idea of a territory being taken over by an external force. The use of the term “colonialism” to describe both models, however, ignores the glaring historical-sociological fact that no colonialist regime has ever survived decolonization, whereas most of the Western world today, from Australia to the American continents, consists of formerly colonized—but not colonialist—societies. If only because of this radical difference between the two realities, there is no theoretical justification whatsoever in relating to colonialism and colonization as subcategories of the same phenomenon. Naturally, the controversy between these academic camps feeds on contradictions within Zionism and even within Judaism itself. By defining Israel as the state of the Jews, Zionism spawned complex problems that are summed up in four relationships: between a national Jewish identity and Jewish identity per se, between religion and state in a secular country, between Israeli Jews and Arabs who are also Israeli, and between Israelis and the region. In regard to all these issues, however, those who reject the Zionist formula have bruited answers that are plagued by contradictions that are no less acute. In analytical rather than ideological terms, the question we should ask is whether it would not be more accurate at this point in time to speak of “beyond Zionism” rather than “post-Zionism.” As a rule, even those who continue to consider themselves Zionists now use the term in a much less ambitious sense than that of its originators. Now that most of the Jewish communities in the West have attained an established and recognized status, the delegitimization of the Diaspora and an appeal for the immediate resettlement of all Jews in the Jewish state has long disappeared from the Zionist agenda. It might be said that Zionism today is based primarily on the simple principle of Jewish solidarity, a notion that by definition relates to Jewish identity wherever Jews are found, irrespective of adherence to the original Zionist ideology. In Israel, Zionism is generally construed as Israel’s special commitment to all Jews the world over. This principle, however, may be seen as a corollary of mere Jewish solidarity under circumstances in which the Jews constitute the overwhelming majority of the population, as they do not in the Diaspora. Thus, Jewish solidarity automatically includes the willingness to open the country’s doors to all Jews who wish to enter, especially if they are impelled to do so by

- 

115

hardship or danger in their countries of origin. This is not essentially different from what Jews in New York or London may do when they pressure their respective governments to aid needy Jews elsewhere in the world. The only difference is that Jews in Israel wield the power of a Jewish majority in a sovereign state as opposed to the shackles of a minority. It also goes without saying that the major institutions for study and research of Judaism and Jewish history are found in the country where Jews are the dominant group, thereby giving that country the status of the world center of Jewish cultural and spiritual life. These realities are dependent neither on the formality of the Law of Return nor on any other statement of intent. They are simply grounded in the political fact of a Jewish majority—which would exist whether or not Israel were to declare itself formally as “the state of all its citizens.” Moreover, as long as Judaism continues to exist, the territory itself would remain the mythical “Promised Land” and have a special aura in the Jewish world. This corresponds with the position held by the more enlightened of the critics of Zionism, such as Silberstein (1996), who states that the “deconstruction” of the Zionist discourse may be a positive process that “frees up” intellectual space for new formulations that are better suited to the present time. This is the meaning of the term “beyond Zionism.” Conflictual Multiculturalism As we have seen, Israeli society is divided in regard to all three aspects of collective identity. It is to this reality that David Ohana (1998) refers when he objects to the current all-out attack against the “last Israelis,” the descendants and followers of the founding generation who sustain the dominant culture. On the whole, we have also seen that most of the formulations we have considered agree about the importance of the territorial aspect of Israeli identity and the dichotomous distinction between the “Israeli nation,” within its territorial borders, and the rest of the Jewish world. The “Canaanites,” the National-Religious, the Mizrahim, and even FSU immigrants all subscribe to this territorial-national principle, which is so central to the dominant culture, even though none of these groups entirely adheres to that culture. Consequently, we may consider these formulations elements in a cluster of offshoots

116

 -

of the national model that we already encountered among some of Ben-Gurion’s correspondents. This is not to say that each group does not also demand a very real concession from society. The rifts that relate to the singularity of the collective, e.g., the divisions between the nonreligious and religious sectors, reveal the vulnerability of the dominant culture as it itself culls its symbols of and relationship to the Land of Israel from the religious tradition. Although it gives them new interpretations, it does not deny their religious source. As for the commitment to the collective, Shas calls for a formulation of the dominant culture that will legitimize and reflect Middle Eastern traditions. FSU immigrants would like to see a de-intensification of the demand for cultural unity so that they may take on an IsraeliJewish identity without forsaking their cultural identity and sense of community. Israeli Arabs would like the dominant culture to adopt an all-embracing Israeli identity that would place them on equal footing with the Jewish population. These demands uncover another vulnerability: In the name of Zionism itself, mainstream society must regard each individual Jewish culture as a national asset. Furthermore, Israeli society has always been committed to the principle of equality, a stance that inexorably creates tension when applied to the minority status of the Arabs in a state defined as Jewish. For the same reason, the dominant culture is vulnerable to ideological attack in respect to its relations with “others.” The evolution of Israeli society as multicultural is therefore also multi-conflictual, with a mainstream composed of a triangular arena of tensions. With Israel’s social reality so badly fissured, we might ask whether its diverse constituents can hold together at all without any “glue” or, as Touraine (1997) phrases the question in respect to the emerging multiculturalism of French society, “Can we live together?” In view of the conflicts among them, the various sectors and the dominant culture must relate to each other. Through these conflicts, they also discover what they have in common. For example, while both the haredim and the dominant culture are at odds on the issue of their relative status in society, they share the same attitude toward the fact that they are Jewish, although they disagree strongly about the meaning of Jewishness. Similarly, the dominant culture and the Mizrahi community interpret Jewish nationalism in very different ways, yet for both the source of national identity is the Israeli-Jewish identity. While the orientation of FSU immigrants is much more

- 

117

pluralistic and ethnic than mainstream society may be willing to accept, both sides agree that the former are olim (immigrants of Jewish descent, who are entitled as such to immigrate), a term that carries much more significance than mere “immigrants.” Finally, without disregarding the basic conflict between Arab and Jewish Israelis, we may state that both groups are very much part of modern Israeli culture. Ultimately, these similarities bind the warring elements in the arena together. Linguistic activity illustrates this principle more vividly than any other feature. Each group invests the Hebrew language with different meanings and influences. Hebrew coexists with Yiddish among the haredim, with Judeo-Arabic vernaculars in the Mizrahi sector, with Russian among FSU immigrants, and with Arabic among Israeli Arabs. Hebrew is by necessity the language of communication for haredim and resembles the holy tongue whether they like it or not. It is the language of tradition for Mizrahi Jews, who adopted it enthusiastically when they arrived in Israel. For FSU immigrants it is the target population’s language, which they must learn for the sake of their social integration even though they may not make it the language of their media, literature, or family. For Israeli Arabs, Hebrew remains a second language but one that influences the mother tongue and promotes cultural “Israelization” without affecting their basic identity. The National-Religious consider it a mark of honor to speak Hebrew with an eloquence that evidences their respect for Jewish sources, and “native” Israelis, carrying on the sabra tradition, continue to enjoy playing status games by speaking a casual form of Hebrew interspersed, nowadays, with numerous borrowings from English. These distinctions in the use of Hebrew and the different values the language has acquired in each population sector reflect the complexity of Israeli society. The most important fact to bear in mind, however, is that Hebrew today is a thriving language that serves as a common base for all of society, a medium that makes this society both singular and multicultural at one and the same time.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE SIGNIFICANCE OF ISRAEL IN MODERN JEWISH IDENTITIES Ruth Gavison My chapter does not discuss Jewish identities in Israel. Rather, it seeks to highlight the implications for Jewish identities, in Israel and abroad, of the unique event of the establishment of Israel as a Jewish state. In a nutshell, I argue that Israel is extremely important to modern Jewish life, and that this importance has theoretical as well as practical implications. The importance derives from the fact that Israel has created a form of Jewish life unknown to the world and to Jews for thousands of years. I suggest that this new form of Jewish life makes Judaism and Jewish identities both more solid and stable and more vulnerable. The Unique Features of Jewish Life in Israel Israel is the only place in the world where Jews control a state: they are a majority in the state, and the state was founded as their nationstate. Israel is therefore the only place in the world where the public culture of the state (not just of specific neighborhoods or even towns) is Jewish/Hebrew. Israel is the only place in the world where Judaism and Hebrew are the default public culture, where Jews control immigration and defense, and where they are responsible for all the tasks of a sovereign country. They bear responsibility for everything that is done by the state, including the enactment of laws to govern personal status and the wellbeing of non-Jewish minorities. The Jewish state is where Jews were finally to become a people like all peoples—a people with its own nation-state, territory, and public culture. It was supposed to be a haven for Jews who in the past were persecuted by the nations among which they lived. At present, it does serve as this sort of haven—but it is also the target of persistent challenges, many of them violent, from its Arab neighbors.

    

119

Statehood is also crucial for another of the major achievements of the Zionist movement—the revival of the Hebrew language. Although Hebrew was revived when statehood was still a dream, the project would not have succeeded and flourished had it not been necessary to master the language in order to succeed and integrate in the Israeli market and society. Hebrew is the most powerful assimilating factor in Israel for both local Arabs and new immigrants. But whereas Arabs usually keep their own language, Hebrew is the one and only legitimate tongue of many Israelis. These well-known facts are the background against which I want to analyze the significance of Israel for contemporary Jewish identities. The Public Need to Define Jewish Identity and Affiliations Jewish communities around the world and at all times have turned their attention to delineating their boundaries. Others—both communities and authorities—have also at times sought to identify individuals and groups as Jewish. The Holocaust is the paradigmatic case in which a non-Jewish government defined Jewishness and associated extreme consequences with this labeling. The Nazis also stressed blood relations and ignored self-identification and cultural affiliations. The USSR permitted individuals to define themselves in ethnic terms, but the “cultural” definitions of Jewishness used by Jews and Gentiles were often quite disparate. Thus, the question “Who is a Jew?” is eternal and universal. In fact, the specific aspects of the question and the relevance of answers given may provide an interesting axis for comparing Jewish communities across time and place. In Israel, however, this eternal question is unavoidable. All countries grant citizenship and have immigration policies. In principle, citizenship does not have to be related in any way to ethnic or cultural origins. In some countries, blindness to these aspects seems to be required by either law or ethos.1 In no country does religion determine citizenship or eligibility for citizenship. Consequently, most

1 In the context of challenges to the Israeli Law of Return, it should be noted that many nation-states have rules governing special privileges for members of the ethnic majority, including laws of repatriation.

120

 

countries do not have to make authoritative legal decisions regarding a person’s ethnic identity, and no country has to decide a person’s religious identity. These matters are left to structures of civil society, including religious establishments and religious communities, which have the power to decide who is a member. Often the criteria are flexible and dynamic, responding to the needs and perceptions of the communities in question. In any event, these questions do not have to be decided by organs of the state, and the inevitable clashes between state and religious or group authorities are thus avoided, or at least mitigated. Not so in Israel. Personal status laws in Israel, for a variety of complex reasons, are based on the millet system. These matters are governed by religious law and the institutions of the individual’s religious community. Religious pluralism within Judaism and the legality of interfaith marriages are thus urgent public and legal issues, not just debates between different religious communities. The present Orthodox monopoly on marriage and divorce produces nonstop political friction and debate and makes the question of Jewish identity central. This is even more obvious in the context of “return.” Israel (like many other countries) grants preference in immigration to members of the nation whose nation-state it is. In the twenty-first century, immigration to Israel has become more desired than Zionists ever expected. Eligibility for Israeli citizenship and for generous absorption aid has substantial practical advantages. The Law of Return, as amended in 1970, grants such eligibility to Jews and their family members; it defines Jews as people who were born to a Jewish mother or converted to Judaism and who are not members of another religion. The 1970 amendment and its background illustrate my point. When the Law of Return was enacted in 1950, only Jews were given the right to immigrate and the term “Jew” was left undefined. People who wanted to come and participate in the effort to build the new Jewish state were all welcome. The assumption was that people not truly and sincerely affiliated with the Jewish people would not present themselves as Jews. Nazi persecution also meant that selfidentification seemed quite enough. After all, many of those killed by the Nazis as Jews were not Jews according to Jewish law! Many of the non-Jews who came in fact converted. Others were quite willing to live among Jews but accepted their religious difference. The issue was limited in numbers and in theoretical significance. The

    

121

nature of Jewish identity was kept ambiguous, and this ambiguity was quite convenient for most segments of the Israeli Jewish community at the time. We should recall that the Zionist leaders were mostly secularized Jews who insisted that modern Judaism was a cultural and ethnic identity, bound only historically to Jewish religious identity. The Zionist religious leaders were willing to provide theological justification for the new form of nonreligious Jewishness. And the haredim were ambivalent towards Zionism but encouraged Jewish immigration to Palestine. They all cooperated in not imposing a single authoritative and binding definition of Jewish identity. They all realized that any attempt to provide one such definition might undermine the required unity among Jews in the struggles ahead. Once the existential threat seemed a bit farther removed, a crisis was only a matter of time, given the Israeli legal structure. Various groups sought to have the state legitimize their own conception of Jewish identity. This meant that the other groups, which may have been content to lie low and refrain from debates over matters of principle, felt obliged either to legislate their own conception or at least to undermine the legislation of other conceptions that were incompatible with their own. Moreover, instead of being an angry dispute between communities and their leaders, the debate became a political crisis of great magnitude, threatening the integrity and stability of numerous Israeli Governments. The debate thus forced a new discussion of questions of Jewish identity both in Israel and abroad. Various state authorities such as the legislature, Government, and courts got involved in the debate, too; but being drawn into the controversy weakened their legitimacy as institutions common to all segments of Israeli society. Furthermore, the debate became an all-Jewish matter rather than just an internal Israeli dispute. It thus weakened Israel’s power to serve as a spiritual center for all Jewish communities, due to its policy concerning religious pluralism within Judaism. Awareness of the uniqueness of this Israeli dilemma may provide some useful guidelines. Israel cannot avoid providing authoritative answers to questions of identity in the context of its naturalization policies and the application of its personal status laws. But it can, and should, clarify that these answers are political, and that they cannot and do not aspire to end the cultural and theological debates within Judaism about Jewish identities. Israel, its laws, and its courts cannot and should not answer the question “Who is a Jew?” They

122

 

must answer questions such as “Who is eligible for Israeli citizenship?” “Who is under the jurisdiction of rabbinical courts?” “Who is entitled to be listed as belonging to the Jewish religion and nationality?” If Israel finds the last question too difficult to answer, it may delete these categories from the records. But it cannot avoid these questions completely so long as it seeks to be the nation-state of Jews and to provide state-sponsored religious schools and courts. I therefore prefer the ambiguity of the original Law of Return to the religious definition of the term “Jew” in the 1970 amendment. The original law was easier to justify in terms of entitlement to immigrate, it was less discriminatory, and it kept open—as far as the state was concerned—the question of the relationship between religion and national culture in modern Jewish identity and the thorny issues of religious pluralism. I therefore lament the decision of the majority in the Shalit case, which triggered the 1970 amendment. I think the dissent of Justices Agranat and Landau, who declared the issue non-justiciable, was wiser than the low-visibility decision by the majority to force the Ministry of the Interior to register the children of a non-Jewish mother and a Jewish father as Jews by nationality. Clearly, these children were full members of the Israeli polity. They identified with it completely. The Court should not have allowed the ambiguity of their Jewish identity to force an issue that could not be resolved but needed simply to be acknowledged and lived with.2 This distinct responsibility of the state and its laws is not only relevant to issues of Jewish identity. Jews never before had the task of

2 The matter has now returned to haunt the political system with the recent High Court decision that people who underwent Reform conversions in Israel should be registered as Jews. The Government finally found it in its power to delete the nationality category from identity cards, but this will not resolve the issue, because people converted by non-Orthodox courts are seeking to be listed as Jews by both religion and nationality in the Population Registry. The religious parties want to rectify the situation by enshrining the Orthodox monopoly over conversion in law, or at least by maintaining a clear demarcation of the conversion process so that people can identify whether someone was converted by an authority recognized by the Chief Rabbinate. The non-Orthodox groups, naturally, reject both proposals. The first course would indeed be wrong and dangerous, but the second should be supported as crucial to the Orthodox communities’ liberty to identify those who are Jews by their standards. The absence of such an ability to confirm a person’s Jewishness will force the Orthodox to maintain their own “books of lineage.” This will take away one of the unique features of Jewish life in Israel—the relative freedom to associate without fear of interfaith marriage.

    

123

deciding issues having to do with the relations between the state and other religions. As potential victims of persecution, they were usually advocates of human rights, including freedom of religion, and usually supported some form of separation of church and state. While the American model advocated by some—that of a “wall of separation”— is clearly not applicable here (and it is unclear whether it is really applied in the U.S. either), the lessons should be learned. A good illustration of the burden of statehood is the decision Israel has to make concerning the mosque in Nazareth. Jews were never before in a position to attract so much religious animosity because they never had the power to make such decisions. Now they do. Preferably, Muslims and Christians should be left to decide the issue by themselves. But if they cannot, as seems to be the case, Israel should exercise its power wisely and decisively. This is not about religion; it is about conflict resolution and public order. And it is crucial that the matter be decided, and seen to be decided, in these terms. This may provide a good link to the last point I want to make in this context: Israel as a state has a Jewish majority. However, it also has a large Arab minority, consisting of people who lived here before Israel was founded and their children, as well as a sizable minority of other non-Jews (including a large number who immigrated under the amended Law of Return). According to its own and international standards, Israel owes them full, equal citizenship and non-discrimination. Israel is therefore a place where Jews are required, through their institutions, to see to the wellbeing, needs, and rights of non-Jews. In terms of identity, Israel has created a civic identity shared by all citizens, many of whom are not Jews. The new category of “Israelis” is not merely a subclass of Jews, as many assume. It is a group that has a large number of non-Jews among its members, and it has cultural and political affinities that some people may view as threatening to the centrality of the Jewish elements of their identities. These facts have political implications. Complaints of discrimination against non-Jews are often confused and conflated with demands that Israel renounce its Jewish distinctiveness. Sometimes it is claimed that Israel cannot be both Jewish and democratic, because democracy is inconsistent with special treatment for the one nation whose state the country is supposed to be. But the facts also have implications for culture and identity: Many argue that nonreligious Jews in Israel are truly “Hebrew-speaking Gentiles”. Some lament this

124

 

distance between nonreligious Jewish Israelis and their Jewishness; others see it as the ultimate success of Zionism. Implications for the Stability and Vulnerability of Secular Jewish Identities Because Israel has a hegemonic Jewish-Hebrew public culture, it may be the only place in the world where a nonreligious Jewish identity can be maintained over time without assimilation. If the experiment succeeds, Israel can also create a model for such stable identities abroad, through an intensive connection with Israel as an additional, albeit not exclusive, focus of Jewish life. But this option may also weaken the Jewish identity of nonreligious Jews because they are not aware of the effort they must make to keep their cultural identity alive. Let me elaborate on these seemingly contradictory claims, which may seem rather obvious to those who compare the lives of Jews in Israel and abroad. In open societies outside of Israel, Jews have to choose between integration into their societies and some voluntary segregation to maintain their distinct ways of life. The spectrum of integration/segregation is extremely broad. However, the wish to maintain a rich Jewish life and to pass it on to one’s children does require special effort and design. If one only takes the defaults that the country offers, in terms of public education and general frameworks of entertainment and sports, the choices will be between assimilating into a different culture and maintaining some low and neutral “universalistic” culture. The situation is very different in Israel, where the state’s symbols are national and Jewish. The flag includes the Star of David. Public education is community-based and particularistic. Jewish students usually attend Jewish schools, although these schools may be either religious or nonreligious. Public holidays are Jewish and Israeli. The hegemonic narrative is Jewish and Zionist. The language is Hebrew. The media celebrate Jewish events and Jewish festivals. Here, being Jewish is the default. The feelings of not belonging experienced by members of minority cultures are here the lot of non-Jews. In addition, the chances that Jews will meet, fall in love, and marry non-Jews are still significantly lower in Israel than anywhere else (especially in nonreligious communities). Consequently, most chil-

    

125

dren of Jews in Israel will grow up in homes in which the cultural heritage is shared, and it is Jewish. This makes it easier and more natural for people to maintain their Jewish identity, and feel comfortable and natural with it, than in other parts of the world. Although this is true for religious as well as for nonreligious Jews, religious Jews around the world make the effort to maintain and pass on their Jewish identities. Those who do not make this effort abroad are very likely to assimilate in one or two generations. In Israel, the chances of assimilation are much lower. Moreover, we can have nonreligious Jews here who work actively at strengthening and deepening the Jewish identity of others like them, with the active support of the state. Jewish literature in Hebrew and other languages and other works of Jewish culture are produced here in large quantities, and their quality is impressive, providing depth and meaning to nonreligious forms of Jewish life. All these facts make nonreligious Jewish identity in Israel more solid, meaningful, and whole than in other parts of the world. Nevertheless, this richness has its disadvantages. Nonreligious Jews in Israel take their identity for granted. It is conveniently supported by the environment in which they live. But they are usually either first- or second-generation nonreligious Jews, whose fathers or grandfathers grew up in Orthodox or traditional homes. As children, they celebrated Jewish festivals, went to synagogues, and chanted the prayers even if they were not observant. But they cannot pass these on to their own children, because it is not the lifestyle they personally live. A generation is growing up in Israel whose Jewish identity amounts to Hebrew, a vague sense of Jewish history, and some mixture of animosity towards and fear of the Arabs. The vulnerability of this identity is obvious on both the personal and the collective levels. When nonreligious Israelis go abroad they either lose their Jewishness altogether due to the absence of a supportive public culture or they seek connections with a religious community to maintain it. Their Jewish identity is quite fragile. They realize how much it takes to create a culture and how shallow their own culture has been. Collectively, the weakness of Jewish identity may well translate into an inability to handle radical criticism of the notion and justification of the Jewish state. Ironically, many secular Jews are victims of the great success of Zionism. They take it for granted that they live in

126

 

a Hebrew-speaking country whose public culture is Jewish/Hebrew. But they do not realize that this state of affairs is far from trivial. They confuse their identity as Jews with their identity as Israelis, and they believe that they can promote victory for Israeliness without any loss to their cultural identity. They forget, however, that Israel is a state of many religions and ethnic groups, founded in a conflict with the Arabs. A civic nation-state of all Israelis may very soon turn into a binational state or even a state with a majority of Arabs. Ultimately, Jews in Israel may become a minority, just as they are and have been in all other countries, and as they were in Palestine itself for many decades. Israeliness would then cease to be related to Jewishness. It would be a territorial identification, not necessarily related to either religion or culture. Some people see this as both inevitable and desirable. Jews will continue to live in the Land of Israel, probably in large numbers and with a large degree of collective autonomy. But the features that I have mentioned above as unique to the Israeli form of Jewish life will be lost. What Can Be Done? On the other hand, there are those, like me, who see these possible developments as involving a terrible loss for the Jewish people, both in Israel and abroad. If Jews do not have a strong center in which the public culture is Hebrew/Jewish and that can stand by Jews in dire economic or political need, Jewish prospects in the twenty-first century may diminish in various ways. Those of us who find this idea disturbing have to think of ways to strengthen Israel and its various ways of being Jewish, as well as the sense of solidarity among Jewish communities the world over. Furthermore, it is not a good idea to base Jewish solidarity on the need to fight back against antisemitism, new and old. It should have a positive aspect to it as well—a sense of the distinctiveness of Jewish culture and civilization and pride in being a part of this ancient and unique civilization. Jews may criticize Israeli policies. In fact, they may have a moral obligation to do so when they feel that its actions are immoral. But they also have to remember that Israel is a focal point for Jewish life, religious and secular alike. Criticism of Israel should not be allowed to look like support for efforts to spread the idea that Israel

    

127

has no right to exist as a Jewish state. For Israel’s achievement to help nonreligious forms of Jewish life abroad, Jews abroad have to connect more solidly with aspects of Israeli life. Easiest, and perhaps most important, is the language. It is easy to underestimate what a language can do for the identity of a collective. For many generations, Jews did not have one active language, but they always shared Hebrew as the language of worship and many of the religious sources. If religion loses its power to unite Jews the world over, Jews may also lose their hold on Hebrew. People who would like to help nonreligious Jews survive should support the development of a modern, nonreligious Jewish culture, much of it written in Hebrew and in Israel. An active Hebrew that people cherish and want to keep and transmit may be a very powerful tool for maintaining Jewish identity over time. It is very hard to keep a language alive without a state or a place in which it is the default language. But once such a place exists, that language may provide a way for Jews to keep in touch with their own distinctive culture and people.3 Furthermore, the place of religious pluralism in Israel is different from that in Jewish communities abroad. People both in Israel and in other large Jewish communities should be aware of these differences. Social and political solutions that are suitable for Western democracies may not be suitable—or necessary—in Israel. The majority of affiliated Jews in Western democracies belong to the Reform and Conservative movements, because many Jews who wish to maintain some contact with their Jewishness find an Orthodox way of life too constricting. Orthodox groups often claim that Reform Judaism is a form of assimilation, but they seem to forget that Reform congregations attract precisely those who do not wish to be Orthodox. Although a small number of Reform Jews would become Orthodox if it were the only way to be Jewish in the modern West, most would have assimilated. All I am saying is that the debate between Orthodox and Reform Jews about whether Reform encourages Jewish identity or assimilation should not be decided by the state. It is a cultural,

3 It has been pointed out to me that most Jews outside Israel are not likely to make the effort to acquire the kind of fluency in Hebrew that would make it a genuine asset for them and an effective way of aiding them to maintain a nonreligious Jewish identity. I, of course, agree. Nonetheless, I see my task here as pointing out ways in which those who want to maintain an active Jewish identity without religion can do so.

128

 

religious, and historical debate that will inevitably continue, but it should not be translated into either a monopoly for one vision of Judaism or into coercing other visions to give up their claims of exclusivity. This imperative, I think, is supported both by liberal principles and by a concern for the prospects of Jews and Judaism. Liberal principles insist that people—both the Orthodox and the non-Orthodox—be allowed to define their Jewishness. For some reason, most liberals are very vocal when arguing for the right of the non-Orthodox to define their identity but give less weight to the corresponding demand of the Orthodox to define theirs, including as regards rules of membership and admission to the collective. But the point goes deeper than mere adherence to liberalism. The challenges to Jewish identity in the modern world are many and diverse. If streams of Judaism develop intolerance to others’ ways of being Jewish, we are likely to see a lot of deep schisms within Judaism. These may contribute to alienating from Judaism those Jews who are discouraged by the fact that their form of Judaism is deemed unworthy by other gatekeepers. Even worse, if religious Jews of all persuasions do not develop empathy for those Jews who seek Jewish meaning in other ways, we are likely to lose the sense of cohesiveness that makes all these efforts part of one civilization. Jews cannot afford to let these schisms come in the way of each group helping the other maintain and strengthen its Jewish affinity. In the West, religious pluralism within Judaism has developed as the leading trend. Israel is different in this sense. Heterodox congregations in Israel are active and growing. They now include not only people who brought this sense of Jewish life from their homes abroad, but also native Israelis who felt the need for religious life and could not find their place within Orthodoxy. But the largest group of Israelis remains those who are not observant but feel quite comfortable with the traditions, places, and rituals of Orthodoxy. Among religious communities, the Orthodox, in their various forms, are by far the largest. The political significance of pluralism, like the needs that support the various communities, is therefore very different. Consequently, solutions that are obvious for Western democracies may be unsuitable for Israel. Jewish solidarity will benefit if non-Orthodox leaders outside of Israel accept that some of their arrangements will not be implemented in Israel, and if the Orthodox establishment in Israel

    

129

accepts the needs and legitimate interests of these large and important communities. This understanding may be facilitated by a regular and structured dialogue between Jewish leaders from all Jewish communities. The dialogue may stress both the identical interests of Jews the world over and their different needs and concerns. I believe this dialogue will make it clear how the Jewish state can contribute to modern Jewish life and how Israel and Jewish communities abroad can strengthen each other.

This page intentionally left blank

PART THREE

AMERICAN JEWISHNESS

This page intentionally left blank

CHAPTER EIGHT

BETWEEN TWO ZIONS Henry L. Feingold American Jewry is overwhelmingly Zionized, although it is a peculiar, indigenous version of Zionism. American Jews lack a commitment to aliya and have always included a small but influential element of non- and anti-Zionists. Recently, on the occasion of the publication of the third edition of my popular text in American Jewish history, I again came face to face with this group. Assuming from the title of my soon-to-be-reissued, Zion in America, that they would be given a sympathetic ear, they triumphantly reminded me that they had foreseen that a Jewish state in the Middle East was an unworkable idea. Had they only once in their youth felt the longing contained in the beautiful, lilting Israeli songs, as I and many others did, they would not have been able so easily to accept the idea that Israel was merely a noble experiment that had failed. In contrast, I have been as much concerned about an increasingly weak American Jewry as I am about the survival ability of Israel which I, perhaps foolishly, take for granted. The perpetual crises in Israel conceal the survival threat to Diaspora communities. For American Jewry, that survival threat lurks in the fact that in both Zions in whose orbit Jewish political life is lived, America and Israel, continuity cannot be taken for granted. Yet there is no denying that, among ordinary American Jews who care deeply for Israel, the perception of a perishable Israel has grown since the second Intifada and the destruction of the World Trade Center in New York. Today one rarely hears familiar Zionist slogans like “A rising tide will raise all ships.” The promise of shared prosperity does not alter the unacceptability of a Jewish state in an Islamic region, which means that the promise of normality inherent in the hope of a return to Zion has been subverted. Clearly, Israel is as much the despised alien presence in its Islamic neighborhood as was any pre-Holocaust shtetl in Christian Eastern Europe. After a half-century of high-level and low-level war, there are few who

134

 . 

can still believe that the Jewish destiny is to be a nation like others. Some may even conclude that the perennial problem of Jewish insecurity in the Diaspora, which a sovereign Jewish state was supposed to solve, may actually have been exacerbated. History plays cruel tricks. Predictably, these unhappy circumstances have also strengthened the hand of those who never supported the idea of a Jewish state. That group is not limited to the haredim and other pietist sects. It also includes many Jewish intellectuals, Marxists and otherwise, who in the throes of their universalism wanted the Jews to be the first people to go beyond “bourgeois nationalism,” which they perceived as a retrogressive stage of development. As secularists, these intellectual Jews (not Jewish intellectuals) love the cosmos more than any particular tribe in it. Most American Jews are now college-educated, which often translates into a universalist sensibility that seeks to understand both sides of any story, even when one side is murderous in its intent and the other its victim. That penchant for drawing moral equivalencies where none exists is reinforced by the fact that American Jews are not compelled to assume the responsibilities of power inherent in the sovereign state. They remain uncorrupted by the actual exercise of power. When the absence of matching efforts for peace and civil rights on the Palestinian side is pointed out, the well-meaning members of Peace Now and Amnesty International simply deny that this should be a concern for Jewish activists. But few can deny that recruitment of suicide bombers among Palestinians is more energetically pursued than recruitment of peace activists. Even the well-known notion of perennial Jewish guilt cannot explain such a refusal to see reality. What we really witness in the distracted posture of American Jewry may not be a waning enthusiasm for Israel but a growing preoccupation with internal American Jewish problems that have been neglected for half a century. The leaders of the local federations who collectively control the purse strings of the American Jewish community have new urgent priorities related partly to the aging of American Jewry, more than 60 percent of which is now over the age of forty. The fatigue Israelis feel due to living life in a war zone is understandable but it should not conceal the different kind of emotional fatigue experienced by Diaspora Jews. Like all Americans, Jews are problem-solvers and experience great frustration when they encounter a problem that seems to have no solution. Because the

  

135

crisis in Israel is perpetual, one never sees light at the end of the tunnel. It does not help when Israel’s triumphalist public relations, in the midst of a life-and-death struggle, boast that within the decade it will have more Jews than any other country. The growing presence of Hebrew-speaking Israeli émigrés who can now be found in every Jewish community of any size transmits a less triumphant message. Moreover, with its world-class science and medicine, its cuttingedge avionics, and above all a per-capita income comparable to Western Europe, fundraising based on the notion of urgent need is losing its credibility. That lesser urgency to help does not mean less commitment but rather a change in the relationship from patron to partner. That may be one meaning of the annual statistics paraded by dozens of studies which show that American Jewish commitment to Israel is declining among younger Jews.1 The reality is that the crises in Israel and among American Jewry feed on each other. The cluster of ideological convictions, commitments, and practices that make up American Jewish identity, which can stretch from an interest in Jewish cuisine to the piety of Chabad and a penchant for political activism, has at its core a strong commitment to Israel. When Israel is weakened, the pride and confidence of American Jewry are undermined. If one asks average American Jews about their relationship with the State of Israel, their responses consistently show a high level of support.2 Almost totally ignorant of the century-long history of modern Zionism or the fine points of 1 That assumption is questioned in the 2000 “Annual Survey of American Jewish Public Opinion,” conducted by the American Jewish Committee (unpublished). Fully 74 percent of respondents felt either very close or fairly close to Israel. The notion of a decline in commitment to Israel is also challenged by a poll that found that, while the sense of being exclusively American has increased among Jews, so has willingness to exert pressure in Washington to ensure Israeli security. A total of 46 percent of the respondents opposed urging Israel to exercise restraint in the current crisis, compared with 34 percent in favor. Some 76 percent continued to feel that Diaspora Jews were Israel’s most important and dependable allies, despite serious reservations about the strategy employed by the Sharon Government. Forward, Nov. 2, 2001, pp. 1, 10. 2 A survey of polls since the founding of the state in 1948 indicates that the percentage of respondents who rate Israel as very important consistently hovers in the mid-seventies. It actually rose from 74 percent in 1998 to 80 percent in 2000. The percentage of support is highest among Orthodox Jews (90 percent) and declines to 61 percent for those who classify themselves as “just Jewish.” As the intermarriage rate rises, the intensity of support declines. See The Balance of Israel’s National Security and Strength: The American Jewish Factor, American Jewish Committee, Herzliya Conference, December 2000.

136

 . 

Zionist ideology, many American Jews remain convinced that the creation of the Jewish state in 1948 was of their contrivance. Considered in terms of American ethnic politics, they now possess what other “hyphenates”—Irish-, Italian-, or German-Americans—already had: a homeland. Moreover, in those early heady years, as Israel proved its mettle on the field of battle, its image became one of a “fighting” nation. For American Jews that was more important than the fine points of Zionist ideology, about which they cared little. After the Holocaust most American Jews conceived of Israel as a refuge for those Jews who needed one. Few felt that they would ever experience such a need.3 It was this practical Zionism, with its aspect of tribal pride, that became a significant component in the cluster of traits and beliefs that made them Jewish. After the 1967 war the linkage with Israel became so pervasive that some rabbis complained that a new form of idolatry they called “Israelism” had taken hold of American Jewry.4 Should the Israeli Zionist component that met the identity needs of the second and third generations weaken while American Jewish ethnic and religious culture became ever thinner and less nourishing, the continuity of American Jewry as an organized communal presence in America could not be assured. Already the fastest-growing branch of American Jewry consists of the unaffiliated. Suspended between two Zions, America and Israel, the American Jew’s sense of group identity requires both. The higher the group-identity index is, the stronger people’s religious ties and commitment to Israel are. Commonly posed survey questions like “Do you attend a Passover Seder?” and “Do you give to the UJA?” were unknown a century ago. Ironically, the very notion of group identity is a secular concept. It is this high correlation between pride in Israel and strong Jewish identity that may prove worrisome for survivalists should Israel’s performance on the field of battle or in contributions to science and

3 Most amazing today are the responses in the surveys of those who see Israel as a haven for themselves in case of emergency. While the U.S. is considered safer than England or France, 26 percent of the respondents feel that no country in the Diaspora, including the U.S., is truly safe for Jews. Forward, Nov. 2, 2001, pp. 1, 10. 4 See Hertzberg, 1989: 319–332, 341–346. See also Shapiro, 1992: 209–213. How altered the Zionist condition is today can be gleaned from the results of the recent elections to the World Zionist Congress. The number of votes cast by shekel buyers is but a fraction of what it was in the 1950s and even a smaller proportion of American Jewry.

  

137

medicine diminish. It may already be happening. The factors in Israel that generate group pride in American Jews seem unable to counteract the growing sense that the security requisite for the country’s continued development in a hostile neighborhood cannot be assured. If the low-level war that has been part of Israel’s existence continues, Israel will be diminished in the sense that its ability to continue to develop into a modern prosperous democracy will be hampered. It is this perception of the Jewish state that nourishes American Jewry. The diminution would occur at a time when American Jews face a majority culture at home that is so seductive that none of the many ethnic subcultures that compose this “nation of nations” has thus far been able to withstand its siren call. The survival challenge faced by American Jewry is not new. Four decades before the founding of the Jewish state, Mordecai Kaplan, American Jewry’s most incisive commentator of American Jewry, noted in his diary, after listening to the doubts expressed by his student candidates for the rabbinate, that American Jewry was in “crisis.”5 Incidentally, like Horace Kalle and Solomon Schechter, he became convinced that a cultural Zionism that contained a sense of Jewish peoplehood in its most pristine form was the best way to generate a sense of Jewish identity among secularizing Jews. To be sure, Jewish Diaspora communities survived for many centuries without the unifying power of a Jewish center embodied in a sovereign state. But even before the Holocaust it was clear that such communities lived at the whim of their hosts. Moreover, like prewar German Jewry, they were as much, or perhaps more, drawn to melding with the host culture than they were with the Jewish world. If there is anything we have learned from the Holocaust it is that Jewish continuity requires a vital center in which Jews can determine their own fate. For some readers the very notion of an inquiry that concerns itself more with the impact of the current crisis on American Jewry than on Israel may therefore seem perverse. For them the answer to our query is obvious: if the center cannot hold, can the periphery be far behind? But I have carefully avoided the assumption of a vanished 5 “A Talk at Columbia—Is Jewry a Sinking Ship?” (Mar. 23, 1917) contains one of many references by Kaplan to the low ebb of Judaism among students. See Scult, 2001.

138

 . 

Israel and speak rather of a diminished one. I do not believe that the danger to the survival of Israel stems from a drastic military defeat. By diminution I mean a loss of vitality, which would be recognized by such things as a falling birth rate and aging population, a declining standard of living, a lower Gross Domestic Product, and an inability to employ its work force, all of which would be accompanied by a loss of confidence and élan. Given the possibility that not even a moderate modus vivendi can be found with Israel’s neighbors and that a Palestinian state to come will be irredentist and will continue to pose severe security problems, such a scenario of diminution is not unlikely. I know of no states that have prospered while expending their wealth and the blood of their citizenry in a perpetual war. My primary concern with the welfare of Jewish communities in the Diaspora would not seem inappropriate to those knowledgeable in the writings of the Zionist founders. It is in fact included in the Zionist narrative itself. The Zionist rationale was never only about the establishment of a Jewish state. Rather, the state or center was part of a strategy to revitalize Jewish communities wherever they existed. For much of his life, Ahad Ha'am did not share the enthusiasm for a political Jewish state and would have been content merely to develop a Jewish cultural center. He was not alone. Zionism was a response to the crisis in the Diaspora. The world Zionist movement was interested in finding a way to strengthen Jewry in the face of the cultural and identity crisis caused by assimilation, on the one hand, and of the sociopolitical crisis caused by antisemitism, on the other. To be sure, American Jewry does not face murderous antisemitism, but the very benevolence of life without that plague makes assimilation more attractive. A related problem that would face world Jewry in the unhappy event of such a diminution is whether American Jewry, standing virtually alone, would be able to manage the reins of leadership. If Israel becomes preoccupied with merely assuring its physical security, can American Jewry alone fulfill the required leadership role? The mobilization of American Jewry for the “rescue” of Soviet Jewry, which began in earnest in 1970, is the one example offered by recent Jewish history that might yield some light on that question. This is not the place to relate the complex history of the American movement for Soviet Jewry; in any case, it is too early to come to any definitive conclusions based on that episode concerning the condition of American Jewry. Nevertheless, because it is the only exam-

  

139

ple of the actual rescue prowess of American and Israeli Jewry, some preliminary observations might be useful.6 For instance, it was realized that the “lost” Jews of the Soviet Union could be found again. It was acknowledged that it was Israel’s job to initiate contact with them, and indeed Israel operated, at least in the early phase, the way it was hoped that a Jewish state would. Not only did Israel recognize the necessity and possibility of extricating the Jews of the USSR from a life-threatening situation; it also helped mobilize American Jewry to play its part in the rescue. American Jews who recall those early years of the movement for Soviet Jewry are still amazed at what happened. Frequently, becoming involved in saving Soviet Jewry reawakened their own waning connection with Jewishness. So passionate did their commitment become that their lives were totally shaped by it. The effort brought young activists, many from the civil-rights movement, back to the Jewish fold. New ad-hoc organizations appeared on the crowded Jewish communal stage. The success of the movement for Soviet Jewry, despite disunity and bitter internecine conflict, far outpaced rescue activity during the Holocaust, whose failure haunted this new effort. The movement’s effectiveness had to do not only with the better tactics and strategy employed but also with the nature of the times and the less lethal intentions of the Soviet government. The Kremlin was not obsessed with a genocidal passion as was Hitler’s Reich. The Cold War context actually made it far easier to enlist American state power in the rescue cause. That is what the JacksonVanik Amendment with its threat to withhold Most-Favored Nation status was all about. Without the enlistment of the U.S. government in the rescue effort, which in both cases was the focus of American Jewish leaders, the chances for an effective rescue were remote. We have to be aware of the special circumstances of the Soviet Jewish rescue case and not become too euphoric. The success of the Soviet Jewry movement throws some light on how the diminution of American Jewish influence may affect the security of Jewish communities everywhere. But it seems undeniable that Israel and American Jewry acting in tandem have enhanced Jewish influence internationally, despite serious internal problems experienced by both partners. In American Jewry’s two primary areas of operation—mobilizing

6

See Orbach, 1999.

140

 . 

Jews at the grass roots and enlisting the power of the U.S. government—the movement was eminently successful, even beyond saving Jewish lives. The outcome informs us, perhaps better than the reams of survey research, that American Jewry is, at least for the moment, still quite effective. The movement of a million people out of the Soviet Union to Israel and a lesser portion to the United States had a profound impact on both communities. It relieved for the moment the demographic crisis in Israel by serving as a counterpoise to the fecund Palestinian population, whose growth might eventually undermine the Jewish character of the state. It gave Israel a trained new population stock that was biologically and culturally related to its original settlers. Globally, it catapulted the human rights issue to center stage, especially with respect to the right of emigration for the reunification of families. Together with the Helsinki final accords it acted as a lever to focus world attention on the profound internal weaknesses of the Soviet monolith, thereby contributing notably to ending the Cold War and reducing the likelihood of the destruction of civilization due to the arms race. Yet the success of the Soviet Jewry movement cannot conceal the fact that the fragility of Jewish governance in the Diaspora, marked as it is by disunity and lack of coherence, was also much in evidence. This was especially noticeable in the “dropout” problem,7 which revealed that not only did American Jewry and Israel have different objectives in their involvement with Soviet Jewry, but they also had deep differences regarding the meaning of “freedom” for those rescued. Yet clearly it took both communities acting together to bring the movement to a successful conclusion. Neither one could have done it alone. The diminution of the influence of either would affect the security of Jewish communities in other parts of the Diaspora such as Latin America. Most particularly, it would impact on their interdependence. Each partner’s power is enhanced when they are able to act together, and conversely, it is diminished when either is weakened. A preliminary response to our query about American Jewry’s ability to survive a weakened Israel is clear. Such an eventuality would compound American Jewry’s internal problems concerning group identity, as well as its ability to represent world Jewry before the American seat of power. 7 In which Jews who left the USSR on the basis of visas for Israel stopped en route and changed their destinations to other countries.

  

141

Ultimately, the answer to our question depends in some measure on what we mean by survival. If we interpret the term liberally and say that no matter what happens to Israel there will continue to be an American Jewish community, we limit ourselves to a physical reality that may begin fragmenting at any time. Clearly, Jews who identify themselves primarily in religious terms are bound to consider a Jewry so overwhelmingly secular to be insufficient to carry the Jewish enterprise forward. Similarly, Jews whose identity views Israel as the center would have little confidence in a Jewry that is merely one of many ethnic groups being amalgamated into a general pluralistic American civilization. To both camps, the condition of Israel affects American Jewry and vice versa. Despite enormous diversity, Jews somehow continue to be one people. When one element in the partnership is weakened, the consequences for the Jewish people are lifethreatening but not necessarily fatal. The destruction of European Jewry during the Holocaust, especially the Jews of Eastern Europe— surely a far direr threat to survival than a diminished Israel would be today—was not sufficient to bring the long history of the Jewish people to an end. Despite the loss of one-third of the Jews then alive, the enterprise that emerged from the war is in many respects more vital than ever. It may not seem so from the internal Jewish perspective, but the Jewish enterprise seems sufficiently sturdy even to withstand an organized attempt at genocide by a modern state well equipped to carry it out. Yet even if we assume that each can survive the diminution of the other, albeit in a much weakened condition, in the case of American Jewry, which is the focus of our concern, there is an additional factor to consider. The diminution of Israel would be added to a list of other communal frailties that already afflict American Jewry. These frailties stem from the modernization and embourgeoisement processes that American Jewry experienced concurrently. The symptoms are well known: a birthrate below replacement level, a porous group membrane that encourages intermarriage, a weakening of the organizational network that was once the pride of American Jewry, a loss of group definition and of a sense of exclusiveness in favor of inclusiveness. We could go on and on. Not only do American Jews no longer know who they are; they no longer know why they should be who they are. The profoundest weakening of American Jewry is that of its sense of peoplehood, which was embodied in the Zionist idea that prevailed in the 1930s and reached

142

 . 

its zenith during the 1967 war. The outpouring of financial resources and goodwill generated by that sense of belonging is still visible on Israel’s cultural landscape. American Jews are happy in America and do not accept the Zionist ideological imperative of reshaping their lives through resettlement in Israel. Only a few have settled there, and it is no secret that some Israelis would have liked to send some of the pietist Jews back to Brooklyn. American Zionism was not a pioneering Zionism; nonetheless, over a seventy-five-year period even such a Zionism, which some would consider bland, worked itself into the soul of the most committed Jews. American Jews agree on very little, but the notion of the centrality of Israel remains constant as if they understood that their identity as a people hinges on the continued existence and wellbeing of Israel. That may explain a seeming inconsistency in the surveys, which indicate that a comparatively small proportion of American Jews—fewer than 40 percent—have ever visited Israel. (What the polls do not show is that a disproportionate number of aged and poor American Jews do not visit any other country either.) The American Jewish love for Israel is part of an age-old spiritual feeling that has always been part of the spirit of the Diaspora. It has nothing to do with tourism. This discussion began by posing a question that many people would undoubtedly consider subversive. It is indeed a question too painful to ask. The very notion of probing what might follow should Israel lose its forward momentum may seem to some to contribute to that loss. Surely if the query were reversed to ask “Can Israel survive a diminished American Jewry?” it would be less unsettling for believers in the Jerusalem platform. Perhaps that question, too, should be posed by survivalists. But it hardly alters our conclusion: Israel’s diminution might not immediately put the final nail in American Jewry’s coffin, but it would undoubtedly further weaken its fragile sense of self without which no self-conscious community can long survive.

CHAPTER NINE

UNRAVELING THE ETHNORELIGIOUS PACKAGE* Charles Liebman The systematic study of American Jews and their Jewish identity originates with the work of Marshall Sklare, who began publishing his research in the 1950s. Although articles exploring specific aspects of Jewish identity and behavior1 and some studies of specific Jewish communities were published as early as the late nineteenth century, Sklare was the first to undertake the study of American Jewry, with a special emphasis on Jewish identity, in a systematic fashion. The combination of his keen intelligence, his knowledge and understanding of American Jews, and his ability to dissociate his own values from his scholarly research was unparalleled. His first book, Conservative Judaism: An American Religious Movement (1955; 2nd edition in 1972), described the Conservative movement and, inter alia, the mass of American Jews as possessing a Jewish identity that was basically ethnic. Although one can always find greater emphasis on one component than on the other, religion and ethnicity are intertwined in the Jewish tradition. As Ben-Rafael points out, the ties began to unravel in the nineteenth century (Ben-Rafael, 2001) but this happened a bit later in Eastern Europe—home of the masses of Jewish immigrants who emigrated to the United States between the late nineteenth century and 1924. Furthermore, the more religious Eastern Europeans, those for whom the observance of religious commandments was a primary factor in their lives, were the least likely to immigrate to the United States, and some of the very observant immigrants returned to Europe when they saw how inhospitable the American cultural climate was to strict observance. Those who did

* This is a revised version of a paper delivered at a conference on Jewish identity in Budapest in July 2000. I am grateful to Zvi Gitelman for his comments on the original presentation. 1 Many of these are found in Sklare, Marshall (ed.), 1957.

144

 

immigrate and who remained in the U.S. were by and large a highly adaptable group. They gave primacy to their ethnic identity but, over time, they learned to translate their ethnic identity into religious terms since America was far more hospitable to immigrant groups that insisted on differentiating themselves religiously than to immigrant groups that insisted on differentiating themselves ethnically. In other words, American Jews adopted a new meaning system, probably unselfconsciously, that suited the cultural climate of the United States, at least until the late 1960s. In the last two decades, especially in the 1990s, new circumstances were to prevail. Sklare’s conceptualization of the basic nature of American Jewish identity in the first half of the twentieth century as ethnicity wrapped in a religious package may be overstated. It may be a consequence of the period in which the research was carried out—that following World War II and the Holocaust—and the impact of Zionism on American Jews. There is every reason to reexamine the question from a historical perspective. But memory alone, my own and that of colleagues my age and even somewhat younger, whether we grew up in Orthodox or Conservative homes, and of course those who grew up in unsynagogued circles, argues strongly that ethnicity and not religion was the driving force of Jewish identity. (This may be less true of those who grew up in Reform homes.) Many if not most Jews grew up in neighborhoods with substantial Jewish populations and a variety of local Jewish institutions from bakeries and delicatessens to synagogues and Jewish community centers. Until World War II, the pervasive antisemitism in higher education and in occupational and social settings, as well as the physical threats to Jewish survival in so many parts of the world, caused Jews to look to other Jews for assistance. They tended, therefore, to follow the educational and occupational paths set by other Jews. But whereas it was ethnicity and not religion that energized American Jews, it was religion and not ethnicity that provided the cloak under which American Jews presented themselves to the American public. Under these conditions, with Judaism understood as a matter of birth rather than choice and more disadvantages than advantages accruing to being Jewish, there was little debate over Jewish boundaries. Marginal cases always existed and they are interesting cases. But by and large, subjective definitions of oneself as a Jew coincided with the definitions offered by both the Jewish world and the nonJewish world. These boundaries, never officially defined by either

   

145

the Jewish or the non-Jewish community, least of all by the American government, were rarely, to the best of my knowledge, the subject of dispute. The exceptions were, as indicated above, in marginal cases: high profile non-Jews (often entertainers) who converted to Judaism for the sake of a marriage and were subsequently divorced from their Jewish partner (Marilyn Monroe), low-status groups that claimed Jewish ancestry (the Black Jews), or high-status individuals who were baptized or, short of being baptized, denied any ties with the Jewish people (Walter Lippman). This state of affairs was coincident with clear lines of demarcation between Jewishness and nonJewishness and reinforced very low rates of intermarriage. Although some attention was directed to a rise in intermarriage rates in the 1960s, rates among Jews remained extraordinarily low compared to other minority groups. The argument that ethnicity rather than religion drove this opposition to intermarriage is supported by the fact that in popular Jewish parlance the term “intermarriage” meant a marriage between a born Jew and a born non-Jew, regardless of whether or not the latter had converted. Jews wondered why a nonJew would want to convert to Judaism. The convert remained an outsider since Judaism was basically a matter of birth. Conversion, in the minds of Jews, took place only for the sake of marriage, most often to placate Jewish parents. The notion of conversion based on religious conviction was foreign to the thinking of most Jews. In addition, a good part of the opposition to intermarriage stemmed, I suspect, from the Jewish parents’ sense that they would be uncomfortable interrelating with the non-Jewish parents of the spouse.2 Despite increasing acceptance of Jews in the business and professional world, they were still not accepted nor did they feel comfortable in the social presence of Gentiles. The foregoing is misleading if it suggests that American Jews sought to isolate themselves from the non-Jewish world. On the contrary; they were anxious to enter that world, although they assumed that the price for such entry would not include surrendering their Jewish identity. That, after all, is what they thought made America different and a true paradise for Jews. Nothing reflects this orientation better than the political proclivities of American Jews.

2 For more on the social discomfort of Jews—even economically successful ones— with non-Jews, see Sklare, Marshall, 1967, chapter 8.

146

 

A pure survival strategy would dictate that Jews and certainly Jewish organizations abstain from political involvement in issues that do not affect them. If Jews did engage in political activity other than in defense of Jewish interests, a strategy of survival would dictate that they do so as individuals and not under a Jewish banner. Furthermore, if Jewish organizations were to engage in politics, it would make sense for them, other things being equal, to seek a platform attractive to most other Americans. But American Jews have not done so. Indeed, in the political realm, especially in matters of religion and state, Jews behave like missionaries seeking to coerce unbelievers to the true faith.3 Since the time of Roosevelt and the New Deal, but especially since World War II, Jews have been deeply committed to the political agenda of American liberalism. In fact, they have done as much as any group in the U.S. to shape that agenda. Its major planks have included strict separation of religion and state, support for the civil rights of minority groups (when civil rights were a major issue in American politics), government intervention in the economy (this is less true today), and a latitudinarian policy, i.e., an emphasis on individual rights in matters involving abortion, sex, and pornography. American Jews insist that their liberalism is an extension of their Jewish tradition. It is clear to me that the liberal political agenda is not an extension of the Jewish tradition nor is there a relationship between adherence to political liberalism and adherence to the Jewish heritage. It seems equally clear to me that the liberal political agenda, especially the emphasis on individual autonomy, undermines Judaism and Jewish continuity. Nevertheless, Jews believe the opposite to be true. In fact, the commitment to liberalism is the major tie, in the

3 For an opposing view, see Chanes, forthcoming. According to Chanes, a longtime participant in and a very knowledgeable observer of Jewish organizational life in the U.S., antisemitism, Israel, and the security of Jewish communities abroad are the priority issues that govern Jewish political advocacy. The secondary issues, such as separation of church and state, civil rights, and even welfare issues, are important to Jewish leaders because they affect the welfare of Jews; it is the welfare of Jews which dictates the particular positions that the Jews adopt. I would argue, contrary to Chanes’ position, that it is because American Jews and their organizational leaders in particular are liberal that they interpret the welfare and security of Jews through a liberal prism. The best example, in my opinion, is the issue of separation of church and state. Separation, in my opinion, is disastrous for the interests of Jewish continuity and survival, but Jews and their leaders in particular insist that the separation of church and state is in the Jewish interest.

   

147

minds of many Jews, that links them to Judaism (Cohen and Eisen, 2000). In pressing the liberal agenda, American Jews are convinced that they are pressing a just and fair agenda of benefit to the vast majority of Americans, whether other Americans know it or not. Liberalism, in the eyes of American Jews, is the universalistic message of Judaism and is equal in importance to any aspect of Jewish particularism, if not more important.4 This commitment to liberalism runs very deep. It is less true of Orthodox Jews, but my own impression is that only haredi Jews reject it. Modern Orthodox Jews of my acquaintance, with a few exceptions, support the liberal agenda with only a drop less enthusiasm than the non-Orthodox. While commitment to liberalism has remained central to the Jewish identity of many American Jews, other aspects of Jewish identity have undergone dramatic change. These changes are related, as both cause and effect, to the personalization and privatization of religion in the United States, a phenomenon well documented among nonJews5 and vividly illustrated in a number of studies of American Jews (see, for example, Bershtel, and Graubard, 1992; Susser and Liebman, 1999; and Cohen and Eisen, 2000). It is best described as the notion that it is proper and even desirable for an individual to construct his/her own pattern of religious belief and behavior, choosing only that which suits him/her. Personalization of religion has been accompanied by greater emphasis on the spiritual quality of one’s life. In the case of Jews the immediate consequence has been a radical decline in ethnic commitments (feelings of attachment to the Jewish people, concern with Israel or the fate of Jews outside one’s own community) (Cohen, 1999), and a decline in the importance of the systematic observance of Jewish ritual viewed as a mandate imposed from without. It does not mean a decline in the observance of one

4 A recent survey found that “American Jews remain strongly supportive of predominantly liberal social justice causes.” A total of 56 percent claimed that social justice was more important to their Jewish identity than Tora or text study. Combined with the fact that 74 percent do not care whether their own social activism falls under Jewish or non-Jewish auspices, this bodes poorly for Jewish continuity. See JTS Weekly News Digest (Apr. 13, 2001), p. 4. 5 Kaspar Schwenkfeld, a follower of Martin Luther, argued that since each soul has a unique destiny, every person can frame his or her creed within the common Christian religion. “They deserve to have faith custom-tailored to their needs. Today, when Individualism has turned from a fitful theme to a political and social right this seer deserves to rank as the Reformer with the greatest following—millions are Schwenkfeldians sans le savoir.” Barzun, Jacques, 2000: 33.

148

 

or more rituals that the individual finds personally appealing. This form of observance may well have increased.6 Personalism or privatization, as the terms suggest, focuses religious life on the actual experiences of each individual. Even when the experience takes place in the company of others, indeed, requires others for its consummation, it remains the individual’s experience of the group encounter that is central. “Immediacy,” “authenticity,” the “here and now,” the “face-to-face” encounter, the “actually lived moment,” the “meaningful experience”—all the verbal insignia of personalism—run against the grain of responsibilities to either an abstract collectivity or to an impersonal code of do’s and don’ts. If it is not meaningful, there is little sense in doing it—customary duties notwithstanding. Hence, the personalist lifestyle is indeed a “style,” that is, a form of life given to sharp fluctuations and not a stable, continuous structure. It tends to be constituted out of episodic and exceptional experiences that light up the workaday and lackluster, rather than out of a fixed position that encourages disciplined regularity or patterned coherence. Jewishness has increasingly become an acquired taste, not a historical obligation. Personalism and privatization detach individuals from the larger social collectives of which they are a part, release them from the binding duties imposed by these collectives, and lead them toward self-directed lives that pursue rare moments of meaning and growth. It should be stressed, however, that these “moments” may constitute periods of intense involvement. Folk festivals, musical happenings, even emotional prayer services make strong impressions on the participants, however episodic these impressions may be. They are not, in my opinion, signs of Jewish revival although some observers have chosen to interpret them as such. This privatization process takes place in an open, universalizing, almost syncretistic context. Although many Jews feel far more “spiritual” and are far more open to “spiritual” moods than their parents (for example, younger Jews are more likely to attest to a belief in God than older Jews), spiritual matters are not necessarily associated in their minds with Jewish matters. The synagogue and even attendance at Sabbath services remains an important institution for many Jews, but it is the communal and social aspects of the syna-

6

On this phenomenon and many examples, see Liebman, and Cohen, 1990.

   

149

gogue that attracts the “worshippers” (see, for example, Prell, 2000; Cohen and Eisen, 2000). Under these circumstances, barriers to intermarriage are rapidly disappearing. From this personalist perspective, true love—the ultimate immediate personal experience—far supersedes the historical weight of ethnic ties. Indeed, the more love needs to overcome obstacles (ethnic or religious) in order to be realized, the more authentic and marvelous it is considered. This is well illustrated in the survey of American Jews conducted by the American Jewish Committee in the year 2000 (American Jewish Committee, 1/2001). Only 30 percent of those surveyed agreed that “it would pain me if my child married a gentile”; only 12 percent voiced strong disapproval of intermarriage (an additional 30 percent said they were disappointed by intermarriage); and half indicated that “it is racist to oppose Jewish-gentile marriages.” What all this points to is the fact that not only are boundaries between Jews and non-Jews rapidly disappearing, but the maintenance of such boundaries is no longer considered legitimate. What is taking place among a majority of American Jews is a process of group assimilation. Assimilation is not simply a process whereby individuals distance themselves further and further from their own roots. It is also a process in which the group increasingly internalizes conceptions that prevail in the general culture about itself, about others, and about God. This form of acculturation and coalescence is probably inevitable in an open society. Whatever else may be said on its behalf, it certainly threatens the survival and continuity of a recognizably Jewish community in the United States. I want to briefly summarize the state of American Jewish identity in a manner that affords comparability with Jewish identity in other societies. 1. Jews in the U.S., as individuals, set the boundaries of the definition of Jewishness. This definition may vary from community to community, from time to time, from context to context, and among individual Jews. Non-Jews seem rather indifferent to the question of who is or is not a Jew. There are certainly no governmental constraints or even guidelines in this matter. At no time in the history of American Jewry have the boundaries defining who is a Jew been more open and less clear. The rising rate of intermarriage means that more and more children identify themselves as half-Jewish or partially Jewish. Furthermore, whereas in the past non-Jews who married Jews were generally lapsed or religiously indifferent Christians,

150

 

this is no longer the case. The Jewish community is increasingly inclusive and uncomfortable with the notion of boundaries. This is, in part, a function of a climate of opinion which has made inclusivity a virtue and exclusivity a cardinal sin. Furthermore, parents and grandparents have a strong desire to feel that their offspring are Jewish. Rabbis and communal leaders want the financial resources and the membership numbers that the half-Jews or partial Jews bring with them and they fear the consequences of offending intermarried Jews or their families. Given the breakdown of communal norms that heretofore rejected intermarriage, the community, including most synagogues, has no patience with leaders who voice objections to intermarriage, much less act upon their convictions. 2. Boundary changes take place in accordance with changes in the cultural and political climate of the American urban middle class. Jews are very much a part of this cultural and political climate and generally adopt its tenets without being conscious of the impact of these changes on their own assumptions and behavior. Nothing, in my opinion, is more destructive of Jewish life than the assumption that the regnant cultural climate in the United States is necessarily consistent with Jewish continuity and survival. 3. Religious observance and ethnicity remain closely intertwined at the level of deepest commitment but the religion-ethnicity package has unraveled at lower levels of Jewish commitment. It is, however, significant that many Jews insist on redefining what it means to be a good Jew with emphasis on subjective factors such as feeling Jewish. The fact that they bother to do so, however mistaken the observer may deem this redefinition, points to continued vitality in Jewish life.

CHAPTER TEN

IDENTITY AND IDENTIFICATION OF JEWISH BABY BOOMERS Chaim I. Waxman For much of the past decade, I was involved in a study of the American Jewish baby boomer population, the results of which are in my book, Jewish Baby Boomers: A Communal Perspective (Waxman, 2001). Based largely on the 1990 National Jewish Population Survey, the work looks at Jews as both a religious and an ethnic group and compares Jewish baby boomers with Protestant and Catholic baby boomers, as well as with baby boomers from other ethnic groups. It then compares Jewish baby boomers even more extensively with their predecessors, the “pre-World War II” (or pre-WWII) generation, those born in 1925–1945. The focus is not so much on the condition of Jewish baby boomers as individuals as on the baby boomers as part of a Jewish collectivity. As indicated in the subtitle, the book has a communal perspective. This chapter reports on some of the major findings of that study, as well as patterns among younger generations of American Jews. There has long been a good deal of confusion among scholars as to the notions of “identity” and “identification.” To complicate matters further, within the framework of the newer “post-modernist” conception, Jewish identity is something that individuals create for themselves and involves how they think and feel emotionally about their Jewishness (Rubin-Dorsky and Fishkin, 1996). It is therefore not very susceptible to measurement by responses to survey questions. Given the semantic and conceptual complexities, I chose to refer to the variables that I selected as indicators of identity and identification. Since I knew of no other reliable and available criteria for analyzing Jewish identity, the empirical data in the National Jewish Population Survey (NJPS) that reflect Jewish identification were also taken as indicators of Jewish identity. In brief, it was found that, on the one hand, more than 85 percent of Jewish baby boomers stated that being Jewish is important

152

 . 

or very important to them. On the other hand, on almost every indicator of Jewishness as ethnicity and as religion, the baby boomers manifested lower levels than their elders in the pre-WWII cohort. For example, fewer Jewish baby boomers than members of the pre-World War II cohort maintain the traditional kosher dietary rituals or fast on Yom Kippur; fewer identify with the more traditional denominations, i.e., Orthodox and Conservative; fewer have ever visited Israel; fewer contribute to Jewish charities; fewer report that their closest friends are Jewish; fewer view antisemitism as a serious problem in the U.S.; and more of them report having received no formal Jewish education. They attend synagogue services less frequently; they express weaker emotional attachments to Israel; they are less likely to consider the Jewishness of their neighborhood important; they are less likely to live in Jewish neighborhoods; they are more limited in their knowledge of a Jewish language (Yiddish or Hebrew); and they are more likely to intermarry. The intermarriage rates vary with denominational traditionalism and are highest among the Reform. Intermarriage, in turn, correlates with lower levels of Jewish identity and identification. Perhaps this is not what the sociologist Herbert Gans meant by “symbolic ethnicity.” He suggested that traditional ethnic identity entailed rootedness in the ethnic social structure with extensive as well as intensive involvement. Symbolic ethnicity has neither the social nor the psychological depth of traditional ethnicity. It is a matter of personal identity-construction in which one chooses if, when, and how to be ethnic. As Gans puts it, [this] generation has grown up without assigned roles or groups that anchor ethnicity, so that identity can no longer be taken for granted. . . . This has two important consequences for ethnic behavior. First, given the degree to which the third generation has acculturated and assimilated, most people look for easy and intermittent ways of expressing their identity, for ways that do not conflict with other ways of life. As a result, they refrain from ethnic behavior that requires an arduous or time-consuming commitment either to a culture that must be practiced constantly, or to organizations that demand active membership. Second, because people’s concern is with identity rather than with cultural practices or group relationships, they are free to look for ways of expressing that identity which suits them best, thus opening up the possibility of voluntary, diverse, or individualistic ethnicity (Gans, 1979: 203–204).

Although he views this ethnicity as one “which is worn very lightly,” he says he would not be surprised if it persisted into the fifth gen-

    

153

eration and perhaps even longer because there are both internal forces, especially those of identity needs, and external structural forces, relating to immigration patterns and processes, that “encourage the persistence of symbolic ethnicity (Gans, 1979: 215).” Recent research indicates that, indeed, the “identity needs” of America’s Jews are quite strong and, perhaps, increasing. As indicated previously, a very high percentage claim that being Jewish is important to them. Bethamie Horowitz goes further and, on the basis of her findings, argues that Jewish identity in America is not declining but is rather in flux. While 70 percent of her respondents reported low or declining ritual observance, a similar number—63 percent— reported high or increasing levels of subjective, “interior” Jewish attachment. Steven Cohen and Arnold Eisen conducted qualitative research on a similar American Jewish sample and conclude that these people increasingly find meaning in the private spheres of the self and the family, rather than through involvement in the public spheres of organizations and institutions. Involvement in such causes as the Holocaust and Israel or contributing to Jewish philanthropy are no longer the major sources of Jewish meaning for the baby boomer generation. Like the NJPS, Cohen and Eisen found that the boundaries that previously separated Jews from non-Jews are weaker than before and the baby boomers are increasingly less connected to the communal expression of either Judaism or Jewishness (see Tables). Cohen and Eisen found that those they interviewed seek Jewish meaning and derive the most meaning from those rituals and practices that involve family members. They are committed to Judaism and want to pass it on to their children but they do not socialize their children Jewishly by establishing clear boundaries of acceptable behavior. Indeed, a detailed analysis of Jewish children and adolescents, based on the 1990 NJPS, indicates that they are being reared in households with a lower level of Jewish commitment and therefore their families cannot transmit Jewish norms and values even if they wish to do so. Fewer than half (46 percent) of Jewish children aged 6–17 receive any formal Jewish education. Given the increasing rate of intermarriage, a growing number of children will be reared in families that do not light Hanukka candles; more will have Christmas trees; fewer will attend a Passover seder, celebrate Sabbath or Purim, contribute to Jewish charities, participate in Jewish communal activities,

 . 

154

Table 10.1: The Importance of Being Jewish Boomers Not important

Pre-WWII

3.0

2.9

Not very important

11.4

5.9

Somewhat important

42.0

30.0

Very important

43.7

61.3

100.0

100.0

Total

Table 10.2: Performance of Household Rituals Boomers

Pre-WWII

Household lights candles Friday night

17.7

16.3

Household attends seder

74.3

70.5

Someone in household buys kosher meat

16.3

16.3

Household uses separate meat and dairy dishes

12.1

13.5

Someone in household lights Hanukka candles

73.3

67.0

Table 10.3: Number of Times Respondent has been to Israel Boomers (100%)

Pre-WWII (100%)

Once

12.8

18.8

Twice

4.8

5.2

3 or more

5.6

6.1

Born in Israel

1.4

0.6

75.3

69.6

Never

Table 10.4: Emotional Attachment to Israel Boomers

Pre-WWII

Not attached

24.2

14.9

Somewhat attached

47.0

37.1

    

155

Table 10.4 (cont.) Boomers

Pre-WWII

Very attached

18.2

32.2

Extremely attached

10.6

15.8

100.0

100.0

Total

Table 10.5: Number of Jewish Organizations to Which Respondent Belongs Boomers

Pre-WWII

None

72.0

64.7

One

16.5

18.8

Two

7.1

5.7

Three or more

4.4

10.7

100.0

100.0

Total

Table 10.6: Closest Friends Who are Jewish Boomers None Jewish

Pre-WWII

6.3

5.2

Few or some Jewish

60.4

44.1

Most Jewish

24.3

34.2

9.0

16.4

100.0

100.0

All Jewish Total

Table 10.7: Jewishness of the Neighborhood Boomers

Pre-WWII

Not at all

33.0

31.0

Somewhat

59.1

59.9

7.9

9.1

100.0

100.0

All Jewish Total

 . 

156

Table 10.8: Knowledge of Spoken Hebrew and Yiddish Boomers

Pre-WWII

Hebrew

27.6

19.1

Yiddish

23.6

42.6

Table 10.9: Intermarriage Rates in the Major Jewish Denominations Boomers

Pre-WWII

Orthodox

15.8

14.4

Conserve

44.0

17.8

Reform

52.3

34.0

Table 10.10: Jewish Involvement of Endogamous and Intermarried Baby Boomers Spouse Jewish

Spouse non-Jewish

Has never been to Israel

65.6

86.7

Doesn’t belong to any Jewish organizations

60.1

85.9

Did not receive any Jewish education

19.3

29.7

Has not volunteered for a Jewish organization

60.7

91.9

Doesn’t fast on Yom Kippur

26.6

61.3

Doesn’t attend synagogue services at all

6.4

23.5

Household never lights candles on Friday night

33.9

79.4

Household never attends a Passover seder

3.3

16.9

No one in household ever lights Hanukka candles

4.3

17.8

Household never has a Christmas tree

88.5

14.7

No one in household celebrates Yom Ha-atzma"ut

67.0

92.7

No one in household is a synagogue member

37.6

87.2

    

157

or live in neighborhoods that are very or somewhat Jewish (Keysar, Kosmin, and Scheckner, 2000). Whereas Keysar and her colleagues suggest that the decline in Jewish identification is primarily the consequence of intermarriage, Cohen and Eisen’s work suggests somewhat similar patterns among children of endogamous Jewish marriages as well. Jewish baby boomers, whether intermarried or not, increasingly do not function Jewishly within a normative framework that establishes standards of what is “proper Jewish behavior.” This seems to be the nature of identity in the post-modern era. Identity is no longer fixed. Each individual creates his or her own identity and all identities are deemed valid. In contrast to the famous survey question “What is a good Jew?” asked by Marshall Sklare and Joseph Greenblum in their study of the Jews of “Lakeville,” today’s Jews increasingly reject the very notion of a “good Jew.” They reject the notion that anything specific is required. Each individual is free to define his or her own Jewishness. The sources of this development lie in processes within the larger society. In the second half of the twentieth century, according to Roger Inglehart’s analysis, a major “culture shift” took place in modern societies. Inglehart’s comprehensive cross-cultural surveys and analyses reveal broad international patterns. In his analysis of survey data gathered in twenty-five industrial societies, primarily in Western Europe and the United States, between 1970 and 1986, Inglehart argues that “economic, technological, and sociopolitical changes have been transforming the cultures of advanced industrial societies in profoundly important ways” (Inglehart, 1990: 3). Following Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, according to which the needs for food, shelter, and sex are on the lowest rung and must be satisfied before a person can move up the pyramid to its apex (self-actualization), Inglehart maintains that individuals are most concerned with satisfying material needs and eliminating threats to their physical security. “Materialist” values, he avers, which are characteristic of less secure societies (economically and otherwise), are values which emphasize material security. In politics, these would focus on such needs as strong leaders and order. In the realm of economics, such values emphasize economic growth and strong motivation for individual achievement. In the area of sexuality and family norms, the emphasis would be on the maximization of reproduction within the two-parent family. And in religion, the emphasis is on a higher power and absolute rules.

158

 . 

However, once the basic material needs are satisfied and physical safety is assured, people strive for “postmaterialist” values, which entail the satisfaction of more remote needs, many of them in the spiritual, aesthetic, and interpersonal realms. Their focus becomes self-fulfillment and personal autonomy, rather than identifying with their families, localities, ethnic groups, or even nations. The “culture shift” is manifested in a declining respect for authority and increased mass participation in public activity; an increasing emphasis on subjective well-being and quality-of-life concerns; more emphasis on meaningful work; greater choice with respect to sexual norms; declining confidence in established religious institutions and declining rates of church attendance; and increased contemplation of the purpose and meaning of life. This shift from central authority to individual autonomy has taken place in the “postmaterialist” Western society of the late twentieth century. Accordingly, post-modernists are less bound by group affiliations, which should not be so surprising since one of the basic distinguishing features of modernity, as compared to traditional society, is the greater emphasis on the individual. In the mid-1980s, Robert Bellah and his colleagues introduced “Sheila,” who created her own religion, “sheilaism” (Bellah, 1985, 1996). More recently, the social scientist Robert Putnam argued that Americans are increasingly detached from social groups such as the community, are less likely to be involved in civic activities, and are less likely to join parent-teacher associations, unions, political parties, and a host of other social groups, and this, he argues, has serious implications for the future of American society (Putnam, 2000). It now appears, however, that—at least in the United States— there has been another significant shift, this time in the opposite direction. The destruction of the World Trade Center in New York on September 11, 2001, and the subsequent anthrax terrorism appear to have shaken the sense of complacency that characterized much of the West in recent years. There is now much more fear and anxiety concerning global terrorism. There is a decreased sense of security in the United States and there have been increased manifestations of civic involvement, some of which Putnam himself indicated shortly after the destruction of the WTC (Putnam, 2001). For American Jews, the shift is much more profound. In addition to the al-Qa"ida terrorism against the United States and the movement’s overt antisemitism, the Palestinian Arab suicide bombings, the support for these bombings from a variety of pro-Palestinian

    

159

groups, and a variety of related issues have shaken American Jews’ sense of security. The concern about growing antisemitism “out there” was eloquently and powerfully expressed by Jonathan Rosen in a New York Times Magazine article after September 11. As Jodi Wilgoren reported, Perhaps even more than the conflict in the Middle East, the situation in Europe has shaken American Jews’ sense of security. A poll this month showed that more people in France, Italy and Britain sympathized with the Palestinians than with Israel.

Statements from the United Nations and the European Union condemning the Israeli occupation and the Israeli Army’s invasion of West Bank cities, coupled with antisemitic attacks on Jewish cemeteries, school buses and a teenage soccer team, have led many to draw parallels with anti-Jewish attitudes abroad in the 1930’s (Wilgoren, 2002). The question we now face is the long-lasting effect of these events. Although it presently appears to be pure fantasy, most Jews have a strong desire to see a real peace process. Assuming that there will be one, sooner or later, the question then becomes the long-lasting impact of the current tensions. Have they unalterably moved the pendulum in the other direction? Will their effect be long-lasting? If post-modern Jewish identity should intensify again, those who regard affiliation with the Jewish people—Klal Yisrael—as an integral part of Jewishness will have some concerns. How will post-modern Jewish identity affect these? I don’t have any panaceas, but I am convinced that the issue is something which we increasingly need to address. And I am convinced that we have to think of engaging the unaffiliated and loosely affiliated on their own turf. I am intrigued, although I remain quite skeptical, by the suggestion that the Internet provides the potential for building what Rheingold (1994), Hornsby (2001), and others have called a “virtual community.” Jews and Judaism have a significant presence on the Web. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of websites on Jewish subjects. There are scores of host indexing sites which, in addition to listing sites of Jewish interest, offer the latest Jewish news from a wide variety of sources, hundreds of “listservs” for discussions on a very broad array of Jewish topics, and “shopping malls” for the purchase of Judaica of every kind. There are even several guidebooks to the Jewish Internet. Through the use of the Internet, Jewish institutions may be able to reach the

160

 . 

unaffiliated. However, that can only be done by making the community attractive and desirable. In the end, however, such attempts pose a dilemma analogous to that presented by the sociologist Peter Berger at the conclusion of The Sacred Canopy, his book on religion in modern society. As he puts it, The pluralistic situation presents the religious institutions with two ideal-typical options. They can either accommodate themselves to the situation, play the pluralistic game of religious free enterprise, and come to terms as best they can with the plausibility problem by modifying their product in accordance with consumer demands. Or they can refuse to accommodate themselves, entrench themselves behind whatever socioreligious structures they can maintain or construct, and continue to profess the old objectivities as much as possible as if nothing had happened. Obviously there are various intermediate possibilities between these two ideal-typical options, with varying degrees of accommodation and intransigence. Both ideal-typical options have problems on the level of theory as well as on the level of “social engineering.” (Berger, 1969: 152–153).

Whereas the choices he presents form a “crisis of theology,” the challenge facing the Jewish community suggests a crisis of boundaries. That is, the question facing the Jewish community is how long it will be able to dodge the extremely thorny issue of boundary maintenance: are there any outer limits beyond which one is beyond the pale?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

JEWISH CONTINUITY FROM THE REFORM-JUDAISM PERSPECTIVE Ofer Shiff The question of American-Jewish continuity is often discussed in connection with the threats of acculturation and assimilation, themselves usually portrayed as problematic, if not negative, byproducts of the open and pluralistic American society. The main premise in this chapter is that the question of Jewish continuity was viewed quite differently from the vantage point of the classical universalistic Reform ideology. At least until the 1950s and early 1960s, the proponents of this perspective believed that the main threat to Jewish continuity originated not in the improving chances of Jews’ integration into their non-Jewish surroundings but rather in the looming obstacles to a successful completion of this very process of acculturation and integration. Similar to the centrality of the national-cohesion component in the Zionist perception, the Reform view—shared by all flanks of the movement—treated the kernel of monotheistic religious faith and the universalistic ideas that flow from it as the factor that has done the most to assure Jewish continuity. According to the Reform, the universalistic ideas represent the Jewish contribution to world civilization and define the perennial “Jewish mind” or “genius.” Moreover, the universalistic fundamental was viewed as the source of Jewish creative dynamism, which allowed Judaism to develop and cope with surrounding cultures without forfeiting its physical and spiritual uniqueness. The affirmative meaning that the Reform ideology lends to the process of Jewish integration, and the threatening meaning that it attributes to all factors that endanger this process, are important components of this perception. From the standpoint of the universalistic-Reform ideology, social integration is a goal that may ensure Jewish continuity as part of the “mission” that Judaism has been urged to pursue since the dawn of history, i.e., to disseminate the

162

 

universalistic message to all of humankind.1 According to this approach, the very existence and development of Judaism, and the fulfillment of its spiritual purpose, hinges on its ability to integrate into its surroundings willingly, to maintain relations of reciprocal trust with these surroundings, and to assimilate their culture and values actively. Thus, exponents of this approach regarded all challenges that might imperil the integration process, whether they originate in internal particularistic Jewish outlooks or in the exogenous obstacle of antisemitism, as the principal menace to Jewish continuity. In their view, these challenges threatened to isolate Judaism, sever it from its sources of vitality, and thereby leave it desiccated and unable to attain its spiritual and ethical goals. This chapter examines the relevancy of this universalistic-Reform perspective both historically, especially during the 1930s and 1940s, and in the context of today’s challenges to Jewish continuity. It asks whether the historical universalistic-Reform answers to the question of Jewish continuity can still contribute to our understanding of the current American-Jewish discourse, or perhaps, in retrospect and in view of today’s growing awareness of the threats posed by assimilation, one should view the universalistic answers as obsolete and as playing only a negative role in Judaism’s continuous struggle for continuity. Challenges to the Universalistic-Reform Perspective during the 1930s and 1940s Historically, one can best gauge the full ideological hardship that the proponents of universalistic-Reform perspective encountered by examining their struggle with the challenges to Jewish continuity in the 1930s and 1940s. During this period, it was most difficult to remain optimistic about the ability to maintain relations of reciprocal trust between Jews and non-Jews, and it was even harder to continue viewing integration and voluntary assimilation as sanctified principles in the Jewish existential ideology. In this respect, one may say that

1 This chapter focuses less on the metamorphoses of the mission idea itself than on the long-term Reform need to craft a Jewish continuity ideology that is part of the process of Jewish integration in America.

 — - 

163

the Holocaust and the growing wave of American antisemitism during this period threatened to refute, in the most extreme manner, all basic assumptions and universalistic hopes of the Reform ideology. Moreover, during that time, the Zionist ideology became the main vehicle for the expression of pan-Jewish hope and solidarity, both among American Jews and even in the Reform Movement itself. It thus became almost impossible for proponents of the universalistic-Reform ideology to continue criticizing the particularistic Zionist assertions as no less a threat to Jewish survival than the exogenous threats of antisemitism. One may conclude by stating that in many respects the Holocaust exposed the universalistic-Jewish faith as a defeated and obsolete answer to the question of Jewish survival in modern society. At the same time, although the foregoing description may suggest otherwise, one should describe the pattern adopted by the universalistic-Reform perspective to cope with the challenges to Jewish existence during the Holocaust as representative of an ideology of Jewish survival that, although almost diametrically opposed to Zionism in its universalistic definitions, largely paralleled Zionism in its concern for the collective struggle for Jewish survival and continuity. To sharpen the foregoing remarks, one may state axiomatically that the American Reform and the Zionist outlooks have the commonality of modern Jewish roots. Despite the difference and, at times, the acrid contrasts between them, the perceptions of the Reform Movement and the Zionist Movement should be seen as parallel reflections of the “normalization” quest that aspired to cope with the crisis of Jewish identity in the modern era. This crisis originated in the exposure of Jewish society in Central and, subsequently, Eastern Europe to the ideas of the Haskala (the Jewish Enlightenment) and the hopes of emancipation, which left the Jewish individual suspended between two types of belonging, the Jewish-particularistic and the civic-universal. In the main, the crisis reflected the Jews’ modern desire to integrate into their surroundings without having to repudiate their Jewish identity—or to put it differently, to remain loyal to their Jewish identity without being forced, on this account, to accept an inferior status of “foreignness” vis-à-vis their non-Jewish surroundings. In both Europe and America, this hope exposed modern Jews to continual inner tension between the universal and particularistic components of their identity or between their wish to be “Jews” and “citizens” concurrently.

164

 

Thus, the struggle to harmonize the Jewish-particularistic and civicuniversal components of the modern Jewish identity should be seen as the overall context of this discussion. A basic premise in this chapter is that all Jewish coping mechanisms that, like Reform and Zionism in its American version, were based on profound and optimistic faith in the Jews’ ability to effect this harmonization should be considered members of one inclusive group of efforts to cope with the Jewish identity crisis. The optimistic aspiration is also what distinguishes between approaches such as Zionism and the Reform from pessimistic approaches that chose to confront the crisis of modernity in one direction only, the universalistic or the particularistic. The latter attitudes, whether they wish to insulate Judaism from the effects of modernity, as the haredim do, or whether they espouse assimilation and total disengagement from Jewish identity, are materially different from both Zionism and Reform in that they rejected, or did not believe in, the possibility of achieving the universalisticparticularistic harmonization. From this perspective, one may argue that less emphasis should be placed on the differences between the two normalization aspirations of Zionism and Reform, and that more attention should be given to the optimistic faith that they both shared. In this basic respect, there was no substantive difference in the type of challenge that the Holocaust presented to American Reform Judaism and to Zionism (Weiss, 1945; Myer, 1990: 229–230). In both cases, the antisemitic threat was identified with the danger of widening the particularisticuniversalistic dichotomy. In both cases, this threat was associated not only with the exogenous Nazi challenge but also with pessimistic Jewish responses that drew from the Holocaust conclusions of disbelief in the possibility of attaining the universalistic-particularistic harmonization. Within both movements, the Reform and the Zionist, fierce opposition developed in response to “extreme” particularistic Jewish trends that, in the aftermath of the Holocaust, preached voluntary seclusion and the construction of a rampart between Judaism and the ideas of the Emancipation. Equally, voices in both movements categorically rejected “extreme” universalistic Jewish trends that aspired to obliterate Jewish singularity altogether, perceiving them negatively as manifestations of assimilation and self-hatred. In this light, one may say that the menace of exacerbating the particularistic-universalistic contrast that the Holocaust created affected

 — - 

165

not only the Reform Movement but also all currents that embraced the optimistic modern Jewish outlook. The way that universalistic Reform Judaism coped with the Holocaust is a good illustration of this aspect precisely because of its total reliance on Jewish-Gentile coexistence as the basis for Jewish existence. The task of remaining optimistic about the universalistic-particularistic harmonization was substantially less difficult for those who, like the Zionists, believed from the outset that the point of departure in fulfilling this belief is a Jewish framework separate from society at large. Therefore, the way Reform Jews defended their optimism may illuminate an important aspect of the way all the optimistic modern Jewish currents, including Zionism, coped with the question of Jewish continuity during the Holocaust. This view of an essentially optimistic modern Jewish common denominator between Zionism and Reform may also affect our perception of the way issues in Jewish identity are tackled today. Seemingly, this view should be posited mainly against the outlook commonly expressed by intellectuals and scholars in various disciplines, i.e., that the modern Jewish identity was long defined only by negation and from a standpoint of passive victims who shared a common threat. The mitigation of this threat, according to those who hold this view, has revealed gaps and tensions that previously had been stifled or at least soft-pedaled and renders controversial the question of the very possibility of a pan-Jewish, self-sustaining, common denominator—an indicator of Klal Yisrael. My approach speaks of a very different and “affirmative” modern-Jewish heritage that has striven actively to develop coping patterns that would not place Jews in the position of having to choose between their identities as “Jews” and as “citizens.” It is this very striving, with its varying and sometimes clashing perceptions, that may also serve as a basis for a framework of pan-Jewish solidarity and identity in today’s fragmented and polarized Jewish scene. Thus, the general context of concern in this study’s discussion of Jewish continuity should be defined as a focus on how the “modern Jewish optimistic believer” attempts to refrain, despite the Holocaust on the one hand and the “temptations” of a pluralistic and open society on the other hand, from choosing between the alternatives of separatism from non-Jewish surroundings and total estrangement from Jewish identity and solidarity.

166

 

Coping Pattern or Escape Mechanism? When one explores the relevance of the universalistic coping pattern of the 1940 for today’s challenges to Jewish survival, one must honestly ask oneself the following question: should the universalistic pattern be considered a “positive” Jewish pattern of coping with the Holocaust, or had the universalistic inclination become so extreme at that time as to elicit a response that may be construed as negation of self and Jewishness as such? Had the universalistic coping pattern, in its quest to adopt a general American point of view, become an expression of intellectual and ideological disengagement from the particularistic Jewish past and utter disidentification with Jewish reality and suffering? In some cases, the aspiration to adopt a general American point of view certainly seems to have occasioned such extreme results that they tend to disregard the very reality of antisemitism, Nazism, and the particular aspects of Jewish suffering. An example of such a tendency was the November 1945 conference of the CCAR (Central Conference of American Rabbis) Commission on Justice and Peace, held in New York under the slogan of “Judaism and Race Relations.” Notwithstanding the date and theme of the conference, only the nonJewish well-wishers who attended the event explicitly mentioned Nazism or the Jews’ fate in the war. In contrast, the one hundred rabbis and members of the Reform Movement who took part in the gathering avoided any mention of Nazi ideology, the fate of European Jewry, and even the phenomenon of antisemitism. Instead, they stressed their profound commitment to all oppressed groups everywhere, especially the millions of exploited persons in Asia and Africa, and their resolve to wage all-out war against all manifestations of injustice to blacks, Indians, Burmese, Koreans, and Filipinos. Observing this universalistic social commitment from a historical perspective, one may certainly wonder how a Jewish conference on racism, held only a few months after the war, refrained from mentioning the specific manifestation of racism from which the Jews themselves had suffered. Even if the participants presumably identified with the suffering and humiliation of European Jewry, they did not articulate it in any way. They elected to express their feelings not from the “narrow,” particularistic angle of potential victims but solely from a universalistic perspective. Rabbi Ferdinand Isserman of St. Louis, the

 — - 

167

president of the conference, expressed this clearly. Making no reference to Jewish suffering, he stated, Because we believe in one God and in one humanity, we feel a deep sense of kinship with all races. . . . Without hesitancy, we identify ourselves with the oppressed everywhere. Their pain is our agony, their humiliation our hurt, their suffering our burden, their injustice our concern ( Jaffe, 1945: 80–82).

Although the conference was merely an extreme reflection of a more diverse and complex Reform trend, one cannot ignore the fact that Reform Judaism, as a movement, hardly paused to express directly the Jews’ feelings of bereavement and shock in the aftermath of the Holocaust. The Reform education system, which actually gathered much momentum in the immediate postwar era, provides a salient case in point. The Reform curricula in the second half of the 1940s shows a diverse and impressive array of courses that, however, omitted all mention, even by allusion, of the annihilation of European Jewry and the questions that might flow from it. A typical curriculum was that of Dr. Philip Jaffe, educational advisor to the New York Federation of Reform Synagogues. Jaffe sought to create a structure of continuing secondary studies for Jewish youth after bar mitzva age. His ambitious curriculum, designed to transcend the limits of the minimalistic Jewish education offered in Sunday School, included a range of courses on Jewish history and culture, many of them with an emphasis on a comparative American-Jewish perspective. However, notwithstanding its stated pretense of tackling major issues that might stand at the forefront of the consciousness of Jewish adolescents, the curriculum offered not even one course on the Holocaust (Pilchik, 1944: 16–18; Meyer, 1946: 42). Even more significant was the absence of reference to the postHolocaust feelings of bereavement in the Reform religious rite. Prayers, ceremonies, or other religious observances marking the Holocaust were hardly in evidence. There were two exceptions, which did not gain acceptance and survived as on-paper initiatives only. One of them, conceived by Rabbi Ely E. Pilchik back in June 1944, sought to engage all American citizens in “a nation-wide observance of [a] Yom Kippur [of ] . . . universal social justice.” Significantly, Pilchik suggested that such an observance would be “our [ Jewish] contribution to the soul of America in this critical hour . . . of affliction.” The second initiative, bruited by Rabbi Polish of Evanston, Illinois,

168

 

in July 1946, sought to establish a memorial day for “this greatest destruction in our history.” For this purpose, Polish suggested that a fast be observed on the Ninth of Av to commemorate, along with the destruction of the First and Second Temples, “our twentieth century disaster.” As stated, neither of these initiatives was accepted at that time, even Pilchik’s, with its universalistic and general American properties. This disregard of the Holocaust in ceremony and ritual was especially blatant in view of the Reform tendency at that time to reemphasize the ritual aspect of Judaism. Reporting on this trend, the CCAR Committee on Reform Practice described a lengthy series of “observances” that were celebrated with growing momentum in the second half of the 1940s. These observances, marked in a considerable proportion of Reform congregations (sometimes not on the exact date or only as part of festivities at the synagogue’s school), included some from the Jewish calendar, such as Hanukka, Jewish Arbor Day (Tu Bi-shevat), and Purim, and others from the American civic calendar, such as Brotherhood Week, Armistice Day, Thanksgiving, Race Sabbath, Mothers’ Day, and Washington’s and Lincoln’s birthdays. This lengthy series of “observances,” however, did not include a Holocaust memorial day, even though at least two occasions culled from the American calendar, Armistice Day and Race Sabbath, could have provided an American universalistic framework for this purpose. In addition, the Reform Movement began to install new observances in the Jewish calendar, such as Israel Independence Day and memorial days for important Reform leaders. Here, too, there was no mention of a Holocaust memorial day. What does this suggest about the extent of the Reform effort to confront the challenges to Jewish survival in that era? On the one hand, there is certainly room to criticize the movement for its inability to express directly the Jews’ particularistic feelings of agony, bereavement, and helplessness in the aftermath of the Holocaust. On the other hand, one may argue that by mobilizing against a surrender to the dispiriting reality of the Holocaust and, especially, by avoiding a situation in which this reality would portray Jewry’s very existence as contradictory to the main aspiration of Jews at the time, i.e., to integrate, the Reform Movement did engage in a genuine religious confrontation with the existential challenges that were relevant to American Jewry in the 1940s and 1950s Indeed, as they repressed direct confrontation with the Holocaust,

 — - 

169

many Reform leaders stressed the glittering future that awaited a fully integrated American Jewry, citing for this purpose the parallelism they had created between Judaism and the American principles of freedom and democracy. Notably, even though the Reform movement had treated this parallelism as a basic principle of sorts since its inception in the mid-nineteenth century, its reemphasis was a response, so to speak, to the pessimistic and negative self-image that Jewry might acquire if it “overidentified” with the Jews’ suffering and helplessness in the Holocaust. “Judaism and Democracy,” a statement of principles adopted in 1945 at the end of the seventiethanniversary celebrations of HUC (the Hebrew Union College), evinced a typical response. According to the statement, American democracy and Reform Judaism are “creating a natural synthesis . . . whose purpose is to . . . bring to all human kind the blessing of equality and justice.” Dr. Jacob R. Marcus, professor of Jewish history at HUC, reaffirmed this outlook: It remained for Hitler and the Nazi terrorists to give democracy its current meaning. . . . The ideals of both [Americanism and Judaism] are assimilated to one another. . . . The job of the Jew in this land today is, then, to attempt to influence the larger America to emancipate the ‘slavish part of mankind’ all over the world. . . . The Declaration of Independence and the Ten Commandments are both spiritual documents; the social goals of Americanism and Judaism are the same (Glueck, 1946: 10).

For many Reform leaders, the glittering future that American Jewry and, foremost, Reform Judaism awaited after the war was the selfevident conclusion of this equating of Judaism and American democracy. Now that the “Old World” centers of religion and culture had been destroyed, the Reform exponents stressed the position of leadership and responsibility that Reform Judaism must assume. In fact, the Reform leaders “used” the destruction of the centers of Jewish culture and religion in Europe to underscore the opposite state of American Jewry and, in the main, to demonstrate the vigor and vitality of the universalistic creed. These statements added up to an almost inadvertent declaration of independence by a young Jewish collective that European Jewish leaders had for years regarded as having settled in a “treife medina” (a religiously unclean country) where assimilation would doom all Jews to extinction. Now, after the Holocaust, Reform leaders compared the destruction of the European Jewish centers of learning with their own flourishing institutions and

170

 

regarded the result as solid proof of the correctness of their belief in America as the “promised land.” Adherence to the American values and way of life, they concluded, not only would not lead to physical or spiritual devastation but were the only guarantees of Jewish continuity and prosperity. For example, Professor Nelson Glueck, who became president of HUC in 1947, marked the seventieth anniversary of the founding of this institution by stressing its importance in the specific context of the destruction of the centers of religious study in Europe. “Who could have foretold then, seventy years ago,” he asked, “that this first and still foremost college of its kind in America would be one of the few left in the world to continue . . . the teaching of the great traditions of the Tora?” Nor did he forget to note that the splendid Jewish theological seminaries that had flourished abroad at the time HUC was founded were no more and that some of their scholars had found shelter at HUC. In the same vein, the Reform journal Liberal Judaism claimed in its lead article that Reform Judaism has a magnificent opportunity in American Jewish life . . . of helping to give the world the moral foundation on which alone it can now stand firm, and of rebuilding for Israel a new and creative life (Liberal Judaism, 8/1946: 1,2).

Thus, there was an acute contrast in Reform Judaism’s early postwar coping pattern between the absence of direct reference, at the movement level, to the particular Jewish feelings of bereavement and loss that the Holocaust had occasioned, on the one hand, and optimistic proclamations that stressed the splendid future and mission of a Judaism that integrated into its American environment, on the other hand. For many Reform Jews, it seems, the emotions of horror and helplessness that the Holocaust had fomented were so threatening to their hopes of integrating and gaining acceptance in American society that their movement had to counter them with optimistic universalistic “responses” ( Jick, 1981; Lipstadt, 1980/81; 1996). In a certain sense, this may have been a mirror image of the way the Yishuv and the young Israeli society confronted the Holocaust during the same years. This coping pattern, too, was not typified by an attempt to transform the tragic Jewish reality of anguish and helplessness into a “positive” focal point of collective Jewish-Israeli identity. Palestinian Jewry, like American Jewry, stressed symbols of heroism and optimism and, thereby, contrasted the fate of the Jew,

 — - 

171

which had been exposed in the Holocaust, with the belief in the ability to create, by means of Jewish sovereignty, a “new Jew” who, cleansed of the Diaspora mentality, leads a “healthy” and “normal” Jewish life. In the Yishuv, as in America, aversion to the traditional “victim” image of the Jew led to a reluctance to “overidentify” with the Jewish fate in the Holocaust. Taking this comparison another step, we may also say that in both the Yishuv and American Jewry, the manner and type of confrontation with the Holocaust were determined by Jewish existential needs that seemed more urgent at the time. Israeli society in its fledgling phase transformed confrontation with the Holocaust into a symbol that reflected the resurrection of Jewry in its homeland and made it a tool for the coalescence of social cohesion. The universalistic Jewish ideology faced a very different existential challenge: how to enable American Jews to form a coping pattern that would not force them to choose between their “Jewish” and “American” identities. From this standpoint, the main criterion to use in “judging” the universalistic Jewish manner of confrontation with the Holocaust at this time is not the intensity and profundity of its Jewish identity patterns but the extent to which it managed to offer American Jews Jewish identity patterns that, instead of threatening their identity as Americans, could be mobilized to fortify and reinforce this identity. Universalistic versus Particularistic Identification with Holocaust Victims The question of particularistic versus universalistic identification with the fate of European Jewry was the focal point of an internal Reform debate during that time. Many Reform leaders addressed themselves to this issue, terming it an internal American Jewish identity crisis that should reside in everyone’s consciousness even if it defies solution for the time being. A salient example is an article by Rabbi David Polish about the importance of prayer in the Reform synagogue. Polish focused his discussion on what he considered the shallowness and anemia of religious life in post-Holocaust Reform congregations. The problem in the Reform synagogue, he said, is not how to improve the form of the service or attract more worshippers but the contents of the prayers, which are “glib and much too smooth . . . [with] too much the flavor of hearty dinner. . . . They do not echo the tormented outcry of mutilated Israel and a bleeding

172

 

world.” Polish argued that “there is room for protest and hurt in our prayer books . . . and it is perfectly in order to wonder how God permitted this obscenity of their [ Jewish] martyrdom to come to pass.” However, Polish was also aware of the hazards of overemphasizing and addressing too directly the emotions of agony and protest in the prayer liturgy. Overemphasis of this aspect, in his opinion, might cause the worshipper’s personality to collapse so severely as leave it totally misshapen. To overcome this danger, Polish proposed that the liturgy focus on the exemplary feats in war of the Maccabees and the Zionists, since, in his opinion, identification with them might counterbalance the dispiriting message of the Holocaust (Polish, 1946: 10–16). Observing Polish’s proposed “antidote,” one may note the difficulty he has in articulating in direct religious terms the protest and anguish that the Holocaust occasioned. The threatening volume of the outcry that Polish insisted on expressing also explains why his urgings for a prayerbook inspired by the agonies of the victims of Bergen-Belsen were unrequited. Unlike Polish and many of his colleagues who stubbornly continued to confront this apparently irresolvable internal contradiction between the particularistic Jewish outcry and the need to devise a “normal” American Jewish point of view, a minority of rabbis attempted to extricate themselves from the contradiction by avoiding it totally. Some of them chose to “solve” it by moving toward a normalization so general as to repudiate the particularistic Jewish suffering and anguish altogether. The representatives of this group, mostly affiliated with the American Council for Judaism and Reform organizations such as the Commission on Justice and Peace, attempted to emphasize universalistic and general American goals to the total exclusion of particularistic Jewish suffering. Another faction of Reform leaders tried to avoid the internal contradiction by heading in the opposite direction, i.e., by embracing social and spiritual introversion and conceding ab initio any attempt to invest the confrontation with Jewish suffering in the Holocaust with universal American meaning. One may find examples of these approaches in the deliberations of the 1942 CCAR. Among the lectures at the conference, there were two keynote addresses on “the state of liberal Judaism in a reactionary world.” The first lecture, by Rabbi William G. Braude, born in Lithuania and rabbi of the Reform congregation in Providence, Rhode Island, touched off wide controversy. Braude warned the conference attendees not to “soothe ourselves with false hopes.” He fur-

 — - 

173

ther noted that “the lice and typhus ghettoes of Warsaw and Lublin are not remote. Though we are not in them, we are of them.” In a departure from the optimistic faith in America, Braude believed that American Jews’ feelings of partnership in fate with the Nazis’ victims must reflect parallel developments in their own American status. “Even if our statutory position remains unaffected,” he noted, “our social position has already been shaken.” This trend of thought led Braude to such pessimistic conclusions that he jettisoned the universalistic doctrine and opted for an inward-facing credo. In his opinion, Reform Jews should respond to the ascent of Nazism and antisemitism by abandoning their previous exclusive emphasis on the struggle for universal social justice. Instead, they should adopt a new codex (an “updated Shulhan Arukh”) that carries particularistic Jewish emphases: meritorious deeds that focus on Jews, regular morning prayers, an hour a day for religious study for its own sake, compulsory fasting by Reform rabbis on the Ninth of Av and Yom Kippur, eschewing of pork, and prohibition of travel on the Sabbath except for worship purposes. The CCAR participants who responded to Braude’s pessimistic conclusions fell into two groups. One group, representing the ultrauniversalistic line of thinking, unequivocally criticized Braude’s “defeatist” thinking as seclusionist. The second and larger group, composed of moderate and pragmatic universalists, showed signs of vacillation and internal confusion in its criticism of Braude. Most members of this group agreed with Braude about the impossibility, at that phase of the Holocaust, of adhering dogmatically to the optimistic liberal beliefs of the nineteenth century. However, despite their painful acceptance of this pessimistic assessment, they criticized the ostensible conclusion, i.e., that the aspiration for universal social justice and the imperative of particularistic Jewish solidarity might be mutually exclusive. They found it impossible to renounce their belief in the most fundamental Reform ideal of harmonizing the particularistic and the universalistic elements of their American-Jewish identity. Indeed, in the second keynote address at the 1942 CCAR, Rabbi Levi A. Olan of Dallas, Texas, represented this last-mentioned perspective. Rabbi Olan admitted, painfully, that Germany, which had been so important in advancing the pattern of nineteenth-century idealism, was now controlled by the most violent opponents of this pattern. However, he asserted, “The faith of a liberal is undying. . . . It is at this moment in history, [when] the forces of darkness are

174

 

rampant, [that] the liberal sets about to sharpen his weapons and reaffirm his determination.” In contrast to Braude, he stressed the menace that Nazism and Fascism represented not only to Jewry but to the foundations of all democratic societies and to the general liberal philosophy of which the Reform Movement was only a part. Therefore, he urged Reform Judaism to cope with the Nazi challenge not by adopting social seclusionism and spiritual introversion but by participating in a shared Jewish-Gentile struggle for the principles of liberalism, democracy, and social justice. Obviously Olan’s less dogmatic approach, the one that concurred with Braude’s pessimistic assessment but took issue with his seclusionist and self-protective prescription, underscored with greater vehemence the dilemma in which the universalistic-Reform enthusiasts were entangled. On the one hand, various speakers affiliated with this group expressed feelings of disappointment, anguish, and sometimes even an instinctive need for self-defense against the rising hostility of the non-Jewish world. On the other hand, their remarks conspicuously reflected the need to defend their universalistic faith in integration and acculturation as the basis of Jewish existence. To resolve the dilemma, the members of this second group adopted various gambits that shared the pragmatic mode of expressing the feelings of disillusionment in a way that would not stress Jewish isolationism and withdrawal from American society at large and that, instead, would invest these feelings with a “positive” universalistic slant. For example, the Zionist Reform rabbi Philip Bernstein, while welcoming Braude’s call for the reinforcement of Jewish morale at that difficult hour of “mass violence, and cynicism . . . confusion and darkness,” warned about the danger of construing Braude’s lecture as a call for collective Jewish seclusion and indifference to general American social problems such as discrimination and inequality against American blacks. Rabbi Herbert I. Bloom tackled the same issue in a manner reminiscent of the Cultural Pluralism approach. Instead of criticizing Braude, he depicted his focus on Jewish tradition and sanctity as a factor that allows American Jews to contribute to the general American culture “the reinforcing power which comes from saturating our lives and pervading our spirits with a sense of the central tradition of Judaism. . . .” Similarly, Rabbi Ephraim M. Rosenzweig stated that Braude “articulates . . . the fundamental cry of humanity today . . . to begin the work of spiritual regeneration.”

 — - 

175

Another discussant was Rabbi Solomon Freehof, undoubtedly the most coherent representative of the second and more pragmatic group among the critics of Braude’s pessimistic conclusions. Freehof wielded much influence as the author of books on Reform practice and the chief editor of the Newly Revised Union Prayerbook.2 He upheld Braude’s call to enrich Reform customs and base them on Jewish tradition but deliberately focused only on such customs and rituals that, in his opinion, were suitable for American society. Although Freehof ’s approach was based on an understanding of and even an empathy toward Braude’s emotional motives, it also reflected staunch opposition to the idea that one must choose between the warm and protective feelings that Jewish solidarity and tradition impart and the more rational and disengaged universalistic point of view. Freehof even noted that, as Reform Jews, “We are not free to choose,” and termed the choice of a seclusionist and defensive posture against the hostility of the non-Jewish world an aristocratic ideal that clashed with the Reform Jewish way of thinking. “We will always belong to that search for objective truth. We will always yearn also for that emotional warmth which is inherent in the tradition of Judaism,” he concluded. Freehof ’s last-mentioned reference reflected the views of most discussants at the 1942 CCAR. With almost no exception, these discussants could not but share the disillusionment and anguish that Braude expressed, even if at times this consciousness was the result of a lengthy and painful process of adjustment. Unlike Braude, however, they regarded it as Judaism’s main immediate challenge to avoid turning these feelings of disappointment into a particularistic isolationism and withdrawal from American society at large. Instead, they focused on an attempt to invest these feelings with “balancing” universalistic meaning. One may say that this attempt expressed an inner need of many members of the Reform Movement and the general American Jewish community, who adopted it as their major coping pattern at this time. It is with this in mind that one should construe the remarks of Rabbi Morris Eisendrath, director of the Union of American Hebrew 2 Notably, Freehof expressed this attitude much more cohesively two years later in his book, Reform Jewish Practice and Its Rabbinic Background. In his response to Braude, however, one already finds the basic components of this attitude.

176

 

Congregations. Eisendrath inveighed against the sense of false security and wellbeing that, in his opinion, allowed Reform Jews to disregard the unique Jewish attributes of the Holocaust. However, in contrast to the Jewish-introversion response, he argued that the challenge should be tackled on the universalistic and general American plane only. He called for an improvement in Jewish-Christian relations and even construed the unwillingness of some American Jews to participate actively in domestic American social struggles as a manifestation of failure to strive genuinely to face the lessons of the Holocaust (Eisensdrath, 1946: 17–19). A story by Rabbi Joseph R. Narot of Atlantic City, New Jersey, should also be understood from the standpoint of this coping philosophy. Narot told the story of a fictional American Jewish soldier named Jonathan, who, after having visited a liberated concentration camp, asked a pointed question about a Jewish fate that is composed wholly of pointless suffering. “What is this Jewishness that lies as a curse upon our heads?” Jonathan asks. “Wouldn’t it be better that it were gone and lost forever?” To answer this question, Narot did not settle for the traditional Jewish coping patterns that were devoid of any universalistic or general American context. He also did not choose the path of disregarding the particularistic Jewish fate. Instead, he sought to examine the particularistic nature and meaning of the Jewish Holocaust in a broader universalistic and general American context. Practically speaking, he expressed the Reform Movement’s dialectical attempt to avoid estrangement from the bereavement and anguish that most American Jews, Reform or otherwise, felt, and at the same time to refrain from succumbing to those feelings, which, from the Reform perspective, seemed to threaten the very foundations of the Jewish faith. From the perspective of a cleric who wished to struggle for the tenets of his universalistic Reform faith, this coping pattern was quite the opposite of an evasion. For the Reform Jew, it constituted, concurrently, painful recognition of the legitimacy of the Jewish feelings of disillusionment and anguish and an attempt to interpret these feelings in light of the principles of the universalistic outlook. Yes, we have suffered long; we suffer now. But not for the pretexts that have been mouthed and given credence even by us. This is the essence: they who hate, resent our virtues. They are enraged by the good we have espoused. . . . In every land, in every age, men have suffered. . . . If we have suffered more . . . if we have been the constant

 — - 

177

scapegoat, it is because our name and life were early intertwined with man’s eternal hope for growth and betterment. The question then is not alone “to be Jew or not to be”. . . . The issue rather is “to be men or not to be”. You are needed, Jonathan, needed by the world, your country and your people. . . . You should be casting off the chains of your own forging: the fear of being different in a blessed land where difference is the essence of the democratic law. . . . Thus shorn of your chains, you too will help create a new, a wondrous era (Narot, 1946: 73–77).

The Universalistic Coping Pattern from a Historical Perspective A change in perception toward stronger emphasis on Jewish particularism reflected a widely adopted trend among American Jews in the mid-1960s and early 1970s. Notwithstanding this conspicuous change in trend, one cannot say that the universalistic pattern of coping with the Holocaust had totally lost its relevance and its “positive” significance for American Jews. The aspiration to sustain concurrently the general American and the particularistic Jewish points of view still rests at the forefront of the American Jewish experience today, much as it did in the 1940s and 1950s. The determination of Reform Jewish leaders to avoid unilateral “solutions,” particularistic or universalistic, that might force their congregants to choose between their Jewish and their American affiliation may still serve as a positive and relevant model of Jewish coping. Although the universalistic and particularistic components of the American Jewish identity re-equilibrated in the 1960s and 1970s, the almost unavoidable dialectical relationship between them did not. The focal point in the 1940s was the drive to integrate and to “normalize” Jewish existence, and this aim entailed the universalization and Americanization of the particularistic Jewish significance of the Holocaust. In the 1960s and 1970s, the new particularistic meaning that the focal points of Jewish identity had acquired was still anchored in general American and universalistic contexts. From this perspective, the particularistic and ethnocentric emphasis that surfaced in the 1960s seems to be anything but an admission of failure on the part of the previous Reform universalistic outlook. On the contrary; it was an encounter with the success of the prior outlook. Now that most American Jews took their American affiliation for granted, they could pause to emphasize the particularistic elements of their Jewishness

178

 

without fearing that this emphasis would reflect suspicion toward and estrangement from America. Likewise, the particularization process that the Reform Movement underwent in the 1960s does not nullify the importance of the universalistic-mission idea. Indeed, at that time, as the antisemitic threat that was so dominant during the Holocaust had eased, the mission idea was perceived as a principal tool that might invest Jewish existence and continuity with positive universalistic meaning. Even when the Reform movement gave concern for Jewish interests top priority, it described this concern as a means that, by its very definition, promotes the universalistic mission of Judaism. Thus, too, the rising importance of Holocaust remembrance as a focal point of Jewish identity emphasized the particularistic lesson of Jewish survival but was also perceived as evidence of the importance of the Jewish humanistic hope. Finally, the growing identification with the State of Israel accented the importance of Jewish solidarity but also offered a model of Jewish unity based not exclusively on particularistic Jewish interests but also on the humanistic and universalistic principles that the American Jewish religious perception expresses. The San Francisco Platform, a statement of principles adopted by the Reform Movement in 1976, provides a striking example of the persistence of the universalistic-particularistic dialectic pattern: Until the recent past our obligations to the Jewish people and to all humanity seemed congruent. At time now these two imperatives appear to conflict. We know of no simple way to resolve such tensions. We must, however, confront them without abandoning either of our commitments. A universal concern for humanity unaccompanied by a devotion to our particular people is self-destructive; a passion for our people without involvement in humankind contradicts what the prophets have meant to us. Judaism calls us simultaneously to universal and particular obligations (CCARY, 1976: 177–178).

One may summarize this chapter by stating that, even though the Reform aspiration to harmonize the universalistic and the particularistic has been diversely manifested in different periods of time, all these manifestations are representative of one dialectic effort: to sustain and nurture the Jewish identity by investing the reality of rising integration and Americanization with positive Jewish value. This point may also be instructive of the relevance of the universalistic Reform coping pattern not only for contemporary American Jewry but also for contemporary Jewish society in Israel. The grow-

 — - 

179

ing tendency toward polarization in Israeli Jewish society in recent years may be regarded as a reflection of a despair of sorts and disbelief in the possibility of maintaining the coexistence of the universalistic and the particularistic components of the Jewish identity. Would-be opponents of this pessimistic trend should posit the heritage of Zionism and the Reform Movement as two parallel models of positive and optimistic Jewish identification. It is certainly important to nurture the Zionist utopian heritage of faith in the possibility of creating a sovereign Jewish reality that will lower the internal barriers between two types of belonging, the Jewish-particularistic and the civic-universal. At the same time, it is as important to study the corresponding Reform utopian faith in the Sisyphean but uncompromising effort—in view of both the reactionary reality of the Holocaust and the tolerant and pluralistic reality of contemporary American society—to harmonize the twin aspirations, the universalistic and the particularistic. Finally, by observing the universalistic coping pattern from a historical perspective, one may claim that Zionism’s very success in creating a sovereign Jewish society makes the main contemporary challenge that Reform Judaism tackled from its outset—the question of Jewish spiritual survival in a democratic and open society—a relevant and central issue for Israeli Jewish society as well. The Holocaust, so crucial a factor in shaping both the American and the Israeli Jewish identity, may take on an important role in this attempt to create a counterweight to the growing tendency of internal polarization between Israel and the Diaspora. Today, from the perspective of time, the Jews’ collective helplessness as revealed by the Holocaust is not the only matter that is coming into clearer focus. Today one may also observe the shared and uncompromising struggle that two “modern Jewish” outlooks, Reform and Zionism, waged to overcome the menacing possibility that the Holocaust would drive a permanent wedge between the Jewish-particularistic and the civic-universal affiliations. From this historical perspective, the struggle may be regarded as one link in the ongoing struggle of the “modern Jew” to survive and to perpetuate a Judaism that eschews both assimilation and self-seclusion. The Israeli and the American ways of coping with the issue of Jewish existence in modern society have been and will remain different and often mutually contradictory and antagonistic. However, as centrifugal trends among the Jews are gathering strength, it is worth

180

 

bearing in mind that the internal dialectic contradiction that characterizes the aim to harmonize the universalistic and the particularistic is the crux of the modern Jewish experience both in Israel and in the Diaspora. Thus, the very willingness to tackle this contradiction in a “positive” way, even when it acquires diverse and clashing manifestations, should be seen as the crucial common denominator that may knit the riven components of the Jewish people, in Israel and in the Diaspora, into a single whole. Anyone who accepts this hypothesis may regard the universalistic Reform struggle during the Holocaust years as a relevant model for today’s questions of Jewish identity, both in Israel and in the United States.

PART FOUR

RUSSIAN JEWISHNESS

This page intentionally left blank

CHAPTER TWELVE

SOVIET JEWRY FROM IDENTIFICATION TO IDENTITY Yaacov Ro"i The evolution of the identity of Soviet Jewry is a complex issue. This is so because of the heterogeneity of the Soviet Jewish community and because the propaganda, the intentional brainwashing, and the very terminology to which Soviet Jews were exposed from birth impeded their ability to analyze and express their feelings and to engage in a process of self-definition. It was axiomatic that the Soviet system sought to create the New Soviet Man, who would have the characteristics considered optimal by the party ideologues. While it was clear during most of the Soviet period that this objective was not being fully achieved, it was blatantly apparent that Soviet citizens did possess, at least formally, some of the desired features of this new, albeit somewhat elusive, human being. They therefore had to bear this in mind when it came to asserting and defining their identity. In the early Soviet period, basically until World War II, large numbers of Soviet Jews, especially younger ones who were born after the 1917 October Revolution and/or received their education in Soviet schools and universities, willingly accepted the principle of proletarian internationalism and Lenin’s prophecy, or injunction, that the Jews would be the first of Russia’s nationalities to assimilate. The implication was not only that the Jews would no longer be subject to the discrimination from which they had suffered under the tsars— which had indeed been officially abolished by the Provisional Government that ruled Russia after the deposition of Nicholas II in February 1917—but that they would enjoy maximum social and professional mobility under the new Soviet regime and in the process their Jewishness would disappear. Nationalism and the nation were destined to vanish altogether in the process of “socialist construction,” for they were immanent attributes of capitalist bourgeois society. The first to do so would be “retrogade” ones such as the Jews, who

184

 "

according to Lenin and Stalin did not in fact constitute a nation, having no common territory, economy, or even language. In the 1930s this anticipated process was hampered by two developments. The first was “passportization,” under which all urban residents had to carry internal passports or identity cards. The ostensible motivation behind this step was to regularize and control migration from the countryside to the towns and to stabilize employment, so that people would not move frequently from one place of employment to another in order to improve their work conditions (Hosking, 1985: 156). Yet one of its major side effects was to institutionalize national differences, for the new documents indicated the citizen’s nationality (Point 5). A person whose parents were both of Jewish origin had perforce to be registered as being of Jewish nationality; only someone with just one Jewish parent had the opportunity, when obtaining a passport, to opt out of being Jewish and registering as a member of the non-Jewish parent’s nationality. The inclusion of nationality was a manifest obstacle to implementation of the regime’s declared aim of achieving proletarian internationalism and doing away with national distinctions, so much so that it is questionable whether this was in fact one of its goals. The second stumbling block in the path of Jewish assimilation was the trend of russification that characterized Soviet nationality policy beginning in the mid-1930s. Some commentators have even suggested that the introduction of passports was really intended to designate non-Russians, and particularly Jews, who were seeking to infiltrate the Russian milieu, and thus entrench their inferior status in Soviet society. Be this as it may, from the second half of the 1930s there could be no mistaking the special role of the Russians in a country whose official texts spoke of the equality of nations and peoples and the inadmissibility of preferring citizens of one nation to those of other ethnicities.1 As of 1937, the senior status of the Russian “elder brother” was official policy, although there had been unmistakable signs that this was on the cards since at least 1930.2 Furthermore, by the mid-1930s, in the words of one leading historian, there was “a major divide in Soviet Jewry, between those 1

The 1936 “Stalin Constitution,” Article 123. In 1930, Stalin spoke of the Russian working class as “the vanguard of Soviet workers,” which “the revolutionary workers unanimously applaud as their accepted leader”—quoted in Gerhard Simon, 1991: 149. 2

     

185

who had moved to the big towns, spoke Russian and had assimilated to a kind of joint Russian-Soviet nationality, and those who remained behind in the shtetl . . . spoke Yiddish, kept up the Judaic religion and maintained a distinctively Jewish identity in customs and family life.” The former “attained a level of education higher than that enjoyed by any other Soviet nationality,” for the Jews traditionally sought higher education and the government did not discriminate against them. By about 1935 nearly a third of college-aged Jews were receiving some form of higher or specialized education; although they were some 3 percent of the population, they accounted for 16 percent of Soviet doctors and 10 percent of university teachers (Hosking, 1985: 256–257). There was also a high level of intermarriage in the urban centers to which Jews were moving. In the Russian Republic (the RSFSR) in 1926 and 1927, mixed marriages accounted for over onethird of marriages including at least one Jewish partner; whereas the corresponding figures were far lower in Ukraine and Belorussia, large parts of which were included in the original Jewish Pale of Settlement, just a decade later the statistics showed a marked rise in these two republics as well (Altschuler, 1987: 25–26). The data thus indicate that Jews were actively identifying as Soviet citizens. Their very attendance at university involved such identification, since admission entailed filling out questionnaires in which candidates manifested their full participation in remolding the individual as Homo sovieticus, thus demonstrating that they were qualified for the role of student in an institution of higher learning under Communism.3 Indeed, Jews actively internalized the dicta of the fathers of Soviet nationality policy and saw themselves as turning their backs on their Jewish past and affiliation. In the belief that they had a great deal to gain from the general social and political tendencies and concomitants of the Communist regime, they associated themselves with the regime and accepted all that this implied for their Jewishness, which they too looked upon as “retrogade,” and hence non-progressive and un-Soviet, if not positively anti-Soviet. Their Jewish origin was so irrelevant that in the abovementioned questionnaires, or autobiographies, they omitted all mention of it, apart from the fact of being born in a shtetl. 3 On the policy of admission to university in the 1920s and the biographical information required of students as a condition for admission, see Halfin, 2000, especially chapter 4.

186

 "

This trend was rudely interrupted by World War II. Presumably, without the war it would have been slowed down significantly by the regime’s attempts to brake the trends of the 1920s through passportization and russification, the long-term implications of which were not at first apparent. The war, however, spelled an abrupt and irreversible rupture in the process of Jewish assimilation. The Holocaust appears to have affected almost every family among the Ashkenazi Jewish population—that is, all Soviet Jews except the Georgian, Mountain, and Bukharan Jews, who together made up about 10 percent of the Soviet Jewish population and among whom assimilation was considerably less than among the Ashkenazim.4 And although those who survived tended to belong to the group that had advanced farthest along the path of assimilation—those in the region of the former Pale were the first to be occupied and annihilated—the Holocaust demonstrated that there was no escaping one’s Jewish origins, however much one might try. Furthermore, the many cases of collaboration by their non-Jewish neighbors—which took the form of their denouncing Jews if not participating in their actual extermination (as also occurred)—and the general apathy of the non-Jews toward the fate of people who had lived in their midst for generations had a traumatic effect on the survivors.5 But the ultimate blow was delivered by the Soviet regime itself when it adopted an undisguised antiJewish policy as it re-occupied the areas that had been under Nazi rule, a policy that was to reach its zenith with the anti-cosmopolitan campaign of 1948–1949 and the Doctors’ Plot of 1953. One of the results of this policy was the suppression of any discussion of the Holocaust in Soviet historiography, including the suppression of the Black Book, which was scheduled to appear in 1947 in memory of the communities that had been obliterated by the Germans (Gitelman 1990; Garrard, 1995). From the Jews’ point of view, it made no difference whether the new course of action was the outcome of an innate antisemitism that had festered mostly unnoticed even before the war or a conscious volte-face caused by a desire to win popularity among a population that had welcomed the Germans and their propaganda slogans about Jewish Bolshevik repression. These for4 On the acculturation of the Mountain and Bukharan Jews, see Zand, Michael, 1991. 5 On the Holocaust in the Soviet Union and its significance and impact, see Altshuler, 1995 and Garrard, 1995; Gitelman, Z. (ed.), 1997.

     

187

merly loyal adherents of the Soviet regime who, prior to and during the war, had been the epitome of “Soviet patriotism” now felt themselves outsiders, beyond the consensus and blacklisted. The reminiscences of an eminent Moscow pathologist, later to be arrested in connection with the Doctors’ Plot, leave no room for doubt about the witch hunt building up against Soviet Jewish scientists and the feelings of Jewish academics, many of whom occupied senior posts and most or all of whom were long-standing party members who had thrown in their lot with the regime and its achievements. Summoned to the MGB in the winter of 1950/1951, he was lectured about the enemies surrounding the Soviet Union on all sides and then asked about the sentiments of Jews and conversations among them, “especially those that had a bearing on political problems and attitudes to the United States and Israel” (Rapoport, 1991: 50–51). Certainly, the establishment of the State of Israel in the very years when Soviet Jews were licking their wounds from the Holocaust and its side- and aftereffects was a major milestone in the evolution of their Jewish identification. For a community that was denied the benefits accruing, according to Soviet criteria, to groups recognized as nations or nationalities but at the same time was suffering discrimination on account of its nationality or race, the significance of acquiring a national home with all the official accoutrements of statehood was tremendous. This was especially true since the Jewish state in Palestine came into being with the support of the Soviet Union, the first great power to grant it de jure recognition. The Jewish Autonomous Region that the Soviet Union had created in the Far East had, from the start, lacked any substantive acclamation among large segments of Soviet Jewry. Birobidzhan was situated in a swampy area in the Soviet Far East; its climate was harsh, disease was rampant, and the Jews who went there to settle found no infrastructure to welcome them. Every year, almost as many people returned to the European parts of the country as migrated there, so that at no stage did Birobidzhan boast more than 20,000 Jews and the Jews never accounted for more than about 15 percent of the region’s population. Furthermore, the Jewish Autonomous Region came into being at a time when the trend of Jewish migration was from the Jewish environment of the former Pale to the great cities; there was no incentive for Jews in the late 1920s or 1930s to exchange one Jewish milieu for another. By the 1930s, moreover, Birobidzhan had the additional disadvantage of being a frontier post not far from the

188

 "

parts of China that had been invaded by Japan. Israel, on the other hand, fired the Soviet Jewish imagination. A sovereign Jewish state that had come into being as a result of a war of independence against great odds—a war against British imperialism and its Middle Eastern lackeys, whose ranks included numerous fascist units (such were the descriptions of events in Palestine in the Soviet media)—seemed to redeem the reputation of the Jewish people as a whole after the slaughter it had endured during the war, and especially that of Soviet Jews, who were said in Soviet sources to have “fought in Tashkent.”6 Reputed Jewish cowardice had been replaced by Jewish heroism, the gas chambers by victories against great odds. Nor were the Jews any longer a group lacking a common territory, economy, and language— the condition that had deprived Soviet Jewry of being recognized as a nation. The enthusiasm with which the establishment of the Jewish state was welcomed by Soviet Jews was obvious: the reception given Golda Meyerson, Israel’s first envoy to Moscow, was just the pinnacle of numerous events, and Jews flocked to the movie houses, where the newsreels showed her presenting her credentials to the Deputy Chairman of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet.7 Many Jews paid a heavy price for identifying with the Jewish state in the distant Middle East at a time when the Iron Curtain was at its most impregnable. Nonetheless, from 1948 on, Israel, its achievements, and its challenges became an integral component of Soviet Jewish identity. The postwar years thus saw an intrinsic change in Soviet Jewish identification. Difficult as it is to generalize about a community numbering some three million,8 it can safely be surmised that most Jews no longer identified wholly and unreservedly with the Soviet regime and its values, which now included rejection of the Jews as full and equal members of the Soviet body politic. The trauma they endured during the anti-cosmopolitan campaign and the Doctors’ Plot was not—indeed, could not be—forgotten. Some Jews, at least, thought that with de-Stalinization following the Twentieth Party Congress in February 1956 they would be enabled, even encouraged, to return 6 Tashkent, the leading city in Central Asia, was, of course, thousands of miles from the front. 7 On the Soviet Jewish euphoria at the formation of Israel, see, for example, Ro"i, Yaacov, 1991, Chapter 1. 8 The first postwar population census, in 1959, gave the number of Jews as 2.268 million, but even Soviet officials in the 1960s spoke of 3 million as the correct figure.

     

189

to the Soviet comity of nations. But this did not occur. Khrushchev denounced the Doctors’ Plot when he enumerated Stalin’s crimes, yet he omitted any mention of its Jewish aspect. Jewish culture was not reinstated, except for a few gestures made to assuage foreign critics.9 Not that Soviet Jews for the most part took a direct interest in Yiddish or other features of Jewish culture. Nor were they attracted to the Jewish religion. Their culture remained Soviet and Russian, but their identity was not. In other words, they were what one scholar has called acculturated rather than assimilated, assimilation having been manifestly demonstrated to be a non-viable option (Gitelman, 1982: 79–80). This dichotomous position was not easy to maintain in a basically monolithic society, which, with all its ethnic diversity, preached and officially practiced a stereotyped uniformity. It was therefore inevitable that, when the dissident movement evolved in the mid-1960s and 1970s, the Jews played a disproportionately large role in it,10 just as they had in the revolutionary movements and parties in the late tsarist era. But even this was not a course that large numbers of Jews could adopt, for political dissenters in the Brezhnev era (1964–1982) were persecuted and unrelentingly repressed, and dissent remained a small and exclusive trend. The main exceptions were the nationalist movements, which, proscription and constraints notwithstanding, grew markedly. These—Russian, Ukrainian, Lithuanian, and others—inevitably precluded Jewish participation. The Jews, however, had no opportunity to create their own national movement along lines similar to those of other ethnic groups, although they too were affected by the manifest breakdown of the Soviet version of the melting pot. They lacked the cultural context that gave the national movements their content, as most of these movements dwelled on the loss incurred by their cultural heritage as a result of the Soviet and Communist influence and sought to reassert their particularist traditions, symbols, and emblems. Whereas the Soviet nationality policy enabled peoples with national territories or administrative units of which they comprised the titular nationality to enjoy education, theater, literature, and media in the national language, the Jews had no such option. Moreover, their sympathies lay increasingly with the State

9 10

For example, the Yiddish journal Sovetish heymland, which first appeared in 1961. On the dissident movement, see Tokes, (ed.), 1975; Rubenstein, 1980.

190

 "

of Israel. The weeks before the outbreak of the Six-Day War, when it seemed that Israel might be wiped off the map, brought home to them how important its existence was for them, and when this was followed by Israel’s victory against enemies armed by the Soviet Union, Soviet Jews felt both a sense of pride and a sense, no less strong, of being associated, whether they wished it or not, with the enemy of the Soviet Union. No longer capable of, or satisfied with, concentrating all their energy on the workplace and their professional careers—long the sole or principal outlet for their general feeling of frustration—Jews now turned in large numbers to thoughts of emigration, in what became the Jewish movement of the 1970s. Thus those Jews who strove to express their Jewish identity, instead of seeking to fill it with meaning within the Soviet framework (which was manifestly a lost cause from the outset), preferred for the most part to opt out completely. Even in the 1970s there were Jewish activists who endeavored to strengthen Jewish culture inside the Soviet system, but it quickly became clear that they were fighting a losing battle, except insofar as the cultural artefacts they produced prepared people for a new, Jewish life in Israel.11 Almost throughout the Soviet period, there had been Jews who desired and attempted to emigrate, at first in the 1920s and 1930s to Palestine and after 1948 to the State of Israel. However, due to the constraints imposed by the regime on emigration as such, the number who had the audacity or obstinacy to actually file an application to leave was usually not large. This changed in the early 1970s for reasons that are extraneous to our discussion and have been discussed elsewhere. What is relevant here is that, as increasing numbers of Jews asked to go to Israel and the Jewish movement took center stage with relatively large-scale demonstrations and protests, Jews moved from merely identifying, and being identified, as Jews to adopting a Jewish identity with its own specific content. Hitherto Jews had been vilified in antisemitic publications and official propaganda campaigns, which, rather than letting up in the 1970s, actually intensified (Frankel, 1995). Their reaction had been low-key: they insisted and tried to prove that they were first and foremost 11 One group of Jewish activists decided in late 1974, when the “dropout” phenomenon began assuming serious proportions, to conduct educational work among Jews in order to prevent them from wishing to emigrate anywhere other than Israel. See Fain, Benjamin, 1995.

     

191

loyal and valuable citizens. The single characteristic that the majority would probably have agreed was “Jewish” was their high level of education, which remained far higher than that of any other ethnic group.12 They had not denied their Jewishness, which would have been a futile exercise in view of their identification in their internal passports, their Jewish names, and their physiognomies, but their Jewishness was meaningless to themselves and they had hoped to transmit this message to their surroundings. Now this was no longer tenable, given the major attention the Jewish movement was attracting both among the general public and within the party and government apparatus (Morozov, 1997). Nor was it simply a question of practicality. Increasing numbers of Jews took an active interest in filling their Jewishness with positive content. While not wholly or necessarily rejecting their affiliation with Russian culture, they felt a need to give meaning to their Jewishness. Jews now began to show pride in their Jewishness and wanted to associate with it openly as more than a fact of life, as an attribute not merely conferred upon them willy-nilly by genetics, history, accident of birth, and state-imposed ethnic identification, what Zvi Gitelman (1995) calls “passive identity”. This entailed becoming wholly Jewish, learning about and internalizing the symbols of their own national culture: acquiring a knowledge of Hebrew, which for most Jews had, since the establishment of Israel, replaced Yiddish as the acknowledged national tongue; reading about, if not actually studying, Jewish history; becoming acquainted with Jewish literature; and, while in most cases not becoming practicing Jews, adopting some of the trappings of the Jewish religion. Above all, it meant celebrating some of the Jewish festivals, of which Passover and Hanukka were perhaps the most popular because of their historical connotations. Since the late 1940s, small circles of committed Zionists in all or most cities of the Soviet Union had been doing this; in the late 1960s and particularly in the early 1970s, the number of people involved in these activities rose significantly. Not only Jews from the “western territories” annexed during or in the context of World War II, where the obliteration of Judaism by the Soviet state had begun 12 By 1979, 43.4 percent of the Jews of the RSFSR and about one-quarter of the Jews of Ukraine and Belarus had higher education; in the same year, 61 percent of Jews between the ages 23 and 29, and 42 percent in total, in Ukraine and Belarus, had higher education. See Horowitz and Leshem, 1998: 293–294.

192

 "

a generation later than in the regions that had been part of the Soviet Union prior to the war, but thousands and perhaps tens of thousands of other Jews from all over the country, and especially many of the intelligentsia in the large cities, were now associating publicly with the Jewish cause and making their Jewishness an active part of their lives. Perhaps, too, for the first time since the 1920s, when the last Jewish political parties were disbanded, it was legitimate to speak not only of Jews’ individual identity, but also of a collective Jewish identity. Jews had come together before sporadically, but only in ad-hoc demonstrations of feeling—usually around an Israeli personality or event or a performance by a Soviet Jewish artist. Now Jews had a program of action, a grand design, even something resembling an organization. True, even now the phenomenon was not a wholesale one. Its dimensions cannot be estimated and certainly large numbers of Jews were still not a part of it. Unquestionably, however, it was a major trend among Jews, more and more of whom were finding themselves in need of a national identity of their own. This was true not solely of those contemplating emigration to Israel, but also of those remaining behind; the less pertinent the old Soviet identity and the more elusive a Russian one, the more urgent was the need to replace them, and the most obvious, if not the sole viable, substitute in the Soviet context from the late 1960s on was a national or ethnic variant. In a society in which all other citizens were adhering with increasing enthusiasm to their national identity and culture, for Jews to do the same seemed perfectly natural. It was a way of proving their equality, demonstrating that they were in no way inferior to their fellow citizens and were following in the footsteps of other ethnic groups and using similar means to make their point to the Soviet authorities. If they could no longer be Soviet citizens with internationalist proclivities and if in the Soviet context there was no way for them to develop and give expression to liberal, humanist values, they had best be good Jews, assert their identity as Jews, and so become candidates for a status equal to that of all other ethnic groups in the country. With the advent of Gorbachev’s perestroika and glasnost, it also meant founding Jewish cultural societies and Jewish schools and seeking the return and reopening of synagogues. It is also noteworthy that by the late 1980s the younger generation was once again less inclined than older cohorts to stress its Jewish identity. A survey conducted among Jews who emigrated to

     

193

Israel in 1989–1992 found that of all age groups, Jews aged 19–24 held the most negative views of Jews or actually refused to categorize themselves as such, saying there is no difference between Jews and non-Jews. They were also the least likely to label themselves as Jews. The researcher who undertook the study thought this might be a life-cycle feature; that is, younger people in general might be less likely to stereotype people and to feel less sentiment for their ethnic group (Gitelman, 1995). Yet this finding may also indicate that the changes taking place in the Soviet Union in its final phase under Gorbachev, with their emphasis on liberalism and universalism, may once again have influenced the identity and self-identification of Soviet Jews. The period, however, was very short, the changes short-lived, and their effect therefore somewhat difficult to gauge. All in all, then, when summing up the evolution of Soviet Jewish identity, certain trends are apparent. The first generation after the Communist takeover in 1917 saw a transition from a general Jewish identity to identification as Soviet citizens who sought, especially among the younger age cohorts, to shake off their Jewish affiliation and to belittle the positive aspects of both Jewishness and Jewish affiliation. The generation that came of age during and after World War II returned to a Jewish identification, partly because it was imposed on them by society and the establishment and partly because of the Holocaust and the birth of the State of Israel. To some extent, the change also affected the previous generation, which in its youth had turned its back on any attachment to Jewishness. The third generation of Soviet Jews, who were in their twenties and thirties in the late 1960s, moved one step further, adopting a positive, active Jewish identity, which they saw as the sole way of retaining their personal self-esteem in a society that was becoming more and more ethnically conscious; they were encouraged to do so by the successes of Israel in the Six-Day War and the possibility of moving there. The bottom line of the Soviet Jewish experience was that there was no escaping being Jewish in the Soviet context, even if the Soviet Union officially constituted a non-national or supranational body politic, and that this given dictated the adoption of those aspects and elements of Jewish identity best suited to their social, psychological, and political values.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE MEANINGS OF JEWISHNESS IN POST-SOVIET RUSSIA AND UKRAINE Zvi Gitelman Identity is “a person’s sense of self in relation to others, or . . . the sense of oneself as simultaneously an individual and a member of a social group.”1 “Who you are” often determines how you behave and even how you think. This is crucial both for individuals and for groups. The Yugoslav state collapsed because Serbs, Croats, and Bosnians did not identify primarily as Yugoslavs and attached greater value to being Serb, Croat, and Bosnian—i.e., to their ethnic, not their civic, identities. However, ethnic identity is not immutable. Nations and peoples are created and disappear (see Verdery, 1985). People change identities and announce—by language, dress, and sociopolitical behavior—that they no longer perceive themselves or wish others to perceive them as before. Moreover, even when identities remain nominally unchanged—when people continue to call themselves by the same name—their contents may shift (see Scott, 1990; Smith, 1991). For example, Zionism, Yiddishism, or Socialism may replace religion as the core of a seemingly stable Jewish identity. Historically, most people have identified Jews with a tribal religion, Judaism. Jewish identity originated in the ancient Near East, where religion, kinship, and ethnicity were fused. However, when modern societies separated religion from ethnicity, Jews had to decide whether there could be Judaism (religion) without Jewish nationality or Jewish nationality/ethnicity without Judaism. For 200 years, since the Emancipation allowed Jews to enter European societies and assume identities as Germans, French, etc., Jews have argued about whether they are a religious, a national, or a cultural group.

1 London, Perry, and Hirschfeld, Allissa, “The Psychology of Identity Formation,” Gordis, David, and Ben-Horin, Yoav, eds., 1991: 33.

       

195

This chapter explores Jewish identity among Jews in Russia and Ukraine since the disintegration of the Soviet Union. For over a decade, these Jews have been free to define their ethnic identities and their meaning. However, their conceptions of Jewishness, inherited from the Soviet system, are radically different from those that prevail in Israel and in Western countries. They raise questions about the nature of the reconstructed Jewish communities and public life in former Communist countries generally and about whether these conceptions will affect the integration into the rest of World Jewry of Russian and Ukrainian Jews in Israel—should they choose to emigrate to that country—or in their countries of residence. For example, though religion has been the most distinctive characteristic of the Jewish ethnic group, in the modern era one may be a nonbeliever and a Jew, although it is unlikely that one can be an active practitioner of a religion other than Judaism and still be considered a Jew by other Jews. Jews in Russia and Ukraine, however, view the relationship between Judaism and Jewishness differently. The boundaries between Judaism and Christianity are not clear to them and of little importance to many. In their view, Judaism has little to do with Jewishness and many doubt whether the worldwide Jewish people is a single nation. The implications of these differences are obvious: insofar as Jews in the former Soviet Union (FSU) do not perceive Jewishness as other Jews do, there will be disagreements about who belongs to the group, how one enters and exits, and the mutual responsibilities and privileges of membership. Different conceptions of Jewishness will affect marriage, memberships, loyalties, friendships, and, in Israel, citizenship. The Amalgam of Ethnicity: Contents and Boundaries Ethnic groups are defined by contents and boundaries. “Contents” may be shared interests, institutions, or culture. Boundaries are the demarcation lines that are drawn to establish who is in the group and who is not. While most contemporary forms of Jewishness appropriate the symbols of Judaism, the contents of Jewishness are shifting from Judaism in many instances but not toward anything else of substance, such as language, kinship patterns, or territory. Few Jews outside of Israel speak a Jewish language (it is possible that

196

 

more Palestinian Arabs than Diaspora Jews speak Hebrew) intermarriage rates are increasing in all Diaspora countries, thereby weakening kinship, and there are no distinctively Jewish territories outside Israel. “Thick culture” (distinct language, customs, food, and clothing) is yielding to what I call “thin culture,” “a common and distinct system of understandings and interpretations that constitute normative order and world view and provide strategic and stylistic guides to action. The crucial question for the future of Diaspora Jewishness is whether, in the absence of substantive, manifest “thick” cultural contents, it will become a mere “symbolic ethnicity,” much like that of most Polish-Americans or Swedish-Americans; or whether “thin culture” will suffice to preserve the group’s distinctiveness on more than a symbolic level. As stated, groups set boundaries to define who belongs and who does not. In the case of Jewishness, not only the contents but also the defining boundaries are being pushed outward and becoming more blurred. In modern times, the two most salient components of the boundary of Jewishness have been the prohibitions on marrying non-Jews and practicing a faith other than Judaism. The first prohibition is being increasingly violated in the FSU and elsewhere; the second is rejected by a fair number of Russian and Ukrainian Jews. Jews can either redefine the boundaries (as the Reform Movement did when it affirmed patrilineal descent in the absence of a Jewish mother), accept the loss of many members of the group who choose “exit” over “loyalty,” or find ways to retain members within the traditional boundaries, perhaps by “thickening” the increasingly “thin” cultural content of Jewishness. Probing Understandings of Jewishness among Russian and Ukrainian Jews It was only about a decade ago that one could begin to investigate the opinions, outlooks, and self-understandings of Russian and Ukrainian Jews. This chapter is based on a survey of 3,300 Jews conducted in three Russian and five Ukrainian cities (Moscow, St. Petersburg, Ekaterinburg; Kiev, Kharkiv, Lviv, Chernivtsi, Odessa) in 1992/93, followed by a survey in 1997/98 of a sample of the same size (although not of the same people) in the same cities.

       

197

The geographical and cultural diversity of these cities and the fact that they include more than half the Jewish population of the two countries gives us confidence that the survey represents the broad cultural and geographical spectrum of Russian and Ukrainian Jewry. I also draw on over 1,200 in-depth recorded interviews with Soviet Jews who emigrated to Israel and a survey I conducted among Soviet Jewish immigrants in Chicago. The Russian and Ukrainian surveys were designed by myself in conjunction with Professor Vladimir Shapiro and Dr. Valery Chervyakov of the Jewish Research Center at the Institute of Sociology of the Russian Academy of Sciences, and were conducted by Shapiro and Chervyakov. Interviewers of Jewish origin, trained specifically for this project, conducted face-to-face interviews in respondents’ homes. The interviews generally lasted between sixty and ninety minutes.2 In the absence of a list of Jewish residents of each city, we created the sample by a “snowball” technique. We were able to adjust the sample structure constantly to conform to the parameters of the overall Jewish population aged 16+ (1989 census and 1994 Russian microcensus) in each city. The age and gender structure of the Russian and Ukrainian samples conforms very closely to the profile of the Jewish population at large.3 Jewishness in the Soviet and Post-Soviet Eras The Tsarist Russian regime had no clear or consistent policy toward the non-Russian peoples over whom it ruled and regarded Jews primarily as a religious group. A Jew was firstly a member of a religious confession, Judaism. While with conversion to Christianity, Jews ceased to be Jews, the distinction between converts and ‘real’ Christians remained.4 2 The interviews are housed at the Institute for Contemporary Jewry, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. I wish to thank Prof. Dov Levin and Ms. Riki Garti for making them available to me. 3 Some of the findings of the first phase are reported in Gitelman, Chervyakov, and Shapiro, 1994 and 1997; Gitelman, 1994, and “Language, Ethnicity, and the Reconstruction of Jewish Identities in Post-Soviet Russia and Ukraine,” Annual Meeting of the American Association for the Advancement of Slavic Studies, 11/1996; Chervyakov, Gitelman, and Shapiro, 2000 and 2001. 4 The Russian legal corpus “was astonishingly imprecise and confused throughout the imperial period, with categories and definitions assuming merely formal, not

198

 

The Tsars’ Soviet successors dropped the emphasis on the religious criterion of identity. Although Lenin and Stalin denied that Jews were a nation, they somehow agreed to classify them as a “nationality” [natsional’nost’ ]. For the Soviets, neither language nor culture, area of residence, subjective identification, or religion determined natsional’nost’, which is often translated as “nationality” but means “ethnicity,” unlike the “citizenship” that the term denotes in many Western countries. In Soviet practice, a Jew could become Russian Orthodox by religion but never Russian by ethnicity (unless one of his or her parents was a Russian, in which case he or she might choose “Russian” as the registered nationality). Russian and Ukrainian Jews have revised the contents of their Jewish identities several times in the twentieth century: first, from the traditional religious, modern Zionist, or Yiddishist bases of the pre-revolutionary period to a predominantly Russian-Soviet culture and even identity in the early Soviet era. At that time, a minority of Jews professed the newly constructed secular, socialist Soviet Yiddish identity. In the 1940s and 1950s when the Holocaust and Stalinist antisemitism destroyed illusions of acceptance and assimilation, Jewishness was left without any positive cultural contents and Jews identified themselves as “invalids of the fifth category.”5 Increasingly, for most Ashkenazi Jews, Jewish identity became an amalgam of four elements: a state-imposed identity ( Jewish nationality), social antisemitism, Holocaust consciousness, and awareness of the State of Israel. Only the last-mentioned had a positive effect and after 1967 became increasingly salient. After 1988, the possibility of reconstructing Jewish life in the FSU challenged Jews to redefine themselves yet again. In our 1997/98 survey, over half of respondents still maintained that negative experiences had the greatest impact on the formation of their national consciousness. However, while about two-thirds of the two oldest cohorts in Russia (age 50+) pointed to antisemitism as the most important influence on the formation of their ethnic consciousness, only a third of those aged 16–29 did so. The youngest

descriptive, significance. The status of the Jews was characteristically convoluted.” Stanislawski, 1983: 8. 5 A play of words on the fifth line of the internal passport, designating nationality. See Gitelman, Zvi, 2001; and Gitelman, 1991.

       

199

generation may construe its ethnic identity more positively than the older groups, either because the environment has changed or because they have not yet experienced much antisemitism. The collapse of the Soviet system, mass emigration—over a million Jews have left the FSU since 1970—and the possibility of reconstructing Jewish life in the FSU raise the question of how post-Soviet Jews define themselves. The Soviet state largely succeeded in destroying the traditional self-understandings of what it means to be Jewish and attempted half-heartedly to replace them with new Soviet socialist secular Yiddish contents—which it then also destroyed, leaving Jewishness as an identity with boundaries but no contents. Today, as is happening among Ukrainians and the Baltic peoples, enterprising domestic and foreign ethnic players are trying to reconstruct a culture and religion and induce people to identify with them. The efforts of these parties long predate the collapse of the Soviet system, but only in the post-Soviet period have their exertions been legal, visible, and openly funded. What Is Being Jewish All About, and What Is it Not About? In contrast to American Jews, 47 percent of whom in the 1990 National Jewish Population Survey defined the Jews as a religious group, Jews in the FSU do not strongly connect the Jewish religion with being Jewish. Offered nine criteria for defining Jewishness, only 3 percent of respondents in Ukraine and Russia, and 5 percent of Soviet immigrants in Israel, said that it is the practice of Judaism that defines “being a Jew.”6 To ascertain which components of Jewishness are crucial for Russian and Ukrainian Jews, we presented respondents with a list of eighteen items and asked them which are “necessary,” “desirable,” or “unimportant” for a person to consider himself/herself a Jew. The table below shows that most answers focus on a sense of pride and belonging, on emotions rather than knowledge. Beliefs and knowledge are not considered important in being a Jew. Thus, about half the respondents chose such items as “being

6 Surveys of Jewish identity in the Volga region and in St. Petersburg elicited very similar results. See Krapivenski, 1995, and Kogan, 1995. See also Ryvkina, 1996.

200

 

proud,” not hiding one’s Jewishness, “defending” one’s Jewishness, and remembering the Holocaust. Almost none believed that the observance of religious requirements—such as keeping the Sabbath or the dietary laws, attending synagogue, or circumcising sons—is an integral part of being Jewish. Fewer than 2 percent believed that marrying a Jew is a vital component of Jewish identity; fewer than 5 percent invest belief in God with such importance. There is a strong consensus, even among the nonreligious, that Judaism has preserved the Jews as a nation. Yet many reject the notion that to be Jewish one must practice Judaism. This does not mean that they are hostile to religion; instead, most feel that it is not a prerequisite for Jewishness. As one respondent in Russia put it, “You should know the religion but you don’t have to practice it.” Many who answered our open question about what it means to be a Jew mentioned observance of “traditions” and even practice of Judaism, but most who did so marked it as a second or third item. When forced to prioritize the “things required of a person to be considered an authentic Jew,” they gave Judaism and traditional practices low rankings. Table 13.1: “What is the Most Important Thing a Person Must Do to Be Considered an Authentic Jew?” (%) Russia ’92 Russia ’96 Ukraine ’92 Ukraine ’96 Be proud of one’s nationality

33.3

22.9

29.4

31.4

Defend Jewish honor and dignity

27.1

17.3

21.4

19.7

Not hide one’s Jewishness

0.5

20.8

0.7

13.6

Remember the Holocaust

7.3

15.1

15.5

21.5

Know Jewish history

5.0

2.8

3.0

2.1

Marry a Jew

1.8

1.1

1.1

0.8

Know Jewish traditions

3.2

1.4

0.2

1.4

Help other Jews

7.1

4.3

6.6

6.4

Feel a tie to Israel

4.2

4.3

5.7

2.8

Believe in God

2.7

4.2

3.9

5.4

       

201

Table 13.1 (cont.) Russia ’92 Russia ’96 Ukraine ’92 Ukraine ’96 Know the basics of Judaism

1.0

0.7

0.2

0.3

Circumcise one’s son

0.2

0.1

0.2

0.1

Observe the dietary laws

0.0

0.0

0.0

0.1

Observe the Sabbath

0.0

0.3

0.3

0.4

Attend synagogue

0.0

0.1

0.2

0.1

Know a Jewish language

2.2

1.2

1.6

0.4

Share Zionist ideals

0.2

0.2

0.3

0.2

Give children Jewish education

1.2

0.8

2.0

1.3

Don’t know, no answer

3.1

2.4

0.7

0.4

It is striking that in Chicago, among two waves of Soviet immigrants, only 3 percent of the more recent arrivals associated Judaism with Jewishness but 26 percent of those who had been in the U.S. several years longer did so. Those with greater longevity in Chicago seem to have adopted American notions of Jewishness as a religion. Since in America Jewish ethnicity is expressed in religious forms, immigrants from the FSU eventually express their Jewishness this way, conforming to American patterns of “symbolic ethnicity”(see Gans, 1979). In America, affiliation and philanthropy are measures of Jewishness; a “good Jew” is one who belongs to Jewish organizations, including synagogues or temples, and contributes to Jewish causes. These behaviors, however, are unknown among Jews in the FSU. Instead, as our interviews reveal, the basis of Jewish identity in the FSU is a deeply internalized and not necessarily publicly expressed sense of kinship with other Jews and of connection with earlier generations. What may alarm Jews outside the FSU is that while 18–23 percent of our Russian respondents and 24–31 percent of Ukrainian respondents say they believe in God and another 24–25 percent of those in Russia and 24–30 percent in Ukraine are “inclined to such belief,” only about one-third regard Judaism as the most attractive religion and over 10 percent consider Christianity the most attractive.

 

202

Table 13.2: Belief in God, Russian and Ukrainian Jews, 1992/93 and 1997/98 Russia ’92 Russia ’97 Ukraine ’92 Ukraine ’97 Yes, believe

18.3

22.8

24.2

31.0

Inclined to such belief

23.9

25.3

29.7

24.4

Inclined not to believe

19.1

17.2

18.3

17.1

Do not believe

31.1

28.3

23.2

22.1

6.4

7.6

4.8

5.5

Don’t know, no answer

The proportion of respondents who believe or are inclined to believe seems strikingly high in view of the restrictions on and militant campaigning against religion during the Soviets’ seventy-year tenure. However, when all respondents, believers or not, were asked which religion they found the most attractive, about a third as many as chose Judaism chose Christianity. Table 13.3: Which Religious Faith is the Most Attractive to You? Russia ’92 Russia ’97 Ukraine ’92 Ukraine ’97 None

36.3

44.1

38.5

36.6

Christianity

13.2

13.7

10.7

15.5

0.0

0.0

0.1

0.1

33.2

26.7

37.6

32.4

4.4

5.4

0.0

2.9

13.0

10.2

9.6

12.6

Islam Judaism Other Don’t know, no answer

Thus, for many Jews not only is Judaism no longer the content of Jewish identity but it is no longer even a boundary of that identity. This is quite logical: if Jewishness is perceived as nothing but ethnicity, which should not be affected by the individual’s choice of confession. Until very recently, however, the two strongest barriers that, when crossed, excluded people from the definition of Jews were practicing a faith other than Judaism and marrying a non-Jew. Yet in Russia and Ukraine, in both survey years, only 30–39 percent of respondents were prepared to condemn Jews who “convert to Chris-

       

203

tianity.” While only 4 percent condoned this action, 60 percent said they would neither condone nor condemn Jews who became Christians. As one member of Betar in St. Petersburg put it in another context, “A Jew who practices a religion other than Judaism isn’t a bad Jew—it’s his choice. . . . If you want to believe in Jesus Christ, believe, be my guest, who says you can’t?” Although at least one-third have never heard of “Jews for Jesus,” only one-fifth of those who have heard of this movement are willing to condemn its supporters. The reverse of the coin in separating Judaism from Jewishness is represented by a woman who defines ethnicity so independently of religion that, for her, practicing Judaism does not make one a Jew. “I can be a French person and practice Judaism, but that does not make me a Jew,” she maintains. A resident of Kiev accepts the idea that one does not have to be religious to be Jewish—“You can be a good Jew without being religious”—but maintains that if a Jew adopts another religion “he ceases to be a Jew because, even if one is not religious Jewishly, one must respect the traditions.” Zhanna P., born in Moscow in 1956 and now in Israel, says: “A Jew who’s an atheist—that’s normal. But to convert to another religion—that’s a betrayal of your people.” It is most striking that ritual observance is not dramatically greater among religious believers who prefer Judaism to other faiths than among nonbelievers and those who do not name Judaism as their preferred faith. Most of those who define themselves as religious do not feel personally obliged to observe the Sabbath and honor the dietary laws. In the year preceding the interview, only half of the religious people fasted on Yom Kippur or participated in a Passover seder. In all, only half of those who affirmed Judaism observe the religious laws about which we inquired and a quarter do not observe any of them at all. Thus, the notions of Jewishness in Russia and Ukraine differ from those in much of the Diaspora and in Israel in at least two ways (see Cohen and Eisen, 1998, for the U.S.; Zohar, and Sagi, 1994 for Israel). The boundaries of Jewishness, drawn for most Jews at the line of the practice of another faith, are not as firmly established in Russia and Ukraine. Even in the United States, where over half the Jews marry non-Jews, “moderately affiliated” Jews who, like our respondents, deem the degree of belief irrelevant to one’s Jewishness believe that the only way to cease being a Jew is to convert to another religion. As we have seen, this view is less widely shared in

204

 

the FSU. Second, adherence to Judaism seems to imply much less practice and ritual in the FSU than in Israel or among Jews elsewhere. One may, of course, use rituals and customs of religious origin as the basis for a secular “ethnic” culture. A study among members of the United Synagogue in London—in which only 10 percent defined themselves as Orthodox and two-thirds labeled themselves “traditional”—found that outside the “Orthodox fringe” belief and traditional observance “seem to be virtually independent of each other” (Miller, 1994). In the USSR, however, Jewish practices were discouraged or forbidden and most rituals and customs fell into desuetude. In the survey countries, as in other countries, the Passover seder is the ritual most commonly observed in the respondents’ childhood homes and in their present households. Yet only 26 percent of Jews in Russia and 30 percent in Ukraine participated in a seder in 1997 (though 54 percent in Russia and 68 percent in Ukraine claimed they “observed” the festival—perhaps by eating some matza!). It is not yet clear whether an ethnic culture expressed in religious forms will emerge in the FSU. Language and Organizational Activity as the Content of Ethnicity For many ethnic groups (Canadians, Belgians, Basques, Catalans, etc.), language is the key to ethnicity. Jews, however, have used many different languages, even in their sacred writings, and have never made language their ethnic focus.7 In this sense, Jews in the USSR acculturated very rapidly when the USSR was formed: 97 percent of Jews in the Russian Empire defined a Jewish language as their mother tongue in 1897 and 73 percent still did so in 1926, but only 11 percent of Soviet Jews did so by 1989. In our surveys, fewer than 3 percent of respondents said that knowing a Jewish language is important in being an “authentic Jew.” True, there is considerable interest in Hebrew as against Yiddish, but this is because Hebrew is useful for those contemplating emigration to Israel. In many Western countries, organizational affiliation and activity are the outward manifestations and measures of ethnic belonging and expression. Being involved in a network of interactions with 7 The Bund, which viewed Yiddish as the national language of the Jew, constitutes an exception here.

       

205

other Jews is seen as the behavior, aside from religious practice, that best precludes assimilation (see Amyot and Sigelman, 1996). In the Soviet era, there were no Jewish organizations or public activities. Since Soviet society was run in top-down fashion, any spontaneous activity, i.e., activity not sponsored by the government, was considered subversive. Therefore, one cannot expect Jewish organizations and activists to emerge immediately in the FSU. A 1993 survey among 1,000 Jews in Moscow, Kiev, and Minsk found only 6 percent participating in Jewish organizations (Brym with Ryvkina, 1994: 25). We found that most respondents (two-thirds in Russia, three-quarters in Ukraine) are aware of the existence of at least one Jewish organization and that such awareness increased modestly in the five years between the surveys. In both years, however, only one in ten Russian Jews and one in seven Ukrainian Jews could be considered active in Jewish organizations and institutions. About one-third participated passively (as members of an audience) in some Jewish events. “Pure Jews” in both Russia and Ukraine are more active in Jewish public life than part-Jews. The intermarried, especially those whose spouses have no Jewish background at all, are less active than those married to Jews. Similarly, those whose self-described “national consciousness” or identity is primarily Jewish are more likely to be active in Jewish life than those who perceive their identity as being “both Jewish and non-Jewish,” and they are twice as active as those who feel themselves to be predominantly non-Jewish. Finally, there is a clear correspondence between Jewish activism and plans for emigration. Here lies the great paradox of post-Soviet Jewry: the clearer and more definite one’s plans to emigrate, the higher the level of local Jewish activism. In Russia, the proportion of activists among those who are resolute about emigration in the near future is more than twice as great as among those who have absolutely no intention of leaving. If so, is Jewish activism merely a “prep course” for emigration, or is it preparation for emigration for many but also an end in itself for a crucial minority who will remain as the small core of communities that will be in flux for the foreseeable future? If Jewishness is not fundamentally about Judaism, traditional customs, Jewish languages, or communal participation and activity, what is it about? What does being Jewish mean to Russian and Ukrainian Jews? It is not about behaviors but about identification.

206

 

Most Jews in Russia and Ukraine conceive of their Jewishness as first a matter of descent; second, belonging to a “nationality” (ethnic group); and, third, having subjective feelings of belonging to a group. The most fundamental basis of Jewish identity, in their view, is being born of Jewish parents. Most say that matrilineal or patrilineal descent is sufficient to qualify as Jewish. In 1997, nearly twothirds of those we interviewed in Russia and Ukraine said that the traditional definition of a Jew, as the offspring of a Jewish mother, should be abandoned. Members of the youngest cohort, those most likely not to meet the traditional criteria of Jewishness, reject these criteria with the greatest vehemence. The important point, as one respondent expressed it, is “to have Jewish blood for many generations, Jewish genes.” A Russian Jew put it differently: “If you’re a Jew by blood, it’ll define your entire perception of the world [mirooshchushchenie]. Whoever you might be, you’ll nevertheless feel yourself to be Jewish. You can’t escape it.” Second, Jewish identity is construed as the Soviet state defined it, as membership in an ethnic group (“nationality”). “I don’t understand the question,” said one respondent. “What does it mean to be a Russian or a Yakut? A given [dannost’ ] is a given.” However, this membership goes beyond official designation. The sense of belonging to a distinct group is quite powerful among most respondents. Two-thirds of the 1992 Russian respondents said that “to feel oneself a part of the Jewish people” is what being Jewish is all about, and nearly as many said that “to be proud of the Jewish people” is the essence. The most frequent way of expressing these sentiments among our Ukrainian respondents in 1997 was “to feel yourself part of the Jewish people [narod ]” or “to feel an inner kinship with Jews, to feel that we’re one family.” Another respondent put it more strongly: “When everything relating to Jews and Jewish life in the world, their culture, the Yiddish and Hebrew languages, and things that relate to Israel touches my soul—that’s what it is to be a Jew.” Some find it difficult to express: “It’s a feeling inside. It’s hard to communicate [ peredat’ ].” One finds here that membership is primarily determined by a subjective feeling of belonging, of kinship, and of a desire for group continuity. For quite a few, the only necessary and sufficient condition for Jewishness is to feel oneself a Jew or, as one respondent put it, “to feel Jewish in your soul.” One interviewee expressed his Jewishness in a primordialist manner: “I feel that way and I don’t need any

       

207

additional reasons for it.” Another respondent stated, “I feel like one and that’s that” [Ria oshchushchaiu takovym, i vsye! ]. Even starker was the statement by an elderly lady in Ukraine: “Anyone who’s a Jew knows he’s a Jew, and that’s that” [Kto evrei, to znaet chto on evrei, i vsye]. In sum, two-thirds of the respondents chose descent and the feeling of being part of the Jewish people from nine criteria offered them for establishing Jewish identity. In the FSU, one need not do anything Jewish; one simply is Jewish. Many respondents add a sense of pride to the feeling of belonging. To be a Jew, many remarked, is “to be proud of your nationality.” An interesting variant on this theme is the statement that “To be a Jew you should be proud of what your ancestors did in the distant past, giving Christianity to the world, loving of God, the ability to survive under all circumstances, not to be enslaved, and to rise up from the ashes.” A few connect pride with suffering and say that to be a Jew is to “proudly bear your cross” [sic]. Others see few redeeming qualities in bearing the burdens of being Jewish. One respondent expressed the insecurities of being Jewish by defining Jewishness as “To be a tightrope walker, to walk the line carefully; under our circumstances it’s very complicated.” Most of the others were less equivocal. “In Ukraine,” several said, “to be a Jew is to be an outcast” [izgoem]. One respondent believed that to be Jewish is to “carry all your life a heavy burden of punishment for sins you never committed”; another expressed the same notion as “to be guilty of everything bad that happens in the country where you live.” One put the same idea in a simple and quintessentially Jewish way: “To be a Jew? az okh un vay.” Every sixth respondent in 1992/93 and every fourth in the later survey defined Jewishness largely in negative terms. Importantly, only 7 percent of 16–29 year olds, in 1997/98 mentioned antisemitism as the defining factor in Jewishness, and it was the factor least mentioned by this group in both surveys. On the spectrum of affect in regard to Jewish identity, perhaps the next position is that Jewishness is as others define it, usually pejoratively. “As wise people have said, ‘A Jew is a person whom an antisemite considers a Jew.’” Moving across the spectrum from negative feelings about being Jewish, we arrive at indifference toward or even rejection of the idea of Jewish—and, perhaps, any—nationality. “To be a Jew means nothing. You should be a human being [chelovek].” “The most important thing is to be a human being; who

208

 

you are by nationality doesn’t matter at all.” Or, “it means nothing, just something written in your passport.” One person explains, “For me in principle it means nothing” because “we’re so assimilated that it makes no difference.” A more positive understanding is the equation of Jewishness with decency. Quite a few respondents asserted that to be Jewish is to “be a normal, decent [ poriadochnyi ] person.” This is not the negation of Jewishness but its universalization. Others believe that Jews are ethical, kind, good, helpful, sympathetic, and intelligent (“To be a Jew means to have a smart Jewish head”)—presumably more so than others. Also on the positive side of the spectrum is the idea that Jews should know the customs, traditions, history, and languages of their people. Some add that they should try to observe the customs and traditions “to the extent possible.” Finally, the most radical and minority position in the Russian Ukrainian context is the traditional religious one. “To be a Jew is to be a follower of Abraham, a wanderer and alien in this world, but to go in the direction that God commands people, to observe His commandments and to be blessed.” Of all these conceptions, descent, ethnicity, and the sense of belonging are the most frequently articulated. Clearly, all Jews around the world who choose to identify as such share a subjective sense of belonging. However, most Jews outside the FSU would point to some cultural content beyond this feeling as the defining characteristics of the group. For most Russian and Ukrainian Jews, however, sentiment and biology have largely replaced faith, Jewish law and lore, and Jewish customs as the foundations of the Jewish edifice. Boundaries Boundaries may be more effective than contents in defining Jews in the FSU. After religion, language, territorial concentration, and ethnically defined lifestyle are gone, what may remain is a state-imposed identity (which neither Russia nor Ukraine require anymore), social apartness—imposed in its most extreme form by antisemitism—lifestyle differences, and an awareness of being different. A Soviet-born resident of England, recalling his childhood in the 1950s and 1960s in a provincial Ukrainian city, observed that his family would refer to certain colors as goyishe kulirn [Gentile colors] or to particular furniture styles as “goyish,” much as Jews elsewhere might. Living in

       

209

Moscow later on, he and his wife were astounded to find that their highly acculturated young Jewish neighbors, who observed no Jewish traditions and displayed no interest in things Jewish, were shocked that they had invited a non-Jewish friend to their home. Thus, the sense of being different and apart prevailed even among some young people who lived in cosmopolitan Moscow and apparently had no connection to Jewishness other than a sense that they were not Russian. In the 1970s, a prominent dissident expressed this eloquently: Who am I now? Who do I feel myself to be? Unfortunately, I do not feel like a Jew. I understand that I have an unquestionable genetic tie with Jewry. I also assume that this is reflected in my mentality, in my mode of thinking, and in my behavior. But . . . a more profound, or more general, common bond is lacking, such as community of language, culture, history, tradition. I am accustomed to the color, smell, rustle of the Russian landscape, as I am to the Russian language. . . . I react to everything else as alien. . . . Nevertheless, no, I am not Russian, I am a stranger today in this land (Bogoraz, 63–64).

Most respondents described their national self-consciousness and lifestyles as a mixture of Jewish and Russian (rarely Ukrainian) elements, with the Russian prevailing in most instances. Yet their closest friends are mostly Jews. Asked to recall the ethnicity of their three closest friends in the FSU, 58 percent in Russia (1992) and 71 percent in Ukraine (1992) mentioned a Jew first. This tendency was somewhat weaker in the youngest cohort (ages 18–29) and weakened somewhat by 1997, but it is marked. Although the overwhelming majority rejects the idea that one should choose friends of one’s own nationality, in practice they seem to do just that. In contrast to London Jews, however, FSU Jews do not extrapolate their preference for Jewish friends to a sense of kinship with Jews the world over. In London, 88 percent agreed with the proposition that “an unbreakable bond unites Jews all over the world.” In Ukraine and, especially, in Russia we find rather weak identification with Jews not only in the rest of the world but even in non-European parts of the FSU. In 1992, only 41 percent in Russia and 51 percent in Ukraine agreed that “Jews all over the world are a single people;” by 1997/98, the proportions had declined to 38 percent in Russia and 48 percent in Ukraine. Interestingly, respondents in the youngest cohort (ages 16–29) were substantially more inclined than any others to agree with the proposition, although even among them only 50–60 percent did so.

210

 

Some say Jews are one people, some say they are a people united by religion, and many say that the different groups in Israel— Moroccan and Ethiopian Jews are the most frequently mentioned groups—“prove” that the Jews are not a single people. A woman from Russia who visited Israel observed, “I saw this in Israel—it’s Pinsk, Minsk, and others, and Moscow and Leningrad, these are totally different people! Absolutely!” Hanna G., born in 1912 in Belarus, said that the Jews are not a nation. “I think a Georgian Jew is a Georgian.” Her daughter, born in 1944 to a Russian father and her Jewish mother, agreed: “I don’t think a Jew from Yemen and a Jew from St. Petersburg are people of the same nationality 1 don’t know what unites them.” Anna of Kiev, born in 1922, did not think that even FSU Jews constitute a single people. “Georgian Jews are more Georgians, Jews from Bukhara are more Uzbeks; it’s difficult to tell them apart.” In Russia, two-thirds of those interviewed in 1992/93 said they felt “spiritually and culturally” closer to the Russians of their city than to Georgian, Bukharan, or Mountain Jews, and 46 percent said they felt closer to local Russians than to Jews in Belarus or Ukraine (whence most Russian Jews originate). About half of respondents in both countries, in both years, claimed that they felt “a special but not very deep” kinship with Israeli Jews, and 21–37 percent described Israeli Jews as “my people, with whom I have an unbreakable tie.” The distance from Jews elsewhere, including Israel, increased somewhat in 1997/98, either because the most Jewishly conscious Jews had emigrated or because the breakup of the USSR also increased the psychological distance among Jews (and others) in its now-independent parts. More Ukrainian Jews than Russian Jews feel a stronger affinity for Russian Jews than they do for local Russians and for local Russians than for Ukrainians. Like Russian Jews, they are distant from non-Ashkenazi Jews, though less so than Russian Jews claim to be. Additional measures indicate that Jews in Ukraine have a more powerful sense of Jewish kinship and affinity than Jews in Russia. Thus, there are still significant boundaries demarcating Jews off from others, but Russian and Ukrainian Jews are not strongly inclined to include Jews from other parts of the world within their own boundary. Historically, one of the strongest components of the boundary was endogamous marriage. The traditional ban on marriage with non-

       

211

Jews, centuries old, may be the most explicit expression of the Jewish sense of apartness—rivaled perhaps only by the dietary laws. Today, the taboo of intermarriage is weakening in most Diaspora countries. Only 37–43 percent of our respondents agreed in 1997 that a Jew should choose a spouse of the same nationality, a decline from 1992. In Robert Brym and Rozalia Ryvkina’s 1993 survey of 1,000 Jews in Moscow, Kiev, and Minsk (1994) only 26 percent said it was important for Jews to marry other Jews. In the United States, the 1990 National Jewish Population Survey found that 52 percent of Jews who had married since 1985 had married non-Jews. In the FSU in 1988, 48 percent of Soviet Jewish women and 58 percent of Jewish men who married chose non-Jewish spouses. The spouse of one of every five respondents had no Jewish ancestry at all and another 2 percent of cases are in marriages where both spouses were of partly non-Jewish descent. The proportion of Russian and Ukrainian Jews affirming that Jews should marry each other may have declined due to greater emigration of the in-married or aging of the population since, as expected, older Jews were more opposed to intermarriage than younger Jews. Moreover, one-third of those who ruled out intermarriage claimed they would not be upset were their children to marry non-Jews. Thus, the historic boundary that separates Jews from others is blurring. The other side of the boundary, erected by non-Jews, is antisemitism—the factor that more than any other sets Jews apart from others in the FSU. Outsiders’ perceptions are always important in defining a group. As Jonathan Webber writes, “. . . Being . . . identified by outsiders, may not only ‘cure’ a group’s uncertainty about itself, it is also an essential part of the group’s awareness of its objective existence” (Webber, 1994: 4). In the USSR, according to Mikhail Chlenov (1994: 132), “The average Soviet non-Jew considers as Jewish anybody who has some kind of link to Jews or Judaism. The offspring of mixed marriages would thus normally be considered Jewish in the wider society, regardless of what their passport says.” Often, the perception that someone was Jewish had a negative tinge. Indeed, as we have seen, over half our respondents in both waves of interviews said that their Jewish consciousness was first established, and even basically formed, by negative experiences, though

212

 

less so among the oldest (70+) and youngest groups. When asked to name the single greatest influence on the formation of their national consciousness, over half cited antisemitism. What is more, over half pointed to an antisemitic encounter as the event that first made them conscious of their Jewishness, although remarkably this is not the case among the young. A young woman recalls, “A boy, my first love, wanted to insult me deeply and emphasized that I was a Jew. Until then I had never attached any significance to my nationality.” A person who grew up in the 1940s recalls, “It happened during the period of the struggle against cosmopolitanism. They threw Papa out of his job but until then I didn’t know how we were different from any other Soviet citizens.” Sometimes Jewish consciousness came to one rather late in life. “Actually, I began to feel Jewish only when I was refused entry to graduate work at various institutes (I had been recommended by my department). Until that point, in school and in college I was indifferent to my nationality.” Today, however, as no Soviet successor state pursues antisemitic policies and ethnic hatreds focus on peoples other than Jews, antisemitism may be receding as a major component in, if not a creator of, Jewish identity. In any case, it creates only a Jewishness of boundaries and not of contents. Conclusion The Jewish identity of Russian and Ukrainian Jews is stronger than many would suppose but is problematic. Ethnic identities are often reformulated and “Jewish identities in general are to be understood as constructs in response to the circumstances” (Brym and Ryvkina, 1994: 34). Russian/Ukrainian Jewish identities may be uniquely the product of a Soviet environment that no longer exists. Soviet circumstances were unique indeed, not replicated even in allied socialist countries that did not record nationality in citizens’ identity papers and, in some cases, defined Jewishness as a religious, not an ethnic, category. In the USSR, state-imposed identity and governmental antisemitism combined with grassroots antisemitism to maintain boundaries between Jews and others long after the Jewish contents of Jewish ethnicity had largely disappeared. Today, Russia and Ukraine no longer impose official ethnic identity and none of the successor states to the USSR pursues an antisemitic policy. Popular antisemitism, which may wax and wane, may be the last barrier to assimilation.

       

213

Thus, while descent and feelings of kinship remain, some of the ingredients of the Soviet Jewish identity have changed. There are no longer any restrictions on infusing a largely hollow Jewish identity with any kind of Jewish contents. Only a minority of Jews, however, participates in public Jewish activities, educates its children Jewishly, and explores Jewish traditions and cultures. Moreover, those most interested in Jewish contents are most likely to emigrate. The historically unique Jewish identity created in the USSR may not survive the demise of the conditions that created it. It may neither transfer to future generations nor survive in this one, although other forms of Jewish identity may replace it. Furthermore, the conceptions of Jewishness held by the great majority of Russian and Ukrainian Jews are so different from those prevailing in most of the rest of the Diaspora and in Israel that sensitive questions of mutual recognition inevitably arise. A significant portion of post-Soviet Jewry does not share the criteria for admission to the Jewish club that the Jewish world sets, however non-uniform these criteria may be. Thus, the gatekeepers of the Jewish club, whoever they are—this, of course, is one of the most contentious issues in World Jewry today—have three choices to make when FSU Jews present themselves for admission. The gatekeepers can abandon the rules and adopt the suggestion of some of our respondents that “Whoever thinks he or she is a Jew is a Jew.” They would then have to abandon all external criteria and include as Jews “Jews for Jesus” or anyone else declaring himself or herself a Jew. This may please post-modernists, for whom “essentialism” is a cardinal sin, but would empty the category “Jew” of all meaning. Second, the gatekeepers may modify the rules for admission, but if they do so extensively the rules may become so loose as to be inoperative or meaningless. Alternatively, they can adhere to the rules as they have evolved and turn away many who seek admission. Those rejected may form a rival “Jewish club” of their own or turn away from the gates altogether and seek membership elsewhere. Third, and most generally, the challenge of developing a viable Jewish identity in Russia and Ukraine is formidable because it involves the construction of a secular Jewish identity. Amyot and Sigelman (1996: 187–8) find that “Religious devotion . . . is the main pillar of Jewish identity in America, although close interpersonal relations with other Jews also play an important role.” Insofar as American Jews reject “ethnoreligion,” they also renounce their ethnic heritage.

214

 

This, however, is not the issue in Russia and Ukraine. One must assume that for the foreseeable future most Jewish identities in the European FSU will be secular and that interpersonal relations with other Jews will decline along with the sheer number of Jews—unless Jewish communities develop. Secular Jews have long struggled with the problem of maintaining an ethnicity that is divorced from religion and its symbols. A nonreligious Yiddish educator observed that when the “secular ship” floats on the “Jewish sea,” which is permeated by religion, “it turns out that it floats empty, with no ballast. And a terrible similarity appears between secularism and simple assimilation” (Yudl, 1948: 14). Some nonreligious Jews devise substitutes for religion: ethics, the Yiddish language and culture, or the modern Jewish state. All find themselves reverting to symbolism emanating from religious sources, though they attempt to invest the symbols with new emphases. A Hungarian Jew explains the dilemma: “We want to belong without taking on the belief. We do not want to practice religion itself but we want to belong. A religious Catholic goes to church; if he’s not religious, he doesn’t belong there. . . . He has no problems with that. . . . [In our case] it is incredibly difficult; we are Negroes without the color” (Kovacs, 1994: 138). In Israel, ongoing debates about Jewish consciousness and the Jewish identity of the nonreligious population are almost as old as the country. Israeli educators continue to wrestle with the problem of how to convey Jewish history, literatures, values, and traditions to nonreligious students. In America, where the basis of East European secularism, Yiddish, has yielded to English, Jews maintain Judaism as a facade for ethnicity. Because religious forms were unacceptable in the Soviet Union, they do not serve the same purpose m the former USSR that they do in America or Britain. The secular, socialist Soviet forms devised by the Evsektsia were seen as ersatz and never replaced Judaismbased symbols and rituals. Nevertheless, secular Jewish identity was powerful among Jews in the Soviet Union because it was maintained by a combination of official designation, antisemitism—whether stategenerated or grassroots—and a feeling of apartness, especially after the 1930s. Today, as we have seen, some of these elements of identity are gone. Is popular antisemitism, which waxes and wanes, the last basis of Jewish identity? Aside from its being a completely negative cause of such identity, would its perpetuation suffice to main-

       

215

tain Jewish identity, or would it fail since today one may escape across the boundaries of ethnicity that have become permeable and blurred due to intermarriage? Can Jewishness survive without Judaism? Secular Jewishness, as it emerged just a century ago, was based on a common language (Yiddish), territorial concentration (the Pale of Settlement, ethnic neighborhoods), a high degree of concentration in certain professions (needle trades, artisanship, commerce and trade), and a strong sense of being part of a distinct Jewish entity. Jews were kept distinct both by antisemitism and—for immigrants—by cultural apartness and, in many countries (Lithuania, Russia, Romania), by their sense of cultural superiority, though in others (France, England, Germany, the United States) they strove to attain the “higher,” host culture as they perceived it. These bases of secular Jewishness have eroded or disappeared. Under such conditions, can there be a viable, transferable secular Jewish life? Some might not find this problematic, but when the decision of who and what Jews are is left to others, the Jews may not only cede the sovereignty of their peoplehood to outsiders but, as they have learned, may risk catastrophic results.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

RUSSIAN-JEWISH ETHNICITY: ISRAEL AND RUSSIA COMPARED Vladimir Khanin Introduction Two recent mass migrations of East European Jews, in 1969–1980 and from 1989 to the present writing, have transformed the geography of the world’s russophone Jewish communities. Since the mid1990s, Israel has been the largest center of these communities. According to data from the Israeli Ministry of Absorption and the Jewish Agency for Israel ( JAFI), approximately 1,100,000 citizens of Israel immigrated to that country from the USSR or the FSU—the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS) and the Baltic countries—since 1973,1 including about 870,000 who came after 1989.2 The FSU remains the second-largest center of russophone Jews, with a population estimated at 600,000–1,000,000 despite mass emigration and depopulation.3 More than half a million “Russian” Jews and members of their families live in North America,4 Jewish immi-

1 Interview by author with Dr. Marina Solodkin, then Israel Deputy Minister of Immigrant Absorption, Herzliya, Israel, Nov. 1999. According to available data, about 100,000 of these people subsequently repatriated to the FSU or emigrated to the U.S., Canada, or other countries. 2 According to official Jewish Agency data, 790,475 people moved from the USSR/FSU to Israel between 1989 and May 1999. Of them, 240,402 (30.4 percent) came from the Russian Federation; 249,103 (31.5 percent) from Ukraine, 127,927 (16 percent) from other European post-Soviet republics; and 154,465 (19.5 percent) from republics of Central Asia and the Caucasus. See Mid-Year Summary of JAFI Activities in the FSU, January–May 1999, submitted to the Jewish Agency Board of Governors, Jerusalem, June 1999, p. 13. About 50,000 more came between May 1999 and May 2000 (MIGNews, No. 2 [May 10, 2000], p. 5). 3 See Institute of World Jewish Congress, 1996, p. 12, and Tolts, 1996: 5–17. Notably, the larger estimates include the so-called “enlarged” Jewish population, i.e., non-Jewish family members. 4 The data were provided by Michael Galperin, Director-General of the New York UJA Federation, in his address to the Second International Conference on Personal Absorption (ICPA2), Herzliya, Israel, Nov. 2, 1999.

- 

217

grants from the FSU constitute about one-third of the 80,000 registered members of the Jewish community in Germany,5 and no fewer than one-fourth of the 100,000 “Russians” in Australia are émigré Jews (Kupovetsky, 2000: 134). The recent Jewish migrations from the USSR/FSU have also led to the establishment or the strengthening of “russophone Jewish communities” in dozens of other countries. In all, over the past thirteen years about 1.6 million people (some sources number them at about 2 million) have taken advantage of the “Jewish channel” to leave the USSR/FSU—about a million Jews, 400,000 ethnic Russians, and more than 100,000 Ukrainians (Groman, 1999: 3–4). As a result, according to some data, “RussianJewish communities” now exist in fifty-two countries on five continents (Slutzky, 1999: 16). Russian-Jewish Entities: Identity and Patterns of Community Building Alongside obvious differences in the situation of russophone Jews in the post-Soviet countries, the Jewish state, and their “new Diasporas,” they also have several commonalities. Most Russophone Jews experience an immigration shock as they adjust to their new social, economic, political, cultural, and psychological realities (Pogrebencky, 1999: 85–94). Paradoxically, even FSU Jews who remained in Eastern Europe did not escape this shock, having made an “internal migration” of sorts from the “transnational” USSR to the post-Soviet ethnic nation-states. The problem of cultural, linguistic, and national identity, varying in form from place to place but similar in essence, is another common feature of russophone Jewry. Most Soviet and post-Soviet Jews may be regarded as a subethnicity (or a group of subethnicities) of East European Jewry that shares a common destiny, identity, and values. Though deeply assimilated, russified, and considerably alienated from Jewish culture, they retain a specific form of Jewish consciousness. This consciousness is the product of what remains of the local Jewish cultural tradition, pressure from the local social and political environment, and the Jews’ own ethnic self-determination, deeply rooted in historical memory and social experience. Thus, these Jews,

5 One should add to this figure about 50,000 former Soviet Jews and family members who are not registered with synagogue congregations—see Prisutsky, 2000: 30–31.

218

 

although often culturally and physically indistinguishable from local russophone Slavs, are very different from them in terms of consciousness and identity (Chervyakov, V. et al., 1997; Khanin, 1998; Ryvkina, 1996). Many elements of such an identity, largely reflected in people’s attitudes rather than in observable behavior, have been preserved both in post-Soviet societies and in countries of immigration. Furthermore, russophone Jews in the FSU and in the immigration countries continue to share common social and cultural features: a similar degree of urbanization, educational standards, and social values. Former Soviet Jews, both in the FSU and abroad, also follow a similar pattern of electoral behavior, i.e., conspicuous hostility toward any kind of Socialist ideology. Thus, “Russian” Jews almost everywhere support Liberal-Right forces. For instance, according to opinion polls conducted in the early 1990s, 93 percent of Russian Jews in Russia, as against 46 percent of non-Jewish respondents, supported democratic reform parties (Brym and Ryvkina, 1996: 8). The same trend was observed in 1999 and 2000 in campaigns for parliament in Ukraine and Russia, where Jews voted en masse for liberal democratic parties (Gorodetzky, 1999). (The only exception almost anywhere in the FSU is the mostly elderly Jewish community of Moldova, which in greater part supported the local Communist Party in February 2001 in response to ongoing economic crises. Even there, the younger Jewish voters opted for pro-Western parties.) Almost everywhere in Western countries where citizenship was offered, FSU Jewish emigrants’ political sympathies after six to seven years of usually successful adaptation and integration normally place them on the Right flank of the local political spectrum. In the U.S., for example, recent immigrants from the FSU usually support the Republican Party. Thus, during the 2001 mayoral elections in New York, most russophone Jewish immigrants voted for the successful Republican candidate, Michael Bloomberg, and for many Republican candidates for the municipal council (Galili, 2000). In Israel, too, candidates of right-wing parties for parliamentary (Knesset) and government posts more often command FSU immigrants’ sympathies than do their rivals on the Left (Khanin, 2000). Finally, one should take into account the process of searching for an adequate model of Jewish communal self-organization and institutionalization in the national public domain, an obvious feature throughout the Russian-Jewish space. This process, though evidently

- 

219

crucial for the preservation of the East European Jewish (or “RussianJewish”) identity and the pursuit of public-policy objectives in Jewish communities, has not been subjected to anything approaching indepth study. This chapter will discuss the existing patterns of RussianJewish communalist movement and the effect of this movement on Jewish and general politics in various “host” countries. During the past three decades, the establishment and legalization of RussianJewish communities has followed various patterns. The South African and German models may be regarded as peripheral ones. Thus, the tiny russophone Jewish collective in South Africa (about 2,000 persons in 1996),6 composed mainly of relatively recent “transit” migrants from Israel, is a relatively socially and economically unsuccessful minority of the “fourth level” (i.e., a “Russian” minority of the Israeli minority of the Jewish minority of the white minority) in a decreasingly successful country. Since South African Jewry is dwindling rapidly (from 140,000 in the late 1980s to fewer than 80,000 in the late 1990s), there is obviously no room even to discuss the possibility of the formation of an independent self-organization of russophone Jews there. The German situation is different. The Jewish community in Germany is quite large numerically but lacks any real autonomy. It is considered a religious collectivity and thus, according to German law, should fund the services that it provides to affiliated members by using revenues from the voluntary religion tax (collected by the government and redistributed to religious communities on the basis of their officially registered membership). However, since a very large share of “declared” German Jews (mainly russophone immigrants from the FSU) has no income of its own and subsists on the government dole, the German Federal and provincial governments also cover basic “communal” expenses of local “Russian-Jewish” entities. Practically speaking, then, the quasi-communal Russian-Jewish activities in Germany are integrated into the state-regulated system. There are three basic models of communal and political institutionalization of russophone Jewry in the modern world: the (post-) Soviet; the North American; and the Israeli. Most entities represented by these patterns evidently have very little if anything to do with the traditional communal organization of 6 These data were acknowledged at the international conference “Jews at the Frontier,” held in Cape Town in 8/1996.

220

 

Jews in Eastern Europe. One such entity, according to Leshem and Lissak, is the “Russian-Jewish” community in the U.S. Basing themselves on Fran Markowitz’s (1992: 141–155) classical study, Leshem and Lissak (1997) define this entity as “a system of highly intensive informal connections which acted as a support system for individuals and families, preserved the language and culture of the community of origin, and demarcated the community’s boundaries vis-à-vis the external society. Maia Kaganskaia (Kagansky) (1999), in turn, defines Russian-Jewish entities in Israel and the Diaspora as semi-communities of sorts, separated from the rest of society by a specific “cultural and mental complex.” Other experts stress the lack of hierarchy and status roles in most russophone Jewish communities in Israel and the Western Diaspora, combined with their “amorphous, although homogeneous structure” (Zilberg, 2000: 200). In principle, this definition also holds true in the case of many Jewish communities in the FSU, which, despite their higher level of formalization, are still closer to the structure of “Russian” communities in the “new Russian-Jewish Diaspora” than to the traditional East European community (Khanin, 2001). Be this as it may, the existence of Russian-Jewish communities as a specific case of self-organization of World Jewry is an obvious fact. The framework of these entities is being created by leadership groups and elites who are represented in different spheres of social, political, and economic life of both the community and the country at large. It is made up of numerous institutions that provide specific services and reproduce structural or communal identification. Finally, it is composed of a well-developed network of formal and informal links and relations. The upper stratum of the “Russian-Jewish” elites includes several categories. The core of these entities is composed of two kinds of Russian-Jewish politicians: those at the communal and those at the national level. The former are leaders and senior decision-makers in local, functional, and umbrella Russian-Jewish organizations and political movements. The latter are members of the national political establishment who identify with an organized Russian-Jewish community and use their status to lobby officials on behalf of communal interests. This aim can be attained either through official representation in the government, as in Israel; participation in informal control groups (“oligarchic clans”), as in the FSU countries; or the use of larger Jewish communities as mechanisms of political pressure, as

- 

221

in the U.S. and Canada. (Only recently have several important indications of nascent independent political power in the U.S. “Russian” Jewish community appeared, e.g., the community’s first Republican candidate for a municipal council.) Also noteworthy are senior bureaucrats of Russian-Jewish origin who involve themselves in communal affairs in the FSU, Israel, and North American countries, as well as high-ranking officials in the welfare, educational, and other professional communal infrastructures. Other “Russian” Jewish elite groups are religious leaders, writers, journalists, actors, artists, publicists, and others, who traditionally served as spokesmen for the russophone community and whose voices are important in Russian-Jewish and broader political circles. Additionally, various groups of organized Russian-Jewish professionals (academicians, doctors, lawyers, engineers, etc.) are crucial in the promotion of communal interests. Finally, since the mid-1990s “Russian” businesspeople have shown different levels of involvement in the affairs of their Jewish communities, from episodic funding of communal projects to tenures as presidents of Jewish federations and umbrella organizations.7 All these elites became both initiators and products of various institutional frameworks of Russian-Jewish communities in both the FSU and the new Russian-Jewish Diaspora. These institutions, in turn, play a variety of roles. First, they are factors in the “institutional identification” of russophone Jews, both in the FSU and in places of immigration. Additional community-building functions of these institutions include the provision of cultural, educational, informational, and other social services to East European Jews; satisfaction of their specific psychological and consumption needs; and the realization of their professional, political, and economic interests. They also provide a venue for intracommunal socialization and intensive cultural dialogue within and between the “Russian” and the larger Jewish communities. “The Jews”: an Organized Jewish Ethnicity in the Post-Soviet Space The East European model is a product of the contradiction-riddled evolution of organized Jewish life in the USSR and the post-Soviet 7 For more extensive analyses of Russian-Jewish elites in the FSU, see Krichevsky, 1999; Khanin, 2000: 350. In the U.S.: Lewin-Epstein, et al., eds., 1997: 270–274. In Israel: Lissak, and Leshem, 1995: 20–36, and Khanin, 2000: 228–243.

222

 

state. Notably, the rich communal, cultural, and ethnic political traditions of East European Jewry were almost totally lost by the1950s due to the Nazi genocide of the Jewish population in World War II and the Stalinist terror in the pre- and post-war decades. Jewish organizational initiatives in the late Soviet epoch had almost nothing to do with the prior historical communal and political experience and were based, as Altshuler correctly notes, more on “external” resources than on internal ones (Altshuler, 1995). One of these sources was government policy, which in the last decades of the USSR left some room for the existence of a few legal and semi-legal Jewish “national” institutions: religious (synagogues), cultural (a few publications and some theater collectives), and even “political” (such as the “Soviet Public Anti-Zionist Committee” or “Jewish projects” of the Soviet Committee for the Defense of Peace, Soviet Friendship Societies, and other official institutions). These structures, strictly controlled by agencies of the Soviet administration, the Communist Party, and the security services, gave the Jewish masses very limited access and, in turn, hardly represented Soviet Jewry vis-à-vis the Soviet authorities and the international public (see also Chernin, 1995; Korey, 1989). At the same time, in the post-Second World War period and, especially, after the awakening of the “Jews of silence” following Israel’s victory in the Six-Day War ( June 1967), Soviet Jews developed a network of independent and mostly illegal national associations, both “religious” and “secular” (Yedidya, 1991; Lourie, 1991). The level of Soviet Jewish involvement in these mainly pro-Zionist groups was very modest. The main political resources invoked by these small and highly fluid entities were also external in origin, i.e., organizational and material support provided by Israeli and Western Diaspora organizations and the world public opinion that these organizations mobilized on behalf of Soviet Jews. A new type of self-organization among Soviet Jews, a broader “informal Zionist community,” materialized in the late 1970s and early 1980s amidst sizable Jewish emigration. The largest communities of this type, those in Moscow and Leningrad, had about 3,000 and 700 activists, respectively, at their peak; similar settings in other Soviet Jewish population centers had several dozen or, at the most, several hundred participants. These communities, which revolved around nuclei composed of groups of “refuseniks,” lacked formalized peripheries and strict hierarchies. However, they operated with the help of

- 

223

satellite groups (in the fields of religious, educational, publishing, human rights, and other activities) and used a well-developed network of informal connections to serve as self-help associations.8 An ideological schism took place in these communities, represented by “Zionist politicians” (who focused exclusively on political methods of struggle for emigration, such as demonstrations and petitions), and two streams of “kulturniks.” The first stream, “Zionist kulturniks,” believed it necessary to combine the struggle for emigration to Israel with the development of informal Jewish culture institutions, at least until government emigration policies would change decisively. The second stream, “legalist kulturniks,” viewed the revival and development of Jewish culture in the USSR in long-run terms and, therefore, were willing to cooperate with the authorities, in a manner of speaking. At the very end of the Soviet era, all these groups institutionalized themselves in the form of the USSR Zionist Federation, the Association of Hebrew Teachers, and the Jewish Culture Association. The “Zionist politicians” became irrelevant in 1989, when Gorbachev’s perestroika opened the gates for mass Jewish emigration. The two streams of “kulturniks” continued to rival each other within the reawakening USSR and post-Soviet Jewish movement. The “legalist” group (especially its “loyalist” faction) welcomed the opportunity to cooperate with the late-Soviet and post-Soviet establishment by means of “top-down” official Societies of Jewish Culture (see Khanin, 2000). Concurrently, however, champions of the independent Jewish movement became involved in the creation of alternative organizations—Jewish municipal communities, “professional” communal service entities, and their umbrella organizations, the vaads. (Vaad is Hebrew for “committee”; in the USSR/FSU the term denoted associations of Jewish organizations and communities that opted to seek support from Israel and World Jewry.)9 8 These estimations and data were collected by the author in the course of personal interviews with former activists in underground Jewish movements in the USSR—Zion Abramov, Michael Shnaider, Michael Chlenov, Ze"ev Dashevsky, Eliyahu Essas, Hanokh Feldman, Viktor Ful"makht, Ze"ev Geyzel, Shaul Kotlyarsky, Baruch Podolsky, Pinhas Polonsky, and Iosif Zissels ( Jerusalem, Moscow, and Kiev, 1995–2001). 9 The USSR Jewish Vaad was established in December 1989. On the eve of the disintegration of the USSR, and during the first few years afterward, republic-level Jewish vaads were created in Ukraine, Russia, Belarus, and several other areas— see Satanovsky 2001. After the disintegration of the Soviet Union, the USSR Vaad was transformed into the Confederation of FSU Jewish Organizations.

224

 

However, by the end of the “romantic period” in the history of the Jewish movement in the post-perestroika FSU (1992 and early 1993), both “external” forces—the post-Soviet political establishment and foreign Jewish benefactors—clearly lost most of their interest in cooperating with local Jewish leaders, be they “loyalist” or “independent.” For the post-Soviet governments, unlike the USSR, the Jewish issue was far from a high-priority matter; what is more, the governments were physically unable to provide local Jewish organizations with meaningful material support. On the other hand, when it became clear that the huge wave of Jewish emigration in 1990–1992 was over and that the post-Soviet Jewish population was unlikely to disappear in the near future, Israeli and other foreign Jewish organizations moved to create their own institutional infrastructures in the FSU and ignored local Jewish leaders’ demands for “equal and fair cooperation” (Kolyarsky, 1999). In the second half of the 1990s, new communal elites—religious leaders (most of whom came from abroad) and local businesspeople— emerged. Both groups created their own Jewish umbrella structures: Jewish congresses (which exist today in Russia, Ukraine, and Kazakhstan), and Jewish (religious) federations, respectively. Simultaneously, these two umbrella structures embarked on struggle with each other, with the “veteran” Jewish elites and their institutions, and also, in some cases, with local branches of foreign Jewish organizations. The rivals’ goal, for the most part, was to take over the leadership of Jewish municipal, regional, and service entities, to obtain the rights to restitution of pre-revolutionary properties of Jewish organizations; to secure the right to represent the local Jewish movement vis-à-vis international Jewish organizations and governments in the post-Soviet states; and to gain access to other important political resources. A new process that began in the late 1990s—the growing involvement of some East European governments (especially in Russia and Ukraine) in Jewish communal affairs and even the confrontation of local Jewish entities—has made the function of representation very important (Luhovchuk and Korshak, 1998; Salpeter, 1999). Thus, the political confrontation in the FSU Jewish communities is far from over and the quest for appropriate modalities of communitybuilding continues.

- 

225

The Building of a North American Model for the Russian-Jewish Community The Russian-Jewish communities in the U.S. and Canada (as well as in Australia and several other localities) came into being under different conditions. The “indigenous” Jewish communities in these countries have high political status due to their economic and social clout, their efficient and formalized mechanism of political lobbying, and their effective professional structures. Furthermore, local social and political traditions stipulate well developed and legitimized forms of cultural-communal and national-state identities in non-contradictory combinations. Under these conditions, the eventual political institutionalization of the Russian-Jewish communities in these countries will occur, for the most part, in the course of the advancement of the communities’ own political leaders and the amassing of relevant material, organizational, and political resources. In the meantime, the situation is far from ideal. The institutional infrastructure of RussianJewish entities in anglophone countries has not yet developed and the contributions of russophone Jews’ self-help organizations remain limited. Many organizations that may, theoretically, evolve into an institutional framework for this community, such as the Association for New Americans and the Novoe russkoe slovo newspaper, are in fact neither “Russian” nor Jewish in the full sense of these words. Additionally, several organizations that might serve as structures for the representation of “Russian-Jewish interests” are not independent; most are communal or even government-communal settings that engage in housing recent immigrants. An example is HIAS (Hebrew Immigrant Aid Services) of Canada, formed and funded by the Canadian Jewish Congress. HIAS of Canada serves Jewish immigrants, mainly from the FSU, most of whom come to Canada after spending five to seven years in Israel. This Russian-Jewish population, which is also growing due to direct Jewish emigration from the FSU, is centered mainly in Toronto and Montreal.10 Jewish organizations in the U.S., such as HIAS (Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society) and the CJF (Council of Jewish Federations),

10 The author thanks Jenya Berek of the Toronto office of HIAS for her evaluations and statistical data.

226

 

perform similar functions by servicing russophone Jewish immigrants, first and foremost in “Soviet Jewish enclaves.” Obviously, the projects of these and other similar organizations, which operate on an intercommunal basis and were created by a local Jewish federation, are financed and directed in view of their founders’ priorities. Independent organizations, i.e., those created by russophone Jewish immigrants, are still in their infancy and have not yet had a significant impact. The Toronto Russian Jewish Center is a good example. According to observers, this Orthodox Jewish organization, headed by a rabbi who came from Moscow, has had only limited success in Jewish educational outreach among russophone immigrants. The weakness of public self-organization of East European Ashkenazi Jews, who make up a majority of the russophone Jewish population in the U.S. and Canada, is especially evident in comparison with the much more successful organizational efforts of Jewish immigrants from the non-Ashkenazi areas of the USSR/FSU. Thus, the Bukharan Jewish center in Forest Hills, New York, was founded back in the 1960s. In May 1999, the First Congress of Bukharan Jews in North America took place, with some 200 delegates representing fifty-one organizations in twelve U.S. and Canadian cities (Sharki, 2000). The Congress was a springboard for the formation of the World Association of Bukharan Jews, which was announced at the Association’s inaugural congress in Jerusalem in November 2000 (Vesti, Nov. 29, 2000). Lev Levayev, a noted “Russian-Israeli” businessman of Bukharan-Jewish origin and the founder of the Or Avner philanthropic foundation, was elected president of the association, which is now known as the Congress of Bukharan Jews. There is a similar Ashkenazi organization—the American Association of Jews from the Former Soviet Union (AAJFSU)—but it is much less influential than the Congress of Bukharan Jews. The AAJFSU represents about 5,000 members in twelve U.S. states who are organized in unions of various kinds (professional, educational, origin, and other), and functions under the bureaucratic patronage of the National Conference for Soviet Jewry, one of two umbrella organizations of American Jewish bodies that participated in the struggle on behalf of Soviet Jewry (Rashin, 2000). According to some experts, the relatively low level of self-organization of russophone Jews in the U.S. and Canada is the result of these immigrants’ specific social and political culture and the fact that they prefer informal relations

- 

227

to attempts to develop formalized societies. Finally, observers of the impediments to the institutionalization of Russian-Jewish entities in North America note that local Jewish leaders treat the very idea of such associations with a low level of legitimacy. Additionally, they point to contradictions, mutual prejudices, and misunderstandings that create rifts between recent Russian-Jewish immigrants and “indigenous” and veteran (including veteran “Russian”) Jews in the U.S. and Canada. In sum, North American russophone Jewry still lacks its own autonomous tools of political influence and has managed thus far to institutionalize itself almost solely on the fringes of local Jewish communities of long standing. Unlike Jewish politics in the post-Communist societies, which is taking shape under the influence of the transformed norms of the local political culture, the North America Jewish communities have complicated but stable ground rules. All participants in the communal process realize the limits of their power and activities that do not meet the acceptable standard can be easily blocked. Thus, for russophone Jews in Western countries to achieve political institutionalization, the “evolutionary path” into already existing local communal structures may be considered more expedient than either the “revolutionary transformation” of these structures or the creation of a parallel Russian-Jewish communal infrastructure. (In the lastmentioned case, as some trends imply, we might witness the creation of an amorphous, full-fledged Russian ethnic entity, possibly with a faint “Jewish accent,” rather than a Russian-Jewish community.) Consequently, ambitious representatives of Russian-Jewish immigrants have to “toe the line” for years if not decades. The duration of the communal political integration of russophone Jewish immigrants in the U.S. and Canada seems, in principle, to approximate the duration of their adaptation to other spheres of economic and social life in the “host” countries—ten to twenty years (Martynov, 2001). Only now do we see the first representatives of Russian-Jewish immigrants from the USSR in the 1970s, many of whom reached the U.S. and Canada at a very young age and some of whom have become more fluent in English than in Russian, advancing to prominent positions in umbrella organizations and local Jewish federations. Thus, the political advancement of russophone Jewish immigrants of the 1990s is probably an issue for the future.

228

 

Immigrant Politics and Community in Israel Paradoxically, perhaps, the most favorable conditions for the establishment of a “Russian-Jewish” community are taking shape in Israel. This situation traces to several factors, of which the first is demography. FSU immigrants make up about 14 percent of the Israeli electorate, the equivalent of 17–18 seats in the 120-seat Knesset, the Israeli parliament. The second factor is the 1990s government policy of “direct absorption,” in which immigrants, instead of being referred to institutional “absorption centers” for guided integration as in the 1970s, are given a cash grant and other material benefits and are sent into the open market. The direct-absorption policy was crafted mainly with the FSU repatriates in mind, given their energy, initiative, social flexibility, and intellectual abilities. Even more important is the ongoing ascendancy in Israeli public consciousness of the idea of multiculturalism and social heterogeneity as a natural stage of development in local Jewish society. Another factor to take into account is the system of separate voting for prime minister and parliamentary party list. Since this mechanism was introduced in 1996 (it was abolished in 2001), every prime ministerial candidate has sought the support of “sectarian,” including “Russian,” leaders in exchange for de facto sanction of these leaders’ right of influence in their community. Finally and most importantly, in Israel the state itself is the most important Jewish community institution. Israel’s state organs and their activities are not externalities in terms of the concerns of the Jewish community. Consequently, the strong electoral and political potential of the immigrant community catapulted the local Russian-Jewish elite to the highest state, political, and administrative echelons, thereby creating a framework for the community’s political institutionalization. One result of these trends was the rapid development of the institutional, social, and economic infrastructure of the Israeli “Russian community” in the 1990s. This infrastructure is represented in three basic groups of organizations. The first is composed of organizations and projects initiated by the Israeli establishment (organs of state, the Jewish Agency, organized labor, mainstream political parties, etc.) that aim to facilitate the immigrants’ economic, cultural, and political absorption. The second are the repatriates’ own social, political, economic, and cultural initiatives. The third is made up of institutions and structures initiated and/or created with the assistance of

- 

229

“external” forces, such as the Jewish Diaspora and foreign governmental and nongovernmental agencies. The first of these factors was almost totally dominant in the 1970s. Leshem and Lissak (1997) report that Russian-Jewish immigrants in those years “did not create autonomous community frameworks, tending to join different community bodies which were deliberately developed by veteran elites in order to mobilize the immigrant population into their ranks.” An instructive example of this sort of entity was the Association of Repatriates from the USSR, founded in 1970 at the initiative of then-Prime Minister Golda Meir to mobilize immigrants in support of the ruling Labor Party. To this day (2002), the Association is controlled by the Labor Party and alignments headed by it. In the early 1980s, the Likud started up a rival “Russian” immigrant movement on the basis of locality-specific associations. (The largest of these pro-Likud associations were composed of former inhabitants of Kiev, Riga, Moscow, Leningrad, and several other localities.)11 In 1978, at the initiative of Avigdor Lieberman, then a noted Likud activist and Director-General of Leumit Health Services (and himself a repatriate from Moldova in the 1970s), a more politicized pro-Likud movement, Gesharei Aliya (Immigration Bridges) was formed, with Aleks Glassman as chairman and Lieberman as director-general. Most other “Russian” organizations and clubs were also affiliated with government-related institutions. Even such an important communal instrument as the media could not claim independence. Two major Russian-language newspapers of the 1970s and early 1980s, Novosti Nedeli and Tribuna, were financed and controlled by the Labor Party and the Likud, respectively. Independent “communal” activities of “Russian” immigrants in the 1970s focused on informal groups of intellectuals and several cultural and social projects (such as the journal “22,” edited first by Rafail Nudelman and later by Aleksandr Veronel). Autonomous political initiatives by “Russian” immigrants in the 1970s did not have the support of the establishment, were hardly legitimate in the eyes of most Russian Jews, and, for these reasons, were ineffectual. The fact that “Russian” immigrant parties

11 Interview with Imanuel Diamand, one of the organizers of the association of Kievites, Tel Aviv, Nov. 2001.

230

 

were unable to cross the electoral threshold until the mid-1990s may be a good indication of this phenomenon. In the 1990s, in contrast, even though resources provided by official agencies remain very important, the “Russian” immigrants’ own initiatives carry much greater significance. Although funds allocated by specialized state and quasi-state institutions still cover a substantial part of immigrant organizations’ budgets, one cannot but notice the affiliation of these organizations with Israel’s civil society. “External” players were never a dominant factor in the formation and performance of the autonomous institutions of the “RussianJewish” community in Israel, although they were important in both the 1970s and the 1990s. Several external agencies have made visible contributions: American Jewish organizations such as the Joint Distribution Committee and the United Jewish Appeal; non-Jewish organizations such as the Christian Zionist movement; American and European government offices, etc.12 Apart from facilitating the social adjustment of new repatriates in Israel, these organizations provided a place for informal and formal socialization. By so doing, they abetted the formation of the “institutional identification system” of Soviet Jewry in Israel. The “Russian-Jewish Diaspora” the world over also played an important role in the political institutionalization of USSR/FSU immigrants in Israel. This influence, however, was mutual. A rather large group of former Prisoners of Zion (“refusenicks”) and aliya (emigration to Israel) activists obtained permission to leave the USSR for Israel at the very beginning of perestroika. It quickly became a channel of active exchange of information, connections, values, organizational ideas, and other political resources among groups of formative Russian-Jewish political elites on both sides of the gradually falling Iron Curtain. A good example of this trend was the establishment in 1988 of the Machanaim Tora and Jewish Heritage Society for Soviet Jewry by a group of members of the underground religious Zionist community that had been operating in Moscow since the late 1970s. At the end of the 1980s, Machanaim opened branches in Jerusalem and Moscow, and its very name (literally, “the two 12 A European Committee report, published in Hebrew in the Israeli newspaper Ma"ariv, illustrates the level of support that some left-wing immigrant organizations obtained from European Union agencies. See Yitzhak, Ma"ariv, June 22, 2001; and Kontorer, Vesti-2, June 28, 2001, pp. 1–2.

- 

231

camps,” in Hebrew; after Gen. 32:3) clearly alluded to the Biblical story about the household of Jacob, which, upon its return to the Land of Israel after Jacob’s exile in Padan Aram, spent the night in two camps straddling the Jordan River—one still in exile and the other already in the Promised Land. Another example of this sort was the simultaneous establishment in 1986 of the Information Center for Soviet Jews in Israel and the Information Center for Repatriation Affairs (later on—for Repatriation and Jewish Culture) in the USSR. Both organizations dealt with issues related to the reawakening national identity among Jews in the USSR and the organization of struggle for their emigration to Israel. Subsequently, both centers became bases for the creation of broader structures. Thus, in 1988 a group of famous dissidents and refuseniks, affiliated with the Information Center in Israel, established the Soviet Jewry Zionist Forum (SJZF). The SJZF Presidium, headed by Natan Sharansky, included the main “stars” of the former USSR Zionist community and the human-rights movement. The SJZF offered itself as a grassroots alternative to some professional government entities, including the Ministry of Immigrant Absorption, which in the early 1990s came under severe criticism by immigrants. The confrontation between the public and the official structures escalated at once. The biggest disappointment for the Israeli immigrant-absorption establishment was Sharansky’s successful fundraising campaign. Ultimately, the Jewish Agency assumed responsibility for the funding of SJZF activities and the Forum terminated its own fundraising. In the USSR, the Information Center for Repatriation and Jewish Culture played a leading role in the establishment in December 1989 of the “Vaad” as an umbrella grouping of Jewish organizations and communities in the USSR.13 The Vaad’s organizational principles, in turn, apparently became a model for the adoption by the SJZF in 1992 of a similar umbrella entity. The decision to make such a transformation was a response by the SJZF leaders to the mass immigration of Soviet/FSU Jews in 1990–1992 and pressure from the Jewish Agency to make a “decisive democratization” of its structure. The SJZF created a network of branches and, in January 1993, conducted its second convention, 13 For details, see Vestnik Evreiskoi Kul’tury (VEK), Riga, 1989, No. 2, pp. 1–5; and Khanin, 2001).

232

 

in which 1,200 delegates represented some 40,000 individual members and thirty-four affiliated associations. By 1995, the Forum embraced forty-two organizations with about 60,000 collective and individual members (Leshem and Lissak, 1997: 158). Other Diaspora communities made important contributions to the development of the institutional infrastructure of the “Russian” community in Israel. Russophone Jewish leaders in the U.S., for example, lobbied for “Russian Israeli” projects in their communities, which, in turn, prompted such organizations as UJA-New York to make substantial resource allocations for these purposes. Finally, there is a trend of “repatriation” of Israeli educational, social, academic, and cultural projects that were initially developed for East European russophone Jewry and crafted with the help of russophone experts. Examples are academic and public courses in Jewish studies at Israeli universities—foremost the Open University of Israel, Bar-Ilan University, and the Hebrew University of Jerusalem— that were originally translated into Russian and adapted for “consumers” in the FSU; several years later, they became important components of “Russian” communal activities in Israel as well. These factors, taken collectively, inspired the establishment of numerous “Russian-Jewish” organizations in Israel in the late 1980s and the 1990s. In 1996–1997 alone, some 300 associations of USSR/ FSU immigrants that work in education, culture, and welfare received formal legal recognition (Leshem and Lissak, 2000: 48). A new development ensued a short time later: the polarization of the “Russian” immigrant community in Israel. The main reason for this was that more than 50 percent of GDP is usually redistributed through the state budget, which makes the government the most effective channel of both economic and social regulation. As a result, immigrant organizations (like most of Israel’s nonprofit sector) had to participate in national politics in some fashion in order to fulfill their mission statements. At this point, in contrast to the 1970s and 1980s, many immigrants found it logical to move on to the next stage: the establishment of their own political movement. The appropriate institutional form of such a movement, however, was a bone of contention. Some Russian-Jewish leaders thought it best to create “strong Russian branches” of existing mainstream political parties. Others argued that the immigrants’ political potential could not be realized within the framework of existing parties and that only a “Russian” immigrant

- 

233

party could thwart the dispersion of forces, stanch intracommunal confrontation, and attain the community’s political goals. The debate resulted in the formation of rather strong “Russian associations” in Israeli mainstream parties (Labor, Likud, National Religious Party, Shinui, and even Shas) and independent “Russian” parties. The first such organization was the “centrist” Yisrael Ba"aliya (Israel in Immigration), registered in 1995. In 1999, two new parties, Yisrael Beiteinu (Israel Is Our Home) and Ha-behira ha-Democratit (Democratic Choice) were formed, both based on secessionist factions of Yisrael Ba"aliya (to the centrist party’s Right and Left, respectively) (Khanin, 2001). In this broad context, two facts deserve emphasis. First, the “RussianJewish” community in Israel is neither cut of one cloth nor divided as is Israeli society at large. Second, the institutions, values, and patterns of behavior that are considered “Russian”-communal today do not separate these Israelis from the rest of society; indeed, some are accepted as general Israeli ones. Thus, one cannot speak about the formation of a Russian-ethnic cultural ghetto in Israel. The existing trend, as was shown by the Gesher Theatre, the Mofet school system, and several other institutions, is the opposite: they are becoming general Hebrew-speaking Israeli institutions, in this way legitimizing their “Russian” spirit for posterity as well. Conclusion As we have shown, most Russian-Jewish communities in the modern world do not share the features of the classical Jewish community. This leads experts to clashing opinions: some believe that modern russophone Jewish entities are moving toward the “classical” community form; others predict their disappearance as entities (including those in the FSU) in one or two generations. Be this as it may, Russian-Jewish communities in Israel and in the “old” and “new” Russian-Jewish Diaspora display different patterns of establishment and legitimation. Three factors stand out in this process: (a) the internal resources and needs of Russian-Jewish entities; (b) official government policies and Jews’ relations with the authorities and with the local non-Jewish (or “non-Russian-Jewish”) population; and (c) the attitude of the Jewish world, including its approach to the russophone Jewish communities, and the communities’ relations with broader local, international, and Israeli Jewish organizations.

234

 

The process in which russophone Jewry adapted to new social, political and economic conditions in the post-Soviet states, Israel, and Western countries and creates its communal infrastructure usually takes from five to seven years. These communities, in turn, provide an institutional base for the political advancement of “Russian-Jewish” elites. Normally, only the next generation of Russian-Jewish leaders is able to accommodate at the national level. Finally, the prospects for the preservation and development of Russian-Jewish communities in economically and politically stable countries will apparently depend on the preservation of the RussianJewish identity by the current generation and its descendants. This does not necessarily mean the preservation of the Russian language and culture, or of a psychological link to Russia/USSR/FSU, but rather the preservation of specific features of the mentality of the (former) Soviet Jews and their territorial and professional concentration. All these factors may also constitute a background for the formation of the widely discussed “international Russian-Jewish entity.” (Various attempts to create an institutional framework for such an entity have been made. Thus, in December 2001 in Moscow, representatives of various Russian-Jewish umbrella organizations from several countries proclaimed the establishment of the World Association of Russophone Jewry.) In this case, Israel, which now has the largest and most politically influential russophone Jewish community, may become a natural center for such an integration.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE DILEMMA OF RUSSIAN-BORN ADOLESCENTS IN ISRAEL Marina Niznick Introduction During the past decade, almost a million people have emigrated to Israel from the Soviet Union/former Soviet Union (hereinafter: USSR/ FSU), making “Russians,” as Israelis often term them, the country’s largest Jewish ethnic group. Several studies have demonstrated the auspicious impact of this group on the Israeli economy. The newcomers are highly educated and, despite initial difficulties that they experienced upon arrival, their general economic situation is improving and the gaps are steadily narrowing (Ha"aretz, May 7, 1999). Concurrently, however, the process of “shopping” for a new identity became a painful issue for both immigrants and nonimmigrants.1 The reason lies mainly in the uniqueness of this tremendous wave of immigration, which is immensely different from previous ones that Israel experienced. The immigrants’ decision to leave their countries of origin was inspired more by push factors (unwillingness to remain in their home countries) than by pull ones (the attractiveness of the host country). Many of them would have emigrated to Europe or North America rather than to Israel, had it only been possible (Aptekman, 1993; Lewin-Epstein, 1997). This wave of emigration to Israel is neither Zionist nor traditionally Jewish. Since they had been strongly exposed to Russian culture before leaving the USSR/FSU, the immigrants have continued to assert their original cultural identity in Israel (Ritterband, 1997).

1 Veteran Israelis do not like the newcomers’ seeming lack of enthusiasm about the idea of becoming “true Israelis,” and the majority of recent Russian immigrants are disturbed by veteran Israelis’ refusal to acknowledge that they might benefit from the newcomers’ unique cultural experience.

236

 

Lacking much of the traditional manifestations of Jewish identity, they interpret Jewishness in the Soviet context, i.e., a matter of cultural and geopolitical superiority. Being Jewish means belonging to a cultural elite. Some truly believe that the Russian intelligentsia is largely composed of Jews (Markowitz, 1993: 44). Soviet/FSU Jews sometimes seem to have brought to Israel their experience of being an elite minority in the Soviet Union (albeit one that suffered from discrimination) and appear to be attempting to retain this “reality” under totally new circumstances. The establishment of numerous Russian-language newspapers, community centers, theaters, and even schools (Spolsky and Shohamy, 1999: 37–38) is cited as evidence of this. What is more, the newcomers expect native Israelis to benefit from and express their appreciation of the unique cultural heritage that they have brought to Israel. Several studies shed light on the identity dilemmas and cultural adaptation of Soviet/FSU Jews in Israel. Ben-Rafael et al. (1997) focus on the collective identity, sociocultural insertion, and language preferences of recent immigrants in the 20–55 age bracket. It was found that Soviet Jews are attached to their original culture and identity. The authors regard their economic and professional mobility both as a sign of future assimilation and as a powerful asset that gives them autonomy. There is a high probability, the authors state, that Russian Jews will become a new sociocultural entity that will affect the aspirations of other communities in Israel. Research by the Israel Ministry of Immigrant Absorption elicited similar findings (Rosenbaum-Tamari and Demiam, 1996): immigrants were eager to acquire Hebrew mostly for utilitarian reasons but reported a very strong commitment to the Russian language and culture. A profound and comprehensive study on the determinants of Soviet/FSU immigrants’ language choice and identity preferences was conducted by Donitsa-Schmidt (1999). Some of the findings were different from those of Ben-Rafael. Regarding the newcomers’ identity, both researchers found Jewish identity as the primary one. However, where Ben-Rafael et al. (1997) state that the Israeli identity takes precedence over the Russian one, Donitsa-Schmidt makes the opposite claim. This may be explained by the immigrants’ uncertain identity and the fact that the respondents reported various concepts of identity (Donitsa-Schmidt, 1999: 242). Donitsa-Schmidt concludes that although the study revealed the subjects’ positive attitude toward maintaining the Russian culture and language, there

-   

237

are clear indications of a language-shift process, mostly reported by younger respondents who are in the midst of formal education and compulsory army service. In Donitsa-Schmidt’s opinion, the linguistic future of Israel’s RussianJewish community will resemble that of other immigration waves, i.e., the community will ultimately relinquish its language despite conditions that would favor language maintenance. As for the immigrants’ cultural identity, however—an extremely important element for the future of the community—she makes no predictions. Although Donitsa-Schmidt derives her conclusions mainly from research among young people, surprisingly little research has been done on the process of acculturation in Israel of children and adolescents from the FSU. Most studies that focus on USSR/FSU immigrant youth in Israel were conducted during the first years of large-scale immigration. In 1992, a pilot study was carried out among 100 adolescents from the FSU who were attending basic Hebrew courses (Kraemer, Zisenwine, Levi-Keren, and Schers, 1995). The results revealed a very positive attitude toward Hebrew, although in terms of identity the subjects considered themselves Russian first, Israeli second, and Jewish only third. To examine the “identity-shopping” dilemma of Jewish teenagers from the FSU, Markowitz (1993) studied the experience of seventeen recent Jewish immigrants (in the 14–17 age bracket) who attended a residential school for the arts in the isolated Negev town of Mizpe Ramon. They had come to Israel under the auspices of Na"ale, a Jewish Agency program in which adolescents immigrate in advance of their parents. The author found their identity phrasings to be tentative; when asked “Who am I?” they were still unsure about how to answer. The teenagers truly believed they were very different from their Israel-born schoolmates and had little in common with them, but almost immediately they started to behave very much like them. As for FSU Jewish adolescents who emigrated to the U.S., a study on the acculturation of Jewish public-school students of Russian origin and their parents in Baltimore (Birman, 2001) elicited surprising results. The author found that the adolescents identified with Russian culture more strongly than their parents did and maintained their Russian identity over time. All the aforementioned researchers found that both adolescents and adults maintained a very strong Russian identity and attachment to Russian culture. In regard to immigrant youth, however,

238

 

there is little reliable research, making it difficult to analyze and predict the acculturation process of USSR/FSU Jewish immigrant youth in Israel. This study investigated the process of ethnic and cultural adjustment among first-generation Russian-Jewish adolescents in Israel in respect to self-identification, attitude toward main ethnic and social groups, and language behavior. In Israel, where USSR/FSU immigrants comprise more than 15 percent of the population, questions of how, to what extent, and how quickly the newcomers should be integrated into society are of inestimable importance. The immigrants’ cultural adjustment in particular has a serious impact on Israeli life at large, in that it challenges and changes the country’s social structure, collective identity and ethnic boundaries, education system, and cultural life. This study focuses on adolescents of the so-called “1.5 generation” (Garcia-Coll and Magnuson, 1997), i.e., those who immigrated with their parents during childhood. The research was conducted in 2001 and the data were collected by means of semi-structured interviews in interviewees’ homes. The 122 respondents had come to Israel not less than six years and not more than eleven years earlier2 and were of strictly Ashkenazi (EuropeanJewish) origin. All respondents lived in the Tel Aviv area and belonged to the 13–16 age bracket. Several features of the sample are characteristic of the target population at large; others are results of the sample procedure. There were no reliable data on the social and educational level of the subjects, since only adolescents were interviewed and they were not always aware of their parents’ educational and occupational attainments. Nevertheless, the responses imply that most subjects came from highly educated white-collar families, a phenomenon typical of this immigrant group (Gold, 1992; Ben-Rafael, 1997).

2 The eleven-year period was chosen because it marks the beginning of the most recent wave of immigration. It was important that subjects should not have resided in Israel for less than six years because after four years a student formally loses his or her status of oleh, i.e., new immigrant. According to Ministry of Education guidelines, students who complete this initial period should be totally immersed in the education process. Hence, after six years they should be fully integrated into the Israeli school system.

-   

239

Table 15.1: The Sample Gender

Male Female

56 44

Origin

Russia Ukraine Belarus Moldova Baltic states Central Asia Caucasus

30 36 13 8 3 7 3

Residence in Israel

Central city Peripheral town Russian enclave Mixed population

48 52 43 57

Proportion of Russian students in class

Less than 40% Half More than 60%

52 33 15

Seeking a New Identity The quest for identity and self-definition is one of the most important psychological tasks for the adolescent. It is an integral part of recognizing one’s place in the world as a part of a complex network of human relationships. Although in the past three decades there has been an efflorescence of research in the general field of ethnic and cultural distance and self-identification, with emphasis on various groups of immigrants, refugees, sojourners, and native peoples, there is no agreed-on definition of ethnic identity. Phinney (1990: 500, 501) writes that “Researchers appeared to share a broad general understanding of ethnic identity, but the specific aspects that they emphasized differed widely.” However, all scholars agree that the problem of ethnic identity is meaningful only for multiethnic societies in which two or more ethnic groups are in contact over a period of time. The term “ethnic identity” is sometimes confused with “acculturation,” but the concept of acculturation is broader and more general since it deals with changes in cultural attitudes, values, and behavior occasioned by contact between different cultures. The level

240

 

of concern in acculturation is the group as opposed to the individual, and the main question is how the minority (or immigrant) group at issue relates to the dominant or host culture. Ethnic identity may be considered one aspect of acculturation, in which “the concern is with individuals and the focus is on how they relate to their own group as a subgroup of the larger society” (Phinney, 1990: 501). Fishman (1989: 33) explains, “If the notion of ethnic identity requires heightened ethnic consciousness, then it may very well be that ethnic identity logically requires not only boundaries (contrast) but opposition across boundaries for such identity to be most fully articulated.” Isajiw (1974: 22) distinguishes between internal and external boundaries: “a boundary from within, maintained by the socialization process, and a boundary from without, established by the process of inter-group relations.” The “boundary from within” reflects one’s association with one’s ethnic group and with values related to family, siblings, and other members of the ethnic community. The “boundary from without” is demarcated in the course of interaction with members of the other, usually the dominant, ethnic group. In the case of Israel, Ben-Rafael (1994: 93) lists five main divisions related to social classes, ethnic-origin groups, religious Zionists, haredi communities, and national minorities, respectively. There are two main Jewish ethnic groups: Ashkenazi and Sephardi. Ashkenazim are Jews of European origin; Sephardim, also known as Mizrahim (“Oriental” Jews), have North African and Middle Eastern roots. The largest Ashkenazi group today originates in the USSR/FSU; the largest Sephardi group is of Moroccan extraction. Since its early years, the Israeli political and economic elite has consisted mainly of Ashkenazim, who outnumber Sephardim by four to one in the highest income bracket (Ben-Rafael, 1994: 96) and, not surprisingly, are an absolute majority in white-collar occupations. It was in response to this striking inequality that the Shas Party came into being under an ethnoreligious banner. The political power of Shas has escalated from six seats in the 120-member Knesset (Israel’s parliament) in the 1980s to seventeen after the elections of 1999. In 1996, learning a lesson from the Sephardim, USSR/FSU immigrants created their own ethnic party, called Yisrael Ba"aliya. Today, there are two Russian ethnic parties—Yisrael Ba"aliya and Yisrael Beiteinu (Israel Is Our Home), with six and two Knesset seats, respectively. The tension between the two ethnopolitical sides—Shas vs. the two Russian

-   

241

parties—reflects the conflict between these two population groups.3 The 1999 election campaign of both parties was replete with (if not based on) mutual accusations and this strategy proved useful to both sides. Relations between the very powerful haredi sector and the nonreligious majority constitute another source of tension. Friedman (1997) describes the haredim as a cloistered community that has almost no access to modern society and ensures its continuity mainly by maintaining a highly developed network of education institutions. Few haredim serve in the army and many feel ambivalence about the state itself, deeming it devoid of Jewish religious legitimacy. In a nutshell, haredim represent everything that Zionism has always opposed. The haredi sector is distinguished from another Orthodox group, the National Religious, which is not characterized by special class features and is well integrated into society. Most of its members belong to privileged social strata. As for relations between Jews and non-Jews, the central conflict is between Jews and Israeli Arabs who prefer to call themselves Palestinians (Ben-Rafael, 1994: 108). The new wave of USSR/FSU Jews first became involved in the delicate fiber of Israeli society in 1989. The encounter definitely sharpened almost all existing cleavages and contradictions, especially between Ashkenazim and non-Ashkenazim and between the nonreligious and the haredim. The respondents were asked to express their attitude toward the five ethnoreligious groups mentioned above: Ashkenazim, Sephardim, Russians, haredim, and Arabs. This taxonomy does not reflect Israeli society perfectly, since most Russian Jews as an ethnic group belong to the Ashkenazi population and the haredi population includes both Ashkenazi and Sephardi Jews. Two groups were omitted: Ethiopian Jews and the growing population of non-Jewish relatives of RussianJewish immigrants. The taxonomy was proposed because these are the conflicting groups in Israeli society, the attitude toward which helps to determine the station of the “1.5 generation” Russian immigrants in the Israeli social network. 3 Among other reasons of animosity, no few immigrants from the FSU are not Jews according to religious law, a circumstance that arouses the criticism of the religious parties, and especially, Shas. Furthermore, immigrants from the FSU are often better prepared to compete for jobs in the labor market than socially mobile North African and Middle Eastern elements that rise from lower strata of the population.

242

 

The most negative attitude discovered was toward Arabs and haredim. The reason for such feelings about the Arab minority is rather obvious—the protracted conflict between the two peoples, painfully punctuated by constant terrorist attacks by Arab extremists. Notably, many of those who expressed hesitant or even negative attitudes toward this population group explained that they hate (or do not like) only those Arabs who wish to kill Jews. As for the haredim, they seem to the Russian teenagers strange if not ridiculous. Igor (16)—They’re strangers to us; we’re strangers to them. Young immigrants, whose parents usually work day and night to make ends meet and who expect to serve in the army together with most non-haredi youth, are irritated by the reluctance of haredim to work and to join the army: Edik (16)—They have no right to exist. They don’t work; they don’t serve in the army. Genya (14)—I don’t know them. I don’t intend to get acquainted with them. I hate the fact that they interfere with our lives through politics. Slava (16)—They live because we work and pay taxes. Masha (16)—I hate everything about them: the way they look, the way they smell. It is highly probable that not only family but mass media, schoolmates, and teachers (all the respondents attend nonreligious schools) contribute to such an attitude, since they undoubtedly reflect the attitudes of both the nonreligious Ashkenazim and the vast majority of recent immigrants from the FSU. Interestingly, some respondents felt it necessary to differentiate between haredim and the National Religious (even though they were not asked to!). Olga (16)—We shouldn’t confuse the two of them. The ‘crocheted skullcap’ people [the National Religious] are nice, cultured people. They do a lot for the country. They serve in the army, mostly in combat units. They work; they don’t hate us. The respondents’ attitude toward Sephardim is much more positive. Maia (15)—There are kids of Sephardi and Ashkenazi origin in our group and I see no difference between them. Ze"ev (15)—There is not necessarily a difference between Ashkenazim and Sephardim. Those who take a negative or hesitant attitude toward Sephardim blame them for not being “cultured enough” or “European enough.” Misha (16)—It would be better if they were more cultured. Olga (16)—They should dress more properly and speak less loudly. Roma (15)—There are normal Sephardim and there are arsim.4 I hate arsim (“bastards”) and have nothing against those who are 4 Arabic for pimp, generally but not always used as a pejorative for Jews of Mizrahi origin who behave provocatively, listen to loud, mainly Mizrahi music, adorn themselves lavishly with gold jewelry, and use special slang while speaking.

-   

243

normal. The attitude toward Ashkenazim and “Russians” is positive, but a few respondents criticize what they called Russian separatism. Arye (15)—I’m a part of Israeli life but most Russians are not and have no intentions to be so. It bugs me. Misha (16)—They’re much more interested in their memories than in their present life. Ashkenazim were hardly criticized; Danny (15), who termed them too cold and distant for me, was an exception. More than half of the respondents feel they belong to the Russian ethnic group and are closest to Ashkenazim; those who feel they belong to the Ashkenazi group feel closest to Russians. Notably, however, since Israelis routinely call all newcomers from the FSU “Russian,” respondents do not repudiate their Jewishness or Israeliness by claiming that they are “Russian.” Separate questions were asked about their self-identification as Russians, Jews, and Israelis. The great variety of answers that were given seems to prove that there is no single mainstream tendency in this sphere. However, it was found that adolescents have fairly strong Russian and Israeli identities and that these identities surpass their Jewish identity. Thus, the Russian and Israeli components turned out to be the most important and the Jewish component was ranked third. These findings contradict those of Ben-Rafael et al. (1997) and Donitsa-Schmidt (1999), in which Jewish identity was found to be the primary identity. This may be explained by the nature of the target population. These two surveys were conducted among adults who had most likely experienced discrimination as Jews in the FSU. Since it is far more difficult for an adult immigrant to acculturate in a new society than for youth, Donitsa-Schmidt’s study (unlike BenRafael’s) ranks Israeli identity in third place. Importantly, in BenRafael’s study there is a high percentage of “no responses” to questions concerning identity. In our study, adolescents who had a strong preference for Russianness explained this by mentioning their Russian roots, their affinity for the Russian cultural tradition, a different perception of being cultured, and even a different physical appearance. Sasha (14)—We come from Russian families, we have Russian backgrounds, and we’re surrounded by Russian. We eat Russian food and celebrate Russian festivals. Misha (15)— We know more. Israelis lack basic knowledge in literature, fine arts, music, geography. Alina (13) and Korina (13)—Russians are more intelligent; our men are more gentlemanly. Sveta (15): Russia is a cultured country, and I don’t think Israel is and [Israelis] dress in such an ugly way. In this context, an additional statement deserves to be quoted because, though exceptional

244

 

in its extremeness, it is very typical in its content. Masha (16)—I hate Israelis. I hate the way they speak, walk, curse, and look—this ugly habit of wearing their underclothes out. Notably, however, many of those who accused “sabras” (an Israeli nickname for the Israel-born) of dressing in a disgusting way wore their clothing in exactly the same style; an outsider would be hard-pressed to tell the difference between those of Russian and of Israeli origin. The issue of different values and different perceptions of upbringing was stressed as well. Elina (16)—Can you imagine in a Russian kindergarten the whole group searching for a toy that one child lost?! No way! Misha (16)—We’re taught to think, to analyze. Alina (13)—Israelis don’t bother to think before they do something. That’s why we have better grades in school. Israel is a very informal society; Russia is very formal. It takes immigrants a long time to accustom themselves to the difference. Misha (15)—We’d never dare to treat adults, whoever they are—parents or teachers—the way [Israeli kids] do. Many respondents mentioned this disrespect and even those who admitted that Russians were starting to behave exactly the same way blamed this on the general atmosphere in Israeli schools. Some, however, felt just the opposite. Genya (14)—Russian culture is mainly literature, museums, and architecture, and Israel is much more advanced in technical things. Ze"ev (15)—I feel Israeli but it doesn’t really matter—you weren’t born here, you’re different. Arye (15)—In Russia they said we were Jews and that they didn’t like us and didn’t need us. Here in Israel, they say we’re Russians and that we should go back to Russia. Lilia (13)—Look, there’s no doubt that we’re different. But it’s wonderful that we’re not the same. I like it this way. “Jewishness,” which the respondents considered almost as important as Russianness, is seen mainly as an innate characteristic that has nothing to do with language, culture, religion, or tradition. Ze"ev (15) and Maya (15)—I’m a Jew. I was a Jew there; I’m a Jew here. Igor (16)—I’m a Jew no matter what. I was a Jew there, I’m a Jew here, and if one day I decide to move somewhere else I’ll remain the same Jew. “Israeliness,” for the majority, means being an Israeli resident and speaking Hebrew. Gil (14)—I’ve spent most of my life here. I know Hebrew much better than Russian. “Russianness” is passed on first and foremost by the family. The majority believe their families have remained purely Russian. Almost all respondents consider Russian families much more conservative than Israeli ones and regard this as an advantage rather than a dis-

-   

245

advantage. Ina (13)—Israelis don’t want to look after their children and don’t know how to. Gera (14)—Russian parents care a lot about the grades you get at school. Genya (14)—I’m never allowed to stay outdoors the way Israelis are. Dani (15)—In Russian families, the process of study is the highest priority. Vitia (14)—In Israeli families, they don’t bother to teach their kids. Morality and culture are much better among Russians. Arkadi (14)—In Israeli families they don’t teach their kids good manners, they don’t force them to learn, to do something useful. Israeli kids can watch TV or play computer games all day long. Russian food and the celebration of Russian festivals (mainly New Year’s Day) are additional hallmarks of Russian families. Sasha (14)— We buy food in special Russian shops where they sell pork and everything else, you know. Israelis wouldn’t do it. Korina (14)—I like New Year’s Day. It has nothing to do with religion, the way [the Israelis] accuse us. It’s just so beautiful. Not only do the teenagers believe that the Russian family gives them the advantage of superior upbringing and education, they also feel that having been born in Russia gives them a head start in Israel, especially in terms of languages. Jonathan (14)—Language is wealth and I know three of them—Hebrew, Russian, and English. Genya (14)—St. Petersburg is so beautiful and I’m proud I was born there. Stas (15): Because I was born there, I’ve been exposed to another worldview, another system of values, music, literature, another people. Dina (16): If I travel, I’ll say I’m from Russia. Russians aren’t hated as much as Israelis are—you know how they behave when they’re abroad?! Although the vast majority of respondents certainly view their Russian roots in totally positive terms, 51 percent believe they are in no way different from Israeli teenagers. Although this is only a slender majority, it comes as quite a surprise in view of the findings reported above. It may be explained by the respondents’ interpretation of their initial experience upon immigration. For youth, being different means being inferior if not the object of derision. Thus, by answering this question as they did, the respondents may have related more to feelings than to the essence. Although their Russian roots are very important to them, only 52 percent of the respondents would like their future spouse to be of Russian origin. Even a few of those who answered this question in the affirmative admitted that this would be better for their parents than for them. This may reflect the romantic spirit of youth, with

246

 

its perception of love as something sudden and unpredictable: Dorina (13)—I’d like to fall in love with somebody from Russia, but I can’t predict my feelings. By the same token, it may be a confirmation of the response to the previous question; youngsters who do not consider themselves different from native Israelis see no reason not to marry one of them. Either way, these results augur poorly for the preservation of ethnic distance and the retention of Russian identity in the next generation. The extent of one’s ethnic pride and interethnic interaction and distance is affected significantly by a sense of real and/or perceived discrimination (Padila, 1980). Such a feeling attenuates interaction and encourages ethnic distance. While most respondents believe Russians in Israel suffer from discrimination, the number of those who suffer from it personally is far less evident. Many consider discrimination the inevitable outcome of the presence of a minority: Misha (16)—I’ve never come across it, but theoretically it should exist. Russians are a minority. Sima (15)—In the class of my friend Aliona, who goes to a Mofet [Russian] school, there are two Moroccan girls and they’re discriminated against. That’s how a majority behaves. Masses of deprived “Russians” in Israel hold academic degrees but have to make do with unskilled jobs; many respondents blamed this on discrimination. Igor (16)— Just take a Russian and an Israeli who earn the minimum wage; they’re not comparable at all. Russians would be much more educated and cultured. Many regard this fight for jobs as the real source of interethnic tension. Vitia (13)—Israelis think Russians are taking their jobs away from them and even those who aren’t willing to work so hard blame Russians for grabbing their jobs. Others believe that Russians do have better jobs and hate them for it. Natasha (13)—Russians are better educated; that’s why they work in universities and for good private companies. Dorina (13)—Russians are smarter; they have more opportunities to find a good job. Some claimed that they had suffered discrimination upon arrival but no longer. Maya (14)—I remember something like that, but when I started to speak good Hebrew it somehow disappeared. Notably, even those who acknowledged discrimination did not consider it a very painful issue. Those who experienced it claimed that they knew how to deal with it and paid no special attention to it. The majority truly believes that discrimination is not a serious obstacle that inhibits the achievements of USSR/FSU immigrants as a group. Although many respondents remember the difficulties their parents faced upon arrival, more than half are convinced that “Russians” have accomplished much in

-   

247

various spheres of Israeli life, especially politics, science, and hightech. Several respondents recalled the negative manifestations of the mass immigration from Russia, such as alcoholism, growing crime, and prostitution, but even the one person who mentioned these unfavorable phenomena promptly defined them as secondary side-effects that had no bearing on the group’s impressive achievements. Adolescents’ Language Behavior: Maintenance vs. Shift The process of forging a new identity has several practical manifestations that invest it with concrete definitions. Any national culture is built first and foremost on language, and national identification includes mastery of this language as a fundamental prerequisite. In this sense, the Russian language is the bedrock of Russian culture— of Russianness—and the most important tool for the individual’s socialization in the Russian cultural tradition (Olkott, Brill, and Semenov, 2001: 144, 145). Linguistic behavior is one of the major factors in the definition of social and cultural boundaries (Ben-Rafael, 1994: 367). Social identity and ethnicity are in large part established and maintained through language. Old ethnic ties find their linguistic expression in loyalty to the language of origin; new ethnic identities rely on linguistic symbols to establish new speech conventions. The dilemma of language choice is associated foremost with the question of language proficiency. The respondents were not given a special proficiency test but were asked to evaluate their command of Hebrew and Russian. Additionally, the interviews were conducted in Russian, making it possible to examine the respondents’ verbal proficiency in that language. Since the initial interviews made it quite clear that the respondents were much more fluent in Hebrew than in Russian, different questions about the two languages were asked. The first question was, “What language is the easiest for you to speak?” For the vast majority, the answer was Hebrew. When asked, “Is your Hebrew different from the Hebrew of other Israeli teenagers?” the majority—66 percent—answered “no,” and those who answered “yes” believed that the only difference was the accent. A few even judged their Hebrew to be better than that of their Israeli-born peers, since they had had to learn it more systematically. Such proficiency in Hebrew may be explained by the fact that most of their schooling took place in Hebrew. Even the Mofet (Russian) school system uses Hebrew as its language of instruction.

248

 

The state of the respondents’ command of Russian is much different. When the respondents were asked to evaluate their proficiency on a scale of 1–100 percent, the most common response range was 50–70. This is due to an almost total absence of writing skills as well as very poor reading skills. The language information elicited in the interviews indicates that the problems the respondents faced in speaking Russian were typical of language attrition, not of deficiencies in mastering a foreign language. The subjects intrinsically understood this and expressed this understanding when asked whether they characterized Russian as being a foreign language. Although most respondents have specific proficiency problems in Russian, they take a very positive attitude toward the language. They find Hebrew easy to speak but more than half still consider Russian their native language. The vast majority believe that even though they have problems speaking Russian it is not a foreign language for them. Elina (16)—Not that I always feel it’s my mother tongue, but I know for sure it’s my mother tongue. Natasha (13)—How can Russian be foreign for me? I live in it; I was brought up in it. The teenagers felt no problem speaking Russian outside the home. Russian is the language they use for communication with parents and grandparents, and their choice of language in public is no different. They are neither ashamed to speak Russian nor ashamed of the fact their parents are not fluent in Hebrew. Stas (16)—Why should be I ashamed of my language? I don’t care what others think about it. Some respondents, such as Misha (16) and Stas (15), see their parents’ incompetence in Hebrew as an advantage: Had it not been for my parents’ lack of Hebrew, I would have forgotten my Russian long ago. Igor (16)— There’s little chance that [my parents] would understand anything by listening to my teachers at school, so I wouldn’t be punished [by them] for anything. The majority (89 percent) claim they would like to improve their Russian; 98 percent believe Russian should be taught in school together with French and Arabic and that students should have a right to choose which languages they prefer to learn. Finally, all respondents (100 percent) wanted their children to speak at least some Russian. For some, this is important for purely pragmatic reasons: Ilia (15) and Jonathan (16) exclaimed, Another language? Why not? Some regard Russian as a symbol of their cultural roots, of which they would like their children to be aware. Genya (14)—They should know where they come from. For some, it is the only way to keep family and relatives together. Lilia (13)—Without Russian, how would [chil-

-   

249

dren] communicate with their parents and relatives? In practice, however, things look slightly different. In some schools where Russian is taught, for example, some prefer not to take it. In fact, at the time of the survey only 62 percent were taking Russian or stated that they would take it if the opportunity presented itself. Language as Means of Communication As noted, most schooling is done in Hebrew. Russian is used quite rarely and serves mainly as a “secret” language, for use in conversations that teachers and/or Israeli-born classmates are not supposed to understand. Most Russian youth speak Hebrew even with Russian-born friends or use both languages simultaneously. Many claim that they tell Russian jokes in Russian. (There is a lengthy history of anonymous Russian humorous short stories or anecdotes, some of which are difficult to translate.) Additionally, some respondents stated that they cursed in Russian. Some of those who speak both languages said that they spoke Russian when spoken to in Russian and Hebrew when spoken to in Hebrew. Others did not specify any particular reason for their language choice. In the family circle, Russian is used exclusively or simultaneously with Hebrew for oral communication. However, none of the respondents claimed that he or she spoke pure Russian. Many acknowledged a great deal of Hebrew interference in their speech; others acknowledged interference but considered it insignificant. Notes to parents were written by 35 percent of respondents in Hebrew and by 20 percent in either Hebrew or Russian; the remaining 45 percent were simply unable to compose such notes in Russian. Those who would like to do this in Russian said ruefully, “It would be broken Russian— a real shame.” FSU immigrant youth in Israel engage in two highly popular language-intensive leisure activities: watching television and listening to various types of music. On television, Hebrew-language programs are the most popular; Russian is the second preference and 69 percent of respondents have their favorite Russian TV programs. The majority of those who prefer not to watch Russian-language TV do not avoid it because of language difficulties. Indeed, only 23 percent have problems in comprehending Russian-language TV. Ze"ev (15)—

250

 

Russian TV doesn’t relate to my life in any way. Why would I watch it? It’s not that I don’t understand the language; I simply have no idea what they’re talking about on Russian TV. In addition to Hebrew and Russian, almost an equal number of respondents watch television in English. However, the programs at issue are MTV (the music channel) or subtitled American and British films. As for music, the majority prefers American, then Russian, and then Israeli. When asked about the importance of the English language in their lives, several respondents indicated their belief that they needed English and would like to learn it in order to understand the lyrics of the songs. Some of those who did not enjoy Israeli music claimed that it was too Oriental for the Russian ear. Liuba (14)—I can’t stand this Mizrahi (Oriental style—M.N.) music. We’re Europeans; it’s not for us. Reading, although the most language-intensive activity of all, is not truly a leisure activity in our case. Since most reading is done at school, it takes place mainly in Hebrew, sometimes in English, and seldom in Russian. Most material that is read in Russian comprises short newspaper articles, advertisements, and television program schedules. (Hebrew newspapers are quite rare in Russian homes.) Several girls recalled reading recipes in Russian. As far as fine literature is concerned, fewer than 10 percent have read at least one book in Russian from beginning to end and most of these works were children’s literature. Russian classical literature is terra incognita. Most respondents speak good colloquial Russian, albeit with Hebrew interference. Their Russian lexicon is circumscribed by the family domain. Since schooling and most language-intensive activities take place in other languages, mainly Hebrew, respondents can master Russian only by communicating with family and relatives. Due to their poor reading and writing skills, they have almost no access to written Russian. While very favorably disposed to Russian, seeing no problem speaking it outside the home and enjoying the advantages of their diglossia, they take scanty action, if any, to improve their Russian proficiency. The linguistic behavior of Israel’s Russian-Jewish adolescents is one of language shift rather than language maintenance. Thus, it is quite possible that the classical three-generation theory—that the native language is usually completely lost by the third generation of immigrants—will hold true in the Russian-Israeli case as well.

-   

251

Ethnic Environment Ethnic density is considered a factor that affects the acculturation process (Shaposznic and Curtines, 1980, Padila, 1980). Two groups were compared in this respect: respondents who live in Russian enclaves and attend classes in which more than 60 percent of classmates are of Russian origin, and those who live in ethnically mixed areas and have fewer than 40 percent Russian-born classmates. Those in the former group feel less Russian and less Israeli but more Jewish than those in the latter. This circumstance may be explained by the fact that family values are preserved more effectively in a Russian environment than in an Israeli one. In the more Israeli environment, strong Russian identity may be the result of an environmentally induced contrast between self-identification and strong Israeli identity. Members of the second group have a stronger sense of alienation. They believe their Hebrew is different from that spoken by the “locals,” they consider themselves different from Israeli teenagers, and more of them believe that Russians in Israel suffer from discrimination. Concurrently, they use more Russian with their russophone friends, enjoying the advantage of having a secret language. All respondents in this study live in the Tel Aviv area, economically the most stable part of the country. No data were gathered on peripheral areas where, due to economic problems, ethnic and cultural conflicts may be more serious. No second-generation representatives participated in the survey; thus, it is almost impossible to determine the extent to which they are involved in their children’s identity-forging process. Longevity of residence in the country, a factor that may be relevant to the study, was excluded since all subjects had at least six years’ longevity and the range was not significant enough to draw conclusions. Most subjects could hardly recall their lives in their countries of origin. An especially painful and important question—differences between those who pass the traditional/religious test of Jewishness and those who do not—was not addressed at all due to the interview procedure. Since some respondents may feel uncomfortable with such a question, information of this kind would have to be gathered by means of anonymous questionnaires and not in personal interviews, as were used in this study.

252

 

Future research on the identity dilemmas of immigrants to Israel should include both adolescents and their parents and should be conducted in various parts of the country. Such studies would identify with greater precision the factors of greatest influence on the process of forging the immigrants’ ethnic and cultural identity. Conclusions Jews from the USSR or the former Soviet Union who have emigrated to Israel seem to be taking the well-known path of acculturation that earlier immigrant groups in Israel have followed. Immersed in Hebrew almost from the moment of their arrival in all walks of life outside the home, the immigrants gradually relinquish their language of origin and have almost no problem expressing themselves in Hebrew. Concurrently, they think very favorably about their Russian roots and regard their Russian origins as an immense advantage. They seem eager to preserve their Russian identity, which makes them feel like a part (and, in some cases, one of the finest parts) of the country’s Ashkenazi elite. The respondents’ strong Israeli identity proves that they consider themselves a legitimate part of the country, but the fact that about a half of them believe they are different from Israel-born adolescents and prefer to be surrounded by “Russians” proves that full integration still has a long way to go. The study fully confirms Fishman’s finding that the language shift of immigrants generally proceeds more rapidly than their de-ethnicization (Fishman, 1989: 191).

PART FIVE

JEWISH IDENTITIES IN WESTERN EUROPE

This page intentionally left blank

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE CHANGING FRENCH JEWISH IDENTITY Michel Wieviorka The point of departure in this chapter is neither ancient history— there were Jews in France as far back as Roman Gaul—nor the medieval period, in which Judaism was particularly vibrant and strong in France, but rather the Enlightenment, the Revolution, and Napoleon I. The chapter deals only briefly with this period of time (after all, there is a wealth of historical literature on the subject—see Dubnow, 1967–1973) and highlights only the crucial feature, the invention of a model that emancipated the Jews at the cost of the mutilation of their identity. The French Revolution did emancipate the Jews of France (of whom there were roughly 40,000 at the time) and turn them into French citizens—even though it did not improve their overall economic or social standing. To paraphrase Count Stanislas de Clermont-Tonnerre’s well-known recommendation to the French Assembly (Oct. 12, 1789), the Revolution granted Jews everything as individuals, i.e., emancipation, but nothing as a nation (or, in contemporary terminology, as a minority or a community), i.e., mutilation. The model that was set forth and elaborated later reinforced this trend, as the Napoleonic era shifted from emancipatory state of mind to powerful pressure to assimilate. This is what prompted the French ethnographer and historian Annie Kriegel to refer to a French model of “uncertain assimilation,” in which, in the final outcome, Jews should gradually cease to be identifiable as Jews in the public sphere even though no legal distinction between Jews and others is made. This model reduces the Jewish religion to a denomination and the Jews of France to “Israelites”—a term that has vanished from contemporary usage. The broad contours of this French model were gradually refined during the nineteenth century and honed until World War II. Most French Jews identified with the French nation and, above all, with French institutions and the Republic. They gradually distanced themselves from what is termed today communalism and diversified socially

256

 

until they mingled with all sectors of society. They became children of the nation and the Republic and were on the road to full social membership in society. In the second half and, even more so, the end of the nineteenth century, this Republican universalist model with its assimilationist tendencies was challenged by a major phenomenon both in France and elsewhere: the rise of modern antisemitism, which was no longer the anti-Judaism of old even though it was an outgrowth of it. The new creed was manifested in the Dreyfus Affair1 and the fantastic success of the book La France Juive by Edouard Drumont (first published in 1886). The rise of antisemitism did not, however, challenge the Republican model that required Jews to confine their Jewish lives to the private domain but allowed them to be integrated into the nation as individuals, into its ranks as citizens, and into society. The Jews of France, generally patriotic to begin with, became ardent patriots at that time and demonstrated this quality with particular passion during World War I. They were good civil servants, some attaining the highest echelons of the state apparatus, and intellectuals. After World War I, France received an influx of Jews from Central Europe, composed mainly of the poor. As a rule, more veteran immigrants did not give the newcomers a warm welcome (to put it mildly), especially when they were part of the establishment and differentiated themselves vociferously from these unfortunates, who did not speak French. However, the newly arrived were also swept into the integration process, including its social portals, by taking part in union and political struggles—at first in the CGTU and later in the reunified CGT. The recent immigrants did not immediately fit into the French model in the sense, for instance, of conforming to the principles of the Alliance Israelite Universelle (est. 1860). They spoke Yiddish, espoused revolutionary (Socialist, Bundist, Communist) ideals, and headed Zionist networks. Thus, they followed avenues of integration that clashed, at least partly and in various ways, with the canonical Republican model. However, in general, for both the newcomers and the longer-tenured Jews of France, the

1 In the early 1890s, it was discovered that someone in the French Army was spying for the Germans. The generals chose to place the blame on Alfred Dreyfus, a Jewish officer. Tried and convicted, Dreyfus was exiled to Devil’s Island. As a result of tireless efforts on the part of his family and well-known writers and public officials, Dreyfus was given a retrial in which his name was cleared.

  - 

257

Republican model of integration remained the goal. The survivors at the end of World War II also adhered to this aim, even though the treatment of the Jews of France under the Vichy regime might have prompted them to distance themselves from it. The Republican model remained dominant for French Jewry until the 1960s, when everything changed. This raises a key question: is the evolution of French Jewry in most respects convergent with (or to use a geometric term, parallel to) that of other Jews in the Diaspora, including American Jews? The factors in this evolution are highly specific in many ways. How can a general trend be explained primarily by sources as specific as those in a country like France? Below I briefly cite the main factors that, in my opinion, explain the transformation of the Jews of France, who disengaged from the Republican model in just a few years. By expressing the issue thus, I do not imply that they cut their ties with the model or even distanced themselves from Republican values; the issue here is the demise of the model itself. One decisive characteristic of the demise is related to the decolonization of North Africa, particularly at the end of the Algerian War in 1962. Many Jews left North Africa for France in the 1950s and particularly in the early 1960s. For the most part, they viewed their departure as repatriation and in no case as emigration. Some were bitter, particularly those who felt, like the Pieds-Noirs (French settlers in Algeria) that de Gaulle had betrayed them. The North African group was Sephardi, as opposed to the mostly Ashkenazi makeup of French Jewry up to that time, and they brought to France a strong and vibrant sense of community and a greater degree of religious observance. They had not suffered at the hands of the Nazis as the Ashkenazi Jews of France had and were less shaken by that terrible experience. The “community” bonds of these newcomers should not be overstated: they rarely formed tightly knit communities and clustered mainly in the Paris suburbs of Creteil and Sarcelles and a few cities in the south. They should also not be viewed as a homogeneous group, since there were major differences among them. Most importantly, however, they had different attitudes that rejuvenated French Judaism. They were attached to Israel even though they had not chosen to move there when they were forced out of Algeria, Tunisia, or Morocco, and in France they commonly held attitudes of disapproval, ignorance, or hostility toward the establishment. They had no cult of the Republic or the nation-state and

258

 

often felt that they were both Jews and Pied-Noirs. What is more, they were not shy about openly proclaiming their identity. They possessed cultural resources that enabled them to reverse trends and thrust Jewish identity into the public sphere. They were not dominated by the identity-by-negation of the Ashkenazim, which was dominated by loss and the fact of having survived decimation. In contrast to adherents of the classic Republican model, which allowed the “Israelite” religion only limited visibility in the public sphere, these Jews were not embarrassed to display publicly their relationship with Israel and their lifestyles and, hence, not only their religion. Their political experience and political culture were different and less occasioned by the experience of the Enlightenment and the legacy of the French Revolution and Jacobinism. They certainly bring to France the vision of Central European immigrants, many of whom in the interwar period considered France the country of Jewish emancipation, liberty, equality, and social justice. The second decisive point has to do with the State of Israel and the attitude of the French Diaspora toward it. Here, diplomatic and geopolitical issues also deserve a brief review. The Six-Day War had considerable impact on French Jews. First, it bonded them in a common show of sympathy that diverged sharply from the past. AntiZionist positions were toned down if not abandoned, a spectacular change in political circles that claimed to be the heirs of Bundism. This less negative stance would become one of the main factors in the decline of Communism among French Jews—a topic I will return to later. The Six-Day War rekindled fears of destruction among the Jews and reactivated latent recollections of the Nazi genocide of European Jewry. It fueled what we called above a Jewish identityby-negation, one that relates to what was taken from Jews and to their destruction. However, it also reinforced Jews’ identity-byaffirmation. The lightning-swift Israeli victory swept away the image of the Jew as a victim who can neither fight nor defend himself, a more-or-less passive player in the face of antisemitic violence. In this respect, the war made a crucial contribution to the ability of French Jews to cope with their memories, take a stand in regard to their past and their culture, and live a history other than the one that Vidal-Naquet termed “lachrymose.” Thus, the Six-Day War simultaneously brought the Diaspora closer to Israel and encouraged the Diaspora to rethink its own positions. Under its inspiration, the French Diaspora implemented a dialectic related to the affirmation

  - 

259

of both of its identities, the negative and the positive. This, in turn, led to the beginning of debates on Vichy and a heightened level of visibility that amounted to an ethnicization of the Jews. Because this process was part of a more general trend, it also led to the first debates on the uniqueness of the Jewish experience and, in particular, of the Holocaust. The Six-Day War contributed to a real shift, and prompted and accelerated changes in French diplomacy that clearly weighed heavily on the transformations of French Jewry. Until the end of the colonial period, specifically with the end of the Algerian War, French diplomacy had had a pro-Israel bias. In 1956 (under the Fourth Republic), France and Britain planned their Suez expedition in conjunction with Israel, and on November 27, 1967, at a famous press conference, General de Gaulle took pains to cite the “special and very close ties” that the previous government (i.e., the Fourth Republic) had developed with the Jewish state. Once the Algerian issue was resolved, the association with Israel lost the usefulness that had characterized it during the Algerian War and de Gaulle chose to return to the broad pro-Arab policy that had been dominant before World War II. Thus, his policy had a anti-Zionist legacy of sorts. At the aforementioned November press conference, De Gaulle emphasized the policy change by characterizing the Israelis as “an elite people, self assured and domineering.” These words stirred up intense controversy and anxiety, and their antisemitic tinge distanced part of French Jewry from de Gaulle. The issue was not only de Gaulle as a person but also, and even more so, the attachment of Jews to a country that, from their standpoint, had clearly failed to keep the promises of the Republic. This incident moved some Jews even farther toward a moderate form of ethnicization, inspired by the feeling that assimilation was definitely not an option. Raymond Aron, who never really liked De Gaulle, stated after the Six-Day War and de Gaulle’s famous comment that he felt increasingly motivated to define himself more as a Jew.2 De Gaulle’s successor as president, Georges Pompidou, maintained his predecessor’s foreign policy, most notably by imposing an arms embargo policy against Israel. To grasp the nature of the mutation of French Jewry in the 1960s, however, additional factors should be taken into account. Some are 2 See his Memoires or the collection of essays: Perrine, Simon-Nahum, ed., Essais sur la condition juive contemporaine, Paris: de Fallois, 1989.

260

 

related to the deep-seated crisis of modernity that affected the West as a whole. In the late 1960s, the most universalistic concepts of modernity began to be called into question by those who equated modernity solely with the ideals of the Enlightenment, Progress, or Reason, which, as they advance, cause traditions to recede. The Republican ideal in France draws heavily on this conception of modernity but also on Socialist and Communist platforms that had a real impact on French Jews. Thus, when this modernity conception was forced to retreat, social and above all cultural movements arose and challenged the overvaluation of the nation-state à la française or Jacobinism. At that time, too, the decline of Communism began, a process marked by an awkward phase in the French Left that, to paraphrase Lenin, corresponded more to senility than to a childhood disease. Some French Jews either associated themselves with this move away from the political ideologies of Communism and, later, Leftist ideals, or joined attempts to promote their own cultural identity in a climate that saw the rise of regional or nationalistic movements. A few even dreamed of a united mobilization of sorts. In other words, the Jews’ strong identification with the state, the nation, and political goals shaped by the ideals of the Enlightenment was undermined because they, like others, were caught up in the crisis of the state and the nation, and their political goals. This phenomenon was not restricted to France but was particularly acrimonious there for several reasons: the dominance of the Republican model, the strength of the Communist Party, and, more generally, the important role that intellectuals play in that country. What did this mutation of French Jewry look like? First of all, as a mutation it was a radical transformation in which not only did the old model tumble into crisis but a new one began to take shape. Who could have imagined, for instance, that in the midst of a cantonal election campaign (1994), a Chief Rabbi of France would ask his fellow Jewish citizens not to go to the polls because the date coincided with a major Jewish holiday? (It is true that he rescinded his suggestion later.) In any case, Jews became visible in a variety of areas while remaining, for the most part, outside the political sphere, i.e., without making serious attempts to politicize. In other words, there was still no “Jewish vote.” Thus, there was much more religious visibility, particularly with the growth of the Lubavitch movement but also, although less con-

  - 

261

spicuously, among “liberals.” A strong Jewish presence began to develop in localities where established communities had formed, such as Sarcelles and Creteil. There, the non-politicization principle had been overridden because the local Jewish communities had some say in municipal government. In terms of education, an active network of primary and secondary schools operates; the universities have Hebrew departments, and renewed interest in Jewish languages beginning with Yiddish, an uptrend in Jewish studies, and various specialized series by publishers are evident. Newspaper opinion pages are filled with “debate” and “forum” departments in which Jews interact as Jews. There are countless memorial ceremonies, commemorations, symbolic claims, and appeals to preserve the memory of the Holocaust, including in schools for younger children. Historiography has changed considerably, particularly in regard to World War II and Vichy, due to French Jews and not only because Marrus and Paxton (following see also Paxton, 2001)3 wrote Vichy et les Juifs. Journalists, filmmakers, jurists, lawyers, and activists fight to bring the pressure of memory to bear on history, in addition to political and legal activism, the most spectacular outcome being the trials of Paul Touvier (1984), Klaus Barbie (1987), and Maurice Papon (1997–1998). The vitality of French Jewry also came to the fore whenever foreign policy and Israel were involved. Public stances were as varied as they are in Israel, and during the 1980s, perhaps more than today, heated and emotional debates stirred the French Jewish universe. One need only recall, for instance, what was said during Operation Peace for Galilee in 1982, the massacres at Sabra and Shatila, the expulsion of the PLO leadership from Lebanon and the birth of the Peace Now movement. The powerful forward thrust in the identity profile of French Jews, so spectacular in the 1970s and 1980s, has apparently leveled off or slowed down. Although French Jews have become much more ethnicized and visible in the French public sphere, they have not entirely broken their ties with the Republican model; indeed, they remain attached to it in many ways. Rather, they have forced the model to expand in order to accommodate their identity and to be

3 Paxton, Robert O., Vichy France: Old Guard and New Order, New York: Columbia University Press, 2001.

262

 

less stubborn about maintaining a clear-cut distinction between the private and the public sphere. In other words, they have contributed to the democratization of the Republic. The Jews of France today define themselves more as a community but show no desire to break with the Republic, from which they continue to expect a great deal, starting with their security. The Jewish world in France is far from being fully communitarized. Only some Jews in France identify with a community lifestyle, enrolling their children in Jewish schools or adhering to some form of Jewish religious observance. The ethnicization process more closely resembles an institutionalization, through which Jews gain public recognition, in particular as regards their commemorative demands. When a newly elected president of France ( Jacques Chirac) expresses his feelings about France’s “indefeasible debt” to the Jews and acknowledges the involvement of the French state in the genocide that was perpetrated against them ( July 1995) or when a French prime minister establishes a commission to investigate the spoliation of Jews during World War II (the Matteoli Commission, which submitted its report in April 2000), they are acknowledging the specific presence of Jews and dealing with them in the public sphere, without challenging the Republic or its basic values in any way. The Jews of France, in turn, are not highly visible when it comes to presenting a positive identity and are even less predisposed to do so today than in 1980, when lawyer Henry Hajdenberg launched the Jewish Renewal movement, which was able to draw 100,000 people at the Porte de Pantin (with his “Twelve Hours for Israel”). Today Hajdenberg chairs CRIF and is surely as far as can be from relaunching an idea that was once floated, that of a “Jewish vote.” In fact, the main transformations in recent years are changes that deeply affect French culture, particularly its entrenched antisemitism. It is true that since the late 1970s, antisemitism has mobilized French Jewry for the most visible and spectacular forms of response. This is not a sign of a positive identity, indicative of a strong community defined by its values, culture, and lifestyle. It is much more like a defensive move that, instead of urging the Jewish community to firm its ranks, calls on Jews to become part of a culture that they expect to reject the hatred and violence directed against them. In the classic Republican model, antisemitism was thought to be generated primarily by conservative or reactionary political move-

  - 

263

ments that portray the Jews as threats to national unity, threats made all the more sinister by the fact that they were not highly visible, or by the process of assimilation, which reinforced suspicions. Antisemitism was also thought to originate in anti-capitalism thinking that accused Jews of controlling wealth; hence it was evident among Communist voters, among others. In the Republican model, which enjoins Jews from appearing in public as Jews, it is difficult for a Jew to take a public stance against antisemitism. Rather, he should do so as a democrat, a republican, or a citizen who rejects the application of any type of value label—positive or negative—to groups or communities. In this respect, the Republican model weakens the Jew’s ability to react to antisemitism. With the rise of ethnicity in the 1970s and 1980s, however, Jews stood up to be counted in public and marched in protest, for example, when the Copernic Synagogue was attacked (a bomb was placed in the saddlebags of a motorcycle parked in front of the synagogue) and, fifteen years later, when the Jewish cemetery of Carpentras was profaned. However, the growth of ethnicity, when it affects large communities, may elicit or encourage new forms of antisemitism, which fall into two types. The first is part of a more general trend in which other groups also assert their ethnicity with greater vehemence, and in this process of cultural fragmentation, intercommunal tensions may slide into antisemitic or racial hatred. Racial tensions of this type have risen considerably in the last fifteen years, fueled among immigrant groups from the Arab-Muslim world by identification with the Palestinian struggle against Israel. According to this way of thinking, Jews symbolize Israel and have close ties with the hegemonic U.S., the world of money, and the media. In the second type of antisemitism, Jewish affirmation, may stir up resentment, jealousy, or even hatred among individuals or small groups that wish to form communities but are unable to do so. I encountered this type of reaction in Sarcelles in the early 1990s on the part of young North Africans and also among individuals from the Antilles who complained about the strength of the Jewish community in the city, in contrast to their own inability to form a group along the same lines. These manifestations are forcing French Jewry to deal with an antisemitism that has changed considerably over the last twenty years, one that is less explicitly linked to nationalism, in particular when the far Right is garnering substantial electoral support, seeking respectability, and is fueled by reactions

264

 

to North African immigration. This antisemitism is not only the result of words and prejudice, it can also take the form of acts of violence and intimidation, defacing of tombstones, attacks on or threats to synagogues or Jewish schools, and vulgar insults. It is inseparable from anti-Zionism, which has prompted certain Jews to respond by showing even greater support for Israel. In the main, however, it has led Jews to tone down their convictions in public, to avoid wearing the Star of David, to wear baseball caps instead of skullcaps (like the people interviewed by Liberation, January 13, 2000, or refrain from reading the Tribune Juive in a café. It also prompts Jewish institutions, and not only Jewish individuals, to petition the Republic for more active assurance of their safety. In other words, the main effect of the new antisemitic climate is to brake the weakening of the bonds of French Jewry with the Republican model or, in any case, to avoid a situation where its ties with the Republic are severed. There may, however, be a second effect, possibly stimulated by Israeli propaganda: a stronger Zionist discourse that is associated with Israel’s urgent exhortations to French Jews to “make aliya”—to leave a country that the Deputy Foreign Minister of Israel termed on January 6, 2002, in my opinion without providing real proof, the “worst Western country as regards antisemitism.” Here and there, the new antisemitism may also encourage Jewish communities to seek greater security by strengthening themselves in a neo-ghettoization fashion. Thus, we may have entered a new era marked by two new or renewed processes. First, French Jewry may again converge under the wings of the Republican model, simply because the model is more receptive to different identities than in the past. Second, exacerbated community orientation may combine forces with calls to emigrate to Israel rather than showing visible support to Israel on French soil. However, I consider this process a very marginal one. There was a time when Klal Yisrael, the Jewish world, including French Jewry, was divided by genuine schisms. Those who chose the revolutionary, Marxist option cut themselves off from the observant community; those who opted for Zionism were real adversaries of Bundists and Communists. Today, French Jewry appears to be less in inner turmoil, less torn apart. Israel, while trembling for its security, does not seem as threatened as in the past. The Holocaust is fully acknowledged; its memory has been institutionalized. Jewish identity no longer needs, to use Ilan Greilsammer’s expression (2001)

  - 

265

to be “scotomized,” unconsciously turning a blind eye to personal loyalty to Judaism or total submission of every individual to the Republic. It has succeeded in striking a balance, albeit a precarious one, between the Republic and its identificatory stance. The Jews did not sack the Republic; instead, they prodded it to open up. Today, however, everything has changed.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

IS THE FRENCH MODEL IN DECLINE? Pierre Birnbaum On the night of February 4–5, 2002, the statue of Captain Dreyfus in Paris was defaced with antisemitic graffiti for the first time ever. The message, however, was anything but original. As official commemorations of the centenary of the affair and its hero slowly fade from memory, and with their train of incidents and prejudices still apparent, the words “dirty traitor” along with a Star of David were scrawled on the famous statue—the work of the sculptor Tim, who only recently passed away. Several days later, on February 8, in an atmosphere of relative indifference, a small ceremony was held in front of the statue, now again immaculately clean, in the presence of Bertrand Delanoe, the Socialist mayor of Paris, and Roger Cukierman, the president of CRIF, and several members of the CRIF executive board. As the captain’s descendants and a very small audience looked on, an appeal for “vigilance”—neither reported in the media nor responded to by state authorities—was made. Shunted from one potential site to another, each site being deemed too prominent, and unveiled after many trials and tribulations that attest to the longevity of certain prejudices and forms of disapproval, the statue had been erected discretely in a square at the corner of Cherche-Midi Street and Boulevard Raspail and gradually became part of the urban landscape. Lovers embrace each other at its feet, paying as much attention to it as the hurried passersby. That this statue has become the target of antisemitic attacks that seemingly rekindle the uproar and passions of yesteryear can only astound and elicit anxiety. It is as though the political antisemitism of the turn of the twentieth century has resurfaced intact to enjoy a new heyday. The polls show that Le Pen and Magret’s far-Right parties are flourishing as lustily as ever and that the violent schisms that regularly split them have hardly dented their support, which has remained firm at 12 percent of the electorate. Even if Jean Marie Le Pen adapts and has made amends for his “Durafour” and other inopportune and provocative remarks, his party’s xenophobic values appear to be unchanged.

     

267

While France is undergoing one of the worst spates of antisemitism in its history, triggered primarily by the imaginary outcomes of clashes in the Middle East and the repercussions of the events of September 11, 2001, suddenly various forms of antisemitism that derive from different sources but invoke identical imagery seem to be coalescing. It is as though conflicting political movements could for a moment unite in their shared hatred of Jews, Israel, and their dominating American allies, as though an alliance dreamed of in some quarters between the populist far Right and an Islamic movement—already fantasized in the late nineteenth century—could briefly jell in a shared rejection of Jews, money, and capitalism through recourse to the sole redemptive force mobilized in the name of conflicting “imaginary communities”: a purified nation oriented toward a form of intransigent Catholicism, a nation that expels all immigrants, recent or older, in the name of defense—a nation that itself has a specific cultural code that appeals to the umma, the community of observant Muslims, in an identical rejection of Jews fueled by Bin Laden’s media-manipulating anti-Jewish crusades. Does this mean that forms of antisemitism from conflicting horizons can momentarily fuse in the name of contradictory identificatory nationalisms to endanger the status of French Jewry a little more every day, as that community hardly sees the state coming to its rescue as it did in the past, or that imaginary rivals could, in an atmosphere of virtual indifference on the part of both the state and public opinion, strike a fatal blow to the long-lived French model of integration? In today’s world, Jews are basically grouped around two poles, each of which claims to play a preponderant role and be the ideal place for a full Jewish life: the United States and Israel. In the U.S., Jews have found a haven of peace and tolerance, a “home,” a modern Babylon where democracy and all forms of liberalism flourish—exemplifying a rare period in the Diaspora era. Naturally, multiculturalism, individualism, and a wide range of types of assimilation threaten the preservation of ethnic identity, but the main challenge to American Jews probably comes from their integration into a profoundly multicultural social space in which relationships between cultural groups are far from being defined. In Israel, the issue of multiculturalism is also undermining a culture that defines itself as solely Jewish. Relations between religion and state and between citizens and cultures with distinct identities need to be rethought to make them more egalitarian, without abandoning ties to Judaism and shifting toward a

268

 

mere community of citizens. In both cases, the obstacles can be overcome, even though they challenge many preconceived notions and certitudes, lead to futures that defy the imagination to varying degrees, and occasion a distribution of space that reconciles cultures and differences.1 Aside from these two poles, only modern France emerges as a model in which the future is primordial. In the former Soviet countries, Judaism is shrinking at an incredible pace, slowly ending a thousand-year history where, for many, Jewish culture was forged. The same may be said about two Muslim countries, Morocco and Yemen. The countries outside of North America where Judaism continues to endure are Great Britain, Hungary, Argentina, and above all France, whose symbolic place in modern Jewish history is crucial because there, in the tradition of the Enlightenment and the French Revolution, the model of Jewish emancipation was born. Thus, in modern Europe, the fate of French Jewry is critical with respect to both aforementioned centers: Israel, a nation-state predicated on a dominant Jewish culture, and the U.S., a basically multicultural society endowed with a strong communal fabric. In their lengthy history, the Jews of France have taken a different tack, creating a special relationship with a state, the great liberator of minorities, and preserving a traditional vertical alliance with a state that restricted individualism and any form of collective alliance in the public sphere but legitimized individual beliefs. Jews, who became full citizens at the end of the French Revolution, almost entirely and enthusiastically accepted the Republican contract that limited the expression of religious belief and cultural difference to the private sphere. Fanatics of the emancipating Republic, they vanished as a nation and did not oppose the broadening, to its fullest extent, of the principle of dina de-malkhuta dina—“the law of the state is the law,” the Talmudic precept that instructs exiled Jews to accept and obey the laws of their host countries. Like their fellow citizens, particularly Catholic fellow citizens—who were directly targeted by the secularization of the public sphere, which little by little challenged the Christian nature of French society—they were forced to yield to state control over marriage and adapt to a state power that, since Napoleon, has been

1 For a comparison along these lines between the situation of Jews in the U.S. and in Israel, see Ben-Rafael (2001).

     

269

based on the consistorial system. Well integrated into French society, benefiting from upward mobility thanks to Republican meritocracy, playing a major symbolic political role, and identifying with these “State Jews” who, like the “fanatics of the Republic,” attained such high-ranking offices as minister, deputy, general, prefect, state counselor, and judge in the highest court of appeals, the Jews of France of the nineteenth century remained loyal to the Republican ideal and played their role as citizens in full, despite severe crises such as the Dreyfus Affair. Their integration did not obliterate their cultural identity, even though it was confined to the private sphere. Throughout the nineteenth century, they knew how to remain Jewish, rejecting mass out-conversion, self-hatred, and intermarriage. It is nevertheless true that state power over society, connected with the expansion of a centralized state, has accentuated the decline of Jewish life and Jewish studies and the benefits of integration in the public sphere have diminished collective awareness and creativity. A German-type “science of Judaism” exists in France but has had much less of an impact there than it had in Germany (Birnbaum, 1996; 2000; 2002). One may say that in many ways the Jews of France invented a model of Diaspora Jewish life that coincided with the French model of a strong, universalistic state. Criticized by certain Zionist thinkers and accused of serving a nation-state that diminished their identity, they, like their non-Jewish fellow citizens, in fact succeeded in preserving—though mostly in their inner reaches—their culture, memory, values, and specific social modes. Deprived of a territorial niche, they nevertheless were able to maintain an environment of their own and remain faithful to a specific history while fully assuming their duties as citizens and participating in the nation. This pattern laid the foundations, for Jews and non-Jews alike, of a coexistence—in a way that is much less conflictual than might be presumed—between a nation-state political ideal and the generalized preservation of specific forms of belief and cultures. In fact, far from the hard-line proclamations of overblown orators, the Republic has in most cases been as accepting of Catholics as of Jews, Bretons, and inhabitants of Berry (Chanet, 1996; Thiesse, 1999). Today, however, this model is being denigrated by a general political theory that has rediscovered the force of collective cultures. This theory rejects the model in the name of the survival of the collective identity of every national group that is purportedly threatened by the reinforcement of a nation-state that answers solely to the cult

270

 

of Reason. This argument, often brandished by the nationalist Right, which rejects the revolutionary model in favor of a national identity whose true origins they unearth from the distant past, is championed more often today by a segment of the Left that has recovered from the form of Marxism that ignored “tribes,” nations, and cultures. On behalf of the specificity of nations and in a return of sorts to each nation’s authentic personality, the French model has become the scapegoat of culturalists of the Charles Taylor or Will Kymlicka school, who criticize the rationalist pretensions of the nation-state while disregarding its genuine capacity to allow individual cultures to survive. The theoreticians of multiculturalism are unaware of the real flexibility of the French model, which turns out to be less reductive than it seems and can more-or-less efficiently reconcile rationalism and respect for different cultures (Taylor, 1994: 51; Kymlicka, 2000: 121–122). In contrast, theoreticians of the public sphere such as followers of Jurgen Habermas, by viewing the French model as the ideal type of postnationalism, find that it facilitates discursivity between reasonable citizens who have distanced themselves from their own cultural backgrounds. Apologetic toward the rationalizing French model, this school of thought draws on the French model of Reasonoriented citizenship to produce a broad concept of the European public sphere, unanchored in individual histories and cultures that run the risk of being irreconcilable. Like the theoreticians of multiculturalism who do not notice the strong tolerance of cultural identities that the French model abets, postnational theorists of the public sphere do not realize that they are over-ballasting the republican nature of French culture (Birnbaum, 2002). The history of French Jewry itself attests to the ambivalence of this general model. Citizens who are positively oriented toward their country and who possess no territorial niche, French Jews have been able to preserve a specific collective awareness without constituting a “nation within a nation,” as they were before the French Revolution. It is true that they did not “Judaicize” their exile as did Jews in the American model, and that their “home,” once the Jewish quarters of Alsace and Lorraine disappeared and the specificities of exile such as the Marais quarters in Paris vanished, blended purely and simply into the nation itself until the most recent times. However, like their fellow citizens, but this time with specific consequences, they became involved in the rediscovery of regional “lands” and cultures as a result of the decentralization laws of 1981 and shaped their own

     

271

varieties of observance through the reconstruction—now legitimized— of collective beliefs in the public sphere. The outcome has been a sort of “bottom-up communitarization” that draws on the visibility of political and consistorial institutions that intervene as such in public debate, and marks of a relative Judaizing of the public sphere enhanced by the sociability of Jewish immigration that originated in the decolonization of Northern Africa. These immigrants brought a mode of collective sociability and modes of religious observance that led to a paradoxical and unexpected “regeneration” of French Judaism. This can be seen in the Hebrew letters on storefronts and private schools, which, like private Catholic schools, are experiencing a period of growth, and by the American-style presence of identifiable Jewish visibility by means of distinctive clothing or a skullcap. In some neighborhoods and suburbs of Paris (the nineteenth and twentieth arrondissements of Paris, as well as Sarcelles and Creteil) and several large cities such as Strasbourg, this has even led to the symbolic demarcation of a public territory devoted to religious observance. In addition to new mass religious festivals that can attract as many as 30,000 people, and in addition to large demonstrations, e.g., in support of Israel, there has been an undeniable return to an immediately identifiable Jewish presence in the national space, a sort of nation-within-the-nation, a phenomenon compatible with the wishes of a Mirabeau but not with those of an Abbé Grégoire. A surprising but deliberate “top-down communitarianism,” implemented by the state, is also taking place. One cannot deny that France is steadily acknowledging the existence of one community after another even in the public sphere, e.g., unhesitantly granting Corsica dispensatory privileges in respect to public law. This tendency, indicative of the “Girondinization” of French society, is clearly a source of mutual cultural enrichment but also a difficult path to navigate for a nation-state that rests on universalistic foundations. This top-down forging of communities, implemented via continual overkill in the national press, which plays a key role in the buzzword use of the term “community,” affects Jewish circles in particular because the highest authorities of the state and the mass media have been urging these circles to view themselves as an organized community. This behavior reinforces the aforementioned “bottomup” communitarization, which in the wane of the state is growing in legitimacy and visibility with each passing day. The bottom-up community formation is affecting the entire range of collective cultural

272

 

identities. However, it further destabilizes the Jewish destiny by asking it to distance itself from its militant citizenship in order to accept collective structures that many reject. Recognized as such by the public authorities and legitimized by a successive making of amends, many French Jews have worked hard to recreate an “imagined community” within society and, thereby, to create a “home” within the nation. In this sense, they are moving away from the state and challenging their traditional vertical alliance with the authorities. Moreover, like their fellow citizens, they seem increasingly inclined to espouse associative ideals or a market individualism that attracts the elites who were formerly so devoted to the state. French Jews, like their fellow citizens, appear to be slipping gradually into the mode of a weak American-type state in which the market is dominant and seem to be adopting an associative and cultural lifestyle that legitimizes a wide range of multiculturalism or affirmative action. In this sense, the Republican model has been shaken for all, but this situation crucially affects the integration of French Jews, who have been thrust into negotiations or horizontal clashes to the detriment of their traditional vertical relations with the state. Even though Jews still appeal for the intervention and the protection of the state, they suddenly find themselves much more alone, if not isolated, and are viewed as a specific group that actually has little impact on national political life, for instance, since they account for less than 1 percent of the French population. Their electoral clout in this type of American mode of political cooptation, based on the quest for specific collective advantages designed to ensure voter fidelity, is suddenly even more reduced as political parties are quick to emphasize their candidates’ ethnic backgrounds to attract multiple-identity voters. In the previous scenario of a strong state and an active citizenry, Jews were often symbolically at the heart of French politics and their presence in Republican politics attracted nationalistic hatred of those who wished to pick a fight with the Republic. Today, amidst the receding of the state and the general retreat vis-à-vis society, the hard-won consensus about the Republican armor of the nation has caused Jews to lose some of their centrality and, above all, to become less vulnerable. The political antisemitism that pertains to their role in the Republican state— the phenomenon that often sparked the antisemitic upsurges in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, from the Dreyfus Affair to Pouja-

     

273

dism and even to Lepenism—can only decline. The generations of “State Jews” hardly participate in the state service anymore and the Jews whom this term denotes have become more discreet as the Jewish “community” becomes more visible—as though Vichy’s betrayal of high-ranking Jewish civil servants still weighs heavily on them and encourages French Jews to retire from history to less exposed niches within the social system, and as though the invasion of memory has also prompted this retreat to the private sphere. Nevertheless, French Jews cannot escape history, let alone the direct blow that it is dealing them today. Suddenly, they have been plunged into a situation beyond their control in that their options are dictated by new considerations. The adverse effects of lessened state intervention may have long-lasting influence, making Jews’ status in the nation—now finally pluralistic—more fragile, as the state becomes less protective but only somewhat unifying and reductive of specific cultures. The advantages and disadvantages of the former Republican contract will no longer be the same. The now-legitimized, although limited, Americanization of French cultural pluralism is leading to unpredictable outcomes. The rivalry or potential clashes that the consolidation of the nation-state had considerably attenuated are now free to resurface. These risks are even more probable in that the imaginary French political landscape shaped by the nationstate has always shied away from multiple allegiances, the diverse loyalties that are commonplace in the U.S. In American culture, based on so many waves of immigration from so many backgrounds, the coexistence between adherence to fundamental constitutional values and lasting and strong ties with distant mother countries is taken for granted and does not create problems, even though a national policy that is considered unjust with respect to a country to which some Americans maintain natural loyalties may cause rancor and discontent. These frustrations have never led to internal clashes, except perhaps in the nineteenth century as regards Catholics. The occasionally violent conflicts between African-Americans and AsianAmericans, Latin Americans, or Jews remain above all at the level of competition for control of scarce economic resources; they are not translations of purely political attitudes resulting from affinities that lie outside American society and are viewed as antagonistic. These tensions in no way mirror conflicts that, in other countries, create opposition between cultures to which any individual may legitimately

274

 

feel close in view of his/her own culture. Everyone finds a “home” in American society, more or less, and preserves external allegiances and memories in his or her personal domain. The same cannot necessarily be said for French society, which today, like American society, is composed of waves of immigration. In modern times, France and the U.S. are the two best examples of cultures with high immigration rates. The former, however, has long been striving to integrate its immigrants. The latter, despite its melting-pot principle, has opted so strongly to respect multiple identities that it accepts each individual’s right to define his or her identity to various degrees in a hyphenated style, in which the left-hand side of the equation (e.g., Italian-American) dominates the right-hand side, thereby reducing the platform of shared values to a minimum. No one in the U.S. finds it disturbing that all American cultural groups assert close relations with their countries of origin. In France, across the entire spectrum, the hypothesis of multiple allegiance is not considered credible, and the idea that French Jews could remain loyal to their French citizenship while proclaiming their ties with Israel has never ceased to astonish and even be troubling. As a result, in France, the sudden withdrawal of the state and the rise of individualisms in the public sphere has brusquely left imaginary communities with no real face-to-face empirical reality. These communities are profoundly heterogeneous, unequipped with any collective capacity, inconsistent, and composed of myriad individuals with conflicting values. Thus it is uncertain, in contrast to what Paula Hyman claims, that “As France becomes incrementally multicultural and multiethnic at the beginning of the twenty-first century, the history of French Jewry moves from the margins to the center.” (Hyman, 1998: 218). Indeed, the Jews, who have now become just one minority among others, may abandon their traditional classic vertical alliance with the state, which has protected them from the hostile masses and made them key players in the Franco-French wars. Thus, instead of moving toward the “center,” they may marginalize themselves and leave history behind, abandoning a prime historical function within the French model, the one that has given them a royal road to emancipation since the nineteenth century. One of the immediate outcomes of the growing ethnicity of the French public sphere has been an upturn in communitarization, suddenly placing Jews side-by-side with citizens of North African extraction who now outnumber them by five to six million versus

     

275

600,000–700,000. Because the conflict between Israel and the Palestinians is being increasingly transferred to metropolitan France, a certain proportion of North African immigrant youth has adopted the Palestinian struggle by turning it against French Jews, whom they accuse of pledging their loyalty to the Hebrew state. Young people from the suburbs who used to be close to the Jews of France, including leaders of very active organizations such as SOS-Rasisme (an international anti-racism society founded in 1985 in Norway and patterned after a French organization of similar nature), are very clearly behind a large number of hostile acts against French Jewry, using the violently antisemitic slogans disseminated in Arab countries. Some of them, perhaps in cohorts with activists on the traditional far Right, have committed acts of violence unheralded in French history. Numerous synagogues have been torched or attacked with firebombs, shots have been fired or stones thrown (at several synagogues in various arrondissements of Paris, but also in a host of other towns).2 Mezuzas are systematically ripped off walls, several schools have been attacked or have been targets of firebombs (from Paris and Sarcelles to Marseilles), rabbis have been assaulted, children physically harassed in the street, school buses attacked, and insults hurled at passersby. Antisemitic graffiti such as “Death to the Jews” has been written on synagogues or Jewish-owned shops, as well as swastikas or messages such as “All the Jews into the sea,” “Exterminate the Jews,” “Long Live Bin Laden,” “Long Live Palestine,” “Allah is great,” and “Dirty Jew go back to Israel.” Some Jews have received personal death threats in their own homes. The list of violent acts throughout France, from Paris and its suburbs to Toulon, Strasbourg, and Bayonne, grows with each passing day (Hyman, 1998). Aside from the Vichy era and the Nazi occupation, the country has not experienced this type of situation since the French Revolution in Eastern France, i.e., since the rise of the nation-state. A comparison of antisemitic incidents in 1898 with those in 2001 reveals many differences (Birnbaum, 1998). In 2001, in contrast to 1898, the streets of the capital and most large and medium-sized peripheral cities did not teem with crowds of thousands or, at times, 2 Trappes, Les Ulis, Bondy, Aulnay-sous-Bois, Versailles, Bagnolet, Villepinte, Lilas, Noisy-le-Sec, Vincennes, Saint Denis, Sarcelles, Creteil, Aubervilliers, Meaux, Garges-les-Gonesses, Colombes, Clichy-sous-Bois, Stains, Noisiel, Bagneux, Lyons, Villeurbanne, Strasbourg, Lille, Nice, Rouen, Avignon, etc.

276

 

tens of thousands of people screaming vicious slogans and continually calling out the old standby “Death to the Jews.” Naturally, that cry was heard several months ago in the streets of Paris at the end of an anti-Israel demonstration and, also, naturally it may reoccur here and there, voiced furtively against rabbis or passersby. However, that would not be comparable to the whirlwind of 1898, in which this cry was echoed shamelessly by angry crowds, taken up by the national press, and shouted in political meetings that nationally known public figures attended. Back then, this uncompromising rejection of a Jewish presence in French society was part of the political landscape; the goal was to exclude Jews from citizenship and the public sphere by expelling or destroying them. The public dimension of the antisemitic mobilization a century ago cannot be likened to what is happening today: the streets are calm; collective antisemitic actions are not a threat. The nationalistic and populist press has lost its former glory and is keeping a low profile, reduced to a few pages that reach a limited public only. The national press, in contrast, has severely condemned such outcries across the board. The only point of comparison concerns the actions themselves: there are fewer people wounded but more attacks on synagogues and schools. It is true that communitarization has made the Jewish presence more visible; instead of shops, the institutions deliberately targeted are synagogues and schools in suburbs or provincial cities. Antisemitism is no longer accompanied, as it was at the end of the nineteenth century, by an unleashing of propaganda through libel, songs, caricatures, and toys. It is reduced to these frontal attacks against property, individuals, schoolchildren, and Jewish professors, who are assaulted, insulted, and harassed. France is not in a state of internal siege as it was in the past, when the police and the army maintained order by conducting tireless patrols, charging demonstrators, or standing guard in front of buildings. France remains peaceful and seemingly untroubled; even arson of synagogues, which is spreading like a lit fuse, and the aforementioned attacks on individuals, which are not the outcome of mere rumor, pose no threat to public security. Populist nationalism has lost the punch that characterized it in the Dreyfus Affair period. The alliance among Drumont, Blanqui, and Barres disintegrated long ago, primarily because of radical change in the positions of the Catholic Church. Whereas in the late nineteenth century the Church supported the antisemitic mobilization,

     

277

at least through the mediation of priests or political groups with which it was connected, it has now turned its back on them and firmly condemns the activities of the troops of Le Pen’s National Front by staunchly opposing any form of antisemitism. The Church of France today acknowledges the fundamental multiculturalism of French society, accepts its status as only one of the many cultural constituents of the nation, and considers Jews as an integral part of French society. Consequently, antisemitism has changed considerably in terms of its outlets and finds only weak support among social forces that were influenced in the past by a Catholicism that has itself lost most of its influence, due to a general decline of observance and also because of a deliberate retreat on the part of the Church, which has permanently sided with the Republic and no longer lends its support to fractional groups that may wish to oppose it. Leftist antisemitism, too, which was once extremely virulent in French society, has also lost most of its impact. The influence of Proudhon, Fourier, and the Communist Party, which did not flinch from stooping to antisemitic accusations as recently as the 1950s, when Pierre Mendes France was appointed President du Conseil, has also waned. This has further attenuated the traditional antisemitism, which drew its inspiration from both the Catholic camp and its adversary, the anti-capitalist Left, which easily paired its denunciations of capitalism with accusations against Jews. Thus, things have radically changed, making it easier to understand the nature of today’s antisemitism, which attacks French Jews directly and is occasioned mainly by changes in a society that is now affected by the conflictual processes of communitarization. Thus, contemporary France as a nation, unlike the Dreyfus-era France, seems only marginally involved in the new resurgence of antisemitism, which this time challenges neither the country’s national institutions nor the Republican nature of its regime. The state does not make itself heard as clearly and firmly as it did in late 1898, when the elites finally realized that the Republic itself was being threatened. Apart from a few lip-service condemnations at the highest ranks of the state apparatus, there have been no severe official condemnations that warn that justice will be done. The police have done little if anything to arrest those who have attacked Jews and their property, and the legal system has been slow to condemn them severely (even though a few individuals, mostly of North African

278

 

extraction, have been arrested and given extremely light sentences). In most cases, the press reports these attacks on the back pages, disposing of them in a few lines among reports about pedophiles, runover dogs, and traffic accidents. Accused of being alarmist if not provocative, the few people who have firmly denounced these activities are frequently Jews themselves, leaders of CRIF or individuals who sign almost any community petitions that state “Enough is enough.” The Jews of France feel threatened as to their status, their future, and the civil rights that they have exercised since they enthusiastically “signed” the Republican contract. Now that they have become a tiny minority, they seemingly find themselves less under the protective umbrella of a state that itself is retreating and seems to have given social forces free rein. It is as though the much-touted Americanization has also animated overall political strategies designed less as a function of broad political platforms or global visions than as a search for key votes at election time. In this situation, with relativist strategies of all types vying against each other, another form of relativism, with explicitly antisemitic consequences that reinforce prejudices, is also on the rise. According to a poll in February 2002, 51 percent of French young people feel that it is wrong to condemn people who hold Holocaust-denying opinions. Given that 34 percent of those polled feel that “Jew-bashing jokes” are nothing serious, it may be seen that even though the vast majority of these young people severely condemn attacks on synagogues (although disturbingly enough, only 75 percent), the mindset of the times can hardly be described as staunchly philosemitic. As for acceptance of Jews in the public sphere, the Boniface report, commissioned by the Socialist Party and signed by Pascal Boniface, director of the Institute of International and Strategic Relations and an expert with Socialist leanings, had a disastrous impact—especially since nothing about it was officially rejected by the Socialist Party leadership. Written as an internal memo for the Socialist Party and addressed to the party leaders, the document, entitled The Near East, the Socialists, International Equity, [and] Electoral Efficiency, was revealed publicly by the monthly L’Arche in November 2001. The text contains the following amazing passage: The connection between the fight against antisemitism and the defense of Israel at all costs [will have the outcome of ] increasing irritation against the Jewish community [and] isolating it on the national level. . . . By counting on its electoral clout to ensure the impunity of the Israeli

     

279

government, the Jewish community is also the loser on this score in the medium term. The Arab/Muslim community is also organized, at least in France, and will soon weigh more heavily if it is already not the case. . . . An attitude judged to be unbalanced as regards the Middle East will confirm that the Arab-Muslim community is not being taken into account or is even being rejected by the Socialist family. The situation in the Middle East and the hesitancy of the Socialists to condemn Israeli repression reinforces a turning inward of Muslim identities in France, which nobody—Jews, Muslims, Christians, or the nonreligious—can be happy about. It is certainly better to lose an election than one’s soul. But by putting the Israeli government and the Palestinians on the same level, we are simply risking to lose both. Is support for Sharon worth losing in 2002? It is high time that the Socialist Party depart from a position that it hoped to be balanced between the Israeli government and the Palestinians—which does not serve but in fact undermines the medium-term interests of the Israeli people and the French Jewish community (L’Arche, 10–11/2001: 14–15).

There are probably other documents like the Boniface report, written by spin-doctors of the rightist parties who are intent on winning over and consolidating the votes of French citizens from Muslim cultures, as though these citizens were a homogenous bloc that a welldesigned policy of distancing from Israel could attract on this basis alone. It is known that the implementation of a policy against the idea of a public sphere is gaining ground in France. In the Third Arrondissement of Paris and in Sarcelles, for example, the list of candidates reflects the local presence of a Jewish population. In the Eighteenth Arrondissement, it responds to the large number of AsianFrench residents. The tendency is accentuated in every election campaign from Paris to Lyons, Marseilles or Roubaix, in the selection of candidates whose names suggest a background related to North African immigration. The ethnicization of politics (Geisser, 1997) is making inroads, to various degrees, in all political parties as they try to attract the votes of this important minority, 4–6 million strong and represented (by conservative estimate) by a million voters whose support may be crucial. The 600,000–700,000 Jews of France, in contrast, are practically nonexistent in terms of political leverage. Apart from their common rejection of Le Pen, Jews vote across the political spectrum and generally reject the ethnic strategy by objecting to the idea of a presumed Jewish vote (Strudel, 1996). Their voting accurately mirrors the voting patterns of non-Jewish citizens. Furthermore, there is no guarantee that some French of Muslim background would respond to this ethnicization of politics, which

280

 

may prove repulsive to many individuals who are eager to follow the path to Republican emancipation by rejecting calls for communal voting of this type.3 Be this as it may, the Boniface report represents a turning point by its legitimization of a policy based on ethnic utility. It is unprecedented because it sets forth a community policy that favors one “community” over another, with both communities evaluated solely on the basis of their potential votes in the upcoming national elections. It profoundly devalues the political undertakings of parties on behalf of moral or even ideological imperatives alone and severely challenges the universal nature of the public sphere, in which citizens are presumed to act on the basis of personal values and not according to their attachment to a nation-within-the-nation. It attempts to build collective identities that are in fact unstable, contradictory, and increasingly imaginary in the minds of the individuals involved. This document virtually appears to justify the current outbreak of antisemitism by holding the Jews culpable due to their allegedly overly strong ties with Israel. It also condemns the very principle of full but plural citizenship in the public sphere when citizenship asserts its right to preserve other, extra-national ties that are perceived as totally legitimate when they are anchored in memory or history. As a result, like an echo, some Jews are belittling the current wave of antisemitic acts, considering them the work of “idiots” and deeming themselves obliged to proclaim, loud and clear, that they are “French only,” lest any other attitude lead to a sense of “dual allegiance” and dual communal membership, a status contrary to the interests of the Jews of France and the national community (Israel, 2002). To the extent that French society should fear the communitarization of one group or another, an insularization, or a splintering of the public sphere into rival clans that would negate the idea of the public sphere itself, this society may enrich itself by acknowledging the multiplicity of imaginary collectives and solidarities, both internal and external, which are certainly not predictive of a predetermined collective behavior that verges on or even approximates treason. Were this not so, we would be dealing with a recurrence 3 Until recently, most authoritative works showed that French people of North African background were concerned above all with integration and restriction of religious observance to the private sphere—see Leveau, Rémy, and Kepel, Gilles, eds., 1988; Cesari, 1977; Vieillard-Baron, 1994; Tribalat, 1996.

     

281

of the Dreyfus Affair, since once again the Jews collectively are being accused of serving a foreign power—no longer Germany, as in the past, but the State of Israel. If we wish to abate the current intolerable outbreak of antisemitism against Jewish citizens—who, additionally, do not react as a community or as a nation-within-the-nation and are careful not to do so, since they are acutely aware that thus they would distance themselves from the Republican contract—it is high time to stop being afraid of expressing these multiple solidarities but nevertheless to oppose, now more than ever, a state that remains exasperatingly silent, thus allowing various groups to transpose conflicts into the national space to which they are foreign. The action to oppose is not outside intervention (such as the “antisemitic France” broadsides by Israeli officials, which were very negatively received). Precisely because dina de malkhuta dina—“the law of the Republic is the law”—it behooves the law to protect all citizens who abide by it without forcing them to abandon their personal loyalty to their own memories and cultures. Citizenship is in no way incompatible with identity, and identity should in no way make acceptable the numerous antisemitic acts that have targeted Jews in France today. It is clear at the same time that although they have not questioned their integration into the Republic despite the antisemitism they faced during the Dreyfus era; although they have tried to forget the treason committed against them by the state during the Vichy years by taking into account the German presence and the assistance rendered by the French population; although they have continually viewed France as a whole as a natural “home” that enables them to exercise full rights as citizens, the situation today threatens to place them more than ever on the razor’s edge in a context that has become unstable because it arises from multiple loyalties that are being experienced more intensely than ever.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

BEING JEWISH IN BELGIUM Maurice Konopnicki To define Jewish identity in Belgium, we have to take into consideration the specific characteristics of the country, located in the heart of Europe and divided into two almost separate regions (French-speaking and Dutch-speaking), but also open to strong foreign influences, especially from France. The classic definition of Jewish identity, more or less connected to religion, Israel and the Middle East conflict, and the memory of the Holocaust, and somewhat related to the Jewish-Christian dialogue, is experiencing hard times. Many Orthodox synagogues are empty (except those in the haredi [ultra-Orthodox] community of Antwerp) and are unable to attract young Jews. Liberal synagogues and secular community centers are attracting an increasing number of Jews. For many people, Jewish identity means identifying with Israel and Zionist values, irrespective of political issues. For them, that means being involved, whether willingly or not, in the conflict with the supporters of the Palestinian “holy war” against Israel. It also means being put in the same category as racists, colonialists, and “ugly occupiers,” and in extreme cases, feeling that “the whole world is against us.” Furthermore, Jews are the daily target of media insults and believe that vicious antisemitism is back, under the guise of antiZionism. Until the emergence of the new philosophy stigmatizing the Holocaust “industry,” many people would have agreed that “dead Jews are good Jews” and deserve respect. But live Jews—especially those struggling for independence and security for a Jewish state in the Middle East—are now being seen as troublemakers. A good vehicle for memory was, until recently, the topic of the Righteous among the Nations, which provided Jewish communities with an opportunity to express gratitude and for non-Jewish societies

      

283

to feel pride, as they shared the same humanitarian principles. Unfortunately, the harmonious environment that prevailed in the past is now clouded. Officials in a small French-speaking town told me that they encountered many problems in organizing a commemoration of the Righteous among the Nations on behalf of Yad Vashem. For instance, when the Israeli flag was raised, some people protested: “Why don’t you raise the Palestinian flag, too!” The portrayal of Jews as executioners and Palestinians as victims has spoiled the harmony. It has also contaminated parts of the educational system, especially in the Catholic schools. As Charles Krauthammer wrote in the Washington Post (Apr. 26, 2002): “In Europe, it is not very safe to be a Jew. How could this be?” The explanation is not that difficult to find. What we are seeing is pent-up anti-Semitism, the release—with Israel as the trigger—of a millennium-old urge that powerfully infected and shaped European history. What is odd is not the anti-Semitism of today, but its relative absence during the past half-century. That was the historical anomaly. Holocaust shame kept the demon corked. But now the atonement is passed. The genie is out again. This time, however, it is more sophisticated. It is not a blanket hatred of Jews. Jews can be tolerated, even accepted, but they must know their place. Jews are fine so long as they are powerless, passive and picturesque. What is intolerable is Jewish assertiveness, the Jewish refusal to accept victimhood. And nothing so embodies that as the Jewish state. What so offends Europeans is the armed Jew, the Jew who refuses to sustain seven suicide bombings in the seven days of Passover and strikes back. That Jew has been demonized in the European press as never before since, well . . . since the ’30s. The liberal Italian daily La Stampa ran a cartoon of the baby Jesus, besieged by Israeli tanks, saying, “Don’t tell me they want to kill me again.” Again. And this time the Christ-killers come in tanks. Just when Europe had reconciled itself to tolerance for the passive Jew—the Holocaust survivor who could be pitied, lionized, perhaps awarded the occasional literary prize—along comes the Jewish state, crude and vital and above all unwilling to apologize for its own existence. The tragedy of the World Trade Center and the sudden American awareness of the danger of terrorism have made politicians at all levels aware that there are 400,000 Muslims in Belgium (ten times

284

 

as many as Jews). To attract their support in the next political elections, it is necessary to protect these potential supporters against antiIslamic racism. This has led to the mistaken conclusion that the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and, by extension, Israel and pro-Israel Jews, are the root of all the problems that threaten the world. A recent Belgian television program even mentioned, without any comment, the widespread medieval belief that Jews were responsible for spreading the plague. In an article entitled “Anti-Zionism = Anti-Semitism,” Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., wrote: . . . You declare, my friend, that you do not hate the Jews, you are merely ‘anti-Zionist.’ And I say . . . when people criticize Zionism, they mean Jews—this is God’s own truth. . . . Anti-Zionist is inherently antiSemitic, and ever will be so. Why is this? You know that Zionism is nothing less than the dream and ideal of the Jewish people returning to live in their own land. . . . Driven from their homeland, their nation in ashes, forced to wander the globe, the Jewish people time and again suffered the lash of whichever tyrant happened to rule over them. . . . Our brothers in Africa have begged, pleaded, requested—DEMANDED the recognition and realization of our inborn right to live in peace under our own sovereignty in our own country. How easy it should be, for anyone who holds dear this inalienable right of all mankind, to understand and support the right of the Jewish People to live in their ancient Land of Israel. . . . This is Zionism, nothing more, nothing less. And what is anti-Zionist? It is the denial to the Jewish people of a fundamental right that we justly claim for the people of Africa and freely accord all other nations of the Globe. . . . It is anti-Semitism. . . . The times have made it unpopular, in the West, to proclaim openly a hatred of the Jews. This being the case, the anti-Semite must constantly seek new forms and forums for his poison. How he must revel in the new masquerade! He does not hate the Jews, he is just ‘antiZionist’! . . . When people criticize Zionism, they mean Jews—make no mistake about it (King, 1967: 76).

In a recent interview on Belgian television, I was upset to hear the journalist asking me: “By the way, don’t you think Begin was also a terrorist?” My sharp reply and the question were finally dropped from the broadcast. One should understand the absurdity of this, since the context was a lecture that I was giving in my local syna-

      

285

gogue to Christian and Muslim primary-school pupils eager to learn how to build bridges between Judaism and Islam. That environment and those feelings lead to the conclusion that it is harder than ever to be a Jew in Belgium, in such a hostile environment, with the media issuing classic declarations of Jewish selfhatred, and that priorities have to be redefined and the meaning and consequences of a shared Jewish identity reconsidered. If possible, we have to try to initiate a dialogue between Jews and Muslims. The worst decision would be for Jews to go back to being silent, maintaining a low profile, and concealing their identity in order to protect themselves. Some Jews are fighting against this tendency. They no longer wish to disappear as Jews; instead they want to affirm their solidarity with and commitment to Israel and other Jewish communities. Others are giving up, waiting for better times. Some don’t believe that this new wave of antisemitism poses a danger. Most, however, are suffering in silence, worried about the future of the young generation and wondering whether Europe is really a safe place for Jews. Unfortunately, some Jews are reacting aggressively against other Jews whom they suspect to be too pro-Palestinian. They criticize the existing Jewish organizations or even found new organizations, and they openly introduce their divisions in the media, presenting a disastrous picture of the Jewish community in a time of crisis. But in such a crisis situation, the institutions have to be strengthened, not weakened. It is commonly thought in Belgium that the Jewish community’s status has deteriorated in the past few months. Jewish suspicions concerning our tenuous circumstances have been aroused by numerous events, ranging from muggings of Jews to offensive graffiti disgracing the walls of synagogues and other Jewish institutions and arson attempts against Jewish-owned buildings. For instance, when the Charleroi synagogue was hit by 18 bullets in April 2002, this was the fourth anti-Jewish attack in one month. It caused Prime Minister Guy Verhofstadt to promise he would beef up security around potential targets and to warn attackers not to export the violence from the Middle East to Belgium. At the same time, the police spoke of “unknown assailants” against a “deserted building.” They were “still looking for clues who was behind the attack,” according to a police official, who asked not to be identified. He said the assailants used

286

 

an automatic weapon fired from within a passing car. No one witnessed the event and the damage was discovered only when members of Charleroi’s small Jewish community arrived for a funeral two days later. Assailants previously also set fire to a Jewish bookshop in the capital, and police found three empty gasoline canisters on the destroyed premises. No one claimed responsibility. In March 2002, there was a similar attack on a Jewish travel agency. In early April 2002, a pro-Palestinian demonstration close to a Jewish neighborhood in northern Antwerp turned into a riot with protesters smashing shop windows (Associated Press, 4/2002). In its 2001 annual report, the Center for Equal Opportunity and Opposition to Racism, a federal institution in Belgium, had already written about this new wave of antisemitism and summed up some of these violations: In October 2000, during a pro-Palestinian demonstration, some people shouted antisemitic slogans; in June and July 2001, Jewish children were assaulted in Brussels and Antwerp; in September 2001, antisemitic remarks were written on suitcases from a Tel Aviv-Brussels flight; in December 2001, Chief Rabbi Guigui was assaulted while leaving a Brussels synagogue. . . . Unspeakable depictions [of the Jewish community in Belgium and the State of Israel] have also been observed in the newspapers, specifically in the “forum” and “opinion” columns in which anyone can present his opinion (Annual Report, 2002). These frightening occurrences have aroused Jewish suspicions concerning the Jews’ tenuous place in Belgian society. Whether or not the incidents should be considered alarming is a matter of opinion. Everyone would agree, however, that the Middle East conflict is the axis on which these developments spin. The fact is that there seems to be a systematic pro-Arab political attitude in Belgium. Finally, one has to concur with the following remarks by Robert Wistrich (1990): There has been an orchestrated campaign against the Jewish state, Zionism, and the Jewish people as a whole; a campaign whose impact constitutes a serious threat to our status in the world and ultimately to our very existence. This campaign has now acquired such a global dimension and resonance that I believe it can be compared to the threat posed to Jews by Nazism in the period of its upsurge—before it assumed governmental power; this in spite of the very considerable

      

287

differences in the status of the Jews and attitudes towards them in the non-Jewish world which existed then and now.

Jews are now feeling the dreadful impact of the inversion of traditional images of persecutors and victims on Western public opinion since 1967. Today they seem to be confronted by an antisemitism that springs to the defense of all victims of racial oppression except the Jews—the archetype of such victims—who are now transformed into perpetrators and prototypes of racism. In the past thirty years, anti-Zionism has gradually become an integral part of the cultural code of many leftist circles, including the Belgian Socialist Party and especially the Green Party. Zionism is considered an enemy comparable to and associated with imperialism, racism, and militarism. If the victims of the Holocaust have themselves become perpetrators of “genocide,” then the rest of the world has nothing to feel guilty about: the slate has been wiped clean. Even antisemitism becomes legitimate, provided it is cloaked in the appropriate antiracist terminology.

This page intentionally left blank

PART SIX

JEWISHNESS IN LATIN AMERICA

This page intentionally left blank

CHAPTER NINETEEN

ISRAEL IN JEWISH COMMUNAL LIFE—SOUTH AMERICA Yosef Goldstein Introduction In the course of the 1990s, a research trend to draw a connection between the centrality-of-Israel issue and quests for a new Zionism and a value-centric way to cope with “Post-Zionism” developed. This concept of Post-Zionism is rooted in Eliezer Schweid’s attempt in the 1980s to revive the negation-of-the-Diaspora outlook. Schweid’s point of departure is the claim that “Exile is a basic state of national weakness and a blurring of the self-portrait.” Therefore, “The Jewish people is in exile everywhere except in its own state.” In view of “national disintegration” processes in the Diaspora, the view of Israel as the focal point of Jewish identification should not be compromised. Furthermore, Schweid rejects the idea of resuscitating Ahad Ha"am’s “spiritual center” doctrine, noting that Diaspora Jews will always be more exposed to the surrounding culture. “There is no chance,” he states, “that Israel will serve as a spiritual center that can impede the assimilation process!” (Schweid, 1983: 7, 15–16). Such an approach, he maintains, ignores the importance of the centrality-of-Israel idea because it is a manifestation of ideological compromise (Schweid, 1996: 1–2). Yosef Gorny’s book, The Quest for National Identity, is another example from the 1990s of the promotion of ideological debate, founded on research, that led to involvement with the centrality-of-Israel issue. Gorny’s study, focusing on Jewish public thinking about national identity since the late 1980s, prompted the author to draw value conclusions that he labeled, “In Favor of Continual Zionist Revolution.” Gorny is convinced that the centrality of the State of Israel is an objective fact and that, in view of the onset of mass aliya (immigration to Israel) from the former Soviet Union, Israel will become “a center for the overall Jewish effort” in the next generation (Gorny,

292

 

1990: 325–342). He wishes to distinguish between Israel as a bureaucratic organization endowed with the normal characteristics of statehood and its role in perpetuating Jewish values and reinforcing national unity. He developed and presented this idea at a colloquium at the Ben-Gurion Heritage Center at Sede Boqer in October 1994. To tackle the crisis of Zionism, in Gorny’s opinion, innovative thinking and redefinition are needed. One of the fundamentals of the new national consciousness is “the transformation of the Hebrew Eretz Israel into the center of global Jewish life.” To maintain Klal Yisrael—the Jewish nation at large—it is necessary to adopt “an ethos of unity based on compromise between Ahad Ha"am’s theory of the center and Dubnow’s theory of centers.” In practical terms, this means the establishment of a “Zionist Jewish federation” made up of ethnoreligious centers that, although autonomous in status, are “linked to the national center in the State of Israel” on the basis of national reciprocity (Gorny, 1986). Beyond the various distinctions, there is no doubt that the centrality of Israel in Jewish life should be debated not only at the theoretical level but also in reference to specific test cases. South America Jewry is regarded as a Zionistic Diaspora that maintains a strong Israel connection. Is the centrality-of-Israel outlook dominant in South America? Is the differentiation between the two types of centrality relevant? Assuming that the 1950s are an appropriate benchmark decade due to several crucial events that occurred then, how have the attitudes toward this issue developed since that time? The 1950s In the 1950s, the world was politically bipolar and overshadowed by the Cold War. Jews also had to cope with the demographic losses of the Holocaust—with all their implications—and to seek historical compensation for their ghastly tragedy. This made it easier to impose a Jewish national outlook based on the centrality of Israel and to permit choice between political and spiritual centrality. In Israel, this centrality outlook, predicated on the views of Ben-Gurion, was dominant. Nahum Goldmann—the most conspicuous Diaspora Jewish leader, who frequently clashed with the Prime Minister of Israel— also adopted the view of Israel as the concrete center of Jewish life. The Diasporist outlook of the Moldava-born Zionist litterateur Hay-

    — 

293

yim Greenberg and of American Zionism, to give two examples, advocated greater consideration of Diaspora reality and needs; they espoused recognition of the Diaspora communities’ right to exist while admitting that such communities should be dependent on and guided by the center. In addition to the Zionist perspectives, there was a new approach that, while still pro-Israel, presupposed that Israel was not only a political haven for Jewish refugees or a destination for those wishing to emigrate but also a spiritual center that should fill Diaspora Jewry with national pride. The American Jewish Committee (AJC), for example, represented the rapprochement of originally anti-Zionist organizations with the spiritual-centrality concept, as manifested in the agreement between Ben-Gurion and Jacob Blaustein. This outlook clashed with the Ben-Gurionic version of centrality by depriving Israel of its status as representative of the entire Jewish people and as a political center that demanded the civil allegiance of world Jewry. However, since the Zionist Movement did not have an exclusive status in Israel (as in a Status Act), Western Jewish organizations were able to find unique ways of stressing the Israel connection. Furthermore, the Jewish Agency was heavily dependent on donations from non-Zionist actors in the U.S. for some 80 percent of its revenues—a circumstance that definitely affected the attitude of the Israeli political establishment toward the “periphery” (Stock, 1987; 1988: 16–34). In the 1950s, Argentinean Jewry and Brazilian Jewry were ethnic communities in their formative phase that were wrestling with the loss of main Jewish establishments in Eastern Europe and a suspicious, if not hostile, attitude toward them in their countries of residence. They lived under populistic regimes (of Vargas in Brazil and Perón in Argentina), struggled for basic rights, and had to withstand the pressure of powerful groups such as the Catholic Church and the army (Senkman, 2000). However, Jews in these countries were perceived as belonging to immigrant colonies that were legitimately entitled to maintain spiritual ties with their erstwhile homelands. (Such was Perón’s approach.) Therefore, the Jewish collectivities in both Argentina and Brazil managed to attain legitimacy as well as the freedom to organize and integrate into the society of the majority. The Jewish leadership radiated self-confidence and optimism about the future of its communities and began to emulate the example of U.S. Jewry. Relations with Israel as a “second homeland” or a haven for refugees reinforced the Jews’ self-confidence and identity. This

294

 

made the center a legitimate and useful source for the majority of Jews who did not intend to emigrate to Israel in the sense of “liquidating the periphery.” This decade may be defined as a period of transition from exile status to a Western Diaspora model. Both Argentina and Brazil had a rich and diverse Jewish press that, for the most part, expressed strong pro-Israel stances in various languages. These voices reflected not only the revolutionary passion of Israel’s early years but also an internal need to obtain historical compensation for what was defined as the “suffering of exile” and the trauma of the Holocaust (Goldstein, 1993). Although the Jewish press in Argentina articulated a variety of trends of thought in regard to Israel, all of them made it clear that the fledgling state had primacy in the Jewish world and was playing a meaningful and decisive historical role in the future of the Jewish people. Mainstream public thought considered Israel a “historical homeland,” “a front where the Jewish people’s war is being fought,” and “a refuge for Jewry at large” (Goldstein, 1997). Well-known liberal writers shared the revolutionary passion. For example, Bernardo Werbicki and Alberto Jarchunov, writing in Davar (the journal of the Hebraica club), described the 1948 war as “a miraculous and revolutionary event with universal implications,” “a victory of the spirit,” and an event that “restored the Jews’ favorable image” (quoted in ibidem, 309). Authors portrayed Israel as a source of revitalization of national pride, a factor that liberated world Jewry from the images of the perpetual victim or “miserable refugee,” and a center with the status of primacy relative to the inferiority of exile (La Luz, 19.8.1949; 14.4.1950). As important an intellectual as Maximo Yagupsky—representative of the American Jewish Committee and founder of the journal Comentario, which represents the Committee’s views in Argentina—wrote in 1953 about the “new harmony” between Israel and the Diaspora and the revival of the spiritual-center outlook of Ahad Ha"am, adopting the premise that the State of Israel had a higher status than the Diaspora (Yagupsky, 1953). All these viewpoints, however, moved clearly in the direction of “circumstantial centrality.” Most trends of thought shared an emphasis on the process of integration into local society and the importance of Israel in reinforcing Jewish life in the Diaspora. At day’s end, there was little evidence of the main axis of the material-centrality outlook, i.e., embracing aliya as a binding norm and viewing pessimistically the future of Jewish life in exile, standing out in pub-

    — 

295

lications by Jewish authors and intellectuals or in speeches of community leaders. Brazil also served as a laboratory for an experiment in Hebraizing the Jewish education system and imposing the Zionist fulfillment imperative on the basis of Israel’s material centrality. Efforts in 1951– 1953 to create a Zionist revolution by inviting a large number of education emissaries failed because it was associated with an attempt to impose material centrality on a negation-of-exile basis and disregarded the community leadership’s wish to adjust Zionist education to Brazilian realities (Goldstein, 1993). The debate surrounding this enterprise also reflected the tensions in public thought concerning the Zionist fulfillment issue and the centrality of Israel. Several Argentinean Yiddishist authors stood out in this controversy. One of them, Jacob Butoshanski, expressed his concern about the future of the Yiddish language and the image of the Diaspora by arguing against the Hebraization of the Jewish education system and advocating the reinforcement of local community life—but without denying Israel its centrality. Levin failed for several reasons, including the weakness of the schools, the lowly status of the local Zionist movement, and local leaders’ eagerness to take revenge against Levin and the Jewish Agency even after he left. In the long term, this failure resulted in a significant decline in the presence of emissary teachers from Israel. What is more, Hebrew never became as strong a language in Jewish schools in Brazil as it did in the education system in Argentina. The episode was a further indication of Israel’s relatively weak influence on community life in Brazil and of the adoption of a Western Diaspora model by the communal establishment and the local spiritual elite. The 1990s The main background developments during this decade were economic globalization and a blurring of national identities. In response to the United States’ attempt to impose a new world order, societies returned to their founding myths and basic religious principles—the sources of fundamentalism. Concurrently, relativist attitudes associated with Postmodernism came to the surface, cast doubt on the veracity of main value systems, and asserted that national narratives should be construed in relative terms. A coexistence developed

296

 

between a pro-multiculturalism that repudiated absolute truths and a fundamentalism that retreated from all achievements of modernity and preached uncompromising, intolerant confrontation among absolute truths. National outlooks of center vs. periphery are difficult to maintain in such a world. Brazil in the 1990s was a multicultural country that encouraged ethnic integration and even religious syncretism. The state advocated tolerance of minorities and was notably lacking in outward antisemitic tendencies. Furthermore, the Brazilian culture is progressive and respectful of innovations (Sorj, 1997). Brazilian Jews, approximately 110,000 in number, live among 160,000,000 non-Jews in a massive federative country; most reside in three states: Sao Paulo, Rio de Janeiro, and Rio Grande do Sul. Israel’s influence has been seriously enfeebled since the 1950s; the most visible indication of this is the weakness of Hebrew in community education systems. It is therefore no wonder that the community media express a Diasporist attitude toward Israel. Choosing the internal agenda as their highest priority, Israel plays the role of “big brother” or an object of solidarity but not a national center with everything such a status would imply. According to the President of the Jewish Federation of Sao Paulo State, Nathan Berger, Zionism today denotes fraternity and solidarity with Israel. “There’s no contradiction in being Brazilian, Jewish, and Zionist,” he says, but above all, “We are Jewish Brazilians” (Tribuna Judaica, 10/1998: 5). According to the president of WIZO in Sao Paulo, the main duties of the community leadership are to assure communal continuity, cope with Jewish poverty and the economic crisis, and develop Jewish education. The importance of “relations with Israel” trails behind all of these (Semana Judaica, 2/1999: 2; 3/1999: 9). All Jewish periodicals published in Brazil during the 1990s emphasized global Jewish culture and community life. They confined Israel to a regular column, page, or section and gave it prominent coverage only for special events such as the fiftieth anniversary of its independence. A significant example is the bimonthly journal of the Sephardi/Halabi community, Morasha, which first appeared in the early 1990s and has a special Israel section that features articles on history, tourism (towns, personalities), current events, etc. In Israel’s jubilee year, the country was depicted as a point of solidarity that should be “nurtured and strengthened personally,” and as an emblem of revitalization after years of “exile, persecution, and Holocaust in

    — 

297

the homeland of our forefathers, the Promised Land.” Its function today, the author concludes, is to help assure Jewish unity (Krausz, 1998: 34–35). In various recently published sociological studies on Jewish life in Brazil, Israel hardly ever plays a meaningful role or is portrayed in a critical light. Bernardo Sorj, for example, describes Brazilian Jewry as “a brittle [. . .] community that is totally exposed to colonization by ideological trends and institutions that come from Israel and the United States.” However, Sorj believes that the community has developed “an institutional system that is carrying on the traditions of valuing Jewish education, community solidarity, and support of the State of Israel” (Sorj, 1997: 22–23). The Brazilian sociologist Monica Grin investigated the Jewish Federation in Rio de Janeiro and defined the community as a “minimalist Diaspora,” which, after the Six-Day War, underwent “Zionization” and emphasized the centrality of Israel. By using this expression, however, Grin meant that Zionism serves as a source of internal unity and a way to motivate Jews to serve community goals, beyond expressing solidarity with Israel (Grin, 1997). Thus, in terms of public thought, the type of centrality that has taken shape among the intelligentsia and communal leadership in Brazil is circumstantial and subordinate to the needs of local community institutions. Argentina in the 1990s was a riven country that struggled for its political and economic image. There were fewer than 200,000 actively affiliated Jews there—85 percent of whom lived in and around Buenos Aires—amidst a population of 36,000,000. Antisemitism, as reflected (among other things) in the terror attacks against the Israeli Embassy in 1992 and the central community institutions building in July 1994, permeates the Jewish public discourse like background static. Military and police officials collaborated with the planners of the attacks, and the media allude to Jews as legitimate targets for attack in view of the Middle East conflict, while describing non-Jewish victims as “innocent and blameless.” Even so, instead of strongly emphasizing the material centrality of Israel, the Jewish media—the Jewish press in Yiddish and Hebrew has long since vanished—articulate a Diasporist approach and define Israel as a source of pride and confidence alongside, not instead of, the legitimacy of the Diaspora. This approach, expressed in the monthly journal La Luz and the Zionist biweekly Nueva Sion, reflects the Jews’ effort to integrate into Argentinean

298

 

society and to resort to Israel as a source of spiritual inspiration and existential confidence. Although the expression “centrality of Israel” is still commonly used by many representatives of the community, it is but one component of the local Jewish identity, invoked in tandem with emphasis on the importance of the continuity of the Diaspora. In April 1994, for example, La Luz defined current IsraelDiaspora relations as largely materialistic; the Zionist idea, it stated, had become marginalized. Israel was a strong country and did not depend on the Diaspora. However, “The Diaspora depends for inspiration and strength on a continual set of exchanges with Israel.” In sum, La Luz (April 1994) advocates the celebration of Israel’s independence “as a national event of vital importance.” Aliya is a material goal of Zionism but not the exclusive goal. Furthermore, Nueva Sion stressed the view that “Being Jewish doesn’t mean being a citizen of Israel; Jewishness is a historical and cultural identity that does not require an affiliation with any particular state entity.” The journal expressed this opinion after the terror attack at the central community institutions building in July 1994, in view of President Menem’s condolence message to Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin about the Jewish (“Israelite”) fatalities in the attack and in view of antisemitic remarks suggesting that Jews were foreign citizens. Thus, Nueva Sion concluded, Argentinean Jewry should establish healthier relations with its Argentinean surroundings, above and beyond its relations of solidarity with Israel (Aroskind, 1994: 6). Jewish public thought in Argentina in the 1990s is reflected in the writings of prominent intellectuals who frequently spoke out on issues of Jewish identity, pluralism, and attitudes toward Israel. Raíces (“Roots,” published by AMIA, the Jewish community of Buenos Aires), a high-quality cultural journal, began to appear again in 1991 after a break of nearly twenty years. The first edition had a pretentious aim: to tackle the question of cultural pluralism and the Jews’ integration into the realities of Argentinean national life. As a prestigious forum, for about three years it managed to lure the finest Jewish authors, journalists, and scientists in Argentina. Therefore, it comes as no surprise that Raíces also took up the centrality-of-Israel issue, although neither at length nor as an important focus of attention. For example, the author Marcus Aguinis, interviewed in the first edition, revealed his Zionist origins and described the tremendous impact the establishment of the State of Israel had had on his identity as a Jew searching for a qualitative change in his Jewishness

    — 

299

and seeking to extricate himself from the category of people without a homeland (Aguinis, 1991: 8–9). However, he became a well-known physician and author and even held high-ranking office—Secretary of Culture—in President Alfonsín’s administration after the restoration of democracy in 1983. Aguinis’ Zionist comments aside, the main theme in the interviews with Jews in Raíces is the advocacy of pluralism and social integration of Jews in Argentina. However, another example is an article that relates the impressions of the author Isidoro Blaustein (1991) from his visit to Israel. The visit is portrayed as a “Roots”-type journey of an Argentinean intellectual who was pleased to find familiar indicators of Jewishness in Israel, as derived from nostalgic admiration of colorful personalities such as a rabbi in a Jerusalem yeshiva and a kibbutznik of Argentinean origin. Alongside articles about Argentinean literature, psychoanalysis, the Holocaust, the expulsion of the Jews from Spain, and Jewish tourism around the world, Raíces presents writings about Israel, explaining that Israel is developing an interesting culture and that the main motifs in modern Hebrew literature are also worth studying (Raices, no. 6, 1993). Issue no. 7 (Winter 1993) devotes much attention to Postmodernism and its implications for Jewish identity and communal life; in this edition, Israel plays a very marginal role relative to Jewish poverty in Latin America and the need to restructure the Jewish community there. In this context, Israel is treated in the abstract, as a non-obligatory “target for solidarity” (Bernardo Kliksberg) or a transcendent thesis in which Zionism denotes the restoration of Diaspora consciousness in the Jewish identity as a symbol of discomfort and a sense of guilt and nostalgia. Diaspora/exile means “living with eyes focused on Jerusalem as the last remnant of Zionism that we still retain” ( Jaime Barylko) (Kliksberg, B., pp. 12–14, Barylko, J., pp. 19–21 in Raices no. 7, 1993). The strongest message in terms of the crystallization of Jewish public thought, beyond any doubt, is Manuel Tenenbaum’s (1993) assertion: “I believe, I truly believe in fate, I truly believe in the future of the Jewish people and of the great Argentinean Jewish community.” The terror attack on the central community institutions building on July 18, 1994, plunged the community into profound shock and stimulated pointed soul-searching that helped to clarify basic issues in Jewish life in Argentina. In early 1995, Raíces published a special edition that reflects the implications of the attack on public thought

300

 

and prominent intellectuals’ attitudes toward Israel. The key question, asked by the journalist P. Eliaschev, was “How can one be a Jew in Argentina today, after July 18?” (Eliaschev, 1995). The vehement criticism of Argentinean society for its forgiving attitude toward serious crimes and failure to punish the perpetrators of the attack on the Israeli Embassy in March 1992 overshadows every critical reflection about the importation of the Middle East conflict. The Jewish intellectual elite was dismayed about Argentinean Jewry’s retreat to victim status. Authors such as Marcus Aguinis refused to obscure the antisemitic nature of the attack, which he defined as “a direct offensive against the Jews” in the vein of the Nazis’ Final Solution. From his standpoint, the attack was also an attempt to express the intention to destroy not only the Jews but also the State of Israel, “the Jews’ most salient collective creation in the twentieth century” (Aguinis, 1991: 18). In the same issue, Raíces published a survey it had conducted among prominent Jewish intellectuals and journalists that included questions about aspects of Jewish identity in the community and the degree of correspondence between full Jewish identity and social integration in Argentina. Asked about Israel’s role in their Jewish identity, the common denominator of the replies was an emphasis on the need to identify with the State of Israel. In the opinion of Jose Kastelman, a Zionist activist and managing editor of the newspaper Mundo Israelita, this identification denoted encouragement of Jewish education with Zionist content and support for Zionist pioneering youth movements. However, he added, “Strong identification with Jewish values will make it easier to integrate into Argentinean society without risking assimilation.” Rabbi Philippe Yaffe, a Conservative rabbi who headed Congregation Beit Hillel in Buenos Aires, dismissed the context of the question for suggesting a problem of dual loyalty and justified the existence of an important component of identification with Israel without injury to the Jews’ social integration in Argentina. Although life in Israel, in his opinion, is a legitimate option for those who choose it personally, the proper intention at the national and community level is to strengthen communal life and institutions (Aguinis, 1991: 41–48). Did Zionist intellectual circles adopt an outlook of material centrality? Back in the 1980s, the psychiatrist Janan Nudel took up the question of the Diaspora and its attitude toward Israel from a Zionist point of view. His book, El Espacio Comunitario (The community space),

    — 

301

published in 1985 and reprinted in 1989, is an exceptional work due to the passion of its analysis of basic problems in Argentinean Jewish life (Nudel, 1989). In his discussion of “The Main Problem of the Diaspora,” Nudel expresses his confidence that “Israel is the final destination of the Jewish people” and claims that the exile is over and that every Jew is free to decide where to live. Now that the illusion of exile has expired, each Jewish community may choose the structure best suited to the way it wishes to exist. Accordingly, a Jew may live in the Diaspora without suffering pangs of conscience or internal tension. To do so, however, he or she must recognize Israel as the source of national redemption and the Jews’ final destination. This approach undoubtedly reflects material centrality. For Nudel, the existence of Israel ensures the safety of Jews everywhere, and this, in turn, not only denotes the end of the exile but also gives Jews a source of identity. For this reason, spiritual Zionism became the most widespread way of expressing solidarity with Israel. Expressions of solidarity, however, do not suffice to ensure communal continuity. Nudel criticizes Israel’s attitude of placid acquiescence in the forfeiture of the value of aliya or personal fulfillment as a main axis in Zionism. The Diaspora Jewish establishments, he claims, obtained this concession by promising to support any Israeli government elected to office. Nudel’s great concern is that Israel will slowly become “another Diaspora,” as normalization becomes total and messianic outlooks that emphasize the value of land over the value of man take over. The goal of Zionism, Nudel states, is national liberation in the sense of “touching the new,” i.e., the future. Only by projecting such a message may Zionism offer a fruitful alternative to Jewish life in the Diaspora. His personal conclusion is that only one Zionism exists, the kind that is fulfilled in Israel. This conclusion, however, does not obviate the need to organize vibrant community life in the Diaspora. Janan Nudel’s outlook reflects the ideological vacillations that have surfaced in the Seminars for Zionist Thought that have taken place in various locations worldwide since the 1980s and have done much to probe basic issues in Jewish public thought. These seminars, organized by the Students and Academics Department of the World Zionist Organization, served in Latin America as a forum for independent thinkers whose reflections were published in the journal Controversia. The editor of this periodical, Daniel Colodenco, stressed the need for a pluralistic approach and a struggle against all forms of

302

 

fundamentalism, including that of the Jew who assassinated Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin. Colodenco’s basic premise is that since the Jewish world is changing, so must Zionism renew itself (Colodenco, 1996: 3–4). A significant example of this trend of thought is a lecture by the Argentinean philosopher Ricardo Forster on “Exile: The Struggle against Amnesia,” given at the Second Pan-American Convention of Seminars for Zionist Thought, held in Rio de Janeiro in June 1995. Forster’s main argument is that since the Holocaust and the establishment of the State of Israel, the Diaspora has been devoid of content and meaning, mired in amnesia, and fragmented in its identity. Its entire essence depends on its relations with Israel and is subordinate to Israel’s needs. Israel’s national interests have moved to the center of the Jewish stage; most Jews have lost the “value of the book and the homeland of the written letter.” Zionism, too, has ceased to be a Utopian dream or a messianic hope and has fallen captive to Israeli Realpolitik. In conclusion, Forster states that once the Middle East peace process makes progress, Diaspora Jewry will be able to reclaim its spiritual wealth and discover new ways of coping with Jewish identity. The rehabilitation of memory denotes the restoration of the universal Diasporic dimension of Jewishness. Indeed, this conclusion does not clash with the circumstantialcentrality-of-Israel outlook, but it collides severely with Janan Nudel’s premises (Forster, 1996). Tiptoeing down the in-between path of intellectual compromise was the hallmark of the Jewish cultural elite in Argentina at that time. An editorial in Nueva Sion in 1997, following an ideological encounter among representatives of several outlying communities, provides a fine illustration of this tendency. The gist of the viewpoint that was adopted also encapsulates the compromise between the two types of Israel-centrality: “Jewish continuity is everyone’s responsibility, and the centrality of Israel is the main axis of contemporary Jewish identity” (Nueva Sion, 1997: 27). The foregoing survey of trends in public thought leads us to several conclusions. First, in terms of the types of Israel-centrality, there is a salient tendency to adopt a policy of circumstantial-spiritual centrality that plays a functional role in the needs of communal life in the states and towns of both Argentina and Brazil. In both countries, the trend among the cultural elites—the groups that determine the main set of values and the nature of public thought—accepts the need to identify with Israel and is willing to assent to a vague

    — 

303

idea of centrality. However, we did not find significant expressions of material centrality, with the exception of Janan Nudel’s observations; instead, we encountered various complexions of spiritual-circumstantial centrality. This was especially evident in Argentina, where susceptibility to a relatively strong antisemitic presence was manifested in two terror attacks, on the Israeli Embassy and at the building that housed central institutions of the Jewish community, and in an upturn in antisemitic incidents toward the late 1990s.1 Argentinean Jewry in the second half of the twentieth century is “neither here nor there,” lodged between existential distress and freedom to shape its future independently. However, the messages it broadcasts are ambivalent and inconsistent; they point to confusion and instability in communal life. Notwithstanding globalization and the decline of ideologies, the cultural elite in Argentina is still seriously engaged in Zionist thought and, in comparison with the 1950s, the quest for a special brand of Zionism that stations Israel in the center has not ended. It is apparent, however, that most thinkers do not immerse themselves in the issue and prefer to explore the question of their identity in a particularistic ethnic Diaspora that exists in a Postmodern, pluralistic world. In Argentina, the transition to the Western Diaspora model was largely a failure for both political and economic reasons. The intensity of antisemitism has not waned since the late 1950s, and economic instability in the 1990s ruined the harvest of the successful 1983 democratization. In Brazil, the changeover has been successful; Jewish life there is organized in patterns that more closely resemble the “Diasporist” or Western models. Accordingly, the community discourse treats Zionist ideology and the centrality of Israel as marginal issues or hardly addresses itself to them at all. The foregoing comparative study of images of Israel among Argentinean and Brazilian Jews reveals not only the decline of revolutionary fervor in regard to Israel but also the proliferation of voices that favor the reinforcement of communal life coupled with advocacy of local Jewish continuity. The indicators of the profound crisis that buffeted Argentina in the 1990s worsened in 1998 when two 1 In regard to antisemitism in Argentina in the late 1990s, see Braylan, M., Feierstein, D., Galante, M., and Jmelnizky, A., Report on Anti-Semitism in Argentina 1998, DAIA: Buenos Aires, 2000. See also report for 1999 by the same authors, Indice-Revista de Ciencias Sociales, n. 21 (2001), pp. 131–168.

304

 

Jewish-owned banks that had been very intensively involved in the community closed their doors. An Argentinean Jewish journalist, Diego Melamed, defined this trend as “the Menemization of communal life,” i.e., the insinuation of privatization trends and the infection of communal establishments and main organizations with historical amnesia, in the spirit of the policies of President Carlos Menem (Melamed, 2000: 13–15; 83–150). However, the collapse of the middle class and the upturn in Jewish poverty do not necessarily reinforce the material-centrality outlook, since most Jews who left Argentina in 2001 chose the United States or Europe, and not Israel, as their destination. Israel’s presence and influence in the various communal systems have been waning perceptibly since the 1950s. Today, in addition to the normalization of its own internal life, Israel projects onto Diaspora Jewry the image of a beleaguered country with severe security problems and a profound economic crisis. Consequently, it is no wonder that American Jewry has become more attractive and the form of communal organization in the country to the north is not only a focal point of this attraction but also a model for emulation. The Jews of Argentina, like those of Brazil, do not think and act en bloc; what is more, they are susceptible to many influences in a multicultural world. The communal establishments, too, do not consider themselves peripheral to the Israeli center. In view of the bankruptcy of Argentina’s economic and political systems, it would be more accurate to evoke the image of an isolated, floundering Jewish collectivity that shows signs of grave structural distress. As a result, the community is increasingly dependent on outside actors but is also developing a powerful general inclination to emigrate. From this standpoint, Brazil, which also underwent economic crises during the 1990s and experienced the phenomenon of Jewish poverty, albeit on a rather small scale, is very different from Argentina. Brazilian Jewry long since abandoned the view of Israel as a center and has consolidated itself with growing intensity as an ethnic Diaspora community with weak national indicators. Argentinean Jewry, in contrast, has severe structural problems and cannot make communal decisions freely. Consequently, the images closest to the concept of centrality of Israel are still widespread, although the type of centrality they reflect is not a material one but that of a symbolic cultural anchor. The concepts of “center” and “periphery” have crumbled badly even from the perspective of Brazilian and Argentinean Jewry. The

    — 

305

Jewish world today is not cut of one cloth and the Israel-Diaspora dialogue needs a different lingua franca, one based on a revision in thinking. The dialogue with South American Jewry also requires a more sophisticated language, one not based solely on anachronistic concepts culled from the distant past, such as aliya as the one and only truth. Today, in the early 2000s, there is no need to revive “catastrophic Zionism” and to describe Argentinean Jewry as “a Diaspora community in severe physical distress.” Let us bear in mind that even today antisemitism in Argentina is not governmental and does not threaten Argentinean Jews’ physical existence. In the final analysis, in the twenty-first century the periphery can easily integrate into the center and geographical borders have become blurred. Indeed, Jewish existence will continue to depend on the development of a set of values and main symbols, and on the cementing of relations on the basis of direct communication. Zionism and Israel will have to give increasing thought to the voluntary elements of communal life around the world and less thought to linear processes such as demographic trends—birth and death rates, immigration and emigration patterns, the “map” of the Diaspora.

CHAPTER TWENTY

ISRAEL AND ARGENTINE JEWS: COMPLEMENTARY OR CONFLICTING? Raanan Rein Introduction The recent economic crisis in Argentina has had a devastating effect on the country’s middle classes. The Jews of this South American republic, most of whom have always belonged to these classes, have been hard hit. For the first time in the history of this important community, its leadership has had to confront the phenomenon of widespread Jewish poverty.1 Jewish organizations the world over were alarmed by the news of the grim situation. Relief efforts, however, have shown that Israel and the Diaspora have different priorities. While Israel has limited its efforts to encouraging mass immigration and offering generous help to those willing to participate in it, the American Joint Jewish Distribution Committee has focused on providing relief to the estimated 200,000–230,000 Jews who remain in Argentina. Prime Minister Ariel Sharon tried to convince American Jews to finance these Jews’ emigration to Israel: “The Jewish community in Argentina wants to immigrate to Israel, but it is [economically] hard for them . . . [ T]hey need our help and they need your help . . . Help us to save this community and bring them to Israel.” Michael Schneider, Executive Vice President of the JDC, put forth a different perspective: “We must step up aliya [ Jewish immigration to Israel] but we must also try to do the maximum to preserve the community as a community. We don’t want to see a complete meltdown of this once populous and very vital society.”2 Several American philanthropists criticized Israel for trying to take advantage of Argentinean Jews’ distress in order to encourage aliya. 1 On the history of Argentine Jewry, see, i.a., Avni, 1972; 1973, 1991; Mirelman, 1990; and Weisbrot, 1979. 2 Both quotes are from Kessler, E. J., “Argentina Relief Efforts Pit Israel and Diaspora in Rift Over Priorities,” Forward, Feb. 15, 2002.

   

307

They emphasized that the situation in Argentina was critical and therefore money should be raised for relief and distributed among all needy Jews, not just those considering emigration to Israel. “The immediate and primary goal is not to help them immigrate to Israel but to save them from starvation” (Ha"aretz, Feb. 13, 2002). Other Argentinean and American Jewish leaders thought it irresponsible to bring Jews to Israel during a period of such violence there or to tempt them to settle in the occupied territories (Ha"aretz, March 17, 2002). All reports agreed that the situation in Argentina was dire. A growing number of middle-class Jews were forced to seek food in soup kitchens. Evictions from housing were increasing, medical supplies scarce. Community institutions and schools faced the danger of collapse.3 Several Israelis also expressed criticism. In the opinion of Ha"aretz correspondent Yair Sheleg, Israel and Israeli society, which have never rejected financial assistance from Argentinean Jews (including those who did not choose aliya) in times of need, should not tie their assistance to Argentinean Jewry to the question of aliya now. “Even those who do not plan to immigrate have the right to expect Israel, which sees itself as the leader of the Jewish people, to lead the campaign to help a Jewish community in distress” (Ha"aretz, Dec. 12, 2001). Admittedly, this conflict, pitting one camp that validates Jewish life in the Diaspora against another that views aliya as history’s solution to Jewish distress, is not a new one but a historical clash. However, it raises some questions about possible conflicts of interests between the Jewish state and an Argentinean Jewish community that, throughout the twentieth century, has had a very strong Zionist core and supported Israel since its establishment in 1948. In informal talks, some Argentinean Jews speak of Israel’s “betrayal” and its instrumental attitude toward the Diaspora. “They always came to ask for our support, and now that we need their assistance they condition it on our immigration,” one intellectual in Buenos Aires told me.

3 See Gentile, Laura, “Un 20 percent de los judíos argentinos vive bajo la línea de pobreza,” Clarín, March 11, 2002. Of various reports about Jewish poverty and economic difficulties in Argentina, the most comprehensive was the one published in various versions by Dr. Bernardo Kliksberg of the Inter-American Bank of Development and presented in several talks he gave in Israel in 2001.

308

 

Although Israel has defined itself as a Jewish state from its first day of independence and declared its commitment to defending the interests of all Jews, the interests of Israeli foreign policy have not always been congruent with those of local Jewish communities. The dynamics at each of these levels were different. Moshe Sharett, the first Foreign Minister of Israel, met Argentinean President Juan Domingo Perón in 1953 and expressed his satisfaction about “the existence of a triangular harmony: between the Argentinean government and its Jewish citizens; between Argentinean Jews and Israel; and between the Argentinean government and its Israeli counterpart.” In practice, however, the situation naturally was more complex.4 Since the 1940s, we may distinguish four major historical junctures at which the interests of Israel and those of the traditionally Zionist Argentinean Jewish community were not necessarily complementary: during the regime of the populist president Juan Perón (1946–1955); after the kidnapping of Nazi war criminal Adolf Eichmann from Argentina by agents of the Mossad in May 1960; in 1976–1983, when a brutal military dictatorship ruled the country; and following the recent economic crisis, which was accelerated by the political turmoil of December 2001 and the popular revolt that ousted President Fernando de la Rúa. This chapter deals briefly with the first two.5 Jewish Distrust of Perón Recent scholarship has demonstrated that while President Perón managed to cultivate close relations with Israel, he failed in his attempt to mobilize significant support in the Argentinean Jewish community. The Jews of Argentina remained hostile to Perón, despite his many efforts to ingratiate himself with the community, e.g., by setting up a Peronist Jewish organization called Organización Israelita Argentina (Argentinean Jewish Organization—OIA). In the aftermath

4 Documents on the Foreign Policy of Israel, Vol. 8 (1953), Jerusalem: Israel State Archives (hereinafter: ISA), p. 248. On the Jewish aspect of Israel’s foreign policy and the intrinsic tension between the definition of Israel as a Jewish state and its role in the international arena as a state like any other, which wishes to promote and safeguard specific interests, see Eytan, 1958: 172–181; Brecher, 1972: 233–244; and Sandler, 1987: 115–122. 5 This article is based on my forthcoming book, Argentina, Israel, and the Jews, Bethesda, MD: University Press of Maryland, 2002.

   

309

of World War II, as the extent of the Holocaust became clear, Argentinean Jews, who were mostly of Eastern and Central European origin, were understandably wary of a government that in some respects resembled the defeated Axis regimes. The support Perón had received from nationalist and antisemitic groups at the beginning of his career and the alliance he forged with the Catholic Church in the second half of the 1940s only reinforced their suspicions. The political (generally liberal or left-wing) and class (primarily middle-class) identity of many Jews disposed them to remain aloof from a regime that developed increasingly authoritarian tendencies and was, moreover, identified with benefits for the Argentinean working class. The fact that Perón gradually made the struggle against antisemitism an integral part of his policy did nothing to assuage their fears and distrust. Although Perón gradually became a central figure in the military government that took power in June 1943, it was only from October 1945 on that he came to be associated with antisemitic nationalism. In the political crisis that raged during that month, Perón won the support not of only the working masses, who rallied behind the leader whom they believed to embody the promise of economic and social reform, but also of nationalist groups. These groups chanted slogans acclaiming the military politician (“Long Live Perón!”) in the same breath with antisemitic slogans (“Death to the Jews!”). Following the events of October 17—the day that the workers demonstrated below the presidential palace on the Plaza de Mayo, calling for Perón’s release from detention—nationalist supporters of Perón rioted in the Jewish neighborhoods of Buenos Aires. Jews were beaten, stones were thrown at the main synagogue downtown, additional Jewish institutions were targeted for attack, and slogans calling for the murder of Jews were scrawled on building walls. In the city of Córdoba, hooligans broke into the synagogue and desecrated the ritual articles. They also attacked the Jewish community building and destroyed equipment and property there. Nationalists demonstrated in the streets and terrorized Jews throughout the day, and in subsequent weeks there were further incidents of this kind, particularly involving the extreme right-wing group Alianza Libertadora Nacionalista.6

6

La Nación, Dec. 23, 1945.

310

 

The wave of antisemitism in October–November 1945 aroused concern among Jewish organizations in the United States. The American Jewish Year Book described the events in Argentina as having escalated to “pogrom proportions” and termed young Argentinean Jews’ organized efforts to repel the attacks of Perón’s nationalist supporters “the tragic parallel of the defense of the Warsaw ghetto.” The fact that Perón was running for president at the head of what was perceived as basically a Fascist movement was “all too reminiscent of Germany in the last days of the Weimar Republic.”7 In such a climate, it was no wonder that at the end of 1945 the American Jewish Committee, an umbrella organization of U.S. Jews, urged the U.S. State Department to take action to eradicate “Nazi antisemitism” in Argentina.8 In the presidential campaign of late 1945 and early 1946, the vociferous antisemitic minority among Perón’s supporters was heard more than once. The Labor Party, the central pillar of the Peronist coalition, firmly denounced antisemitic attacks in the federal capital. In mid-November, the party headquarters in La Plata, capital of Buenos Aires province, even urged working-class members of the party to defend with their lives, if necessary, any Jews who might be attacked by these Nazi-Fascist gangs, and not to allow demonstrations of hostility toward them under any circumstances; in this way they would present, as a counterpoise to this deceptive incitement, the true ideas of the workers, which consisted in sympathy and affection for this people, unjustly persecuted through the entire world (quoted in Avni, 1985: 99).9 In an effort to refute the sweeping indictment of his camp as antisemitic, Colonel Perón published a statement in the daily La Epoca in late November, emphatically denouncing the attacks against Jews.10

7 American Jewish Year Book (hereinafter: AJYB) 48 (1946), p. 246; M. Yagupsky to Segal, Dec. 24, 1945, American Jewish Committee Files, YIVO, New York (hereinafter: AJC Files), Box 1. 8 Joseph Proskauer to James F. Byrnes and Spruille Braden, Nov. 28, 1945, AJC Files, Boxes 1 and 3. 9 On the party’s vigorous stand against antisemitism in 1945–1947, see author’s interview with Cipriano Reyes (Quilmes, Buenos Aires Province, Sept. 15, 1989). 10 La Prensa, Dec. 12, 1945; La Epoca, Nov. 29, 1945; Cabot to Secretary of State, Dec. 4, 1945, National Archives (College Park, MD.), Documents of the Department of State, Record Group 59 (hereinafter: NA), 835.00/12–445; and Potash, 1980, pp. 27–28.

   

311

Right-wing antisemitic propaganda indeed diminished during the last weeks of the presidential campaign.11 Jews were still not convinced, however, that the “Nazi-Fascist” Perón’s candidacy posed no dangers to Argentina and to their community. Perón censured the antisemitic actions but did not distance himself from the Alianza Libertadora Nacionalista. It is hardly surprising that so soon after the end of World War II Jews should be particularly sensitive about a leadership and movement that contained at least a few Fascist ingredients. Accordingly, most Argentinean Jews supported candidates of the opposition bloc, the Unión Democrática. Perón’s identification with the rising working class also tended to put Jews off, since most Jews belonged to the middle class. The rapid economic growth and great social mobility that characterized Argentina for a few decades allowed these Jews to climb the social ladder quickly and integrate into the urban middle class (Schmeltz and DellaPergola, 1974; Elkin, 1998; Horowitz, 1962). The large proportion of Jews among Argentinean intellectuals and students, sectors that in general opposed Perón, also helps explain the Jewish voting pattern. The elections, held on February 24, were considered the fairest held in Argentina to that time. As the results trickled in and the charismatic colonel’s victory seemed imminent, Perón’s supporters began to celebrate. There were few Jews among them. The antisemitic campaign wound down after the elections, although, at least during the first months of Perón’s presidency, it did not end completely.12 However, if the Jews feared that antisemitic members of the Alianza Libertadora Nacionalista would be given positions in the new Peronist administration, they were wrong. Not only were the nationalists left out, but within a few months a clear rift had appeared between Perón and these groups (Walter, 1993: 99–118). Jewish organizations in the U.S. continued to observe events in Argentina with deep concern. Their fears were understandable given Argentina’s neutrality during World War II—a policy that many consider to have tilted in favor of the Axis powers—and their own guilt feelings about not having done enough to save European Jewry 11 American Embassy in Buenos Aires to State Dept., Aug. 29, 1946, NA, 735.00/ 9–162, 835.00/8–2946. 12 See various sources such as AJYB 49 (1947–1948): 267–268; La Prensa, 21 April 1947; Memo, 13 March 1947, NA 835.00/3–1347.

312

 

from its tragic fate. Determined not to let antisemitism sink roots in the Americas, Jewish leaders kept Argentina under a magnifying glass and immediately protested every antisemitic incident, real or imagined. Perón was well aware that many observers at home and abroad considered his relations with Jews in his country an acid test of the character of his regime. Therefore, he did his best to be friendly with the Jewish community. In the second half of the 1940s, the Jews of Argentina and their organized leadership became concerned about the growing influence of the Catholic Church and the resulting institution of compulsory religious instruction in public schools. An additional major concern for Argentinean Jews during this period was their effort to secure entrance visas to Argentina for survivors of the Holocaust. When Perón took office in mid-1946, the director of the Immigration Department, Santiago Peralta, was busy making speeches against the immigration of such survivors. Peralta, appointed to his position in November 1945, toward the end of the military regime, explained that his policy was dictated not by antisemitism but by consideration of Argentina’s needs and how different immigrant groups were likely to fare in the Argentinean melting pot. Thus, under Peralta, immigration policy continued to display essentially the same hostility to Jews and insensitivity to the tragedy of the Holocaust that had been conspicuous throughout World War II.13 Despite protests at home and abroad over Peralta’s antisemitic policy, Perón seemed in no haste to fire him—perhaps because ideas about the ethnically based selection of immigrants were so widespread in Argentina during the 1930s and 1940s. After World War II, the Argentinean authorities hoped to attract a new wave of immigrants to the Republic, renewing the flow that had been cut off in the 1930s by the Depression, the Spanish Civil War, and World War II. However, the gates to Argentina were no longer open to everyone as they had been in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when the government had merely wanted to populate the country. Now national, religious, and occupational selection was the order of the day, with preference for immigrants from Spain and Italy (each of which was the “mother country” of a large immigrant

13

The most comprehensive study on this subject is Senkman, 1991.

   

313

community in Argentina)—Latins and Catholics whose social integration would be quick and easy—and engineers, technicians, and other skilled workers who could further the country’s modernization. The resignation of the antisemitic Peralta in mid-1947 did not bring about any real change in Argentina’s attitude toward Jewish immigrants. Those who may have pinned hopes on Peralta’s successors, Pablo Diana (1947–1949) and Colonel Enrique P. González (1949–1950), were quickly disillusioned. Diana’s team of advisors, hidden from the public eye, included Nazi collaborators such as Pierre Daye (who had been sentenced to death by a Belgian court in 1947 for collaborating with the Nazi occupation during the war) and Branco Benzon (formerly the Croatian Ambassador in Berlin and a friend of Hitler and Hermann Göring). One of the aims of this crew was to keep Jews from entering Argentina (Gurevitch, 1998: 53–61). Perón often complained that his political enemies had falsely labeled him an antisemite: “I have the impression that many in the [ Jewish] community who fought against us did so because they were led astray, as half of the Argentinean people was led astray, by the press, which spared no effort to slander us. . . . I intend to show by [my] actions that this is not true” (Mundo Israelita, Feb. 22, 1947). He was utterly uninterested in individuals’ beliefs and feelings, Perón stressed, as long as they contributed to the development and growth of the nation. In their speeches, Perón and his wife, Eva Duarte (Evita), always denounced antisemitism firmly. Perón depicted the Jews as a people better positioned than many to understand the significance of justicialism, since they had been the victims of oppression and injustice for so long. Evita, in turn, cited the Jewish people as an example of a national consciousness that had been preserved for two thousand years amidst unyielding struggle for a lost homeland.14 The Peróns’ hopes for a speedy change in the collective Jewish outlook were doomed to disappointment. In the congressional elections of March 1948 and the elections to the constitutional convention the following December, the OIA was unable to mobilize Jewish

14 See especially texts such as El pensamiento del Presidente Perón sobre el pueblo judío, Buenos Aires: DAIA, 1954, pp. 23, 27–29; Perón y el publo judío, Buenos Aires: DAIA, 1974, pp. 14–15; and Perón, Eva, Historia del peronismo, Buenos Aires: Freeland, 1987, p. 58.

314

 

electoral support for the Peronist party. In the November 1951 general elections, all Jewish candidates of the majority Peronist Party, including a leading personality in the OIA, Ezequiel Zabotinsky, were defeated, with the sole exception of David Diskin, a candidate for the national Congress. Concurrently, Jewish votes placed three Jewish representatives of the opposition Radical Party—Santiago L. Nudelman, Manuel Belnicoff, and Rodolfo Weidman—in the Congress. Close Relations with Israel In contrast to these turgid domestic relations, Argentina’s relations with Israel during the Perón period were excellent. This was reflected in various ways, including a series of declarations supporting Israel and Zionism, a trade accord in April 1950 (of great importance for Israel, which at the time was struggling with economic problems that entailed a regime of price controls and rationing), a series of reciprocal visits, and a cultural agreement. Analysis of the contemporary Hebrew press indicates that in contrast to the unidimensional image of Peronism embraced by Argentinean and U.S. Jews, Israel took a more complex view of the Argentinean regime and its charismatic ruler. Perón was well aware that his effort to enlist the support of Argentinean Jewry would require him to cultivate relations with Israel. Even more important, he believed that good relations with Israel would help improve Argentina’s relations with the U.S. Thus, both domestic political considerations and foreign-policy aims concerning Argentina’s international status and its image in Western public opinion prompted him to advertise his friendly attitude toward Israel frequently, from the time bilateral relations were established in May 1949 until his regime collapsed in September 1955. At the time the State of Israel was established, the crafters of its foreign policy had little reason to hope for close relations with Argentina, even though this country was home to the largest Jewish community in Latin America. The reason was the widely held view, in Argentina and elsewhere, of Perón’s regime as that of someone who had “a bad reputation as a Fascist who cultivated close ties with former Nazis” (Tsur, 1981: 43). However, in February 1949, once the results of the War of Independence were known and the State of Israel had become a fait accompli recognized by the U.S., Great Britain, France, and other countries in Europe and Latin America,

   

315

Argentina, too, hurried to extend de jure recognition to the new state (La Prensa, May 4, 1949; Tov, 1983: 77–102).15 On March 19, 1949, the Argentinean Jewish community held a public rally in honor of Perón and his wife, sponsored by the OIA and attended by various Jewish dignitaries. The speakers lauded Argentina’s recognition of the new Jewish state. In his own speech at the event, Perón extolled “the beginning of a new dawn for the people of Israel” and expressed hope for peace between Jews and Arabs in the Middle East (Mundo Israelita, March 19, 1949).16 In May of that year, when Israel was accepted as a member of the United Nations and was clearly enjoying increasing international legitimacy, Perón’s government established diplomatic relations with the new state. Perón even sent the Israeli president, Chaim Weizmann, a personal letter via Sujer Matrajt, a leading figure in the OIA (Baltiérrez, 1988). A short time later, Argentina became the first Latin American country to open a diplomatic legation in Tel Aviv.17 The regime made another gesture toward Israel when it appointed a Jew as its minister there: Pablo Manguel, an OIA official (La Prensa, 1/9/1949). Israel, for its part, appointed Yaacov Tsur, its representative in neighboring Uruguay, as its diplomatic minister in Buenos Aires. In the years that followed, Perón and his wife were at times personally involved in the conduct of relations with Israel and Manguel remained in direct contact with the presidential couple. During his ten years in office, Perón made many efforts to rid himself of the Nazi-Fascist label that had clung to him and his government. He did his best to eliminate any hint of antisemitism and strove to maintain good relations with Israel. His main goal, of course, was to curry favor with U.S. Jews. Perón had excessive faith in American Jews’ influence over the media, politicians, and organized labor, and hoped that they would use this influence to change the way the U.S. 15 See also Shertok to Bramuglia, Feb. 27, 1949; Archivo del Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores y Culto (hereinafter: AMREC), Buenos Aires, Israel 1949, Box 53, Exp. 8. 16 See also DAIA, Perón y el pueblo judío, p. 16; and Sebreli, 1973, p. 149. 17 Like other Catholic countries, Argentina sided with the Vatican on the internationalization of Jerusalem in order to protect the Christian holy places. See Argentine Embassy in Tel Aviv to MREC, Jan. 1950, AMREC, Departamento de Política, Israel 1950, Box 3, Exp. 1; Mallory to State Department, May 26, 1950, NA, 635.84A/5–2650.

316

 

public and Washington decision-makers viewed Argentina. Jewish and Israeli representatives—Yaacov Tsur being a conspicuous example—had an interest in fostering this belief, though it was also reinforced by Perón’s conversations with American diplomats.18 However, as we have seen, Argentinean Jews remained hostile to Perón for the most part. Yaacov Tsur wrote in one of his reports, “Although [Perón] is friendly to the Jews . . . he is unable to win their trust.”19 Under these circumstances, it became one of Perón’s highest priorities to improve relations with Israel, including economic relations. The good relations that Tsur prudently fostered with the Peronist authorities and the OIA from his first months in Argentina gave rise to a certain uneasiness among some leaders of the local Jewish community. On one occasion, a delegation of Jewish representatives visited his offices to scold him for agreeing to participate in an OIAsponsored assembly that Perón would attend and for suggesting that a forest be planted in Israel in the name of General José de San Martín. “One after the other, the heads of the community advised me not to get too close to Perón, to keep a distance from the person who to them embodied reaction and Fascism, and [explained that] however friendly to the Jewish community he might seem, there was no doubt that he was an antisemite.” Tsur responded to such arguments by saying: For me as the representative of a foreign country, General Perón is not the head of the Peronist Party, but the president of the country, to whom I owe respect, and it is not my affair to criticize what he does. Attending a party in Perón’s honor is not appearing in a Peronist act or even deciding between him and his political opponents, but showing respect for the man who heads the state in which the legation operates (Tsur, 13/.3/1950).

Perón’s sympathetic attitude to Israel was noted by several prominent Israelis who visited Buenos Aires in the first half of the 1950s, including Knesset Speaker Yosef Sprintzak, Labor Minister Golda Meir, and Foreign Minister Moshe Sharett. Even though the main purpose of their visit was to raise money for the United Jewish 18 Nufer to State Department, Feb. 5, 1953, NA, 611.35/2–553. See also Tsur’s remarks to the heads of the American Jewish Committee in Confidential Memo by E. Hevesi, Aug. 21, 1953, AJC Files, Box 3. 19 See details in Tsur, Credential No. 4, p. 43.

   

317

Appeal (UJA), all were welcomed with pomp and circumstance as guests of the state and shown every mark of respect. As noted, Argentina and Israel concluded their first economic accord in April 1950. The treaty was signed with full protocol and ceremony in the presence of all high officials of the regime and the heads of the OIA, and the event was broadcast live over the radio. At the ceremony, Perón made a speech extolling the countries’ friendly relations. Once again the Israeli representatives had cause for great satisfaction, a satisfaction that found expression in the Israeli press of the time.20 The magnitude of the accord—$10 million—was insignificant in terms of the totality of Argentinean foreign trade but was important to Israel. The agreement offered Israel generous terms, including a secret clause that gave Israel and the UJA many concessions for the purchase of goods in Argentina.21 Israel was in dire economic straits during those early years, its shortage of foreign currency so severe as to compromise its ability to import such necessities as wheat, flour, and fuel.22 In the period shortly following independence, with Israel still ruled by a provisional government, Britain ordered British Commonwealth ships not to dock in Israeli ports; major South African meat suppliers accordingly ceased their shipments to the former Palestine. Argentina sent Israel an initial and very important shipment of meat at precisely that time. The arrival of the heavily laden vessel, part of the Argentinean merchant fleet, marked the first of many vital meat shipments to Israel (Gitter, 1997: 148–149). The terms of payment in the accord were especially generous. Essentially, Israel was allowed to pay for 10 percent of its purchases in Argentinean pesos, i.e., money that the UJA raised in the local 20

Ha"aretz, March 5, March 20, April 20, and April 23–24, 1950; Ma"ariv, April 19, 1950; Davar, April 23, 1950; and Al Hamishmar, April 20 and 23, 1950; Hatzofeh, April 20, 1950, April 23, 1950; and Herut, April 20 and 23–24, 1950. 21 On the agreement, see Tsur to Tov, Jan. 13, 1950, ISA, 2571/9; AMREC, Departamento de Política, Israel—1950, Caja 3, Exp. 8; Ministerio de Finanzas de la Nación, Memoria anual—1950, Buenos Aires: Banco Central de la República Argentina, 1951, pp. 47–48. Ignacio Klich wrote the pioneering work on this subject; see Klich, 1995, pp. 177–205. 22 In the middle of 1950, Yaacov Tsur visited Israel to attend a meeting of diplomatic representatives and was struck by the contrast between the prosperity of Buenos Aires and the grim situation in Israel: “The whole country is living in poverty and want, littered with half-built houses and camps crowded with tents that would later be called ‘ma"abarot’ [transit camps]. Essential goods were lacking, and everything was rationed.” See Tsur, Credential No. 4, pp. 111–112.

318

 

Jewish community, and the rest in dollars. This allowed Israel both to save precious foreign currency and to buy Argentinean meat at prices below those on the world market, since the official exchange rate of the peso was much lower than the black-market rate (AJYB 53: 1952: 247–8). The term of the accord was eighteen months but it was extended several times, and on April 29, 1955, the countries concluded a new trade and payments agreement with similar terms. Analysis of the characteristics of Argentinean-Israeli trade indicates that the 1950 agreement increased bilateral trade. Argentinean exports to Israel soared, peaking in 1953. Israeli exports to Argentina, almost nonexistent in the years 1949–1950, also grew considerably, although the balance of trade was in Argentina’s favor until 1955. Argentina became Israel’s most important trading partner in Latin America, accounting for 60 percent or more of Israel’s imports from the continent in 1953–1954. When Perón was ousted in September 1955, many Argentinean Jews rejoiced but Israel had no reason to celebrate. Israel-Argentinean Relations in the Wake of the Eichmann Kidnapping The disparity between Israel’s interests and those of Argentinean Jews was also notable during the presidency (1958–1962) of Arturo Frondizi, leader of the centrist Radical Party, whose democratic credentials and sympathy for the Jewish minority were never in doubt. Both the Israeli Embassy in Buenos Aires and the leaders of the local Jewish community welcomed Frondizi’s victory. His early moves seemed to justify their satisfaction. The Jews of Argentina felt a growing sense of security and wellbeing, and relations between Jerusalem and Buenos Aires grew closer. During Frondizi’s presidency many Jews were appointed to senior positions in the administration. David Blejer served first as Deputy Minister of the Interior and subsequently as Minister of Labor and Social Welfare (Szuxterman et al. 1993: 186–188).23 Samuel Schmukler was appointed Executive Secretary of the President’s office. Luis 23 Blejer expressed to Ambassador Levavi a desire “to maintain close ties with [Israel].” The ambassador defined him as “the most influential Jew in the government here today.” See Levavi to Israel Foreign Ministry, Jan. 20, 1959, ISA, 3087/17.

   

319

Gutnizky was elected Governor of Misiones province and Zenón Goldstraj was one of the four Jewish deputies in the UCRI faction. Another Jewish deputy elected in Buenos Aires was Isaac Breyter, an engineer with conservative views who had previously served as secretary of the Central Zionist Council in Argentina. José Mazar Barnett was appointed president of the central bank, in which capacity he played the second most important role in Argentina’s international economic policy at the end of the 1950s.24 These were the highest positions Jews had ever held in Argentina. From the outside, the Jewish community seemed to have freed itself of political discrimination, to feel socially integrated, and to be living in Argentina by choice. Few Jews considered moving to Israel. “As for the Jews,” wrote Mordechai Avida, a secretary at the Israeli Embassy in Buenos Aires, after a meeting with Schmukler, “there has never been a period in the history of Argentina like this one, in which Jews have so much influence on the management of the state and so many Jews take an active part in executive political life.”25 Similarly, the historian Haim Avni noted, with the perspective afforded by time, that “as individuals Argentinean Jews felt [. . .], in 1958–1959, increasingly secure and socially and economically prosperous” (Avni, 1985: 133). This did not mean, of course, that antisemitic incidents were nonexistent during that time, since the election of a democratic government did not presuppose a tolerant, democratic society. The year 1959 was characterized by economic problems, sharp price increases, and a restrictive economic policy that hurt workers’ real wages and widened the gap between rich and poor. Accordingly, strikes, street demonstrations, and organized terror were commonplace that year. All this led to the declaration of a countrywide state of emergency that lasted for almost the entire period of Frondizi’s presidency. These circumstances were exploited by nationalist groups for purposes of antisemitic social and political demagogy. Jewish support for Frondizi’s government and the presence of several Jews in its upper echelons allowed the propagandists of the far Right—occasionally encouraged by Arab elements—to attack the regime as “a JewishMarxist conspiracy.”26 24 25 26

Yagupsky to Segal, Feb. 28 and May 9, 1958, AJC Files, Box 1. M. Avida to Foreign Ministry, Feb. 4, 1959, ISA 3087/18. See, for example, an antisemitic essay published under a pseudonym: Caupolicán,

320

 

Despite the antisemitic incidents in 1959–1960 and the early misgivings of the Israeli Ambassador, Arie Kubovy, about Frondizi’s anti-colonialist tendencies and erstwhile support for Egypt’s position on the question of nationalizing the Suez Canal, Argentina’s relations with the Jewish state during the first two years of Frondizi’s presidency grew ever stronger. This was reflected in a series of reciprocal visits by senior dignitaries of both countries. The Israeli Interior Minister, Israel Bar-Yehuda, for example, headed an Israeli delegation to the Radical president’s inauguration. The Israeli Minister of Industry and Trade, Pinhas Sapir, also visited Argentina and, hoping to boost bilateral trade relations, met with all of the economic brass (Ha"aretz, 15,17,20/4/1958). Prominent among Argentinean visitors to Israel in those months were the Speaker of the Chamber of Deputies, Dr. Federico Fernández Monjardín, and the acting Speaker of the Senate, Benjamín Guzmán, both as guests of the Knesset, and General Pedro Eugenio Aramburu, Argentina’s former interim president, who was warmly received as the man who had “restored democratic rule and freedom to his country and the people of his nation.”27 The visit that stood out the most at this time, however, was that of Golda Meir, now the Israeli Foreign Minister, in June 1959. In the course of her nine-day visit, which was widely covered by the Argentinean media, Meir met with President Frondizi and senior government officials and the two chambers of Congress held a festive joint session in her honor.28 Although in 1950–1960 Israel’s Gross Domestic Product grew at an average annual rate of at least 10 percent and per-capita GDP by at least 6.5 percent, the Israeli economy was still small and riddled with problems. Consequently, the new bilateral trade agreement, signed in Buenos Aires on March 31, 1958, by the Argentinean ministers of Foreign Affairs and the Economy for the Argentinean

El imperio del oro, Buenos Aires: 1961; Meinvielle, Julio, Los trés pueblos bíblicos en la lucha por la dominación del mundo, Buenos Aires: 1974, pp. 481–482. See also Sebreli, La cuestión judía, p. 250; La Luz, May 2, 1958; Segal to Friedman, AJC Files, 4 May 1959, Box 1; and Turkow’s report on the situation in Argentina, May 23, 1958, Central Zionist Archives (hereinafter: CZA), Jerusalem, Z6/1699. 27 See: “A Visitor from Friendly Argentina,” Ha"aretz, Aug. 11, 1959. See also Ha"aretz, March 25–27, 1959, March 29, 1959, April 2, 1959, Aug. 21, 1959, and April 15, 1960. 28 Ha"aretz, May 21–22 and 24, 1959; and AJYB 61 (1960): 185.

   

321

side, and by Ambassador Kubovy for the Israeli side, was greeted with great satisfaction as symbolizing a new pledge.29 In 1958, when Israel celebrated the tenth anniversary of its independence, President Frondizi sent Dr. Ignacio Palacios Hidalgo, former head of the Constituent Assembly, to attend the festivities as his personal representative. Several months later, Israelis embarked on a series of gestures in honor of the approaching sesquicentennial of the revolution (which began on May 25, 1810) that led to the independence of the Argentinean Republic some six years later. The Municipality of Jerusalem named a street after General José de San Martín, the hero of Argentinean independence, and a forest in his honor was planted on the hills of Jerusalem. A decision was made to send a large delegation of dignitaries to Buenos Aires for the anniversary celebrations that were scheduled to culminate on May 25, 1960. The delegation was headed by Abba Eban, then a minister without portfolio, and included Brigadier-General Meir Zorea and the governor of the Jerusalem District, Shmuel Yeshaiah (St. John, 1972: 365). On May 23, 1960, two days before the independence celebrations in Argentina reached their zenith and while the Israeli delegation was still in Buenos Aires, Ben-Gurion announced to the Knesset that Israeli security forces had captured one of the major Nazi criminals, Adolf Eichmann. The report made the front pages of the Buenos Aires papers. La Razón expressed admiration for the professional job done by the Israeli security services. Correo de la Tarde, in contrast, said that although it unquestionably opposed Nazism, if Eichmann had indeed been abducted in Argentina by Israeli agents, the violation of national sovereignty would have to be protested in some way. The Argentinean Foreign Minister, Diógenes Taboada, promptly requested an unequivocal statement from the Israeli Ambassador, Arye Levavi, as to whether Eichmann had indeed been arrested in Argentina. “If Eichmann was captured in Argentina, it is contrary to international norms and will compel Argentina, despite its good relations with Israel, to register a most serious protest, with unforeseeable

29 For the text of the agreement, see “Convenio Comercial y Financiero entre la República Argentina y el Estado de Israel,” AMREC, Israel—1958, Exp. 1; Memoria anual 1958, Buenos Aires: Banco Central de la República Argentina, 1959, pp. 145–146; Llairó, Monserrat, “Relaciones económicas y sociales ArgentinaIsrael de Perón a Frondizi,” unpublished paper, Buenos Aires, 1999.

322

 

consequences.”30 Levavi, in response, denied knowing in which country Eichmann had been arrested and whether Israeli citizens had been responsible for his capture. During the ensuing weeks, the governments exchanged a series of messages. Argentina rejected Israel’s apology for any possible violation of Argentinean law by “Jewish volunteers.” Buenos Aires demanded that Eichmann be returned and that those responsible for the infringement of Argentinean sovereignty be punished. President Frondizi, as he admitted after his overthrow in an interview with the historian Félix Luna (1963: 161), found himself trapped between opposing forces, “those who believed that Argentina should not press any claim, since it would mean defending a criminal like Eichmann, [versus] pressure from those who wanted to turn the problem into a means of persecuting Jews.” The president, who certainly could not be suspected of personal hostility toward Jews, did not want the antisemitic campaign that the nationalists—including nationalists in the Foreign Ministry—were trying to promote and sensed the shortsightedness of severing relations with Israel.31 Eventually Argentina followed through on its threat to turn the matter over to the United Nations. In the Security Council, the Argentineans had demanded a debate on the infringement of their sovereignty and a condemnation of Israel for kidnapping Eichmann in violation of the rules of international law and the UN’s goals as expressed in its charter and conferences. The Security Council duly met, condemned Israel, and ordered it to give Argentina “appropriate reparations.” It resolved that “acts such as that under consideration, which affect the sovereignty of a member State, and therefore cause international friction, may if repeated, endanger international peace and security.” The resolution that eventually passed included two amendments by the U.S. that the Argentineans accepted. The first stated that the Security Council was “[m]indful of the universal condemnation of the persecution of the Jews under the Nazis and of the concern of people in all countries that Eichmann be brought to appropriate justice for the crimes of which he is accused.”

30 Levavi to Foreign Ministry, June 2, 1960, in Documents on the Foreign Policy of Israel, 1960 (Hebrew), Jerusalem: ISA, 1997, Vol. 14, pp. 801–802. 31 Levavi’s testimony, Institute of Contemporary Jewry, Oral History Division, Hebrew University of Jerusalem (hereinafter: ICJ/OHD], p. 16.

   

323

The second expressed the hope that “the traditionally friendly relations between Argentina and Israel will be advanced.”32 The Security Council resolution was seen in Israel as a “moral victory.” Foreign Minister Meir thanked the U.S. for its stand in the debate, while Prime Minister Ben-Gurion, then on a tour of Western Europe, told a BBC reporter in The Hague that the most important aspect of the resolution for him was that it did not demand that Eichmann be returned to Argentina.33 Argentina made its most dramatic move on July 22, when it declared Israel’s Ambassador, Arye Levavi, persona non grata. Given the pressure being exerted on him from different directions, this diplomatic maneuver was the least Frondizi could do and also the most he was willing to do. In talks between a diplomat at the U.S. Embassy and the director-general and the legal advisor of the Argentinean Foreign Ministry on June 23 and 25, the two Argentinean officials explained that the Israeli Ambassador’s expulsion was enough of a gesture for Argentina and would guarantee a speedy conclusion to the crisis in bilateral relations.34 With that, the storm blew over.35 In early August, Israel sent Shabtai Rosenne, the Foreign Ministry’s legal advisor, to Buenos Aires at the request of the Argentinean Government.36 In friendly talks with his counterpart, Luis María de Pablo Pardo, Rosenne was told that the Government of Argentina had “reached the conclusion that the tension between the two states should be ended.” When Rosenne met with President Frondizi, who, like De Pablo Pardo, received him “cordially and even warmly,” the Argentinean president also stressed that they had “decided to wipe out the incident, and emphasized in particular economic motives connected with the development of the state. He already sensed a certain aloofness toward Argentina on the

32 U.S. Department of State, Bulletin, No. 1099 ( July 18, 1960), p. 116; and Lanús, Juan Archibaldo, De Chapultepec al Beagle—política exterior argentina, 1945–1980, Buenos Aires: Emece, 1984, pp. 378–381. 33 Weekly Report by American Embassy in Tel Aviv, June 30, 1960, NA, 784A.00(w)/6–3060. 34 Bernbaum to State Department, July 29, 1960, NA, 635.84A/7–2960. 35 Levavi’s testimony, ICJ/OHD, p. 18. 36 Barromi’s testimony, ICJ/OHD, pp. 7–8. See also Levavi’s cable to Israel Foreign Ministry, June 28, 1960, Documents, p. 823.

324

 

part of wealthy Jews around the world, and such an aloofness might disrupt his plans.”37 Consequently, Rosenne faced no real obstacles in drafting, in conjunction with Argentinean officials, a one-paragraph joint communiqué (only forty-nine words in the Hebrew version) that was published on August 3 simultaneously in Buenos Aires and Jerusalem. The communiqué included an official apology by Israel for actions by some of its citizens that violated the rights of the Argentinean state and a declaration that the incident was over and the diplomatic crisis was at an end.38 Several days later, the Argentinean Chamber of Deputies approved by a large majority a draft resolution expressing satisfaction over the settlement of the differences with Israel in the Eichmann affair.39 In Israel, the satisfaction was even greater. Foreign Minister Golda Meir praised the way Levavi and Rosenne had dealt with the problem of recalibrating relations between the two countries. Facing a Wave of Antisemitism Although Argentina’s relations with Israel returned relatively quickly to their normal course, this was not the case with the feelings and situation of Argentinean Jews, whose number at the time was estimated at more than 300,000 out of a population of about 21 million—less than 2 percent of the total population.40 Argentinean Jews’ sense of personal security was challenged at this time. The Argentinean 37 Documents, p. 838; and Reid to State Department, Aug. 2, 1960, NA, 635.84A/8–260; Memo of Consultation, Aug. 8, 1960, ISA 7293/23. 38 On Rosenne’s mission, see his report to Foreign Minister, Aug. 8, 1960, in Documents, pp. 832–840; and Ha"aretz, July 26–29 and 31, 1960, and Aug. 1, 3–4, and 25, 1960. For the reaction of the Argentinean press to the agreement, see Ha"aretz, Aug. 7, 1960; and La Nación, El Mundo, La Prensa, and Correo de la Tarde, Aug. 6, 1960; Weekly Report by American Embassy in Buenos Aires, Aug. 9, 1960, NA, 735.00(w)8–960; and Weekly Report by American Embassy in Tel Aviv, Aug. 4, 1960, NA, 784A.00(w)8–460. 39 Ha’aretz, Aug. 14, 1960. Only an editorial in the veteran La Prensa (Aug. 5, 1960) mentioned that the Israeli government had never admitted its full responsibility for Eichmann’s kidnapping, let alone the fact that it refused to return him and failed to give Argentina “appropriate reparations.” See Yagupsky to Segal, Aug. 5, 1960, AJC Files, Box 1. 40 Various Jewish publications of the time consistently gave higher figures. See, for example, AJYB 63 (1962): 474. For a pioneering study of the Jewish leadership in Argentina in that period, see Avni, H., 1995: 117–135.

   

325

Jewish community, just then marking its hundredth anniversary, had become the target of a wave of antisemitic terror and nationalist attacks that, among other things, did their best to cast doubt on Jewish citizens’ loyalty to the Argentinean Republic. On May 19, 1960, the Jews of Argentina enthusiastically greeted the Israeli delegation, headed by Abba Eban, that had just arrived for Argentina’s independence day celebrations.41 A week later, while the delegation was still in Buenos Aires, the leaders of the Jewish community were astonished to read in the evening paper La Razón that the Nazi criminal Adolf Eichmann had been captured in Argentina.42 Argentinean Jews had mixed feelings about the abduction—happiness and satisfaction that Eichmann had been caught, interlaced with severe anxiety about how the Argentinean Government and public opinion might react toward Israel and themselves. None of the Jewish organizations in Argentina took public exception to the kidnapping of Eichmann and some Jewish public figures—notably José Mazar Barnett, president of the Argentinean Central Bank, and Máximo Yagupsky of the Argentinean Jewish Institute—even helped resolve the crisis in relations between Israel and Argentina. Others urged friends in major political parties and the press to try to give the incident a positive spin by emphasizing the monstrosity of Eichmann’s crimes against humanity.43 These efforts were partly successful; some of Argentina’s leading newspapers, such as La Prensa, Crítica, and El Mundo, began to show a marked degree of understanding for Israel’s viewpoint and to criticize the government policy of the 1940s and 1950s that had allowed Nazi criminals to elude punishment for their deeds by taking refuge in Argentina.44 Other papers questioned the moral right of the

41

Eban, 1992, p. 313. Testimonies by Levavi, Barromi, and Lerner, ICJ/OHD; Goldfarb, Pedro, “The Eichmann Affair and the Argentine Jewish Community” (Hebrew), unpublished paper, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2000. 43 Testimony of Natan Lerner, ICJ/OHD, pp. 10, 21, and author’s interview with him (Herzliya, Israel, Aug. 22, 2000); Informe de actividades realizadas por el Consejo Directivo ( June 1961–July 1962), Buenos Aires: DAIA, 1962, p. 18; Confidential Memo, July 1, 1960, AJC Files, Box 1; and Cohen, Naomi, 1972: 547–548. 44 See Weisbrot, 1979: 248–249; La Prensa, June 16, 1960; El Mundo, June 17, 1960; La Razón, June 12, 1960; and The New York Times, June 19, 1960. After the crisis was resolved, congressional deputy Arturo Matov said that had Israel attempted to lay hands on Eichmann through legal channels, the Nazi criminal would have 42

326

 

Argentinean Ambassador to the UN, Mario Amadeo, to attack Israel for kidnapping Eichmann in view of Amadeo’s known pro-Axis sympathies during World War II. Nevertheless, certain Jewish community circles were definitely uncomfortable with the way Israel had carried out its operation. According to a representative of the American Jewish Committee in Buenos Aires, the community leaders verged on panic for several days after Eichmann’s capture was reported. They feared that the tension between Israel and Argentina would affect the local Jewish community: that there would be direct antisemitic attacks and Argentinean Jews would be accused of dual loyalty or greater loyalty to Israel than to their own country. At the height of the crisis, the Ha"aretz correspondent in Buenos Aires wrote forthrightly about a certain uneasiness: The public had the feeling of having been knifed in the back; on one hand festive appearances and demonstrations of friendship, on the other a violation of state sovereignty. In the Jewish street, they are saying that the Government of Israel showed a lack of understanding regarding a sensitive point in these [Latin American] countries. The wording of the Israeli communiqués and explanations did not seem in keeping with either the Jewish public’s status, which is closely linked to Israel’s position, or [Israel’s] friendly relationship with Argentina. The Argentineans, including the Jews among them, feel insulted by the snub to their country that, in their view, was implicit in the wording of that first announcement. Confusion shows also in the views of a man like Dr. [Gregorio] Topolevsky, the ( Jewish) former Argentinean Ambassador to Israel, who moves in Israeli circles here and who initially expressed the view that Eichmann should be returned to Argentina. Later, Dr. Topolevsky changed his mind (Elihu, “Public Reactions in Argentina in the Eichmann Affair,” Ha"aretz, June 15, 1960).45

Dr. Mario Schteingart, president of the Argentinean Jewish Institute, was not the only person to believe that it would be better for both Israel and the Jews of Argentina if an international court rather than an Israeli one were appointed to try Eichmann.46 Natan Lerner, vice-president of the DAIA in 1957–1958, explained matters differently: “There were mixed feelings. In the first place, died in Argentina at a ripe old age. See Ha"aretz, Aug. 14, 1960. On the entry of Nazis to Argentina in the postwar period, see Goñi, 2001. 45 Arel, Eliahu, “Public Reactions in Argentina in the Eichmann Affair,” Ha"aretz, June 15, 1960. 46 Confidential Memo, July 1, 1960, AJC Files, Box 1.

   

327

we all supported the action [. . . but] some of us were worried about the possible consequences. Some said it was an illegal act. Some said it could hurt [Israel’s] relations with Argentina. . . . But there wasn’t any alarm among the Jewish leadership.” Years later, Marcos Korenhendler, one of the editors of Di Idishe Tzaitung, recalled the way many had felt: “There was understanding of Israel’s position and also understanding of Frondizi’s anger when he said, as president of the country: ‘Why didn’t they talk to me? I am not the president of some African jungle state. They could have come and talked to me.’ No one could say that Frondizi had the slightest Fascist or antisemitic tendencies.”47 The two years between Eichmann’s kidnapping in May 1960 and his execution in June 1962 were the hardest that the Jews of Argentina experienced since the “Semana Trágica” pogrom in January 1919.48 Although the disheartening wave of antisemitism might have been expected to exhaust itself within a few months after the kidnapping and the resolution of the diplomatic conflict, the beginning of Eichmann’s trial in Jerusalem in April 1961 and the wide press coverage it received all over the world, including Argentina, kept it alive. Eichmann, after pleading not guilty on the grounds that he had only been following orders from above, was convicted of “crimes against the Jewish people.”49 On December 11, the president of the Israeli court, Justice Moshe Landau, pronounced the sentence: death by hanging. Certain Argentinean nationalist groups sought to exploit Eichmann’s kidnapping and trial and the infringement of Argentinean sovereignty to attack the Jews in their country.50 The surge of antisemitism that occurred at this time was also attributable to the Argentinean political culture and the socioeconomic conditions at

47 Author’s interview with Korenhendler (Tel Aviv, Aug. 21, 2000); and memo by R. Friedman, July 1, 1960, AJC Files, Box 1. 48 On the events of the Semana Trágica, see Mirelman, 1975: 61–73; and Seibel, 1999. 49 The Eichmann trial was also covered by the veteran Argentine journalist and politician Silvano Santander. In 1961, he published his book on the trial: El gran proceso: Eichmann y el nazismo ante la justicia. 50 They were not motivated by the national honor, explained the writer Ernesto Sábato, but by the fact that they saw Eichmann as an example and model for acts that they wanted to commit themselves. See his article, “Viva Eichmann, mueren los judíos,” El Mundo, Aug. 24, 1960; Avida to Israel Foreign Ministry, Aug. 28, 1960, ISA 3293/17.

328

 

the time—economic difficulties, the alienation felt by the supporters of Peronism, and widespread disappointment in Frondizi, who failed to keep any of the promises he had strewn during his presidential campaign. The combination of a political crisis and a series of strikes and demonstrations created frustration, growing pressure on the government by the military—and an environment that encouraged antisemitic manifestations.51 Most antisemitic publications and nationalist organizations gradually faded from view during Perón’s ten years in power, but after Perón’s overthrow they sprang to life again. At that time, the campaign against the Jews was spearheaded by the far-Right organization Movimiento Nacionalista Tacuara (MNT or “Tacuara”). In the wake of the Eichmann kidnapping, various nationalist publications began to point accusing fingers at Argentinean Jews. Notable among them were El Pampero, Cabildo, and Azul y Blanco. All these periodicals frequently asserted that Jews bore no loyalty to Argentina or that their divided loyalties prompted them to support Israel at moments of crisis instead of remaining faithful to the Argentinean Republic, whose sovereignty the Zionists had violated. Additional nationalist organs published articles under headlines such as “Israel Has Fewer Jews than Our Country” and “Espionage by the Most Racist Race, via Zionist Organizations.”52 Nationalist hostility was not confined to propaganda against the “Jewish fifth column” (articles, posters, and antisemitic slogans and swastikas painted on the walls of buildings in Jewish neighborhoods); it also spilled into actual violence: vandalism against Jewish institutions and attacks on Jewish schoolchildren and university students. In early July 1960, nationalist and liberal students clashed in front of the faculty of medicine at the University of Buenos Aires. Some right-wing students shouted, “We want Eichmann back,” “Death to Jews,” and “Jews, go to Israel.” Swastikas were painted on university buildings and other structures in the vicinity. Two nationalist students and four others were seriously injured in the scuffle. Over the next months, almost every week brought new reports of antisemitic incidents, some more serious than others, including the 51 On Frondizi’s presidency, see, for example: Szusterman, 1984; and Frondizi, 1998. On the factors of antisemitism during those years, see Schers et al. 1977: 247. 52 Quoted from Kaufman et al. 1979: 87, n. 166.

   

329

placement of bombs in synagogues and community institutions.53 The antisemitic incidents in 1960–1961 created a sense of solidarity among the beleaguered Jews and prompted two initiatives of great significance to the Jewish community. First, Jewish parents joined forces to set up a Jewish day school where pupils would not be vulnerable to antisemitic attacks. The founding meeting for the Tarbut (Culture) school in Buenos Aires took place on July 26, 1960, in Florida, Buenos Aires province. The second initiative was the formation of Jewish self-defense organizations in the capital, where some 80 percent of Argentinean Jews lived.54 Many Jews felt that even under a friendly government such as Frondizi’s the authorities did not have the power to confront the antisemitic, Catholic, and nationalist right-wing groups headon (Avni, 1985: 124–125). Therefore, the early 1960s saw spontaneous organization by young Jews who had begun to practice judo, boxing, and various other means of self-defense to cope with the provocations of antisemitic bullies. The Israeli Embassy and various Israeli emissaries assisted in this organization. Some groups even considered reprisal actions if necessary. Members of these groups talked about the need to challenge the timid and cowardly stereotype of Jews that was prevalent in nationalist right-wing circles.55 Antisemitic propaganda intensified during the election campaign in early 1962 for half the seats in Congress and some provincial 53 Weekly Report by Embassy in Buenos Aires, Sept. 21, 1961, NA, 735.00(w)/ 9–2161. For details on antisemitic incidents in Argentina in 1961 (including propaganda, painting of slogans and swastikas on walls, throwing of Molotov cocktails and incendiary bombs at schools, synagogues, and other Jewish institutions, vandalism of signs on Estado de Israel Street in the capital, and violent attacks on Jews), see Bulletin of Argentine Jewish Institute (No. 1, March 1962), and McClintock to State Department, April 18, 1962, NA, 735.004–1862. On antisemitic incidents outside the federal capital, see also La Razón, Feb. 2, 1961, and Feb. 9, 1961; El Diario Israelita, June 7, 1961, June 25, 1961; Clarín, June 25, 1961; and La Prensa, March 16, 1962. 54 This concentration in Buenos Aires led to an extreme expression of both Jewish and Argentine living patterns, which influenced the development of organized Jewish life in Argentina. On the whole, Jews are more inclined to congregate in urban areas than the general population in their country of residence; in Argentina, a substantial part of the population tended to concentrate specifically in the federal capital and its environs. See Elazar and Medding, 1983: 99. 55 Author’s interview with Jacobo Kovadloff, vice-president and later president of the Hebraica Club in Buenos Aires in the 1960s (Washington, June 14, 2000). See also Nueva Sión, April 21, June 2, and Aug. 26, 1961. This trend toward organizing for self-defense may have mitigated antisemitic attacks somewhat, as the perpetrators feared an escalation of violence in which they themselves might be attacked.

330

 

governorships (including that of the large and important province of Buenos Aires). Frondizi’s feeble handling of nationalist activity did not help him politically. His enemies in the armed forces and on the political Right were merely waiting for the most propitious moment to topple him. In these elections, the Peronists made an impressive showing. By winning a majority in ten provinces, including Buenos Aires, they proved they were still a political force to be reckoned with. The military, unable to tolerate the resurgence of Peronism, demanded that Frondizi void the elections. Initially refusing, he eventually intervened in five provinces, including Buenos Aires. This did not satisfy the officers; after bickering among each other for a week, they deposed him and installed the Speaker of the Senate, José María Guido, as interim president of the country until general elections a year later. The delight this caused the nationalist groups was apparent in the pages of La Segunda República, edited by Marcelo Sánchez Sorondo, and the articles by Father Meinvielle that appeared in the periodical La Grande Argentina. Reports from the Israeli Ambassador in Buenos Aires, Yosef Avidar, painted the picture of a new government struggling ineffectually with social and economic problems.56 As this went on, the army was riven by a struggle between two factions, the Azules (“Blues”) and the Colorados (“Reds”). The latter faction was strongly anti-Peronist, suspecting that Guido meant to maintain Frondizi’s policies. Thus, Guido’s government lacked a civil and popular base of support, a socioeconomic program, political legitimacy, and the unified backing of the armed forces. Of greater concern to the Israeli Ambassador, however, was the fact that “With the new regime, several reactionary, nationalist, and antisemitic personalities and elements have risen to key positions.” Under these circumstances, no one expected Guido’s interim government to be more efficient than its predecessor in dealing with the organizations of the nationalist Right, especially since some members of these organizations had personal and family ties with senior army officers and government officials. Indeed, the antisemitic wave did not subside. Repeatedly the DAIA sent protest cables to President Guido and the Minister of the Interior, Jorge Walter Perkins. The

56

Avidar to Israel Foreign Ministry, July 27, 1962, ISA, 3376/4.

   

331

latter met with leaders of the Jewish community. Yet the steps that the provisional Guido administration eventually took against the organizations of the far Right were largely too little, too late. In an interview with the English-language daily Buenos Aires Herald, the leader of Movimiento Nacionalista Tacuara, Alberto Ezcurra, claimed that the police did not bother his organization at all and stated explicitly, “We have been treated much better under the present government than under the Frondizi regime.”57 A new antisemitic outburst followed Adolf Eichmann’s execution in Israel. The organs of the nationalist Right naturally expounded on this matter in extreme terms. For example, Marcelo Sánchez Sorondo’s La Segunda República published a most extreme anti-Israeli article, with clear Nazi elements, worthy of the Stürmer tradition. However, the nationalists went beyond newspaper articles. In that month ( June 1962), about thirty antisemitic incidents—demonstrations, telephone threats, and terror attacks against Jewish institutions—were recorded in Argentina. The most serious incident occurred on June 21. A gray car containing three young men pulled up at a bus stop where Graciela Narcisa Sirota, a nineteen-year-old student, was waiting for a bus to the University of Buenos Aires. One of the men got out of the car, clubbed Sirota, and dragged her into the car. The kidnappers took her to a place where she was beaten and brutally tortured, burned with lighted cigarettes and tattooed with a swastika on her chest. “This is in revenge for Eichmann,” her abductors told her.58 The appalling attack on Graciela Sirota and police indifference to anti-Jewish violence galvanized the Jewish community of Argentina into angry, firm, and unified action, as various elements in the community were no longer willing to settle for quiet lobbying and requests for government protection. The public outrage aroused by the despicable deed bolstered their position.59 On June 28, a countrywide

57 Buenos Aires Herald, Aug. 29, 1962; The New York Times, Sept. 16, 1962; and McClintock to State Department, Sept. 1, 1962, NA, 735.00/9–162. 58 McClintock to State Department, June 27, 1962, NA, 735.00/6–2762; Time, July 6, 1962, p. 21; Primera Plana, March 10, 1964. 59 La Razón, June 27 and 30, 1962; La Prensa, La Nación, and El Mundo, June 28, 1962; and La Luz, June 29, 1962. On the more assertive position of the DAIA under the leadership of Isaac Goldemberg, see Barmor to Israel Foreign Ministry, Oct. 13, 1961, ISA 3293/17.

332

 

commercial strike of several hours’ duration was declared and many businesses posted signs reading “Closed in protest over Nazi aggression in Argentina.” Most Jews in Buenos Aires left their workplaces and closed their shops. Although the Jewish protest had been anticipated, the strike became a tour de force since, to the surprise of the DAIA leaders themselves, the response extended far beyond the limits of the Jewish community. In contrast to Argentinean Jews’ response to the upsurge of antisemitic attacks following Eichmann’s execution, Israel maintained a cautious position to avoid sabotaging the rehabilitation of its relations with Argentina. At a meeting of Foreign Ministry officials attended by Foreign Minister Meir, it was decided to avoid any Israeli initiative. Israeli diplomats were told, that “our representatives need at this stage to constitute a factor of direct pressure on the Argentinean government, particularly by attributing general responsibility to it for antisemitic incidents. It seems better not to take any initiative [. . .]. We do not need to create the impression that our representatives exercise direct influence on the response of public opinion outside Argentina.”60 The fear was that, given the Argentinean government’s coolness toward Israel, “If we stepped into the controversy, the whole thing would snowball in a direction neither side wanted to go.”61 Cynical observers could claim that silence was the cheapest price the Jewish state could pay to avoid sabotaging its relations with Argentina, which had only recently returned to normal. Be this as it may, the multitude of antisemitic attacks in 1960–1962, coming on top of an economic crisis that harmed the middle classes to which most Jews belonged, dealt the large Argentinean Jewish community a considerable shock. The psychological implications of the events were much stronger than any political or practical aspect of the question. Among the elements which constituted that feeling were rage, bitterness, physical fear, disappointment, surprise, and also combativeness. The Sirota case, as well as several other events that followed later, was a tremendous shock, particularly to those Argentinian Jews born in the country and sometimes sons of native parents, for many of whom this

60 61

M. Avidar to A. Darom, Aug. 17, 1962, ISA 3376/4. Y. Anug to Israel Foreign Ministry, June 9, 1962, ISA, 3376/4.

   

333

was the first occasion on which they were compelled to meditate and ponder on their destiny as Jews and as individuals.62 The Jewish newspaper La Luz printed the following in October 1962, in an issue marking the Jewish new year: For Argentinean Jewry, the stormy year we have just left behind us was the saddest of the hundred years of its existence in this country. This intolerable situation has caused Jews in some circles to think that Jewish life may be impossible in Argentina [. . .]. One thing is clear now: The beautiful ideal, enveloped in rosy expectations concerning the future, which the Jewish settlers brought with them [. . .] has begun to crumble with each Jewish child slashed with swastikas, each Jewish institution shot at [. . .]. The painful dilemma is posed: Does the Jewish community have a future here, and is it worth it for Jews to continue living in Argentina?63

In the short term, there was an increase in applications to the Israeli Embassy and the Immigration Department of the Jewish Agency for information about emigrating to Israel. Many more persons applied in July 1962, after the Sirota affair, than in the entire first six months of the year. A similar increase occurred in the number of people who actually registered to emigrate to Israel.64 In the middle and long terms, the antisemitic incidents of the 1960s constituted a watershed for the Jewish community in trends of all kinds. Emigration to Israel became a permanent, practical option that Argentinean Jews weighed and continue to weigh, and a growing need was felt to establish settings that would strengthen Jewish identity. In response to the 1960–1962 wave of antisemitism, sparked by the Eichmann affair and Argentina’s economic crises, aliya from Argentina reached a peak in 1963 that was not surpassed until 1983.65 The outflux of Jews from Argentina was even more striking when Jews who left for destinations other than Israel are included in the reckoning. In the five-year period from 1960 to 1965, 62

Quoted in Cohen, 1972: 548. La Luz, Oct. 5, 1962. 64 Avidar to Israel Foreign Ministry, July 27, 1962, ISA 3376/4; and Barmor to Israel Foreign Ministry, July 2, 1962, ibid. 65 Avidar to Israel Foreign Ministry, Aug. 2, 1963, ISA 3376/19. Two later spikes in aliya from Argentina were 1973 and 1977, in the context of political turmoil that rocked the country at that time: Perón’s return from eighteen years in exile and his victory in the 1973 presidential elections, and the establishment of a brutal military dictatorship in March 1976, which ushered in the era of “desaparecidos” (disappearances). 63

334

 

12,900 Jews left Argentina. Never in the history of Argentinean Jewry had emigration surpassed immigration to such an extent (DellaPergola, 1987: 94–99). Thus, the wave of antisemitism that swept Argentina in the early 1960s actually became a unifying factor in Jewish community life internally and vis-à-vis Klal Yisrael, the Jewish world at large. It helped strengthen Argentinean Jews’ identification with Israel, prompted an expansion of Jewish education and the creation of separate settings for it, stimulated organization for self-defense, mobilized general public opinion in a protest that transcended the limits of the Jewish community, and increased emigration to Israel. These were the Jewish community’s responses to the brutal offensive launched by Tacuara and the other nationalist and antisemitic forces, which exploited Eichmann’s kidnapping and the violation of their country’s sovereignty as ideological justification for their own iniquitous actions. Conclusion The two historical junctures studied briefly in this chapter show that Israel’s interests and those of Argentinean Jews have been congruent on some but not all occasions. Israel has assisted the local Jewish community in various ways and its embassy in Buenos Aires had a central role in community life and the development of community policy. In turbulent periods, such as June–September 1955 (amidst the struggle to overthrow Juan Perón’s regime) and during the wave of antisemitic incidents that hit Argentina after Eichmann’s abduction, the Jewish community leadership even showed signs of dependency on the embassy to ensure its survival. When all was said and done, however, Israel operated as a sovereign country and sought to advance specific interests of its own that did not always coincide with Argentinean Jews’ struggle for equal rights and integration. The view of Israel as the core of the Jewish world inspired the makers of Israeli foreign policy to follow a certain order of priorities, even when this came at the expense of specific Jewish communities.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ARGENTINE JEWRY IN A PERIOD OF ECONOMIC CRISIS Natan Lerner The situation of the Jews of Argentina in the current period of economic crisis (2001–2002) must be evaluated in the context of the relatively short history of the community, in particular of the various acute crises that they have undergone in the slightly more than a century of their organized Jewish life.1 Although Jewish community life in Argentina existed earlier, massive Jewish immigration began in the 1890s and increased considerably in the first decades of the twentieth century.2 The major community organizations were founded in the years that followed and significant interactions between the Jews and the surrounding society also developed at that time. On the whole, the crises affecting Jews in Argentina were related to the political situation, the deterioration of democracy, the action of right-wing extremist organizations, outbursts of antisemitism, and foreign influences. The most recent crisis seems to be strictly a consequence of the grave economic situation in the country. It has nothing to do with the Jews; rather, it is a general phenomenon that has had a profound impact on Argentinean society, within which the Jews have traditionally been part of the widely criticized middle class, which to a large extent no longer exists. Since I am not an economist, I shall not discuss the causes of what is happening from this particular angle. It may be useful to survey the critical points in the history of the Jews in Argentina. As early as 1919, Di Presse, one of two important Yiddish-language daily newspapers—there were times, two decades

1

Literature on Argentine Jewry is now abundant. See, for example, Avni, Haim, 1982. 2 See, for example, Cincuenta años de vida judía en la Argentina, published by a committee appointed to honor Di Yidishe Tsaitung on the occasion of its twenty-fifth anniversary, Buenos Aires, 1940 (Yiddish). The book contains many articles on the early years of Jewish life.

336

 

later, when three Yiddish dailies appeared in Buenos Aires concurrently—asked editorially whether Jewish life in the country was still possible. The question was triggered by a wave of antisemitic acts known collectively as the “Semana Trágica” (“tragic week”), including police abuse but mainly provoked by right-wing nationalists who had imported the teachings of the French far right into Argentina. These actions were connected to the fear that the Russian Revolution had evoked in conservative Argentinean quarters that Jews—known as rusos (“Russians”) in the popular slang—were about to try to take over the country and install Communism. The full story of “la Semana Trágica”, as those events were called, has been told by several authors (see for instance Babini et al., 1956). The Jewish community grew considerably in the 1920s and the 1930s. During World War II, in 1943, a military coup deposed the conservative government and the military took over. An influential officer in the ruling group was Col. Juan Domingo Perón. Pro-Nazi elements in the new military regime promoted anti-Jewish measures, including the closure of the Yiddish newspapers, a step that engendered strong protests and even the intervention of the U.S. president. That critical period, which lasted until the end of the war, concluded with the accession to power of Perón and Peronism. Much has been written about the condition of the Jews in various periods under Peronism.3 After the 1955 military revolt that put an end to Perón’s first period in power, a restless democracy was restored. During the presidency of Arturo Frondizi, the capture and trial of Adolf Eichmann projected their shadow on the Jewish community. In the early 1960s the economy declined, and anti-Jewish outbursts took place. After the aforementioned Sirota case and an increase in antisemitism, the DAIA (Delegación de Asociaciones Israelitas Argentinas) declared a strike of Jewish businesses and professionals. It was a massive protest that expressed the state of mind of the Jewish population against a backdrop of antisemitism, economic decline, and political instability. Emigration to Israel increased (Rein, 2001).

3 Recent works on Jews and Peronism include Rein, 2001; and Melamed, 2000. I have discussed right-wing antisemitism in Argentina in Avni, 1973, 1977. For a comprehensive analysis of the Argentine right wing, see Navarro Gerassi, 1968. See also the two previous chapters of this book.

       

337

The next major crisis occurred in 1976–1983, when a brutal military dictatorship waged a “dirty war” against anyone suspected of being a leftist or an enemy of the regime. Thousands of people were killed or “disappeared.” The proportion of Jews among the victims of the dictatorship was very high—much higher than the overall percentage of Jews in the population, or even their proportion among university students. This tragic period has been described by many authors, and the anti-Jewish dimension of the brutal repression and persecutions was officially documented after the fall of the dictatorship, following the war with Britain over the Falkland Islands (Malvinas). A book entitled Nunca más (“Never again”) was published by a public committee appointed to investigate what had happened under the tyrannical regime.4 In the 1990s, two major tragedies left their mark on the sense of security of Argentinean Jews: the bombing of the Israeli embassy in Buenos Aires and the destruction of the main Jewish community building, the seat of the AMIA (Asociación Mutual Israelita Argentina, the central community institution) and the DAIA, the representative Jewish organization. These attacks caused dozens of deaths, and neither case has been solved. According to publications and statements by the authorities and by community spokespersons, foreign agents were behind the crimes, although there have been frequent allegations of possible complicity of local groups, including elements within the police (Melamed, 2000). All the aforementioned crises severely affected the sense of security of Argentinean Jewry and led to increases in emigration (including to Israel), though not dramatic ones. In the past few years, a new situation has developed: the economic crisis and its social consequences. I am not qualified to discuss it in depth and to analyze its causes and future consequences. From a layman’s perspective, it seems evident that the impact on the Jewish community has been catastrophic. During all the crises mentioned above, Jews in Argentina were part of the middle class, mainly in the capital and the other major cities. Many of them were professionals—physicians, lawyers, engineers, social scientists, intellectuals, and the like—or successful but not extremely rich businesspeople or industrialists; a few were

4 Nunca más, Buenos Aires, Informe de la Comisión Nacional sobre la Desaparición de Personas, 1984.

338

 

even among the economic elite. That middle class has now been largely destroyed in a process that started even before the present economic and monetary disaster. The financial situation is a disaster, indeed. Unemployment has soared to outrageous record levels. The country is unable to honor its obligations. The economic measures taken by the authorities have hurt the middle and working classes deeply. Each person has lost half of his or her economic capacity, and many have been left with no reserves. Hunger is an issue in the Argentinean Jewish community for the first time in its history. Entire families have lost the means of living normal lives. The problems that the Department of Social Action of the AMIA has to confront are (1) an absolute and relative increase in poverty; (2) high unemployment; (3) a decline in the purchasing power of the minimum wage; (4) the ruin of the middle class and the emergence of a class of newly poor people; (5) a breakdown of the family nucleus; (6) the emergence of large numbers of people who remain outside the labor market and the consumers’ market and have no access to a meaningful education.5 All this has individual and collective consequences. At the individual level, widespread poverty is today the main threat facing Argentinean Jews. At the collective level, the institutional life of the community, once very rich and much appreciated by World Jewry, has deteriorated alarmingly. Even the education system of which Argentinean Jews were so proud has declined. According to an information sheet circulated by the United Jewish Communities/Federations of North America and its partner agencies, the Jewish Agency for Israel and the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee ( JDC) (Feb. 27, 2002), about one-third of Jewish schools had closed by early 2002, attendance at Jewish schools had fallen by 50 percent, and some 44,000 Jews are probably living at or below the poverty line. Economic institutions have collapsed. Social assistance, including the most basic levels of food and housing, have become a central aim of Jewish community work in this unprecedented emergency situation. Foreign Jewish communities, such as the Greater Miami Jewish Federation, are collecting funds for Argentinean Jews. A Center for Solidarity Social Assistance (CASS) was established to help poten-

5

See Informativo OJI 702, March 2002.

       

339

tial emigrants to Israel, based on an agreement between the Jewish Agency, the Joint Distribution Committee ( JDC), and a local foundation, Tzedaka (“Charity” in Hebrew).6 The JDC is distributing food packages and coupons, medicine, clothing, and cash assistance. Tzedaka is a community foundation that is dealing with the urgent and growing difficulties. Among its immediate problems are a lack of medicines, growing family violence, a rise in the school dropout rate, childhood malnutrition, homelessness, and unemployment among professionals.7 As is frequently the case in times of emergency, rivalries among the different agencies working to relieve the consequences of the economic crisis are already being noted. But the crisis is, of course, not only economic. Political and institutional developments have added to it in obvious ways. Argentina is governed by a classical presidential system, and the head of state does not need the support of Parliament to remain in power. However, President de la Rua, the leader of the traditional Radical Party, decided to resign due to the economic situation. Consequently, the Peronist Party, with a majority in Congress, elected one of its leaders, a former governor of Buenos Aires Province, to take over the post, despite the fact that he had been defeated in the presidential elections. It was the second time in the last two decades that a Radical president did not complete his term due to the general situation. De la Rua’s resignation was followed by a limited eruption of violence and the Peronists had some difficulty agreeing on a successor, but on the whole the transition took place rather smoothly. It is fair to point out that antisemitism, a frequent phenomenon in times of crisis, did not play any role in the events. What did was the people’s reaction to the manifestations of corruption that have been all too frequent in recent years. Argentina became an emigration country. The descendants of the Spanish and Italian immigrants who arrived in vast numbers during the first decades of the twentieth century became potential emigrants. A similar trend has been noted among Jews, although no data are available on the extent of it. Authorities in Israel expect an increase in immigration from Argentina; although this expectation is reasonable, it should not be distorted by wishful thinking with regard to

6 7

See UJC Update on Argentinian Crisis, Mar. 9, 2002. See Informativo OJI 702, March 2002.

340

 

figures. Jewish emigration from Argentina may also be directed to other countries, as has happened in the past. In any case, as in the early 1960s, emigration is clearly an option for Argentinean Jews today, particularly the professional class. It may be too early to substantiate this statement with adequate statistics. In 2001, according to Jewish Agency figures, immigration to Israel from Argentina climbed by about 40 percent relative to the level in 2000. Some additional remarks on the subject of antisemitism may be germane. As pointed out above, anti-Jewish agitation and incitement played a role in previous crises to varying degrees. So far, the dramatic recent developments have not resulted in a significant amount of antisemitism, despite what one might have expected if some sectors sought a scapegoat. None of the major political and social groupings has tried to incite public sentiment against the Jewish community. A more profound analysis may be warranted once the fluid situation stabilizes. The major question is what world Jewry can do to alleviate the plight of the largest Jewish community in Latin America. Clearly, the appropriate response is to help on three possible levels: to help Jewish collective life to overcome the present difficulties; to help individual Jews to fight the horrors of poverty and hunger; and to help potential emigrants to Israel to integrate as smoothly as possible in their new environment. Almost certainly, the old dilemma of priorities will come up again if international Jewish institutions have to help emigrants go to countries other than Israel, too. It is clear that Israel’s attraction to Jews abroad is more problematic today than in the past due to the political and security situation. At the global level, the international community has to find adequate ways to deal with the risks that the Argentinean situation poses for many other countries. This is not the subject of my chapter, but a mention of it is indispensable when dealing with the future of a country in which a large Jewish community is undergoing a crisis substantially different from earlier crises that affected it. The status of Jewish life in Argentina has made considerable progress. The Jewish community there should be preserved. Jewish institutional life must be safeguarded. As for individual Jews, Jewish solidarity is an age-old mandate.

BY WAY OF EPILOGUE

This page intentionally left blank

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE SPACE AND DILEMMAS OF CONTEMPORARY JEWISH IDENTITIES Eliezer Ben-Rafael In the context of all the foregoing discussions, this concluding chapter ponders the question of Jewish identity—or, more precisely, identities—as a particular case of collective identity. It discusses three distinct but related aspects, each of which is associated with a different fundamental (deep structure). The first concerns the way people describe their link and obligations to the collective, i.e., the practical implications of their definition of themselves as members of the collective. The second relates to the way individuals perceive the social, cultural, moral, normative, religious, historical, or linguistic singularity of the collective. The third aspect focuses on the way individuals perceive the place of the collective in relation to “others,” both near and far (Lash, 1994; 1996). These three features of collective identity are not necessarily perceived in the same manner by all sectors or individuals. Different formulations, themselves subject to change, may emerge as a result of circumstances, influences, or personal biographies and preferences. By analyzing collective identity in terms of three major aspects, we may also ask which of them is emphasized most strongly in each of the various formulations. These parameters are more than sufficient to demonstrate how many different conceptions, often considerably remote from one another, may be encompassed within the same collective identity. Indeed, the wider the distribution of formulations, the harder it is to view them as relating to the same space of identities and even to the same collective. It is with this perspective in mind that we may consider the formulations of Jewish identity, both contrasting and similar, that prevail in the different parts of the contemporary Jewish world, as they are described and analyzed throughout these pages. These inquiries bring us to the crucial question: is it still possible to speak of a single identity, or should we now speak of multiple Jewish identities and ask if they still have what Wittgenstein (1961) terms a “family

344

 -

resemblance”? By this term, Wittgenstein meant the way in which traits such as height, facial features, eye color, posture, and temperament are mixed and matched—unevenly and incoherently most of the time—among the members of an extended family. This approach resembles that adopted by Hervieu-Léger (1998) in her investigation of Catholic identity in France. She found that different individuals associate this identity with different elements— faith, community, ethics, culture, or emotional significance—and give them different roles that change at different stages in their lives. Although the approach here is similar, it focuses on the contents of identity itself and views the various formulations of the collective identity of Jews both diachronically and synchronically. What all chapters of this book seek to identify is the endemic dialectic of the continuity or discontinuity of Jewish identity from one formulation to another and between one stream and another. Historical Judaism, we may recall, is characterized by a definition of collective identity that stresses religious faith above all else. Along the continuum of time and place, however, even this identity has not been homogeneous. Schmueli (1980) lists five phases in Jewish identity, each with a different emphasis: Biblical, Talmudic, politicalphilosophical, Hasidic, and rabbinic-cultural. The distinctions among them are reflected in very different approaches toward issues such as the nature of man, the concept of sin, death and uncleanness, the giving of the Tora on Mount Sinai, and language, and may be understood in terms of the physical and spiritual conditions under which Jews lived in different periods and places. Such variety may also have stemmed from the fact that Judaism does not recognize a central religious authority. It must be borne in mind that religious studies, the norm among the intellectual elite in Jewish communities, trained scholars in a rational and metaphoric system of disputation that encouraged dissent. The Kabbala actually broadened the range of approaches and perspectives. This feature of Judaism was enhanced by the growth of Hasidism, a movement structured around charismatic rabbis who reigned over courts of disciples. Hasidism split into dozens of varieties and subvarieties that clashed over issues ranging from the role of the rabbi to the presence of God at the Creation. We have yet to add to this the enmity between the Hasidim and the Mitnagdim, who wished to preserve the traditional scholarly form of Judaism.

     

345

Nonetheless, no matter how profound and heated these controversies were, they did not eradicate the shared foundations of the traditional Jewish collective identity with its solid connection to the God, the People, and the Land of Israel. Ever since the post-Biblical exile of the Jewish nation—save perhaps in the phase that Schmueli calls the political-philosophical—the Jewish God was the dominant aspect of Judaism, the source of meaning and legitimacy of the existence of the Jewish people and its tie to the Land of Israel. It was this aspect that justified the preservation of the Jewish people as the object of the word of God and gave meaning to the notion of the Land of Israel, the Promised Land, where God was worshipped and His commandments fully observed. However, while this identity stresses the singularity of the collective, it also represents a clearly universal perception: that by its own redemption, the nation would redeem the world. This is the meaning of the portrayal of the Jewish nation as “the Chosen People,” the most fundamental element of Jewish monotheism. Although God is one and universal, His Word obligates a specific group and charges it with the crucial function of redeeming the world by observing the commandments “within itself ” and “among itself ” in its daily life. The most appropriate sociological label for this type of collective identity is “caste.” Like all collective terms, “caste” refers to the many social practices that merge discourse (language, ideas, symbols, etc.) with action (specific activities, unique behavioral patterns, environmental and institutional features, etc.) (Smith, 1987). In the case of a caste, these practices are given clear religious legitimacy that is anchored in the perception of “purity.” To maintaining purity, it is advisable if not absolutely necessary to avoid contact with “others,” i.e., to keep the group separate from everyone else. The term “caste” also relates to the existence of distinct collectives within a total system. Each group plays a role in achieving some overall “supreme” purpose, so that each is also dependent on the “others.” This, in fact, is the essence of Dumont’s (1977) definition of a caste: a group that has an all-encompassing perception of itself and the organization of its life but concurrently sees itself as part of a larger system that invests its aspirations with “transcendent” meaning. In these terms, the self-definition of the Jews stands in sharp contrast to their portrayal by Christian and Muslim neighbors in different eras and places throughout the centuries. The Jews saw themselves

346

 -

as a superior caste while the “others” regarded them as “impure” and “untouchable,” a caste of pariahs. Paradoxically, Jews and nonJews avoided each other for utterly opposite reasons. By upholding their internal codes, the Jews made it clear that they considered their inferior status in society to be at variance with the “proper” social order. The fact that the strict laws pertaining to ritual purity and food (kashrut) explicitly prohibited closer contact with non-Jews than business or practical dealings also fits the general picture of a caste. With the advent of the modern era, this caste approach found itself in the eye of a storm of revolutionary ideas and soon lost its influence over the Jews. The Emancipation widened the rift. Many chose to express their Judaism in new ways, until eventually the subscribers to traditional Judaism came to represent a small minority of the nation. Russell (1996) demonstrates that even before the Emancipation, many Jews, sensing the imminent cultural revolution in Europe, championed the notions of equality and personal freedoms. They were also convinced that economic and technological developments would down the barriers among groups and sectors in society, leading to a modification not only of their status but of Jewish society and religion as well. Indeed, the processes that took place from the seventeenth century on triggered a radical change in relations between Jews and non-Jews, bringing them closer on the one hand and spawning modern antisemitism on the other. As Jews were allowed to return to England and make their home there, for example, it became the fashion in elite circles to try to persuade them to convert to Christianity (Ragussis, 1995). Similarly, as Jews were admitted into the French army, the Dreyfus Affair touched off a wave of antisemitism. Above all, the Jews’ transformation was spurred by their internal dilemmas, which were cast in a new light by the national and the technological-industrial revolutions in Europe. In view of the new social realities, many came to consider the caste model archaic. The search for new formulations of Jewish identity now confronted in a “different” way the basic dilemmas that were inherent in the traditional definition. The post-traditional outlooks regarded the basic issues—the “deep structures” of Jewish identity and the “surface structures” of traditional identity—as questions that should rather be given new answers that would ultimately construct the space of “modern” Jewish identities.

     

347

The first question related to the concept of the “Jewish nation” and asked whether it could still denote a collective whose definition was primarily religious, or whether Jewry should now be viewed as a community in the social, cultural, and even ethical sense. In other words, did the term still refer to an actual collective that retained the features of a community, a sector, or a nation, whose existence in the modern world needed no justification beyond the mere fact of its being a collective entity? The second question addressed itself to the concept of the “God of Israel,” which signified the singularity of the collective in the traditional identity. How could the singularity of the Jewish nation be marked in the new secular reality? In response to the previous attitude of religious belief, with its emphasis on the unquestioned truth of the past, growing numbers began to wonder whether Judaism might not better be seen as a culture, a collection of symbols, a history, or a shared fate. The third question concerned the concept of the “Land of Israel.” Since this concept represents the fundamental response of traditional Judaism to the place of the collective, any place other than the Land of Israel is defined as the Diaspora. In the traditional view, the Land of Israel is not merely a historical religious symbol but an actual geographical location, a specific place to which the Jews will return “at the time of redemption.” It was now asked whether this was the Jews’ actual homeland or whether it could be treated as a metaphor with moral, cultural, or ideological meaning. Each of the major streams of modern Judaism that now developed offered answers to these three questions. In fact, they are systematically differentiated from one another by these responses. In the wake of the dramatic changes that swept traditional Jewish society in the late nineteenth century and the first decades of the twentieth, attempts to define Jewish identity became a series of questions to which a wide variety of answers were proposed. In fact, it may be stated that in some respects, Jewish identity was now defined by the very debate over what the term contained. The different perceptions of the collective identity might be distinguished by the way they formulated its deep structures: commitment to the collective— “the Jewish people”; the singularity of the collective—“the God of Israel”; and the image of the collective’s place in relation to that of others—“the Land of Israel.”

348

 -

Orthodox Jewry, the most loyal adherent of traditional Judaism, adopted modern models of political and social activity to ensure its survival and enhance its influence over Jewish life in the modern era. Now challenged by powerful rivals, it could no longer rely on control of community institutions. Moreover, whereas in the past it had accepted the Jews’ marginal status in society as a given, it now had to operate among Jews who were integrating themselves into society as individuals, sometimes with considerable success. Orthodox Jewry’s activities were designed to demonstrate the relevance of continuity with the past for the present and future. To accomplish this, it relied on a set of sacred principles: (1) “the Jewish people” demands solidarity as a requisite of the Jews’ shared fate, and its value lies in accepting the destiny dictated by faith; (2) it is “the God of Israel,” i.e., unequivocal acceptance of the covenant of Abraham and the commandments, that defines the singularity of the Jews; (3) “the Land of Israel” and the Diaspora are diametrical opposites, Diaspora denoting any location other than the Holy Land. The Reform Movement was the first Jewish stream that attempted to confront halakha and suggest new solutions to the dilemmas of Jewish identity in the modern era. It asserted that (1) “the Jewish people” is a “congregation of believers” or a community, with the distinctions between these two terms liable to be blurred; (2) “the God of Israel” has selective validity in respect to halakha; Judaism is generally depicted as a body of universal cultural values; and (3) “the Land of Israel” is a metaphor that does not imply anticipation of a “return” to any actual place. Conservative Judaism, positioning itself between the two extremes, entertained a more positive view of halakhic tradition than the Reform Movement and a less dogmatic approach to the laws themselves than the Orthodox. Thus, in the Conservative paradigm, (1) “the Jewish people” is a cultural community; (2) “the God of Israel” is seen through the prism of a selective attitude toward halakha: unlike the Reform, however, Conservative Judaism evinces a desire to observe the commandments in principle but, like the Reform, it perceives religious life in terms of cultural singularity rather than dogmatic demands; and (3) “the Land of Israel,” a concept to which Conservative Jews are highly conscious of being committed, wavers between religious and moral significance. The Haskala (the Jewish Enlightenment) spawned a variety of philosophies that advocated a search for new approaches toward

     

349

Judaism. Despite their differences, they had several commonalities: (1) “the Jewish people” is a collective of real people that has cultural singularity; (2) “the God of Israel,” while given pride of place, is treated primarily as a set of cultural values and language, although halakha is not actually repudiated; and (3) “the Land of Israel” refers to a link to Jewish history and a desire to establish a center to represent Judaism vis-à-vis the world. Zionism offered its own interpretation of the three deep structures of Jewish identity: (1) “the Jewish people” is a worldwide collective that represents a potential national entity; (2) “the God of Israel” is the culture from which Zionism draws its symbols and gives them secular form; and (3) “the Land of Israel” is a concept on which Zionism seeks to build a “new,” i.e., territorially based, Jewish nation. The Bund, like the Maskilim (promoters of the Jewish Enlightenment), stressed the nature of Judaism as a culture but addressed a very specific sector of Jewish society as opposed to Klal Israel. It also sought to link itself with national and international revolutionary movements by espousing the following formulations: (1) “the Jewish people” refers foremost to the Jewish proletariat, a collective in struggle against Jewish capitalists; (2) “the God of Israel” is perceived in terms of both the popular Yiddish culture of Eastern Europe and social values anchored in the religious-historical legacy; and (3) “the Land of Israel” denotes the aspiration for autonomous cultural collectivities in Diaspora countries. These different formulations demarcate a very wide space of Jewish identity. (1) “The Jewish people” is viewed by the Orthodox as solely a religious community; by the Reform and Conservative movements as an ethnocultural, moral, and religious community; by the Haskala as a cultural collectivity; by the Bund as an ethnic group; and by Zionism as a national collective. (2) “The God of Israel” is interpreted literally by the Orthodox; is seen as a culture as well as a religion by the Conservatives (who pick and choose the laws that apply to their members); is construed as a specimen of secular culture by the Enlightenment; is given national meaning by Zionism and ethnocultural meaning by the Bund; and is viewed as a set of symbols with primarily universal significance by the Reform Movement. (3) “The Land of Israel” is perceived by Zionism as a challenge for immigration to and settlement of and in the “historical homeland”;

350

 -

is associated by the Haskala with a cultural purpose; is linked by the Orthodox with divine redemption; can be established anywhere in the world in the view of the Bund; and is interpreted as a metaphor for mankind at large by the Reform Movement. In terms of priorities, for the Orthodox “the God of Israel” is supreme, followed by “the Jewish people.” For the Haskala, too, the most important aspect was the singularity of the collective, i.e., “the God of Israel,” but it was given cultural-secular meaning; in second place, again, was “the Jewish people.” Zionism viewed “the Land of Israel,” the Jews’ national territory, as the primary aspect, followed by “the self-renewing Jewish nation,” i.e., “the Jewish people.” The Bund gave pride of place to “the Jewish people” in the sense of the Jewish proletariat, with cultural autonomy coming second. The Reform and Conservative Movements put “the Jewish people” first but also stressed “the God of Israel.” The distinctions between these formulations are reflected most prominently in their language preferences. Some haredim sought to preserve Hebrew as a sacred tongue to be used only for study, prayer, and ritual (Ben-Rafael, 1994). Thus, they considered Yiddish, the traditional Ashkenazi vernacular, the most appropriate language for everyday use, although wherever they settled they also mastered the local language in order to communicate with non-Jewish society. Yiddish was also the language of choice for the Bund, reflecting the grass-roots approach of this party, with its loyalty to the language expressed in an attempt to promote the evolution of Yiddish into a language of “high” culture. The Zionists, on the other hand, seeking to create a new culture linked to Jewish history and influenced by the writers of the Haskala, found in modernized Hebrew the code they were looking for. The Haskala was the first movement to demonstrate the vitality of Jewish culture and Hebrew, yet this did not deter some of its proponents from advocating the use of a non-Jewish language to promote Jewish culture. The Reform Movement, wishing to stress its participation in general society and the universal meaning of Jewish values, chose to use the languages of the countries in which it had established a presence, even for ritual Jewish purposes. The Conservative Movement retained Hebrew in the liturgy but has made considerable use of the vernacular as well. In sum, the commonality that unites all these definitions of Jewish identity is the debate over the fundamental questions that occupied the Jews from the moment they abandoned the traditional way of

     

351

life. While this debate led to a multiplicity of divisions and approaches, three major orientations can be identified: emphasis on the collective, “the Jewish people,” represented by the Bund and the non-Orthodox religious movements; emphasis on cultural singularity, “the God of Israel,” represented by the Orthodox and, to a certain extent, the Haskala; and emphasis on “the Land of Israel,” represented by those members of the Haskala who championed a cultural center for the Jewish world and by the Zionists, the most prominent proponents of this aspect of Jewish identity. One might wonder whether the space of Jewish identity that came into being at the dawn of the modern era was also relevant to the conceptions of the three far-reaching events that again transformed the Jewish condition in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries—the emigration of Jews to the New World and the aftermath of this population shift, the growth of new and/or revised forms of Judaism; the Holocaust, which destroyed most of European Jewry and has ever since remained one of the major points of reference of the Jewish experience throughout the Jewish world; and the establishment of the State of Israel, it too, an unprecedented event of Jewish history of the most crucial impact. No one could answer this question better than the Jewish intellectuals to whom Ben-Gurion turned in the late 1950s with a request to define who and what is a Jew. Their responses provide retrospective confirmation of the same conceptual perspective that served us in our analysis of the earlier formulations—a conception that was, in fact, the intellectual wellspring from which they drew. The letters of Ben-Gurion’s correspondents show how significant these events were from the standpoint of Jewish philosophers and intellectuals (Ben-Rafael, 2002). We have already used these events to extract three distinct models of Jewish identity. While they are basically the heirs to previous approaches, they also show the considerable effect of the unique life experience of this generation. One may still speak of three major models that are distinct from each other in the way they perceive the three dimensions of identity. The caste model is represented primarily by haredim in Israel and elsewhere, as well as by certain other Orthodox groups. Like the Orthodox before them, they regard religious faith as the central element of Jewish identity. Their letters evince a rigidity and sternness that would seem to reveal, among other things, the tragic influence of the Holocaust, which had a reinforcing effect on their unfaltering

352

 -

belief in a unique Jewish destiny. At the same time, there is a change in their attitude toward the State of Israel, if not toward Zionism itself. The very existence of the State of Israel appears to have encouraged them, unlike their predecessors, to come to terms with the state despite its being a secular one. This acceptance is accompanied by demands for respect for religious law in the public domain as a measure of Israel’s contribution to Judaism. The ethnocultural model is propounded primarily by intellectuals in the Diaspora who represent the whole spectrum of attitudes toward religion, save the ultra-Orthodox. As such, it continues the pattern of the various streams that emerged in the previous period: Modern Orthodoxy, the Haskala, the Reform and Conservative movements, and the Bund. All of them regarded Judaism, regardless of how they defined it, as a particular culture indicative of the existence of “the Jewish people.” However, the letters of those who favored this model reveal the influence of the Jewish experience in the modern Diaspora in their liberal Western attitudes and in their belief that the Jewish community can be an integral part of society at large. The national model is advocated mainly by the non-haredi Israeli respondents and Zionists in the Diaspora. This model, the heir to nineteenth-century Zionism, was naturally influenced primarily by the establishment of the State of Israel. Since its central element is “the Land of Israel” as the necessary territorial foundation of the new Jewish “nation,” it creates a dichotomous image of World Jewry: Israel vs. Diaspora. The fact that Israel, heretofore the smaller grouping, occupies a position of leadership over the larger grouping is perceived as the main consideration that should determine how the country molds its Jewish character. Each of those three models represents a basic challenge to the others. The ethnocultural model clashes sharply with the other two because of its willingness to accept far-reaching innovations regarding the borders of the collective, changes that are anathema to the caste model and uncomfortable for the national one. The caste model stands out for the many Jewish signifiers that it preserves, which are very different from the civil/secular style of the proponents of the ethnocultural or national models. The national model, unlike the others, focuses on a specific territorial reality and differentiates between Israeli Jews and those anywhere else in the world. The letters also reveal contradictions within the space demarcated by the three models taken together. Despite the secular element of

     

353

the national model, which resembles the ethnocultural model in this respect, its advocates tend to acquiesce in Orthodox demands concerning membership in the collective. Several correspondents justify this in instrumental terms, concerned that if Israel were to adopt any other rule, individuals whom it recognizes as Jews would not be accepted as such by the Orthodox. In other words, an entire sector of the nation would reject Israel’s claim to being “the state of the Jews” while none of the heterodox streams could deny that a halakhically qualified Jew was indeed a Jew. The price of adopting Orthodox rules for practical reasons, however, is that the proponents of the national model are obliged to participate in religious rituals whether or not they believe in them. Such hypocrisy is distasteful to the supporters of the ethnocultural model, which, although similar in spirit to the national, promotes a universal/moral perspective that opposes acceding to Orthodox dictates for instrumental reasons. This is a very sensitive issue for the national model, since the ethnocultural model represents the mainstream of Diaspora Jewry and, as such, is its most serious rival for leadership of the Jewish world. Apart from these bones of contention, the three models converge at certain points. Since the overwhelming majority of Jews in the world do, as a matter of course, meet the halakhic conditions of identity, at this stage in time it is inappropriate to speak of different “Jewish peoples” in Israel or elsewhere. Thus, save a small number of individuals whom the Orthodox do not recognize as Jews, the identity of most Jews is not in question. Additionally, all three models cull their symbols and myths from the same trove of customs and narratives; they are distinct only in the way they interpret them. Consequently, the symbols of each model are familiar to the others and all three models are partners in the same discourse. Finally, nearly all of Ben-Gurion’s correspondents relate to “the Land of Israel,” or at least the State of Israel, not only as the target of their demands but also out of a sense of solidarity. These commonalities outweigh the tensions among the three models. These Jewish intellectuals wrote their responses in the late 1950s. Since then, the world at large has again changed, as has the Jewish world. Most current Israeli Jewish identities still fit the national model as expressed in the letters to Ben-Gurion. Even today, they share an emphasis on the territorial/national principle and its implicit hierarchical dichotomy of Israeli Jews and “the Jewish people.” According to this approach, unlike Diaspora Jewry, which lacks clear borders,

354

 -

Israeli Jews are a specific territorial collective and lead a “full” Jewish life with its own language, literature, and lifestyle. Moreover, as a sovereign entity, Israel is the natural leader of the Jewish world. Although these common features are displayed most prominently by the heirs of the pioneering generation, many other variants exist as well. Some Religious Zionists, for example, preach an extreme Israeli nationalism that defines the singularity of the collective in terms of religious if not mystical Messianic faith. The Mizrahi Orthodox— represented by the Shas Party—constitute a sort of “traditional” Zionism, calling for the incorporation of the symbols of the Mizrahi/ Sephardi heritage into general Israeli culture in place of the secular outlook that has long been dominant. Immigrants from the former Soviet Union want a definition of Israeli Judaism that would enable them to retain the ethnic/cultural identity that they elicited from Russian culture. While the Arabs, as non-Jewish Israelis, may not appear to have a place in a discussion of Israeli Jewish identity, they are a factor in the movement to frame a definition of “Israeli” as separate from “Jew.” As such, they lend support to radical ideologies that challenge the significance of “the Land of Israel” and question the express definition of Israel as a Jewish state. “Canaanites” stress the territorial aspect of collective identity and take the IsraelDiaspora dichotomy so far as to posit the existence of a “Hebrew” as distinct from a “Jew.” Post-Zionists, rather than aiming their barbs at Diaspora Jews who have chosen not to settle in Israel, attack Israeli Jews, for ostensibly exploiting and oppressing the Arabs. They demand that Israel be the “state of all its citizens,” implying not only the “de-Zionization” of the collective identity but also the “deJudaization” of Israeli Jews. Even if we ignore the unreasonable demands of the most extreme positions—such as divorcing Israel from world Jewry as the “Canaanites” preach, or obliterating the country’s Jewish character as postZionists would like—the controversies themselves reveal the Achilles’ heel of Israeli Judaism: the dichotomy of the Israeli Jewish nation and the Jewish people as a whole. This dichotomy automatically gives rise to debates over the nature of each of these entities, their obligations to each other, and the degree of existing or desirable collaboration between them. The fact that a non-Jewish minority also lives in Israel and represents, within the State, the broader area in which Israel strives for survival, also plays a role in this debate. Beyond Israel, we have seen that today the questions “who is a Jew?” and “what is a Jew?” are answered with different emphases

     

355

and contents by Jews in France, South America, Russia or the United States. To take the last-mentioned case as the prevailing model of “Diasporic Judaism,” we have seen that American Jewish groups continue to relate to Jewish identity in a manner indicative of the ethnocultural model. With the exception of the Orthodox, who still display the features of the caste model, the large majority of American Jews define themselves as one of the many ethnic or cultural groups of which this society is comprised. While cultural ethnicity means that members of the Jewish community retain their connection to the broader circle of “the Jewish people,” this transnational solidarity exists side-by-side with a flexible approach toward the borders that distinguish between Jews and non-Jews in American society. Thus, even though the different Jewish denominations are well aware of their commitment to “the Jewish people,” they are intimately involved in American life and consciously maintain Jewish pluralism within American pluralism. The “American” orientation of this community is also reflected in the style of its organization into congregations allied with a synagogue, temple, or community center. Conservative, Reconstructionist, Reform, and Humanistic Jews all seek to highlight the universal values of Judaism alongside loyalty to their particularistic traditional symbols. The “God of Israel” concept is revered in the sense that it is the Jewish culture that defines the community. For many, religious faith serves to bolster this attitude, although Secular Humanistic Judaism rejects it out of hand. Furthermore, “the Land of Israel” has considerable symbolic significance in the U.S., where Israel is seen as a central element of the Jewish world. This, however, does not entail recognition of Israel as the major, let alone the only, Jewish center. In effect, most American Jews do not regard themselves as a Diaspora. Rather, they perceive Israel as a “former homeland,” an entity deserving of their loyalty and from which they may draw contemporary symbols. Another feature of American Jewish identity is the adoption of the national vernacular in place of native Jewish languages. Although Hebrew is taught in the Jewish school system as a hallmark of identity, it is generally acquired on a very rudimentary level and plays no role in daily life, serving almost exclusively for ritual purposes. We may mention here the claim that these features are signs of the gradual disappearance of American Jewry as a distinct entity (Lipset and Raab, 1995), a prediction rejected by those who speak of transformation rather than demise. Whichever view we adopt, they are clearly indications of the Achilles’ heel of the ethnocultural

356

 -

model. The major challenge this model must face is to ensure the survival of Jews among non-Jews without the aid of territorial borders or zealous religious observance. American Jewry is motivated solely by loyalty to a particular set of symbols drawn from universal values, and this is a highly flexible loyalty unfazed by innovation. Declaring itself committed to acceptance of “the other,” the community also feels obliged to demolish the external barriers of Judaism so as to promote warm relations with the society around it. This approach is reflected in the constant search for compromise on issues that arise in society at large and the undaunted attempt to adapt Jewish behavioral patterns to the demands of the times. The desire to make it clear that the community is part of society fosters Jewish pluralism and considerably weakens Jewish singularity. Concurrently, however, the ongoing ideological debate undoubtedly contributes to the vigor of American Jewry. While American Judaisms remain marked, in one way or another, by debates about the significance of religion in the definition of an ethnocultural Jewry which plays a salient public role, French Jews continue, in a new way each time, to try to formulate a notion of Judaism that accord with the exigency of the French state to distinguish uncompromisingly between “community” and “citizenship.” At the same time, secular South American Judaisms find themselves facing the complex question of defining their identities outside religion and treating Jewish nationalism with reserve, while Jews in Russia experience a Judaism that starts with group identification before elaborating on contents and values. This kind of Judaism is strongly influenced by the attitude of the non-Jewish environment. This influence, as the Belgian case shows, may eventually fuel dolorous revisions of identity phrasings when it reaches levels of hostility that were unthinkable a few years ago, in post-Holocaust Europe. In brief, summing up the different groups in the Jewish world today, the various analyses in the previous pages reveal the vigor and diversity of Jewish identity throughout the ages and to this day. These chapters confirm that the three features we adduced from the views of Ben-Gurion’s correspondents in the late 1950s—ethnicity, nationality, and caste—channel the models of Jewish identity that emerged with the disintegration of traditional society. These features still constitute a framework for discussion of the many different versions of this identity that have evolved in the forty years following the correspondence between these distinguished individuals and Ben-

     

357

Gurion. At this point, it appears particularly relevant to consider the issue of Wittgenstein’s “family resemblance.” Wittgenstein himself found a resemblance of this sort in the word games that together represent language, but the term can also be employed to describe relations among the diverse formulations of collective identity. Indeed, we have found very different if not contradictory formulations within the Jewish space of identity, relations among them sometimes taking the form of competition, rivalry, or attempts at self-aggrandizement. The various formulations are manifested in a plethora of attitudes toward Jewish identity and aspects of similarity/dissimilarity that are inconsistent and clearly asymmetric, even though they all derive from the same sources and are dressed in the same symbols drawn from the same founts and featured in the same narratives. In other words, the perceptions, however different, are similar in the complex sense that distant relatives may form a single extended family with both commonalities and frictions. Beyond the fundamental differences in content and definition, all the formulations we have found center around the basic issues that arose as soon as the validity of the three fundamentals of traditional Jewish identity were questioned. The moment these principles are transformed from religious tenets to objects of interpretation, any number of answers, some more flexible than others, may be supplied. Additionally, we have seen that the formulations are distinct from each other in terms of the relative weight they ascribe to each of the principles. Some highlight a commitment to the collective; others consider the importance of this issue to lie solely in fulfilling the destiny that underlies the collective’s existence. Certain formulations regard the principle of faith or cultural distinctiveness as the primary aspect of Judaism, others stress the principle of “peoplehood” or territory, and a few consider the matter of territory preeminent. Furthermore, the formulations are apt to change and acquire new emphases. Thus, within the space of identity we find formulations that are proximate to one another in one respect and remote in another. These relative distances may also help us to identify distinct clusters of similar formulations. In view of these results, our analysis confirms the existence of Jewish identities in the plural. The distances we discern indicate not only how formulations converge into clusters but also the distinctiveness of each grouping. The fact that the different identities all carry the same adjective, “Jewish,” means that all relate to one social

358

 -

entity and tackle the same basic questions. Consequently, their differences and similarities may all be contained under the heading of “family resemblance.” Only in these terms can we find any common denominator between the Shas Party in Israel, one of the religious formulations of national identity, and Secular Humanistic Judaism in the U.S., a nonreligious formulation of the ethnocultural type. In the “family” of Jewish identities, these two groups are indeed “cousins,” although very distant ones. Their inclusion within the same space is an indication of the great diversity of this space and the many forms of contention with which it is beset. A unity that is subject to constant friction may also result in isolationist attitudes, just as certain relatives may cease to consider themselves part of the same family. Thus, relying on their absolute authority over themselves, proponents of the caste model may be tempted to exclude those who deny their truths from the community that they define as “the Jewish people.” Such attitudes have existed among the haredi collective since the establishment of Agudath Israel. The “Canaanites” displayed a similar disposition in response to Zionism. By the same token, the ethnic approach that advocates Jewish pluralism also implies a willingness to see Jewry partitioned into diverging sectors. These tendencies are all construed as something between a triangle and a circle. Each model stresses a different fundamental and none is supreme in the eyes of the others. Jewish identities are indeed typified by rivalry for hegemony between and within each model. Following Wittgenstein, we might add that, like the members of an extended family, these formulations, embodying the pluralism of Jewish identity, are similar or different from each other to differing degrees. Consequently, they are likely to develop a differential or asymmetric sense of solidarity with or hostility toward their many “relatives.” As a general principle, the different formulations are not entirely estranged from one another, but neither is it a given that these “relatives” will continue to wish to belong to the same collective. History shows that it has often been similarities among groups that, under certain circumstances, gave rise to destructive animosity and unbridgeable gaps. Given the profusion of demands in the three-dimensional space, it is unlikely that a polarization so dichotomous as to lead the Jewish world, including Israel, to a state of crisis and fission will emerge. Due to these very demands, however, it is impossible to predict

     

359

which of the formulations, or coalition of formulations, will gain primacy in the space of Jewish identity. Yet one thing is clear: however closely related the different definitions may be, the very fact that there are so many patterns of “Jewishness” has stripped the concept of the unequivocal clarity that might serve as a common ground for all ways of defining the “single” collective identity.

GLOSSARY Hebrew Terms the historical party of non-Zionist ultra-Orthodox forces (est. 1912). Aliya: Jewish immigration to Israel. Am 'olam: a universal people, i.e., the Jews. 'Am Yisrael: the People Israel, People of Israel, or the Jewish people. 'Amamiut: peoplehood. Ashkenazi: a Jew of Central or East European extraction and an adjective for Jewish traits, customs, or rituals of these origins. At’halta di-ge’ula: the beginning of Redemption, i.e., the beginning of the messianic era. Bar mitsva: rite of passage, observed at age thirteen for boys and at age twelve (less obligatory) for girls. Bnei Akiva: national-religious Jewish youth movement (est. 1929). Chabad: an ultra-Orthodox Hasidic mystical movement, a.k.a. Lubavitch. Dina de-malkhuta dina: the principle according to which “the law of the state is [to be recognized by Jews as] the law.” "Eda (pl. "edot): a group of congregational or ethnic nature whose members see themselves a priori as part of the broader collective but perceive this collective through the prism of their own singular allegiance. Eretz Yisrael: “Land of Israel”, Cisjordan or Israel in the ancestral or Biblical sense. First Temple: the temple built in Jerusalem to God by Solomon. Galut: a state of exile or dispersion; cf. gola. Ge"ula: Redemption. Gesharei Aliya: lit. Immigration Bridges; a movement created by Jews in the USSR/FSU to promote emigration to Israel. Gesher Theatre: a theater created in Israel by Jewish immigrants from the former USSR. Gola: the Diaspora. Goyish: belonging to or typical of non-Jews. Gush Emunim: Bloc of the Faithful, the movement that spearheaded Jewish settlement in the West Bank and the Gaza Strip. Ha-behira ha-Democratit: Democratic Choice; a left-of-center party led by immigrants from the FSU. Halakha: Talmudic law and by extension, codified rabbinical law and rabbinical decisions based thereon. Hanukka: Jewish festival celebrating the Hasmonaean uprising against the Greeks (second century B.C.E.). Haredi: ultra-Orthodox. Haskala: the Jewish Enlightenment movement in Europe. Kabbala: Jewish occult teachings. Kadesh: code name for the Sinai Campaign of 1956. Agudath Israel:



361

ingathering of the ( Jewish) exiles. the dominant right-of-center party in Israel. bearers of the haredi scholastic tradition that traces its intellectual roots to Lithuanian Jewry. Lubavitcher: the longtime previous leader of the Chabad movement; has come to designate the movement itself. Maccabees: leaders of the uprising against the Greeks (see above, Hanukka), and a faction in the Zionist movement. Mamlakhtiut: “statism,” denotes an ideology in the 1950s that emphasized the primacy of the State of Israel over all other sociopolitical agents. Maqom: lit. place; one of the names of God. Minhagim: customs, less obligatory than halakha. Mitsva: a religious commandment. Mizrahi: lit. Oriental; a Jew of Middle Eastern or North African origin and an adjective for Jewish traits, customs, or rituals of such origins. Mizug galuyot: fusion of the ( Jewish) exiles. Mossad: the Israeli overseas intelligence service. Petah Tiqva: lit. “gate of hope,” an expression from the Prophets, from which an early-modern Jewish locality took its name. Purim: Jewish festival remembering the deliverance by Mordechai and Queen Esther of the Jews of Imperial Persia from extermination. Sabra: an Israeli-born Jew. Seder: the ritual family meal of Passover, at which the account of the Exodus is retold. Sephardi: pertaining to historical Spanish Jewry; often used to denote Mizrahi. Shas: a current Mizrahi-religious political party in Israel. Tami: a pre-Shas Mizrahi-religious party, less rigorous than Shas in its religious orientation. Tora: the Pentateuch (the Five Books of Moses) or, among the Orthodox, Jewish religious teaching as a whole. Torat ha-tiqunim: the kabbalistic doctrine of mending the world. Torat Yisrael: Jewish religious teaching as a whole. Tzedaka: charity, sometimes in the form of cash assistance by a community foundation. Yad Vashem: The Holocaust Martyrs’ and Heroes’ Remembrance Authority, the Israel government institution for commemoration of the Holocaust. Yeshiva ( yeshivot): religious academies for boys (“lower”) and men (“higher”). Yishuv: the pre-Israel Jewish community in Palestine. Yisrael Ba"aliya: the major Israeli political party that serves former Soviet immigrants. Yisrael Beiteinu: a political party that serves FSU immigrants; farther to the Right than Yisrael Ba"aliya. Yom Kippur: the Jewish Day of Atonement. Yordim: a pejorative label for Jews who emigrate from Israel (sing.: yored ). Kibbutz galuyot: Likud: Lithuanians:

Specific Concepts Bund: Canaanism:

General Jewish Workers’ Union in Lithuania, Poland and Russia, a Jewish non-Zionist socialist party, established in Russia in 1897 and reconstituted in Poland after World War I. an ideology that wishes to detach the Jewish population of Palestine/ Israel from the Jewish world and associate it solely with Palestine/ Israel.

362



Conservative Judaism: a branch of Judaism, established in Europe and North America in the mid-nineteenth century, that partly reversed the Reform innovations and accepts halakha as partly binding. CRIF: Conseil Representatif des Institutions Juives de France, established after World War II as an umbrella organization of French Jewry. First Intifada: the uprising against Israel in the West Bank and the Gaza Strip that broke out in 1987. Green Line: the 1949–1967 armistice demarcation line between Israel and its neighbors. Jews for Jesus: a sect of Jews who accept Jesus as the Messiah. Kashrut: the halakhic dietary laws, of Biblical and Talmudic origin. Food that meets the requirements of kashrut is kosher. Law of Return: the Israeli statute (1950) that entitles all Jews to immigrate to Israel. Lost tribes: all the Israelite tribes other than Judah, Benjamin, and part of Levi; exiled by Assyria before the destruction of the First Temple, their fate is unknown. Mandatory Palestine: Palestine as placed under British Mandate rule by the League of Nations after World War I, originally including Cisjordan and Transjordan. Pale of Settlement: the area in Czarist Russia where Jews were allowed to settle. Peace Now: a dovish political movement in Israel. Reform Judaism: a.k.a. Progressive or Liberal Judaism, a movement, founded in Germany in the early nineteenth century and massively developed in North America since the mid-nineteenth century, that rejects the binding nature of halakha and promotes a universalistic view of Jewishness. Refuseniks: Soviet Jewish militants who fought for the right to immigrate to Israel. Second Intifada: the uprising against Israel in the West Bank and the Gaza Strip that broke out in September 2000. Second Temple: the Temple in Jerusalem that was reconstructed by Jews who returned from exile in Babylonia. Shtetl: Yiddish for “small town”; denotes small Jewish localities in Eastern Europe or East European Jewry at large. Six-Day War: the war between Israel and its neighbors in June 1967. War of Independence: the war between Middle Eastern Arab countries and Israel in response to the creation of the latter. Yom Kippur War: the war between Middle Eastern Arab countries and Israel in October 1973.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Aaronsohn, R. (1996), “Settling Eretz-Israel—A Colonial Enterprise?” Iyunim Bitkumat Yisrael, Zionism: A Contemporary Controversy, pp. 340–354 (Hebrew). Agassi, J. (1990), Religion and Nation: Toward an Israeli National Identity, Tel Aviv: Papyrus (Hebrew). Agassi, J., Buber-Agassi, I., and Brant, M. (1991), Who is a Jew, Tel Aviv: Kivunim (Hebrew). Aguinis, M. (1995), “Hay que ponerle barreras al odio,” Raíces, year 3, no. 9 (summer). ——— (1991), “Los Argentinos de segunda somos la mayora,” Raíces, no. 1 (spring), pp. 8–9. Altshuler, Mordechai (1995), “Soviet Jewry—A Community in Turmoil,” in Wistrich, Robert S. (ed.), Terms of Survival—The Jewish World Since 1945, London: Routledge. ——— (1995), “The Unique Features of the Holocaust in the Soviet Union,” in Ro"i, Yaacov (ed.), Jews and Jewish Life in Russia and the Soviet Union, London: Frank Cass, pp. 171–188. ——— (1987), Soviet Jewry since the Second World War, Westport, CT.: Greenwood Press. American Jewish Committee (2001), Responding to Intermarriage: Survey, Analysis and Policy, New York, January. ——— (2000), The Balance of Israel’s National Security and Strength: The American Jewish Factor, Herzliya Conference, December. American Jewish Year Book 48 (1946). Amyot, Robert, and Sigelman, Lee (1996), “Jews without Judaism? Assimilation and Jewish Identity in the United States,” Social Science Quarterly 77(1). Aptekman, D. (1993), “Jewish Emigration from the USSR, 1990–1992: Trends and Motivations,” Jews in Eastern Europe, 1(20), pp. 15–33. Aran, G. (1991), “Jewish Zionist Fundamentalism: The Bloc of the Faithful in Israel (Gush Emunim),” in Appleby, M. and S. (eds.), Fundamentalism Observed, pp. 265–344. Arche (L’), Oct.–Nov. 2001. Aron, Raymond (1989), “Extraits des Mémoires” in Perrine, Simon-Nahum (ed.), Essais sur la condition juive contemporaine, Paris: de Fallois. Aronoff, M. (1984), “Gush Emunim,” Political Anthropology 3, pp. 63–84. Aroskind, R. (1994), “De Identidades, equivocos y renovaciones,” Nueva Sion 784. Asali, Z. J. (1992), “Zionist Studies of the Crusade Movement,” Arab Studies Quarterly 14, pp. 45–59. Associated Press (2002), “Security Increased around Brussels Synagogue,” Apr. 28. Avni, Haim (1995), “Jewish Leadership in Times of Crisis: Argentina During the Eichmann Affair (1960–1962),” Studies in Contemporary Jewry, Vol. 11: pp. 117–135. ——— (1991), Argentina and the Jews: A History of Jewish Immigration, Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press. ——— (1985), Emancipation and Jewish Education: A Century of Argentinian Jewry’s Experience, 1884 –1984, Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History (Hebrew). ——— (1973), Argentina the Promised Land: Baron de Hirsh’s Colonization Project in the Argentinean Republic, Jerusalem: Magnes Press (Hebrew). ——— (1972), Argentinean Jewry: Social Status and Organizational Profile, Jerusalem: The Hebrew University, A. Harman Institute of Contemporary Jewry (Hebrew).

364



Babini, Nicolas (1956), Enero de 1919, los hechos y los hombres de la “Semana trágica,” Buenos Aires: S.E.P.A. Bachi, R. (1974), The Population of Israel, Jerusalem: The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Baltiérrez, Rodilfo (1988), “La creacion del estado de Israel,” Todo es Historia 252. Barghouti, I. (1988), “Palestinian Americans: Sociopolitical Attitudes of Palestinian Americans towards the Arab-Israeli Conflict,” Occasional Papers Series 38, Center for Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies: University of Durham. Baron, S. (1968), The Social and Religious History of the People of Israel, Vol. I, Tel Aviv Barth, F. (1997), “How Is the Self Conceptualized? Variations among Cultures,” in Neisser, U., and Jopling, D. A. (eds.), The Conceptual Self in Context: Culture, Experience, Self-Understanding, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 75–91. Barth, Frederik (1964), Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: the Social Organization of Cultural Difference, Boston: Little, Brown. Barzun, Jacques (2000), From Dawn to Decadence: 500 Years of Western Cultural Life. 1500 to the Present, New York: HarperCollins. Bauman, Z. (1998), “Parvenu and Pariah: Heroes and Victims of Modernity,” in Good, J., and Velody, I. (eds.), The Politics of Modernity, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 23–35. Beker, A. (1997), The Jewish Communities of the World, Tel Aviv: Miskal (Hebrew). Bellah, Robert N., Madsen, Richard, Sullivan, William M., Swidler, Ann, and Tipton, Steven M. (1996), Habits of the Heart: Individualism and Commitment in American Life, updated edition, Berkeley: University of California Press. Ben-Rafael, Eliezer (2002), Jewish Identities: 50 Intellectuals Answer Ben-Gurion, Leyden: Brill. ——— (1997), “‘Critical’ versus Non-Critical Sociology: An Evaluation,” Israel Studies 2(1), pp. 174–193. ——— (1994), Language Identity and Social Division: The Case of Israel, Oxford: Oxford University Press/Clarendon. ——— (1982), The Emergence of Ethnicity: Cultural Groups and Social Conflict in Israel, Westport, CT: Greenwood Press. Ben-Rafael, E., and Brosh, H. (1995), “Jews and Arabs in Israel: The Cultural Convergence of Divergent Identities,” in Nettler, Ron (ed.), Medieval and Modern Perspectives on Muslim-Jewish Relations, London: Harwood Academic Pubs., pp. 18–34. Ben-Rafael, Olshtain, E. and Geijst, I. (1997), “Identity and Language: The Social Insertion of Soviet Jews in Israel,” in Lewin-Epstein, N., Ro"i, Y., and Ritterband, P. (eds.), Russian Jews on Three Continents: Migration and Resettlement, London: Frank Cass, pp. 364–388. Ben-Rafael, E., and Sharot, S. (1991), Ethnicity, Religion and Class in Israeli Society, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ben Sasson, H. (1969), Introduction, Ben Sasson, H. (ed.), History of the Jewish People, Tel Aviv: Dvir (Hebrew). Benvenisti, M. (2000), Sacred Landscape: The Buried History of the Holy Land Since 1948, Berkeley: University of California Press. Berkovits, E. (1987), The Crisis of Judaism in the State of the Jews, Jerusalem: Reuven Mass (Hebrew). ——(1973), Faith after the Holocaust, New York: Ktav Publishing House. Bershtel, Sara, and Graubard, Allen (1992), Saving Remnants: Feeling Jewish in America, New York: The Free Press. Birman, D. (2001), “Cultural Transition in First Generation Immigrants: Acculturation of Soviet Jewish Refugee Adolescents and Parents,” Journal of Cross-Cultural Psychology 32(4), pp. 456–477. ——— (1994), “Acculturation and Human Diversity in a Multicultural Society,” in Trickett, E. J., Watts, R. J., and Birman D. (eds.), Human Diversity: Perspectives on People in Context, San Francisco, CA: Josey-Bass, pp. 261–284.



365

Birnbaum, Pierre (2002), “La France dans la theorie politique contemporaine,” in Dieckoff, Alain (ed.), Nationalisme, liberalisme et pluralisme, Paris: Presses des Sciences Po. ——— (2002), Sur la corde raide, Paris: Flammarion. ——— (2000), Jewish Destinies, New York: Hill and Wang. ——— (1998), Le Moment antisemite. un tour de la France en 1898, Paris: Fayard. ——— (1996), The Jews of the Republic, Stanford CA: Stanford University Press. Blausten, I. (1991), “De San Telmo a Jerusalem,” Raíces, 1 (spring), pp. 36–39. Bogoraz, Larisa (1973), “Do I Feel I Belong to the Jewish People?” in Voronel, Aleksandr, Yakhot, Viktor, and Decter, Moshe (eds.), I am a Jew: Essays on Jewish Identity in the Soviet Union, New York: Academic Committee on Soviet Jewry and the Anti-Defamation League of B"nai B"rith. Brand, L. (1988), Palestinians in the Arab World, Institution Building and the Search for State, New York: Columbia University Press. Braylan, M., Feierstein, D., Galante, M., and Jmelnizky, A. (2000), Report on AntiSemitism in Argentina 1998, Buenos Aires: DAIA. ——— (2001), “Report,” Indice-Revista de Ciencias Sociales 21. Brecher, Michael (1972), The Foreign Policy System of Israel, London: Oxford University Press. Brubaker, Rogers, and Cooper, Frederick (2000), “Beyond ‘Identity,’” Theory and Society 29. Brym, J. R. (1997), in Lewin-Epstein, N., Ro"i, Y., and Ritterband, P. (eds.), Russian Jews on Three Continents: Migration and Resettlement, London: Frank Cass, pp. 471–494. Brym, R., and Ryvkina, R. (1996), “Russian Jewry Today: A Sociological Profile,” Sociological Papers 5(1), p. 8. Brym, Robert, with Ryvkina, Rozalia (1994), The Jews of Moscow, Kiev and Minsk, London: Macmillan. Calhoun, C. (1994), “Social Theory and the Politics of Identity,” in Calhoun, C. (ed.), Social Theory and the Politics of Identity, Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 9–36. Caupolicán (1961), El imperio del oro: descripción de las fuerzas ocultas: Judaismo, masoneria, comunismo, Buenos Aires: Editorial Indiana. Center for Equal Opportunity and Opposition to Racism (2002), 2001 Annual Report, Brussels, March, pp. 43–44, . Central Conference of American Rabbis Yearbook (CCARY) (1976). Central Conference of American Rabbis Yearbook (CCARY) (1942). Cesari, Jocelyne (1977), Etre musulman en France, Paris: Hachette. Chanes, Jerome (forthcoming), “Who Does What? Jewish Advocacy and Jewish ‘Interest’: A Contextual Review and Analysis,” in Maisel, L. Sandy, and Forman, Ira (eds.), Jews in American Politics, Boston: Rowman and Littlefield. Chanet, Jean-François (1996), L’Ecole republicaine et les petites patries, Paris: Aubier. Chaumont, Jean-Michel (1997), La Concurrence des victimes, Paris: La Découverte. Chazan, N. (1994), Irredentism, Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner. Chernin, Velvl (1995), “Institutionalization of Jewish Culture in the USSR, 1960s– 1980s,” in Ro’i, Yaacov (ed.), Jews and Jewish Life in Russia and the Soviet Union, London: Frank Cass, pp. 226–236. Chervyakov, V., Gitelman, Z. and Shapiro, V. (2001), “The Ethnicity of Russian and Ukrainian Jews,” East European Jewish Affairs 31, 2. ——— (1997), “Religion and Ethnicity: Judaism in Ethnic Consciousness of Contemporary Russian Jews,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 20(2). Chlenov, Mikhail (1994), “Jewish Communities and Jewish Identities in the Former Soviet Union,” in Webber, J. (ed.), Jewish Identities in the New Europe, Oxford: Littman Library. Chomsky, W. (1957), Hebrew: The Eternal Language, Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America.

366



Cohen, E. (1995), “Israel as a Post-Zionist Society,” Israel Affairs 1(3) (spring), pp. 203–214. Cohen, Naomi W. (1972), Not Free to Desist: The American Jewish Committee, 1906–1966, Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America. Cohen, S. M. and Eisen, Arnold M. (2000), The Jew Within: Self, Family, and Community in America, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Cohen, S., and Horenczyk, G. (eds.) (1999), National Variations in Jewish Identity: Implications for Jewish Education, Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Cohen, Steven M. (1999), Religious Stability and Ethnic Decline: Emerging Patterns of Jewish Identity in the United States, New York: Florence G. Heller JCC Research Center. Cohen, Steven M., and Eisen, Arnold M. (2000), The Jew Within: Self, Family, and Community in America, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. ——— (1998), The Jew Within: Self, Community, and Commitment Among the Variety of Moderately Affiliated, Boston-Los Angeles: Wilstein Institute of Jewish Policy Studies. Colodenco, D. (1996), Editorial, Controversia de Ideas Sionistas, Buenos Aires. Connor, W., (1986), “The Impact of Homelands on Diasporas,” in Sheffer, G. (ed.), Modern Diasporas in International Politics, London: Croom Helm. Corinaldi, Michael (1998), Jewish Identity: The Case of Ethiopian Jewry, Jerusalem: The Magnes Press, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Cornell, Stephen (1996), “The Variable Ties That Bind: Content and Circumstance in Ethnic Processes,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 19(2). Dan, Y. (1995), “On Post-Zionism, Oral Hebrew, and Futile Messianism,” Ha’aretz, March 25 (Hebrew). Delegacion de Asociaciones Israelitas Argentinas (DAIA) (1974), Perón y el publo judío, Buenos Aires. ——— (1954), El Pensamiento del presidente Perón sobre el pueblo judío, Buenos Aires. DellaPergola, Sergio (2001), “Demography in Israel/Palestine: Trends, Prospects, Policy Implications,” paper presented at IUSSP XXIV General Population Conference, Salvador de Bahia, August, 35 pp. ——— (2001), “World Jewish Population, 2001,” American Jewish Year Book, 101, pp. 532–569. ——— (1999), “Arthur Ruppin Revisited: The Jews of Today, 1904–1994,” in Cohen, Steven M., and Horenczyk, Gabriel (eds.), National Variations in Jewish Identity: Implications for Jewish Education, Albany, NY: SUNY Press, pp. 53–83. ——— (1999), World Jewry Beyond 2000: The Demographic Prospects, Oxford: Oxford University Press. ——— (1998), “The Global Context of Migration to Israel,” in Leshem, Elazar, and Shuval, Judith T. (eds.), Immigration to Israel: Sociological Perspectives, New Brunswick: Transaction Pub., pp. 51–92. ——— (1996), “Between Science and Fiction: Notes on the Demography of the Holocaust,” Holocaust and Genocide Studies 10(1), pp. 34–51. ——— (1995), “Changing Cores and Peripheries: Fifty Years in Socio-Demographic Perspective,” in Wistrich, R. S. (ed.), Terms of Survival: The Jewish World since 1945, London and NY: Routledge, pp. 13–43. ——— (1993), “Jews in the European Community: Sociodemographic Trends and Challenges,” American Jewish Year Book, 93, pp. 25–82. ——— (1992), New Data on Demographics and Identifications among Jews in the United States, Jerusalem: The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, A. Harman Institute of Contemporary Jewry. ——— (1987), “Demographic Trends of Latin American Jewry,” in Elkin, Judith Laikin, and Merkx Gilbert W. (eds.), The Jewish Presence in Latin America, Boston: Allen and Unwin. DellaPergola, Sergio, and Lerner, Susanna (1997), “Jewish Population, Community and Continuity in Mexico: the 1991 Sociodemographic Study,” in DellaPergola,



367

S., and Even, J. (eds.), Papers in Jewish Demography 1993, Jerusalem; The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, A. Harman Institute of Contemporary Jewry, pp. 325–347. DellaPergola, Sergio, Rebhun, Uzi, and Tolts, Mark (2000), “Prospecting the Jewish Future: Population Projections 2000–2080,” American Jewish Year Book 100, pp. 103–146. Denzin, N. K. (1991), Images of Postmodern Society: Social Theory and Contemporary Cinema, London: Sage. Deshen, S., Liebman, C. S., and Shokeid, M. (1995), Israeli Judaism: Studies of Israeli Society, Vol. 7. Di Prese (Argentina), Aug. 2, 1952. Documents on the Foreign Policy of Israel Vol. 8 (1953), Jerusalem: Israel State Archives. Donitsa-Schmidt, S. (1999), Language Maintenance or Shift—Determinants of Language Choice among Soviet Immigrants in Israel, Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Toronto: Department of Curriculum Teaching and Learning. Ontario Institute for Studies in Education. Dubnow, Simon (1967–1973), History of the Jews, tr. Moshe Spiegel, South Brunswick (NJ): T. Yoseloff. ——— (1936), Letters on Old and New Jewry (or Judaism), Tel Aviv: Ha-hoker, Dvir. Dumont, L. (1977), Homo hierarchicus—le systeme des castes et ses implications, Paris: Gallimard. Eban, Abba (1992), Personal Witness: Israel through My Eyes, New York: Putnam. Eisensdrath, Maurice Nathan (1964), Can Faith Survive? The Thoughts and Afterthoughts of an American Rabbi, New York: McGraw-Hill. Eisensdrath, Maurice N. (1946), “Director’s Comment,” Liberal Judaism (Nov.), pp. 17–19. Eisenstadt, S. N. (1992), Jewish Civilization: The Jewish Historical Experience in a Comparative Perspective, Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Elazar, D. J. (1986), Israel: Building a New Society, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. ——— (1976), Community and Polity: The Organizational of American Jewry, Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America. Elazar, Daniel J., and Medding, Peter (1983), Jewish Communities in Frontier Societies, New York: Holmes and Meier, p. 99. Eliaschev, P. (1995), “Seguimos siendo victimas,” Raíces, 3(9) (summer). Elkin, Judith Laikin (1998), The Jews of Latin America, New York: Holmes and Meier Ettinger, S. (1969), Toldot Yisrael ba-et hakhadasha ( Jewish History in the Modern Era), Tel Aviv: Dabir (Heb). Evron, B. ( 1995), Jewish State or Israeli Nation, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. ——(1987), “Canaanism: Solutions and Problems,” Jerusalem Quarterly 44. Eytan, Walter (1958), The First Ten Years—A Diplomatic History of Israel, London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson. Ezrahi, Y. (1997), Rubber Bullets: Power and Conscience in Modern Israel, New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Fackenheim, E. (2000), “With or Without God’s Help,” Ha"aretz, Dec. 27 (Hebrew). ——— (1999), What Is Judaism? An Interpretation for the Present Age, Syracuse: Syracuse University Press. ——— (1974) “The Holocaust and the State of Israel—Their Relation,” Encyclopaedia Judaica, Jerusalem: Keter. ——— (1968), “Jewish Faith and the Holocaust—a Fragment,” Commentary (August), pp. 30–36. Fain, Benjamin (1991), “Background to the Present Jewish Cultural Movement in the Soviet Union,” in Ro"i and Beker (eds.), Jewish Culture and Identity, New York University Press: New York and London, pp. 235–238.

368



Farago, U. (1989), “The Jewish Identity of Israeli Youth, 1965–1985,” Yahadut Zemanenu: Contemporary Jewry 5, Jerusalem, pp. 259–285. Fishman, J. A. (1989), Language and Ethnicity in Minority Sociolinguistic Perspective, Clevedon (UK) and Philadelphia: Multilingual Matters. Forster, R. (1996), “La Diaspora: la batalla contra el olvido,” Controversia de ideas sionistas, Buenos Aires. Forward (2001), Nov. 2, pp. 1, 10. Frankel, Jonathan (1991), “The Soviet Regime and Anti-Zionism: An Analysis,” in Ro"i and Beker (eds.), Jewish Culture and Identity, New York and London: New York University Press, pp. 310–354. Freehof, S. (1963), Reform Jewish Practice and Its Rabbinic Background, New York, U.A.H.C. Friedman, M. (1977), Society and Religion: The Non-Zionist Orthodox in Eretz Israel, 1918–1936, Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi (Hebrew). Friedman, M. (1986), “Haredim Confront the Modern City,” Studies in Contemporary Jewry 2, pp. 74–96. Friedman, Murray, and Chemin, Albert (eds.) (1999), A Second Exodus: The American Movement to Free Soviet Jews, Hanover, NH: University Press of New England for Brandeis University Press. Friling, T. (1998), Arrow in the Mist: Ben-Gurion, the Yishuv Leadership, and Rescue Attempts During the Holocaust, Sede Boqer: Ben-Gurion Heritage Center and Jerusalem: A Harman Institute of Contemporary Jewry (Hebrew, English in press). Furstenberg, R. (1995), “Israeli Culture,” American Jewish Yearbook, pp. 448–465. Galili, Lily (2000), “Brooklyn’s Moscow Boulevard,” Ha"aretz, Dec. 25. Gans, Herbert (1979), “Symbolic Ethnicity,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 2. ——— (1979), “Symbolic Ethnicity: The Future of Ethnic Groups and Culture in America,” in Gans, Herbert J., Glazer, Nathan, Gusfield, Joseph R., Jencks, Christopher (eds.), On the Making of Americans: Essays in Honor of David Riesman, pp. 193–220, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Garcia-Coll, C. and Magnuson, K. (1997), “The Psychological Experience of Immigration: A Development Perspective,” in Booth, A., Crouter, A. C., and Landale, N. (eds.), Immigration and the Family: Research and Policy on US Immigrants, Manwah, NJ: Erlbaum, pp. 91–131. Garrard, John (1995), “The Nazi Holocaust in the Soviet Union; Interpreting Newly Opened Russian Archives,” East European Jewish Affairs 25(2), pp. 3–40. ——— (1995), “Vasilii Grossman and the Holocaust on Soviet Soil,” in Ro"i, Yaacov (ed.), Jews and Jewish Life in Russia and the Soviet Union, London: Frank Cass, pp. 212–225. Geertz, C. (1965), Old Societies and New States, New York: The Free Press. Geisser, Vincent (1997), Ethnicité républicaine, Paris: Presses de Sciences Po. Gellner, E. (1983), Nations and Nationalism, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Gentile, Laura (2002), “Un 20 percent de los judíos argentinos vive bajo la línea de pobreza,” Clarín, March 11. Gerhard, Simon (1991), Nationalism and Policy Toward the Nationalities in the Soviet Union, Boulder, CO: Westview. Gitelman, Zvi (2001), “Secularism among America’s Jews: Insights from the American Jewish Identity Survey, 2001,” paper presented to the Association for Jewish Studies, Washington, DC, December. ——— (2001), A Century of Ambivalence: The Jews of Russia and the Soviet Union, 1881 to the Present, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, second ed. ——— (1998), “The Decline of the Diaspora Jewish Nation: Boundaries, Content and Jewish Identity,” Jewish Social Studies, 4(2). ——— (1997), “‘From a Northern Country’: Russian and Soviet Jewish Immigration to America and Israel in Historical Perspective,” in Lewin-Epstein, N., Ro"i, Y., and Ritterband, P. (eds.), Russian Jews on Three Continents: Migration and Resettlement, London: Frank Cass, pp. 21–45.



369

——— (ed.) (1997), Bitter Legacy, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, especially “Politics and the Historiography of the Holocaust in the Soviet Union,” pp. 14–42. ——— (1996), “Language, Ethnicity, and the Reconstruction of Jewish Identities in Post-Soviet Russia and Ukraine,” paper delivered at the Annual Meeting of the American Association for the Advancement of Slavic Studies, November. ——— (1995), Immigration and Identity, Wilstein Institute Research Report, pp. 35– 36. ——— (1994), “The Reconstruction of Community and Jewish Identity in Russia,” East European Jewish Affairs 24(1). ——— (1991), “The Evolution of Jewish Culture and Jewish Identity in the Soviet Union,” in Ro"i, Yaacov, and Beker, Avi (eds.), Jewish Culture and Identity in the Soviet Union, New York: New York University Press, pp. 4–5. Gitelman, Zvi (1990), “History, Memory and Politics: The Holocaust in the Soviet Union,” Holocaust and Genocide Studies 5(1), pp. 23–37. ——— (1982), Becoming Israelis, New York: Praeger. Gitelman, Zvi, Chervyakov, V., and Shapiro, V. (2001), “Iudaizm v natsional’nom samosoznanii rossiskikh evreev,” (Russian). ——— (1997), “Religion and Ethnicity: Judaism in the Ethnic Consciousness of Contemporary Russian Jews,” Ethnic and Racial Studies, 20(2). Gitter, Benno (1999), The Story of My Life, London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson. Glinert, L. (1990), “The Historiography of Hebrew and the Negation of the Golah,” The SOAS Language Revival Conference, London, June 7–8. Glueck, Nelson (1946), “Reform Rabbis—A Convention Assembled” and “Adding Link to Link,” in Liberal Judaism (Aug.), pp. 1–2 and 10. Golbert, Rebecca (1998), “Search of a Meaningful Framework for the Study of Post-Soviet Jewish Identities, with Special Emphasis on the Case of Ukraine,” East European Jewish Affairs 28(1). Gold, S. (2002), “‘New Americans’ and ‘Yordim,’” Migration, 33/34/35. ——— (1992), Refugee Communities: A Comparative Field Study, Newberry Park, CA: Sage Publications. ——— (1997), “Community Formation among Jews from the Former Soviet Union in the U.S.,” in Lewin-Espstein, N., et al. (eds.), Russian Jews on Three Continents: Migration and Resettlement. London: Frank Cass, pp. 261–283. Goldfarb, Pedro (2000), “The Eichmann Affair and the Argentinean Jewish Community,” unpublished paper, Hebrew University of Jerusalem (Hebrew). Goldstein, I. (1997), “El Periodismo judio en Castellano en la Argentina, 1948–1956. Sus posturas con respecto al Sionismo e Israel,” Judaica Latinoamericana, Vol. 3, Jerusalem: Magnes, pp. 307–311. ——— (1993), “The State of Israel, the Zionist Movement, and Jewish Education in Brazil: 1948–1955,” Yahadut Zemanenu le-Iyyun u-le-Mehqar, Vol. 8 (Hebrew), pp. 39–66. ——— (1993), The Influence of the State of Israel and the Jewish Agency on Jewish Life in Argentina and Worldwide: 1948–1958, Jerusalem: the Hebrew University of Jerusalem (Hebrew). Goñi, Uki (2002), The Real Odessa: How Perón Brought the Nazi War Criminals to Argentina, London: Granta. Gorny, Y. (1994), The State of Israel in Jewish Public Thought: The Quest for Collective Identity, New York: New York University Press. ——— (1986), “From Post-Zionism to Renewal of Zionism,” in Ginosar, P., and Barelli, A. (eds.), Zionism: A Contemporary Polemic, Sede Boqer: Ben-Gurion Heritage Center, Ben-Gurion University of the Negev Publishing House (Hebrew), pp. 514–530. Gorodetsky, Lev (2001), “Elderly Jews in Moldova Election Help Restore the Communist Party,” Jewish Telegraph Agency, Feb. 27.

370



——— (1999), “Ukrainian Jews Likely to Support President against Communist Rival,” Jewish Telegraphic Agency, Nov. 7. Gouri, H. (1983), “A Call to the Hebrews,” Davar, August 12 (Hebrew). Graetz, H. (Zvi) (1891), History of the Jews, Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America. Greenberg, Irving (1981), “The Third Great Cycle in Jewish History,” Perspective, National Jewish Resources Center: New York. Greilsammer, Ilan (2001), “Identité juive et culture politique. Etats-Unis, France, Israël,” in Wieviorka, M., and Ohana, J. (eds.), La Difference culturelle. Une reformulation des débats, Paris: Balland, pp. 268–280. Grin, M. (1997), “Diaspora minimalista: a crise do judaismo moderno no contexto Brasileiro,” in Sorj, (org.), Identidades Judaicas no Brasil Contemporaneo, Rio de Janeiro: Imago, pp. 103–124. Groman, Shlomo (1999), “The Map of the New Russian-Jewish Exodus,” ICPA-2. Information Bulletin of 2nd International Conference on Personal Absorption of Jewish Immigrants (Repatriates) from the Former USSR, No. 1 (Nov. 2) (Russian). Gurevich, Beatríz (ed.) (1998), Proyecto testimonio, Buenos Aires: Planeta. Gurr, T. (1993), Minorities at Risk, Washington, DC: United States Institute of Peace Press. Halfin, Igal (2000), From Darkness to Light, Pittsburgh: Pittsburgh University Press. Harel, I. (2000), “Unlike the Crusaders,” Ha"aretz, Dec. 20 (Hebrew). Hartman, D. (1999), “Widening the Scope of Covenantal Consciousness,” in A Heart of Many Rooms, Celebrating the Many Voices Within Judaism, Woodstock, VT: Jewish Lights. ——— (1990), “The Challenge of Modern Israel to Traditional Judaism,” in Conflicting Spiritual Possibilities of Modern Israel Vision, New York: Schocken Books. Hertzberg, A. (1989), The Jews in America: Four Centuries of an Uneasy Encounter: A History, New York: Johns Hopkins University Press. Hervieu-Léger, D. (1998), “The Transmission and Formation of Socioreligious Identities in Modernity: An Analytical Essay,” International Sociology 13(2), pp. 213–228. Hobsbaum, E., and Ranger, T. (1983), The Invention of Tradition, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hoffman, J. E., and Fisherman, H. (1972), “Language Shift and Language Maintenance in Israel,” Fishman, J. A. (ed.), Advances in the Sociology of Language 2, The Hague: Mouton, pp. 342–364. Hornsby, Anne M. (2001), “Surfing the Net for Community: A Durkheimian Analysis of Electronic Gatherings,” in Kivisto, Peter (ed.), Illuminating Social Life: Classical and Contemporary Theory Revisited, 2nd ed., pp. 73–116, Thousand Oaks, CA: Pine Forge. Horowitz, Bethamie (1996), “Beyond Denomination: Emerging Models of Contemporary Jewish Identity,” paper delivered at the Annual Meetings of the Association for the Sociology of Religion, New York, Aug. 15. Horowitz, D., and Lissak, M. (1989), Trouble in Utopia: The Overburdened Polity of Israel, Albany, NY: SUNY Press. ——— (1978), Origins of the Israeli Polity: Palestine under the Mandate, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Horowitz, Irving Louis (1962), “The Jewish Community of Buenos Aires,” Jewish Social Studies 24(4), pp. 205–207. Horowitz, Tamar, and Leshem, Elazar (1998), “The Immigrants from the FSU in the Israeli Cultural Sphere,” in Sicron, Moshe, and Leshem, Elazar (eds.), Profile of an Immigration Wave, Jerusalem: Magnes (Hebrew), pp. 293–294. Hosking, Geoffrey (1985), A History of the Soviet Union, London: Fontana.



371

Hyman, Paula (1998), The Jews of Modern France, Berkeley: University of California Press. Informativo OJI 702 (March 2002). Inglehart, Ronald (1997), Modernization and Postmodernization: Cultural, Economic, and Political Change in 43 Societies, Princeton: Princeton University Press. ——— (1990), Culture Shift in Advanced Industrial Society, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Institute of World Jewish Congress (1996), Jewish Communities of the World, Jerusalem. Isajiw, W. W. (1974), “Definitions of Ethnicity,” Ethnicity 1, pp. 111–124. Israël, Henri (2002), “Français seulement,” Le Monde, Jan. 16. Israel State Archives (1960), Avida to Israel Foreign Ministry, Aug. 28, ISA 3293/17. Iwanska, A. (1981), Exiled Governments: Spanish and Polish, Cambridge, MA: Schenkeman. Jaffe, Philip (1945), Liberal Judaism (Nov.), pp. 80–82. Jewish Agency for Israel ( January–May 1999), Mid-Year Summary of Activities in the FSU. Jick, Leon A. (1981), “The Holocaust: Its Use and Abuse within the American Public,” Yad Vashem Studies, Jerusalem: Yad Vashem. Jost, I. M. (1847), Culturgeschichte zur neuern Geschichte der Israeliten von 1815 bis 1845, Berlin: Schlesinger. JTS Weekly News Digest (Apr. 13, 2001), p. 4. Kagansky, Maya (1999), paper presented at the 2nd International Conference on Personal Absorption Jewish Immigrants (Repatriates) from the Former USSR, Herzliya, Israel, Nov. Kaplan, M. (2001), “A Talk at Columbia—Is Jewry a Sinking Ship? (Mar. 23, 1917)” in Scult, M. (ed.), Communings of the Spirit: The Journals of Mordechai M. Kaplan, Detroit: Wayne State University Press. Karetnick, Rachel D. (2000), Identity in Cyberspace: An Ethnographic and Microanalytic Study of Participation in a Virtual Community, Ph.D. dissertation, Rutgers University, Graduate Program in Communication, Information and Library Studies. Katriel, T. (1986), Talking Straight in Dugri Speech in Israeli Sabra Culture, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Katz, E. (1997), “Behavioral and Phenomenological Jewishness,” in Liebman, C. S. and Katz, E. (eds.), The Jewishness of Israelis: Responses to the Guttman Report, NY: SUNY Press, pp. 71–84. Kaufman, Edy, Shapira, Yoram, and Barromi, Joel (1979), Israel-Latin American Relations, New Brunswick: Transaction Books. Kedar, B. Z. (1999), “Il motivo della crociata nel pensiero politico Israeliano,” Verso Gerusalemme (Il convegno internazionale nel IX centenario della I crociata [1099–1999] ), Bari, Jan. 11–13. Kellas, J. (1991), The Politics of Nationalism. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Kessler, E. J. (2002), “Argentina Relief Efforts Pit Israel and Diaspora in Rift Over Priorities,” Forward, Feb. 15. Keysar, Ariela, Kosmin, Barry A., and Scheckner, Jeffrey (2000), The Next Generation: Children and Adolescents, Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Khanin, Vladimir (2001), “Institutionalization of the Post-Communist Jewish Movement Organizational Structures, Ruling Elites and Political Conflicts,” Jewish Political Studies Review, 13(3–4), forthcoming. ——— (2001), “Israeli ‘Russian’ Parties and the New Immigrant Vote,” Israel Affairs 7(2–3), pp. 101–134 (47). ——— (2000), “Israeli ‘Russian’ Parties and the New Immigrant Vote,” Israel Affairs 7(2), London. ——— (2000), “Jewish Politics in the Post-Communist World: Personality, Ideology and Conflict in the Contemporary Ukrainian Jewish Movement,” Journal of Social, Political and Economic Studies 25(3).

372



——— (2000), “Perestroika and Associations of Jewish Culture in Ukraine,” Jews in Eastern Europe 2(42). ——— (2000), “Political Elite, Public Structures and Socio-political Conflicts in the ‘Russian’ Immigrant Community in Israel,” in Fedorchenko, A. and Epstein, A. (eds.), Migration Processes and Their Influence on Israeli Society, Moscow: Institute for Israeli and Middle Eastern Studies, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, and The Open University of Israel, pp. 228–243. ——— (1998), “Social Consciousness and the Problem of Jewish Identity of Ukrainian Jewry: the Case of Dniepr Region,” Contemporary Jewry 19(5), New York. Kimmerling, B. (2001), The Invention and Decline of Israeliness: State, Society and the Military, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. ——— (1994), “Merchants of Fear,” Ha"aretz, June 24 (Hebrew). ——— (1983), Zionism and Territory: The Socio-Territorial Dimensions of Zionist Politics, Berkeley: Institute of International Studies, University of California. King, M. L., Jr. (1967), “Letter to an Anti-Zionist Friend,” Saturday Review, 47 (August), p. 76. Klich, I. (1995), “The First Argentine-Israeli Trade Accord, Political and Economic Considerations,” Canadian Journal of Latin American and Caribbean Studies 20(39–40), pp. 177–205. Klier, John (1986), Russia Gathers Her Jews, Dekalb, IL: Northern Illinois University Press. Kogan, Marina (1995), “The Identity of St. Petersburg Jews in the Early 1990s, a Time of Mass Emigration,” Jews in Eastern Europe 3(28). Kontorer, Dov (2001), “Skupleny na komu,” Vesti-2, June 28 (Russian), pp. 1–2. Kook, Rabbi Z. Y. (1987), On Public Rabbinical Law, Jerusalem. ——— (1967), (Treatise) on the Ways of the Jews, Jerusalem. ——— (various years), Lectures of Rabbi Zvi Yehuda, Jerusalem. Korey, William (1989), “Soviet Public Anti-Zionist Committee: An Analysis,” in Freedman, Robert (ed.), Soviet Jewry in the 1980s, Durham and London: Duke University Press, pp. 26–50. Kosmin, Barry A., Goldstein, Sidney, Waksberg, Joseph, Lerer, Nava, Keysar, Ariella, and Scheckner, Jeffrey (1991), Highlights of the CJF 1990 National Jewish Population Survey, New York. Kotlyarsky, Mark (1999), “CIS Jews Finally Decide to Unite on the Eve of the 21st Century,” Vesti, Dec. 12 (Russian). Kovacs, Andras (1994), “Anti-Semitism and Jewish Identity in Postcommunist Hungary,” in Braham, Randolph (ed.), Anti-Semitism and the Treatment of the Holocaust in Postcommunist Eastern Europe, New York: Rosenthal Institute for Holocaust Studies, CUNY and Columbia University Press. Kraemer, R., Zizenwine, D., Levy-Keren, M., and Schers, D. (1995), “Study of Jewish Adolescent Russian Immigrants in Israel: Language and Identity,” International Journal of the Sociology of Language 116, pp. 153–159. Krapivenski, Solomon (1995), “Jewish Identity of Russian Jews in the Volga Region: A Sociological Survey,” Jews in Eastern Europe 2(27). Krau, E. (1991), The Contradictory Immigrant Problem: A Psychological Analysis, New York: Peter Lang. Krausz, L. S. (1998), “50 Anos de uma nova era judaica,” Morasha, Year VI (20) (April), pp. 34–35. Krichevsky, Lev (1999), “Russian Jewish Elites and Anti-Semitism,” American Jewish Committee: International Perspectives 43. Kupovetsky, Mark (2000), “Jews of the Former Soviet Union: Population and Geographical Dispersion,” in Dymerskaya-Tsigelman, Ludmila (ed.), Soviet Jewry in Transition. 4(19), p. 134 (Hebrew).



373

Kymlicka, Will (2000), “Penser le Multiculturalisme. Interview with Will Kymlicka,” Mouvements 7 ( Jan.–Feb.), pp. 121–122. Landers, I. (1994), “Remarks about the Sin We Committed in Founding the State,” Davar, March 18, (Hebrew). Lanús, Juan Archibaldo (1984), De Chapultepec al Beagle—política exterior argentina, 1945–1980, Buenos Aires: Emecé Editores. Lash, C. (1996), The Revolt of the Elites. New York: Norton. Lash, S. (1994), “Reflexivity in Its Doubles: Structure, Aesthetics, Community,” in Beck, U., Giddens, A., and Lash, S., Reflexive Modernization. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Leibowitz, Y. (1975), Judaism, the Jewish People, and the State of Israel, Jerusalem: Schocken (Hebrew). Lerner, Natan (1977), “Nationalism and Minorities in Latin America,” Patterns of Prejudice, 11(1). ——— (1973), “Antisemitism and the Nationalist Ideology in Argentina,” Dispersion and Unity, pp. 17–18. Lesch, A. (1991), “Palestinians in Kuwait,” Journal of Palestine Studies, 20(4). Leshem, E., and Shuval, J. T. (eds.) (1998), “Immigration to Israel: Sociological Perspectives,” Studies of Israeli Society 8, New Brunswick: Transaction Pub. Leshem, Eliezer, and Lissak, Moshe (2000), “Formation of the ‘Russian’ Community in Israel,” Dymerskaya-Tsigelman, L. (ed.), Soviet Jewry in Transition 4(19) (Hebrew). ——— (1997), “Development and Consolidation of the Russian Community in Israel,” in Well, S. (ed.), Roots and Routes: Ethnicity and Migration in Global Perspective, Jerusalem: The Magnes Press. Levanon, Nehmiah (1995), The Code: Netiv, Tel Aviv: Am Oved (Hebrew). Leveau, Rémy, and Kepel, Gilles (eds.) (1988), Les Musulmans dans la société française, Paris: Presses de Sciences Po. Levi-Strauss, C. (1961), Race et histoire, Paris: Gonthier. Levy, S. (1996), Values and Jewishness of Israeli Youth, Jerusalem: Guttman Institute, (mimeograph). Lewin-Epstein, N., and Braham, R. (1997), “Yes to Immigration, but What about Immigrants? Local Attitudes to Immigrant Absorption,” in Lewin-Epstein, N., Ro"i, Y., and Ritterband, P. (eds.), Russian Jews on Three Continents: Migration and Resettlement, London: Frank Cass, pp. 471–494. Lewin-Epstein, N., and Semyonov, M. (1986), “Ethnic Group Mobility in the Israeli Labor Market,” American Sociological Review 51, pp. 342–351. Lewin-Epstein, Noah, Ro’i, Yaacov, and Ritterband Paul (eds.) (1997), Russian Jews on Three Continents. Emigration and Resettlement, London, Frank Cass, pp. 270–274. Liebman, C. S. (1997), “The Media and the Guttman Report,” and “Religion and Modernity: The Special Case of Israel,” in Liebman, C. S., and Katz, E. (eds.), The Jewishness of Israelis: Responses to the Guttman Report, NY: SUNY Press, pp. 39–58 and 85–102. Liebman, C. S., and Don-Yehiya, E. (1983), Civil Religion in Israel: Traditional Judaism and Political Culture in the Jewish State, Berkeley: University of California Press. Liebman, C., and S., Cohen (1990), Two Worlds of Judaism, New Haven: Yale University Press. Liebman, Charles S., and Cohen, Steven M. (1990), Worlds of Judaism: The Israeli and American Experiences, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Lipset, S. M., and Raab, E. (1995), Jews and the New American Scene, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Lipstadt, Deborah E. (1996), “America and the Memory of the Holocaust, 1950– 1965” Modern Judaism, pp. 195–214.

374



——— (1980/81), “The Holocaust: Symbol and ‘Myth’ in American Jewish Life,” Forum (winter), pp. 195–214. Lissak, M. (1996), “‘Critical’ Sociology and ‘Establishment’ Sociology in the Israeli Academic Community: Ideological Struggles or Academic Discourse,” Israel Studies, 1, pp. 247–294. Lissak, Moshe, and Leshem, Eliezer (1995), “The Russian Intelligentsia in Israel: Between Ghettoization and Integration,” Israel Affairs 2(2), pp. 20–36. Llairó, Monserrat (1999), “Relaciones económicas y sociales Argentina-Israel de Perón a Frondizi,” unpublished paper, Buenos Aires. London, Perry, and Hirschfeld, Allissa (1991), “The Psychology of Identity Formation,” in Gordis, David, and Ben-Horin, Yoav (eds.), Jewish Identity in America, Los Angeles: Wilstein Institute. Lourie, Joseph (1991), “Religious Refusenik Networks in Moscow and Leningrad: the View from Anthropology,” Jews and Jewish Topics in the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe 15, pp. 31–47. Luhovchuk, Viktor, and Korshak, Stefan (1998), “Warring Dnipropetrovsk Clans Seal Suicide Pact,” Kiev Post, May 17. Luna, Félix (1963), Diálogos con Frondizi, Buenos Aires: Editorial Desarrollo. Luz, La (1994), no. 1490 (April). ——— editorial, Aug. 19, 1949, April 14, 1950. Maalouf, Amin (1984), The Crusades through Arab Eyes, tr. J. Rothschild. London: Al Saqi Books. Maginificio, L. (1988), Contemporary American Immigrants; Patterns of Filipino, Korean and Chinese Settlement in the U.S., New York: Praeger. Makhou, N. (1982), “Changes in the Employment Structures of Arabs in Israel,” Journal of Palestinian Studies, 11, pp. 77–102. Marcus, Jacob R. (1945), “Judaism and Democracy,” Liberal Judaism (Nov.), pp. 58–60; “Democracy and Judaism,” Liberal Judaism (Dec.), pp. 11–19. Mark, Yudl (1948), “Yidishkayt un veltlikhkayt in un arum undzere shuln,” in Bercovich, Shloime et al. (eds.) Shul-Pinkes, Chicago: Sholem Aleichem Folk Institute. Markowitz, Fran (1997), “Culture Change, Border Crossings and Identity Shopping: Jewish Teenagers from the CIS Assess Their Future in Israel,” Lewin-Epstein, N., Ro"i, Y., and Ritterband, P. (eds.), Russian Jews on Three Continents: Migration and Resettlement, London: Frank Cass, pp. 364–388. ——— (1993), A Community in Spite of Itself—Soviet Jewish émigrés in New York, Washington/London: Smithsonian Institution Press. ——— (1992), “Community Without Organization,” City and Society 6(2), pp. 141–155. Markowitz, F. (1997), “Culture Change, Border Crossings and Identity Shopping: Jewish Teenagers from the CIS Assess Their Future in Israel,” Lewin-Epstein, N., Ro"i, Y., and Ritterband, P. (eds.), Russian Jews on Three Continents: Migration and Resettlement, London: Frank Cass: 364–388. Markowitz, F. (1992), “Community Without Organization,” City and Society, Vol. 6, No. 2: 141–155. Markowitz, F. (1993), Community in Spite of Itself—Soviet Jewish Émigrés in New York, Washington/London: Schmidtsonian Institution Press. Markowitz, F. (1997), “Jewish in the USSR, Russian in the USA: Social Context and Ethnic Identity,” DETAILS. Martynov, Viktoria (2001), “American Diary,” Vesti, May 3 (Russian). Marrus, M.R. and Paxton, R. (1981), Vichy et les Juifs (Vichy and the Jews), Paris: Calmann-Levy. Meinvielle, Julio (1974), Concepción católica de la política, los trés pueblos bíblicos en la lucha por la dominación del mundo, Buenos Aires: Ediciones Dictio. Melamed, D. (2000), Los Judíos y el Menemismo—un reflejo de la sociedad Argentina, Buenos Aires: Sudamericana.



375

Menotti, Emilia (1998), Arturo Frondizi: Una biografía, Buenos Aires: Planeta. Meyer, Michael (1988), Response to Modernity—A History of the Reform Movement in Judaism, New York: Oxford University Press. Meyer, Michael A. (1946), “Response to Modernity,” Liberal Judaism ( July), p. 363. Miles, W., and G. Sheffer (1998), “Francophonie and Zionism: A Comparative Study of Transnationalism and Transstatism,” Diaspora, 7(2). Miller, Stephen (1994), “Religious Practice and Jewish Identity in a Sample of London Jews,” in Webber, Jonathan (ed.), Jewish Identities in the New Europe, Oxford: Littman Library. Mirelman, Victor (1990), Jewish Buenos Aires 1890–1930: In Search of Identity, Detroit: Wayne State University Press. ——— (1975), “The Semana Trágica of 1919 and the Jews in Argentina,” Jewish Social Studies 37(1), pp. 61–73. Morozov, Boris (1997), Documents on Soviet Jewish Emigration, London: Frank Cass. Nakhleh, K. (1975), “Cultural Determinants of Collective Identity—The Case of the Arabs in Israel,” New Outlook, 18(7), pp. 31–40. Narot, Joseph R. (1946), “Titus and the Captive,” Liberal Judaism ( Jan.), pp. 73–77. Navarro Gerassi, Marysa (1968), Los Nacionalistas, Buenos Aires: Editorial J. Alvarez. Nudel, J. (1989), El Espacio Comunitario, Buenos Aires: Oficina Joint Distribution Committee. Nueva Sion 824 (Nov. 1997). Ohana, D. (2002), “Kfar Etzion—The Community of Memory and the Myth of Return,” Israel Studies 7(2). ——— (2002), “The Cross, the Crescent and the Magen David: The ZionistCrusader Analogy in the Israeli Discourse,” Iyunim Bitkumat Yisrael 11 (Hebrew). ——— (2000), “J. L. Talmon and the Dialectics of Secular Messianism,” in Talmon, J. L., The Riddle of the Present and the Cunning of History (Ohana, D. ed.), Jerusalem: Bialik Institute (Hebrew), pp. i–xxxvi. ——— (1998), The Last Israelis, Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuhad (Hebrew). ——— (1997), “El sionismo de Yeshayahu Leibowitz,” Kivunim, pp. 37–52. ——— (1996), “Zarathustra in Jerusalem,” in Ohana, D., and Wistrich, R. (eds.), Myth and Memory, Jerusalem: Van Leer Jerusalem Institute (Hebrew). Ohana, D., and Wistrich, R. (eds.) (1996), Myth and Memory: Transfigurations of Israeli Consciousness, Jerusalem: Van Leer Jerusalem Institute and Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuhad (Hebrew). Ohana, D., and Wistrich, R. (1995), The Shaping of Israeli Identity: Myth, Memory and Trauma, London and Portland: Frank Cass Olkott, Martha Brill, and Semenov, I. (eds.) (2001), Language and Ethnic Conflicts, Moscow: Carnegie Moscow Center. Orbach, W. W. (1979), The American Movement to Aid Soviet Jews, Amherst: University of Mass. Press. Oron, A. (1993), Jewish Israeli Identity, Tel Aviv: Sifriat Hapoalim (Hebrew). Orr, A. (1994), Israel: Politics, Myths and Identity Crises, London: Pluto Press. Oz, Amos (1998), All Our Hopes: Essays on the Israeli Condition, Jerusalem: Keter (Hebrew). Pappe, I. (1997), “Zionism as Colonialism—A Comparative View of Watered-Down Colonialism in Asia and Africa,” in: Weitz, Y. (ed.), From Vision to Revision: A Hundred Years of Historiography of Zionism, Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center (Hebrew), pp. 345–366. Paxton, Robert O. (2001), Vichy France: Old Guard and New Order, New York: Columbia University Press. Perón, Eva (1982), Historia del peronismo, Buenos Aires: Editorial Megafón. Pilchik, Ely E. (1944), “Implementing the Mission,” Liberal Judaism ( June), pp. 16–18. Pinkus, Benjamin (1993), Rebirth and National Resurrection, Beersheva, Israel: BenGurion University Press (Hebrew).

376



Phinney, J. (1990), “Ethnic Identity in Adolescents and Adults: Review of Research,” Psychological Bulletin, vol. 10/3: 499–514. Pogrebencky, V. (1999), “The Spiritual Integration of Russian-speaking Jews: Some Psychological Aspects,” Jewish Education and Identity of Russian Speaking Jews in Israel and in the Diaspora, proceedings of the Founding Conference for the Association of Jewish Educators Working with Russian-Speaking Jews, Kiryat Tivon, Israel, May 5–6 (Russian). Polish, David (1946), “The Forsaken God,” Liberal Judaism (Nov.), pp. 10–16. Potash, Robert A. (1980), The Army and Politics in Argentina, 1945–1962, Stanford: Stanford University Press, pp. 27–28. Prell, Riv-Ellen (2000), “Communities of Choice and Memory: Conservative Synagogues in the Late Twentieth Century,” in Wertheimer, Jack (ed.), Jews in the Center: Conservative Synagogues and Their Members, New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, pp. 269–358. Prisutsky, Aleks (2000), “Germany: a Tail for an Emigrant,” MIGNews, No. 5 (May 31) (Russian), pp. 30–31. Putnam, Robert D. (2001), “A Better Society in a Time of War,” New York Times, Oct. 19, p. 19. ——— (2000), Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community, New York: Simon and Schuster. Rabinovich, Itamar, and Reinharz, Jehuda (eds.) (1984), Israel in the Middle East, New York: Oxford University Press. Rach, D. (1994), “Israel’s Original Sin,” Ha’aretz, April, 10 (Hebrew). Ragussis, M. (1995), Figures of Conversion: “The Jewish Question” and English National Identity, Durham and London: Duke University Press. Raíces 2(6), (1993), pp. 47–58. Raíces 2(7), (1993). Ram U. (1995), The Changing Agenda of Israeli Sociology: Theory, Ideology and Identity, Albany, NY: SUNY. Rambam (Maimonides), Mishne Tora. Rapoport, Yakov (1991), The Doctors’ Plot of 1953, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Rashin, A. (2000), “Evrei-immigranty protestu’ut u zdania OON,” Vesti, Oct. 15 (Russian). Ravitzky, A. (1993), The Revealed End and the State of the Jews, Tel Aviv: Am Oved (Hebrew). ——— (1993), Messianism, Zionism, and Jewish Religious Radicalism, Tel Aviv (Hebrew). Rein, R. (2002), Argentina, Israel, and the Jews, Bethesda, MD: University Press of Maryland. Rein, Raanan (1997), In the Shadow of the Holocaust and the Inquisition: Israel’s Relations with Francoist Spain, London and Portland, OR: Frank Cass. Rex, J. (1996), Ethnic Minorities in the Modern Nation State, Warwick: Centre for Research in Ethnic Relations. Rheingold, Howard (1994), The Virtual Community: Homesteading on the Electronic Frontier, New York: HarperPerennial. Ritterband, P. (1997), “Jewish Identity among Russian Immigrants in the U.S.,” Lewin-Epstein, N., Ro"i, Y., and Ritterband, P. (eds.), Russian Jews on Three Continents: Migration and Resettlement, London: Frank Cass, pp. 325–343. Rodríguez Lamas, Daniel (1984), La presidencia de Frondizi, Buenos Aires: Centro Editor de América Latina. Ro’i, Yaacov (1991), The Struggle for Soviet Jewish Emigration, 1948–1967, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rogger, Hans (1986), Jewish Policies and Right-Wing Politics in Imperial Russia, Berkeley: University of California Press, p. 35.



377

Rosen, Jonathan (2001), “The Uncomfortable Question of Anti-Semitism,” New York Times Magazine, Nov. 4. Rosenbaum-Tamari, J., and Demiam, N. (1996), Five Years of Initial Absorption of Immigrants from the Former USSR (1990 –1995): Report No. 9, Jerusalem: Israel Ministry of Immigrant Absorption. Rouhana, N. N. (1997), Palestinian Citizens in an Ethnic Jewish State: Identities in Conflict, New Haven: Yale University Press. Rubenstein, Joshua (1980), Soviet Dissidents, Boston: Beacon Press. Rubin-Dorsky, Jeffrey, and Fishkin, Shelley Fisher (eds.) (1996), People of the Book: Thirty Scholars Reflect on Their Jewish Identity, Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Rubinstein, A. (1977), To be a Free People, Tel Aviv: Schocken (Hebrew). Russell, S. (1996), Jewish Identity and Civilizing Processes, Basingstoke, UK: Macmillan and New York: St. Martin’s Press. Ryvkina, R. (1996), Jews in Post-Soviet Russia—Who Are They? Moscow: URSS Pub. (Russian). Ryvkina, Rozalina (1996), Evrei v postsovetskoi rossii-kto oni? Moscow (Russian). Sábato, Ernesto (1960), “Viva Eichmann, mueren los judíos,” El Mundo, Aug. 24 St. John, Robert (1972), Eban, Garden City, NY: Doubleday. Salpeter, Eliyahu (1999), “Privatizing the War on Antisemitism in the CIS,” Ha"aretz, Nov. 24 (Hebrew). Sandler, Shmuel (1987), “Is There a Jewish Foreign Policy?” The Jewish Journal of Sociology 29(2), pp. 115–122. Santander, Silvano (1961), El gran proceso: Eichmann y el nazismo ante la justicia, Buenos Aires: Ediciones Silva. Sarna, Jonathan D. (1981), Jacksonian Jew: the Two Worlds of Mordecai Noah, New York: Holmes and Meier, pp. 15–33. Satanovsky, Eugene (2001), “Reconstructing Jewish Life in the Post-Communist World: A View From Moscow,” in Khanin, Vladimir (ed.), Jewish Politics and Communal Leadership in the Post-Communist World (special issue of Jewish Political Studies Review 13[3–4]), forthcoming. Schatzki, T. R. (1996), Social Practices: A Wittgensteinian Approach to Human Activity and the Social, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schers, David, Baron, Salo W., and Wise, George S. (eds.) (1977), “Antisemitism in Latin America,” Violence and Defense in the Jewish Experience, Philadelphia, Jewish Publication Society of America. Schmelz, E. and DellaPergola, S. (1974), The Demography of the Jews in Argentina and Other Countries of Latin America, Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University (Hebrew). Schmueli, A. (1980), The Seven Jewish Cultures, Tel Aviv: Bialik Institute (Hebrew). Schweid, E. (1996), Post-Zionism Zionism, Jerusalem: Zionist Library (Hebrew). ——— (1991), “Zionist National Theology at its Inception,” The Re-return, Jerusalem: Akademon (Hebrew). ——— (1983), Yes, Negation of the Diaspora, Jerusalem: World Zionist Organization, Department for Education and Culture in the Diaspora (Hebrew). Scott, George (1990), “A Resynthesis of the Primordial and Circumstantial Approaches to Ethnic Group Solidarity: Towards an Explanatory Model,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 13(2) (April). Sebreli, J. J. (1968), La cuestión judía en la Argentina, Buenos Aires: Editorial Tiempo Contemporáneo, p. 149. ——— (1958), “La cuestión judía,” in La Luz, May 2. Segev, T. (1993), The Seventh Million: The Israelis and the Holocaust, tr. Haim Watzman, New York, Hill and Wang. Seibel, Beatriz (1999), Crónicas de la Semana Trágica, Buenos Aires: Corrigedor. Semana Judaica 2(3) (Feb. 1999) and 2(4) (March 1999). Senkman, L. (2000), “O Brasil de Vargas e as relacoes diplomaticas com Israel:

378



Analise comparativa com a Argentina, 1949–1955,” in dos Santos, N.B. (org), Brasil e Israel, Brasilia (ed.) UNB, pp. 115–147. ——— (1991), Argentina, la Segunda Guerra Mundial y los refugiados indeseables, 1933–1945, Buenos Aires: Grupo Editor Latinoamericano. ——— (1989), “El antisemitismo bajo dos experiencias democráticas,” Senkman, L. (ed.), El antisemitismo en la Argentina, 3 vols., 2nd ed., Buenos Aires: Centro Editor de América Latina. Shafir, G. (1996), “Israeli Society: A Counterview,” Israel Studies 2. ——— (1989), Land, Labor and the Origins of the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict 1882–1914, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Shafir, G., and Peled, Y. (eds.) (2000), The New Israel: Peacemaking and Liberalization. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Shalev, M. (1996), “Time for Theory: Critical Notes on Lissak and Sternhell,” Israel Studies 2. Shamir, R. (2000), The Colonies of Law: Colonialism, Zionism, and Law in Early Mandate Palestine, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Shapira, Y. (1996), A Society Captive to Politicians, Tel Aviv: Sifriat Hapoalim (Hebrew). Shapiro, E. S. (1992), A Time for Healing: American Jewry since World War II, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Sharki, Rafi (2000), “Vstrecha koordinatorov Vsemimogo Kongressa Bukharskikh evreev,” Vesti, May 25 (Russian). Shavit, Y. (1984), From Hebrew to Canaanite, Jerusalem: Domino and Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University (Hebrew). Sheffer, G. (2002), Diaspora Politics; At Home Abroad, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ——— (1998), “The Israeli Diaspora,” The Jewish Yearbook, London: Vallentine Mitchell. ——— (1994), “Ethno-National Diasporas and Security,” Survival, 36(1). ——— (1986), “A New Field of Study: Modern Diasporas in International Politics,” in Sheffer, G. (ed.), Modern Diasporas in International Politics, London: Croom Helm. Sheleg, Yair (2001), “Urgent Fund-Raising is Needed,” Ha"aretz, Dec. 12 (Hebrew). Silberstein, L. J. (1999), The Postzionism Debates: Knowledge and Power in Israeli Culture, New York: Routledge. Sivan, Emmanuel (1988), Arab Political Myths, Tel Aviv: Am Oved (Hebrew). Sklare, M. (1955), Conservative Judaism: An American Religious Movement, Glencoe: The Free Press (2nd edition by Schocken Books, 1972). Sklare, M. (1967), Jewish Identity on the Suburban Frontier, New York: Basic Books. ——— (ed.) (1957), The Jews: Social Patterns of an American Group, Glencoe: The Free Press. Slutsky, Boris (1999), “Evreiskoye Schast’ye,” Vesty-Okna (Tel Aviv), Nov. 11 (Russian). Smith, A. (1987), The Ethnic Origins of Nations, Oxford: Basil Blackwell. ——— (1981), The Ethnic Revival in the Modern World, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ——— (1991), National Identity, London: Penguin. Soloveitchik, Rabbi J. B. (1979), “But From There You Will Seek,” Hadarom, Tishre 5739 (Hebrew). Sorj, B. (1997), “Sociabilidade Brasileira e identidade judaica,” in Sorj, B. (org.), Identidades Judaicas no Brasil Contemporaneo, Rio de Janeiro: Imago, pp. 9–31. Sowell, T. (1996), Migrations and Cultures; a World View, New York: Basic Books. Spolsky, B., and Shoamy, E. (1999), The Languages of Israel: Policy, Ideology and Practice, Clevedon (UK) and Buffalo: Multilingual Matters, pp. 234–248. Stanislawski, Michael (1983), Tsar Nicholas I and the Jews, Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society.



379

Stock, E. (1988), Chosen Instrument—The Jewish Agency in the First Decade of the State of Israel, Jerusalem and New York: Herzl Press. ——— (1987), “Israel and the Diaspora,” in Zameret, Z., and Yablonka, H. (eds.), The First Decade—1948–1958, Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi (Hebrew). Strudel, Sylvie (1996), Votes Juifs, Paris: Presses de Sciences Po. Sun-ki Chai (1996), “A Theory of Ethnic Group Boundaries,” Nations and Nationalism, 2(2). Susser, Bernard, and Liebman, Charles S. (1999), Choosing Survival: Strategies for a Jewish Future, New York: Oxford University Press. Szapochnik, J., and Kurtunes, W. M. (1980), “Acculturation, Biculturalism and Adjustment among Cuban Americans,” in Padila, A. M. (ed.), Acculturation: Theory, Models and Some New Findings, Boulder, CO: Westview Press, pp. 139–159. Szusterman, Celia (1993), Frondizi and the Politics of Developmentalism in Argentina, London: Macmillan. Tal, U. (1984), “Totalitarian Democratic Hermeneutics and Politics in Modern Jewish Religious Nationalism,” in Totalitarian Democracy and After, Jerusalem, pp. 137–157. Taylor, Charles (1994), “The Politiques of Recognition,” in Taylor, C., Multiculturalism and the Politiques of Recognition, Princeton: Princeton University Press, p. 51. Thiesse, Anne-Marie (1999), La Création des identités nationales, Paris: Le Seuil. Tokes, Rudolf L. (ed.) (1975), Dissent in the USSR., Baltimore and London, Johns Hopkins University Press. Tolts, Mark (1999), “Jews in Russia: A Decade of Demographic Decline,” Jews in Eastern Europe, 3(40), pp. 5–36. ——— (1996), “The Jewish Population of Russia, 1989–1995,” Jews in Eastern Europe, No. 3(31), pp. 5–17. ——— (1992), “Jewish Marriages in the USSR: A Demographic Analysis,” East European Jewish Affairs 22(2). Touraine, A. (1992), Critique de la modernité, Paris: Fayard. Tov, Moshe (1983), El murmullo de Israel, Jerusalem: La Semana Publicaciones. Tribalat, Michèle (1996), De l’immigration à l’assimilation, Paris: La Découverte. Tribuna Judaica, (1998) no. 28 (October). Tsur, Yaacov (1981), Credential No. 4, Tel Aviv: Ma’ariv (Hebrew), pp. 111–112. UJC (2002), Update on Argentinian Crisis, Mar. 9. United Nations Development Program (2001), Human Development Report 2001, New York. V. Safra (1998), Editorial, Morasha 6(21). Van Hear, N. (1998), New Diasporas, London: UCL Press. ——— (1993), “Mass Flights in the Middle East,” in Black, R., and Rodinson, V. eds., Geography and Refugees: Patterns and Processes of Change, London: Belhaven. Verdery, Katherine (1985), “The Unmaking of an Ethnic Collectivity: Transylvania’s Germans,” American Ethnologist 12(1). Vieillard-Baron, Hervé (1994), Les banlieues françaises ou le ghetto impossible, Paris: Editions de l’Aube. Vital, D. (1999), A People Apart: The Jews in Europe 1789 –1939, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Walter, Richard J. (1993), “The Right and Peronists, 1943–1955,” in Deutsch, Sandra McGee, and Dolkart, Ronald H. (eds.), The Argentine Right: Its Historical and Intellectual Origins, 1910 to the Present, Wilmington, DE: SR Books, pp. 99–118. Waxman, Chaim I. (2001), Jewish Baby Boomers: A Communal Perspective, Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Webber, J. (1994), “Modern Jewish Identities,”in Webber, J. (ed.) Jewish Identities in the New Europe, London; Washington: Oxford Centre for Postgraduate Hebrew Studies, Littman Library of Jewish Civilization.

380



Weiner, M. (1991), The Impact of Nationalism, Ethnicity and Religion on International Conflict, Boston: MIT Center for International Studies. Weinfeld, A., Lev Avraham Responsa I(129) (Hebrew). Weingrod, A. (1990), The Saint of Beersheba, Albany: State University of New York Press. Weisbrot, Robert (1979), The Jews of Argentina: From the Inquisition to Perón, Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America. Weiss, Myron (1945), “For Justice and Peace,” Liberal Judaism (Dec.), pp. 5–9. Wilgoren, Jodi (2002), “Unusually Unified in Solidarity with Israel, but Also Unusually Unnerved,” New York Times, Apr. 22. Wistrich, Robert (1990), Between Redemption and Perdition—Modern Anti-Semitism and Jewish Identity, London and New York: Routledge. Wittgenstein, L. (1961), Tractatus logico-philosophicus and Investigations philosophiques, tr. P. Klossowski, Paris: Gallimard. Yablonka, H. (1994), Foreign Brethren: Holocaust Survivors in the State of Israel, 1948–1952, Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi and Ben-Gurion University of the Negev. Yagupsky, M., “La Nueva Armonia,” Comentario (Oct.–Dec. 1953), pp. 58–64. Yedidya, Vera (1991), “The Struggle for Hebrew Studies in the Soviet Union,” in Ro"i, Yaacov, and Beker, Avi (eds.), Jewish Culture and Identity in the Soviet Union, New York and London: New York University Press, pp. 136–167. Yitzhak, Yoav (2001), “Here’s How the European Union Meddles in Israel’s Political Affairs,” Ma"ariv, June 22 (Hebrew). Young, J. (1993), The Texture of Memory: Holocaust Memorials and Meaning, New Haven: Yale University Press. Zand, Michael (1991), “Notes on the Culture of the Non-Ashkenazi Jewish Communities under Soviet Rule,” in Ro"i, Yaacov, and Beker, Avi (eds.), Jewish Culture and Identity in the Soviet Union, New York: New York University Press, pp. 378–441. Zenner, Walter (ed.) (1988), Persistence and Flexibility: Anthropological Perspectives on the American Jewish Experience, Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Zilberg, Narspi (2000), “Russko-evreiskaia intelligentsia v Izraile: poisk novylh modelei itegratsii,” in Fedorchenko, A, and Epstein, A. (eds.), Migration Processes and their Influence on Israeli Society, Moscow: Institute for Israeli and Middle Eastern Studies, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, and The Open University of Israel (Russian). Zohar, Zvi, and Sagi, Avraham (1994), Conversion and Jewish Identity, Jerusalem: Bialik Institute and Hartman Institute (Hebrew).

CONTRIBUTORS Eliezer Ben-Rafael holds the Weinberg Chair of Political Sociology. He is president of the International Institute of Sociology and codirector of the Klal Israel project at Tel Aviv University. Pierre Birnbaum is professor of political sociology at the University of Paris. His books include Sociology of the State (with B. Badie) (1981), The Jews of the Republic (1994), The Idea of France (2001) and, recently, The Antisemite Moment and A Tour of France in 1898 (2002). Michael A. Chlenov has been dean of the Moscow-based Maimonides State Jewish Academy, where he chairs the Department of Hebrew and Jewish studies. Since 1998 he has been deputy director of the Center for Jewish Studies and Jewish Civilization, a joint project of Moscow State University and the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Sergio DellaPergola is professor at the Avraham Harman Institute of Contemporary Jewry of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and chaired the Institute in 1991, 1994–1998, and 2000–2001. He has published numerous books and monographs. In 1999, he won the Marshall Sklare Award for distinguished achievement from the Association for the Social Scientific Study of Jewry. Henry L. Feingold is director of the Jewish Resource Center of Baruch College of City University of New York and professor emeritus of American Jewish history at the Graduate Center of his university. Ruth Gavison is the Haim H. Cohn Professor of Human Rights at the Hebrew University and a senior fellow of the Israel Democracy Institute. In recent years, she has worked with Rabbi Yaakov Medan on aspects of Israel as a Jewish and democratic state, on a new understanding between religious and nonreligious Jews in Israel, and on the multiple dimensions of contemporary Jewish identities. Zvi Gitelman is professor of political science and Preston R. Tisch Professor of Judaic Studies at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. He is the author or editor of numerous books and articles on Soviet, post-Soviet, East European and Israeli politics.

382



Yosef Goldstein is the director and supervisor of programs for Senior Educators of the Diaspora ( Jewish Agency for Israel, Department of Education), a member of the AMILAT research group on Latin American Jewry, and a member of the Judaica Latinoamericana editorial board. Yosef Gorny is the Siegel professor of the history of European Jewry at the Department of Jewish History at Tel Aviv University. He was formerly head of the Institute for Zionist Research at Tel Aviv University and is currently the academic chair of the Ben-Gurion Heritage Center at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev. Vladimir Khanin is associate professor of political science at the Cummings Institute for Russian and East European Studies, Tel Aviv University and the Lookstein Center for Jewish Education in the Diaspora, BarIlan University. Maurice Konopnicki teaches at the University of Mons-Hainaut (Belgium) and was senior lecturer at the University of Haifa. He is guest lecturer in several universities in Europe and Israel. Natan Lerner teaches international law at Tel Aviv University and Herzliya Interdisciplinary Center. The holder of an L.L.D. degree from Buenos Aires University, he is the author of several books and many articles on human rights and discrimination. Charles Liebman has retired as the Yehuda Avner Professor of Religion and Politics at Bar-Ilan University. His major research interests and publications revolve around the topic of contemporary Jewish religion and politics. Marina Niznick is associated with the Cummings Center for Russian and East European Studies at Tel Aviv University and is involved in projects that explore the acculturation of Russian immigrants in Israel. In 2002, she completed her postdoctorate research on the acculturation of Russian adolescents in Israel. David Ohana is a senior lecturer at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev and the Ben-Gurion Heritage Center at Sede Boqer. He specializes in contemporary Jewish-Israeli identity and culture. Shalom Ratzabi is senior lecturer in the Department of Jewish History at Tel Aviv University, specializing in Jewish theology in the modern era in Israel and the United States.



383

Raanan Rein is professor of history and director of the Institute of Latin American History and Culture at Tel Aviv University. His books have been published in Hebrew, English, and Spanish, and focus on South America and Spain. Yaacov Ro’i is professor of history of Tel Aviv University and has been head of the Cummings Center for Russian and Eastern European Studies. He has published a number of books on Jewish history and Soviet-Israeli relations. Gabriel Sheffer is associate professor of political science at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. He is visiting professor at Cornell University, and other universities in the US and Australia. He was awarded the Prime Minister’s Prize for his political biography of Moshe Sharett. Ofer Shiff is director of the Ben-Gurion Research Center at BenGurion University of the Negev and of the Israel Studies Program. Chaim I. Waxman is professor of sociology and Jewish studies at Rutgers University and author of, inter alia, Jewish Baby Boomers: A Communal Perspective (State University of New York Press, 2001). Michel Wieviorka is professor at the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales (EHESS, Paris), and the Director of the Centre d’Intervention et d’Analyse Sociologiques (CADIS, founded by Alain Touraine). He is coeditor of Les Cahiers Internationaux de Sociologie, and a member of several editorial or advisory boards. He is currently a member of the Executive Committee of the International Sociological Association.

INDEX AAJFSU (American Association of Jews from the Former Soviet Union) 226 absorption of immigrants 105 n2 in Israel 54, 69, 104–105, 228, 231 acculturation 239–240 of Jews in Soviet Union 189, 204 of Russian Jews in Israel 237, 252 see also assimilation; integration activism, Jewish, in FSU 205 Agassi, Yosef 112 age compositions, of Jewish population 55–56 Agudath Israel 20, 360 Aguinis, Marcus 298–299, 300 Ahad Ha"am (Asher Ginzberg) 138, 291, 292, 294 AJC see American Jewish Committee (AJC) Al-Aqsa (Second) Intifada 71, 362 Alef ( journal) 111 n6 Algeria, decolonization of 257 Alianza Libertadora Nacionalista (Argentina) 309, 311 Altshuler, Mordechai 222 am olam (a universal people) 16, 360 Amadeo, Mario 326 American Association of Jews from FSU (AAJFSU) 226 American Council for Judaism and Reform organizations 172 American Jewish Committee (AJC) 293, 294, 310 American Jewish Yearbook 310 American Jewry 143, 267 and antisemitism in Argentina 310, 311–312 assimilation of 149 identities of 4–5, 135, 136, 143–145, 147–150, 171, 173, 177, 178, 199, 201, 355–356 among baby boomers 151–160 immigration from Eastern Europe 143–144 integration of 169, 177 intermarriage among 145, 149, 152, 156, 203, 211 and Israel 135–137, 142, 154–155, 355

knowledge of Hebrew and Yiddish 156 leadership role of 138–139 political behavior of 146–147 and ‘rescue’ of Soviet Jewry 138–140 sense of security of 158–159 and separation of church and state 146 n3 survival threats to 4, 134, 136, 137, 140–142, 149, 150, 160, 161–163, 168–169 Zionism among 133, 134–136, 142, 163, 293 American Joint Jewish Distribution Committee 306 American liberalism, commitment of American Jews to 146–147 Amyot, Robert 213 Anderson, Benedict 15 anti-Zionism 134 among American Jews 133 and antisemitism 284, 286–287 in Belgium 283–284, 287 in France 264 antisemitism 1 and anti-Zionism 284, 286–287 in Argentina 297, 300, 303, 309–312, 313, 319, 325, 327–331, 336, 340 protests against 331–332 reactions of Argentinean Jewry 329, 332–334, 336 in Belgium 6, 282–283, 285–286 in Europe 283 in France 6, 256, 262–264, 266–267, 272–273, 275–278, 280–281 maintaining Jewish identity 211, 214–215, 262 modern 346 in Soviet Union 186–187, 212 Arab Israelis 103, 109–110, 116, 241, 354 Russian-Jewish teenagers’ attitude towards 242 Arab nationalism 70 Arab-Israeli conflict, demographic aspects of 60–61

386



Arabic language, used in Israel 109 Aramburu, Pedro Eugenio 320 Argentina antisemitism in 297, 300, 303, 309–312, 313, 319, 325, 327–331, 336, 340 protests against 331–332 reactions of Argentinean Jewry 329, 332–334, 336 Catholic Church in 312 disappearances 337 economic crises in 306, 307, 319, 332, 335, 337–340 Eichmann affair 321–324, 325–328, 331, 334 immigration policies in 312–313 military in 330 nationalists in 328 Nazi criminals taking refuge in 325 Peronism in 330 political system in 339 relations with State of Israel 314–318, 320–324, 332, 334 Argentinean Jewry 6–7, 293–294, 297, 303–304, 324–325, 335–336 and Argentinean antisemitism 329, 332–334, 336 and economic crisis 337–340 and Eichmann affair 325–327 emigration 333–334, 339–340 to Israel 306–307, 333, 340 identities of 300 participation in government 318–319 and Perón 308–309, 311, 313–314, 316, 336 poverty among 306, 307 and state of Israel 294–295, 297–300, 302–303, 307–308, 334 and terror attack on community institutions 299–300, 337 Zionism among 300–302, 303 Aron, Raymond 259 arsim (bastards) 242 Ashkenazim 240, 360 Russian-Jewish teenagers’ attitude towards 243 assimilation of Jews 124 in France 255–257 in Soviet Union 183–186, 189 in United States 149 of migrants 30, 32–33

Association of Repatriates from the USSR (Israel) 229 Australia, Jewish immigrants from FSU 217 authority patterns, dual 37 Avida, Mordecai 319 Avidar, Yosef 330 Avni, Haim 319 baby boomer generation, in American Jewry 151–160 Bar-Yehuda, Israel 320 Barbie, Klaus 261 Barnett, José Mazar 319, 325 Baron, Salo 12, 13, 18 Belgium anti-Zionism in 283–284, 287 antisemitism in 6, 282–283, 285–286 Jewish identities in 6, 282, 285–287, 356 Muslim minority in 283–284 Bellah, Robert 158 Ben-Gurion, David 98, 292, 293, 321, 323 asking Jewish intellectuals to define Jewish identity 351–353 Ben-Rafael, Eliezer 3, 7, 113, 143, 236, 240, 243, 381 Berek, Jenya 225 n10 Berger, Nathan 296 Berger, Peter 160 Berkovits, Rabbi Eliezer 84, 85, 86, 91 Bernstein, Rabbi Philip 174 ‘beyond Zionism’ 114, 115 Bin Laden, Osama, calling for jihad against Crusader-Jewish alliance 70 Birnbaum, Pierre 6, 381 Birobidzhan, Jewish Autonomous Region in Soviet Union 187–188 birth rates, Jewish 50 Blaustein, Isidoro 299 Blaustein, Jacob 293 Blejer, David 318 Bloom, Rabbi Herbert I. 174 Bogoraz, Larisa 209 Boniface, Pascal 278–279 boundaries of ethnic identities 240 of Jewishness 4, 195–196, 202–204, 208–212

 Braude, Rabbi William G. 172–173, 174, 175 Brazil, multiculturalism in 296 Brazilian Jewry 293–294, 296, 303, 304 and State of Israel 295, 296–297, 302–303 Zionism among 296, 297 Breyter, Isaac 319 Bukharan Jews, in United States 226 The Bund 14, 20, 204 n7, 349, 350, 351, 361 Butoshanski, Jacob 295 Canaanism 111, 354, 361 challenging Zionism 73–74 see also neo-Canaanism Canada, Russian-Jewish communities in 225, 226–227 caste 345 model of Jewish identity 346, 351, 358 Catholic Church and antisemitism in France 276–277 influence in Argentina 312 CCAR (Central Conference of American Rabbis) 166–167, 168, 172–175 Center for Equal Opportunity and Opposition to Racism (Belgium) 286 Central Europe, emigration of Jews to France 256 Chanes, Jerome 146 n3 Chervyakov, Valery 197 Chief Rabbinate, prayer at Independence Day 87, 88 Chirac, Jacques 262 Chlenov, Mikhail 211, 381 ‘Chosen People’, concept of 345 Christianity boundaries with Judaism 195 Jews from FSU attracted to 201–203 church and state, separation of among American Jewry 146 n3 in Israel 122–123 citizenship determination of 119–120 and identity 281 CJF (Council of Jewish Federations, US) 225

387

Clermont-Tonnerre, Count Stanislas de 255 Cohen, Steven 153, 157 collective identity aspects of 3, 98, 343–344 and family resemblance 357, 358 Jewish see Jewish identities collective memory, Israeli, Holocaust awareness in 67–68 Colodenco, Daniel 301–302 colonialism, Zionism likened to 69, 71, 72, 113–114 commandment to remember (Zakhor) 86 Commonwealth of Jewish people (Klal Yisrael ) 1, 2, 7 changing perceptions of 11, 16, 18–20, 42 maintaining of 292 modern approaches to 13–14, 20–22 schisms in 264 communitarization, in France 271–272, 274–275, 280 communities diaspora 25 n1, 30, 133, 136, 137 Jewish 35, 43, 52, 54–55 in France 261, 262 in FSU 218, 220, 224, 268 Russian 216, 217–221, 224–227, 228–234, 230, 237 voluntary confederation of 15 virtual 159 conflict sociology, school of 105 n2 conflicts Arab-Israeli 60–61 diasporas predisposed to 37, 39–40 ideological, in Israel 110–115 over admission and inclusion in the Jewish collective 60 consciousness, Jewish among Russian Jews 217–218 imagined collective 15–16 Conservative Judaism 13–14, 20, 348, 350, 362 Conservative Judaism: An American Religious Movement (Sklare) 143 consolidationist approach, towards ethnicity 46 Controversia ( journal) 301–302

388



conversion from Judaism to another religion 203–204 to Judaism 122 n2, 145 core Jewish population 47–48, 49 Correo de la Tarde (newspaper) 321 Council of Jewish Federations (CJF, US) 225 covenant with God, of Jewish people 83, 84–85, 90, 91 CRIF (Conseil Représentatif des Institutions Juives de France) 266, 362 Crusader myth of Zionism 65, 69–70 counter-myth used by Israelis 71 in post-Zionist ideology 71–72, 73 used by Islamic fundamentalists 70–71 Cukierman, Roger 266 culture and identity, in Israel 123–124 Israeli 96–98 Jewish 127, 350 in Soviet Union 223 Russian, among Russian-Jews in Israel 107, 108, 235–236, 237, 243, 245 shifts in, in modern societies 157, 158 ‘thick’ and ‘thin’ 196 DAIA (Delegación de Asociaciones Israelitas Argentinas) 336 Dan, Y. 74 Davar ( journal) 294 de Clermont-Tonnerre, Count Stanislas 255 de Gaulle, General Charles 259 de la Rúa, Fernando 308, 339 de Pablo Pardo, Luis María 323 de San Martín, General José 321 de-Stalinization, in Soviet Union 188–189 de-Zionization, of Israeli society 112, 354 Delanoe, Bertrand 266 DellaPergola, Sergio 2, 94, 381 democracy in host countries 35 and Jewish character of Israel 123 and Reform Movement in United States 169–170 demography, Jewish 2–3, 47 deterministic Messianism 75–76

Diamand, Imanuel 229 n11 Diana, Pablo 313 diaspora communities 25 n1, 30 Jewish 35, 43, 52 survival threat to 133, 136, 137 see also Jewish communities Diaspora Jewry 26, 34 exile ( galut) experience as element of Jewish identity 14, 26 governance of 139, 140 Jewish identity in 196, 354–355 similarities with other diasporas 26–44 and State of Israel 7, 21–22, 42, 43, 96, 97, 126–127, 134–135, 291–292, 294–295, 304, 305 uniqueness of 23–24 Zionist views on 96, 110–111 diasporans assertiveness of 40–41 avoiding intermarriage 33 dual loyalty of 37 and ethnonational identities 31–33 migrating from host countries 29–30 solidarity among 36–37 strategies available to 35 diasporas contribution to host societies’ welfare 40 core members of 41 ethnonational 24, 25 n1, 33 and host countries 28–30, 32–33 and Jewish diaspora 26–44 relations with homelands 38–39, 39–40 state-linked 37 transnational 2, 15 diasporic networks 38–39 diasporic organizations 34–35, 38–39 pluralism of 36 potential authority conflicts with host country and homeland 37 diasporic people, Jews transformed from exilic people into 21, 40 diasporic roots, cultivation of, in Israeli Jewish identities 68 diasporism, transnational 1 dina de-malkhuta dina (the law of the state is the law) 281, 360 Dinur, Benzion 12, 13, 18 dissident movement, in Soviet Union, Jewish role in 189 divorce rates, among Jews 55

 Doctors’ Plot (1953, Soviet Union) 186, 187, 188–189 Donitsa-Schmidt, S. 236–237, 243 Dreyfus Affair 256 commemoration of 266 Drumont, Edouard 256 dual authority patterns 37 Dubnow, Simon 12, 13, 14, 18, 20, 292 Dumont, L. 345 Eastern Europe, emigration to United States 143–144 Eban, Abba 321, 325 economic crises, in Argentina 306, 307, 319, 332, 335, 337–340 economic performance, of State of Israel 52, 320 eda (ethnic group) 103, 104, 360 education higher, among Soviet Jews 185, 191 Reform system of 167 Eichmann Affair 321–323, 325, 327, 331 Eisen, Arnold 153, 157 Eisendrath, Rabbi Morris 175–176 Eliaschev, P. 300 elites in Israel 96, 97, 106, 240 religious 105, 106 Russian-Jewish 220–221, 224, 228 emancipation of Jews 1, 163 in France 6, 255 and Jewish identity 346 English language, used in Israel 97 enlarged Jewish population 48 Enlightenment, Jewish (Haskala) 163, 348–349, 350, 351, 360 La Epoca (newspaper) 310 Eretz Yisrael (Land of Israel) see Land of Israel El Espacio Comunitario (The Community Space, Nudel) 300–301 ethnic groups 195 in Israel 103–110, 240, 246 ethnic identities 152, 194, 239–240 ethnicity 46–47 as basis for political power 107, 108 and language 204 and religion, in Jewish identities 143, 150, 201–203

389

in Soviet Union 198 symbolic 152–153 ethnicization of Jews in France 259, 262, 263, 270–271 of politics in France 278–280 ‘ethnics’, ‘white’ 108 ethnocultural model, of Jewish identity 352, 353, 355–356 ethnonational diasporas 24, 25 n1, 33 and host countries 28–30, 32–33 and Jewish diaspora 26–44 ethnonational identities, maintained by diasporans 31–33 Ettinger, Shmuel 13 Europe, antisemitism in 283 European societies, influence on modern Jewish history 11 European Union, support for Russian-Jewish organizations in Israel 230 n12 Evron, Boaz 111–112 exile ( galut) 360 nature of Diaspora 26 and State of Israel 81–82, 291 Zionist views of 14 exiles, ‘ingathering of ’, in Israel 94, 361 exilic people, Jews transformed into diasporic people 21, 40 Ezcurra, Alberto 331 Fackenheim, Emil 71, 84, 86–89, 91 family resemblance 343–344, 357, 358 Fascism, challenging liberalism 173–174 Feingold, Henry L. 4, 133, 381 fertility rates, Jewish in Israel 55 worldwide 58 Fishman, J. A. 240, 252 foreign policy, of State of Israel 308, 334 former Soviet Union see FSU (former Soviet Union) Foster, Ricardo 302 France anti-Zionism in 264 antisemitism in 6, 256, 262–264, 266–267, 272–273, 275–278, 280–281 communitarization in 271–272, 274–275, 280

390



ethnicization of politics in 278–280 government policies on Israel 259 Holocaust remembrance in 261 immigration in 274 Jewish communities in 261, 262 multiculturalism in 270, 271, 274 North African immigrants in 280 n3 racial tensions in 263 Republican model 256–257, 261–262, 263, 264, 269–270 support for far-Right 266 La France Juive (Drumont) 256 Freehof, Rabbi Solomon 175 French Jewry 6, 264–265, 268, 270, 280, 356 assimilation of 255–257 emancipation of 6, 255 ethnicization of 259, 262, 263, 270–271 identification with the state 260, 265, 268–269, 272, 274 identities of 255–265, 269, 270, 356 immigration from Central Europe 256 immigration from North Africa 257–258, 271 integration of 257, 269 religious visibility of 260–261 and State of Israel 258–259, 261, 264 status within France 273, 274 voting behavior of 279 French Revolution and emancipation of Jews 255 and Jewish collective identity 11–12 Friedman, M. 241 Frondizi, Arturo 318, 319–320, 321, 322, 330 and Eichmann affair 323–324, 327 FSU (former Soviet Union) emigration and Jewish activism 205 to Australia 217 to Germany 217 to Israel 68, 107–109, 116, 140, 199, 216, 218, 228–233, 235, 354 to South Africa 219 to United States 201, 216, 237 Jewish communities in 218, 220, 224, 268

Jewish identity in 195, 198–199, 201–215, 217 Jewish organizations in 205, 223–224 Russian Jewish population in 48–49, 216 fundamentalism Islamic 70–71 and multiculturalism 296 rise in 295 Galperin, Michael 216 n4 galut (exile) 360 nature of Diaspora 26 and State of Israel 81–82, 291 Zionist views of 14 Gans, Herbert 152–153 Gaulle, General Charles de 259 Gavison, Ruth 4, 381 Gentiles, defining Jewish identity 119, 211 Germany Jewish immigrants from FSU 217 Russian Jewish communities in 219 Gesharei Aliya (Immigration Bridges) 229, 360 Ginzberg, Asher (Ahad Ha"am) 138, 291, 292, 294 Gitelman, Zvi 5, 191, 193, 381 Glassman, Aleks 229 globalization 16, 45–46, 295 Glueck, Nelson 170 God covenant of Jewish people with 83, 84–85, 90, 91 and Jewish identity 345, 349 Gola see Diaspora Goldmann, Nahum 292 Goldstein, Yossef 6, 382 Goldstraj, Zenón 319 ‘good Jew’, notion of 157 Gorny, Yosef 2, 291–292, 382 Gouri, Haim 73 Graetz, Zvi Heinrich 12, 13, 18 Greenberg, Hayyim 292–293 Greenberg, Irving 89 Greenblum, Joseph 157 Greilsammer, Ilan 264–265 Grin, Monica 297 growth rates, in world Jewry 49–50 Guido, José María 330–331

 Gush Emunim (Bloc of the Faithful) 100–101, 360 neo-Canaanism of 65, 74–75 Gutnizky, Luis 319 Guzmán, Benjamín 320 Ha-behira ha-Democratit (Democratic Choice) 233, 360 Ha"aretz (newspaper) 307, 326 Habermas, Jurgen 270 Hajdenberg, Henry 262 halakha (Talmudic law) 360 and Jewish identity 18, 353 haredim (ultra-Orthodox) 360 choice of language 98–99, 117, 350 definition of Jewish identity 99, 351 and Israeli society 98–100, 102, 105, 117, 241 and Mizrahi religious elite 105, 106 Russian-Jewish teenagers’ attitude towards 242 Harel, Israel 72 Hartman, Rabbi D. 81, 85, 89–90, 91, 92 Hasidism 344 Haskala ( Jewish Enlightenment) 163, 348–349, 350, 351, 360 Hebrew Immigrant Aid Services (HIAS, Canada and US) 225 Hebrew language as a means to maintain culture 127 promoted by Zionists 350 revival of 94–95, 119 use by American Jews 156 by Arab Israelis 110, 117 by Brazilian Jews 295, 296 by Conservative movement 350 by haredim 98–99, 117 in Israeli society 117 by National-Religious community 100, 117 by native born Israelis (sabras) 96, 117 by Russian-Jewish Israelis 247, 249 Hebrew Union College 169, 170 Hebrews, denoting Jews in Israel 110, 111, 354 Hervieu-Léger, D. 344 HIAS (Hebrew Immigrant Aid Services, Canada and US) 225

391

Hidalgo, Ignacio Palacios 321 hierarchy of needs (Maslow) 157–158 Hilkhot Melakhim (Rules of Kings, Maimonides) 83, 84 hilula (festive visit to the tomb of a saint) 105 n3 history Jewish 11, 12–13, 18 revisionist 76–77 Holocaust 1, 141 and challenge to Jewish survival in modern societies 162–163, 164–165 identification with victims of 171–180 and Israel 67–68, 79, 80, 86, 87–89, 170–171, 179–180 and Reform Judaism 165, 166–168, 170, 171–180 remembrance of, in France 261 and Six-Day War (1967) 86 and Soviet Jewry 186 survivors of, and emigration to Argentina 312 homelands potential authority conflicts with diasporic organizations 37 relations with diasporas 38–39, 39–40 Hornsby, Anne M. 159 Horowitz, Bethamie 153 host countries democratic 35 diasporans migrating from 29–30 diasporas contributing to welfare of 40 distrust of diaspora networks 38–39 and ethnonational diasporas 28–30, 32–33 minority status of migrants 30–31 potential authority conflicts with diasporic organizations 37 Hutte, Hermann 72 hybridization of ethnonational diasporas 33 of Jewish identity 42–43 Hyman, Paula 274 Ibn Sachi, Manhe e-Din 70–71 identities 194 and citizenship 281 and culture, in Israel 123–124 ethnic 152, 194, 239–240

392



ethnonational 31–33 passive 191 in post-modern era 157, 158 Russian, among immigrants from FSU 243–246, 251, 252 see also collective identities; Jewish identities ideologies increased role of 45 ‘ingathering of exiles’ in Israel 94 in Israel conflicts about 110–115 mamlakhtiut (statism) 96–97, 361 of national integration 95 nationalism 354 Jewish, modern 18, 20–21 post-Zionist 74 Reform 161, 162–163, 164, 179 socialist, hostility of Russian Jews towards 218 universalistic, of Judaism 161–162, 163, 166–167, 171, 178 Zionist 163, 164, 179 Igeret ha-shemad (Letter about conversion, Maimonides) 89 imagined collective Jewish consciousness 15–16 immigrant societies, Israel 95 immigrants, absorption of 105 n2 in Israel 54, 69, 104–105, 228, 231 immigration policies, in Argentina 312–313 Independence Day, Chief Rabbinate’s prayer 87, 88 Information Center for Repatriation Affairs (Soviet Union) 231 Information Center for Soviet Jews (Israel) 231 Inglehart, Roger 157–158 integration ideal of Reform Judaism 169 ideology in Israel 95 of Jews 124, 161–162, 163 American 169, 177 Argentinean 300, 319 French 257, 269 of migrants 30, 32–33 intellectuals, Jewish answering Ben-Gurion on Jewish identity 351–353 anti-Zionism of 134 intermarriage among American Jewry 145, 149, 152, 156, 203, 211

among diasporans 33 among FSU Jewry 211 increases in 55, 149 among Soviet Jewry 185 taboo on 210–211 Internet, and Jewish identities 159–160 Intifada 71, 362 Isajiw, W. W. 240 Islamic fundamentalists, using Crusader myth 70–71 Israel absorption of immigrants in 54, 69, 104–105, 228, 231 and American Jewry 135–137, 142, 154–155, 355 and Argentinean Jewry 294–295, 297–300, 302–303, 306–308, 334 and Brazilian Jewry 295, 296–297, 302–303 culture in 97–98, 123–124 de-Zionization of 112, 354 and Diaspora 7, 21–22, 42, 43, 96, 97, 126–127, 134–135, 291–292, 293, 294–295, 303, 304, 305 economic performance of 52, 320 elites in 96, 97, 105, 106, 240 establishment of State of 1, 19, 66, 81–82 ethnic groups in 103–110, 240, 246 foreign policy of 308, 334 and French Jewry 258–259, 261, 264 and Holocaust 67–68, 79, 80, 86, 87–89, 170–171, 179–180 ideologies in conflicts 110–115 ‘ingathering of exiles’ 94 mamlakhtiut (statism) 96–97, 361 of national integration 95 nationalism 354 immigrant society 95 and Jewish identity 120–122, 178, 349–350 Jewish organizations in 228–233 languages used in 97, 109, 117 Law of Return in 48, 362 calls for repeal of 112, 119 n1 and definition of Jewish identity 120, 122 and Messianic idea 88, 92 multiculturalism in 103, 108, 109, 110, 116–117, 228, 267–268 nation-building myths of 65, 66–67 personal status laws in 120

 political change in 66–67, 106, 228 registration of nationality and religion 122 n2 relations with Argentina 314–318, 320–324, 332, 334 religion in 98–103 religious significance of 78–80, 82, 84–86, 87, 88–92 safe haven for Jews 136 as a salvation 88 separation of church and state in 122–123 and Soviet Jewry 187, 188, 189–190 survival threat to 133–134, 138 see also Land of Israel (Eretz Yisrael ) Israeli Arabs 103, 109–110, 116, 241, 354 Russian-Jewish teenagers’ attitude towards 242 Israeli Jewish identities 3–4, 65–66, 68, 76, 94, 98, 101–103, 115–116, 124–126, 178–179, 243, 353–354 of Russian Jews 236, 243, 244, 251–252 Israeli Jewish population 3, 50–51, 55, 57, 60, 94 FSU immigrants 68, 107–109, 116, 117, 140, 199, 216, 218, 228–233, 235, 238–239, 240–252, 354 haredim 98–100, 102, 105, 117, 241 majority status of 118, 123 Mizrahim 104–107, 117, 240 National-Religious community 100–101, 102, 117 native born (sabras) 95–96, 117, 244, 361 nonreligious 99, 102, 124–126 pioneers 96, 97 Russian Jewish communities 5, 220, 232–233 Yemenite 103–104 Israeli security forces (Mossad), capture of Adolf Eichmann 321–322, 325 Isserman, Rabbi Ferdinand 166–167 Jabotinsky, Ze"ev 96 Jacobinism 260 Jaffe, Philip 167 Jarchunov, Alberto 294 JDC see ( Joint Distribution Committee, Argentina) Jewish activism, in FSU 205

393

Jewish Agency 231, 293 Jewish Autonomous Region in Soviet Union 187–188 Jewish Baby Boomers: A Communal Perspective (Waxman) 151 Jewish communities 35, 43, 52, 54–55 in France 261, 262 Russian 216, 217, 233–234 in FSU 218, 220, 224 in Germany 219 in Israel 5, 220, 228–233, 237 in North America 220, 225–227, 232 in South Africa 219 voluntary confederation of 15 Jewish consciousness among Russian Jews 217–218 imagined collective 15–16 Jewish diaspora see Diaspora Jewry Jewish Federation of Sao Paulo State 296 Jewish Heritage Society for Soviet Jewry 230 Jewish history 11, 12–13, 18 Jewish identities 1, 2, 7, 42–43, 151, 164, 194, 195–196, 343–345, 356–359 American 4–5, 135, 136, 143–145, 147–150, 171, 173, 177, 178, 199, 201, 355–356 among baby boomers 151–160 in Argentina 300 in Belgium 6, 282, 285–287, 356 caste approach to 346, 351, 358 conservative 348, 350 definitions of 12–13, 18, 47–48, 49, 120–122, 127–128, 165 by American Jews 149, 199 by Gentiles 119, 211 halakhic 18, 353 haredi 99, 351 in Diaspora 196, 354–355 and emancipation of Jews 346 ethnocultural model of 352, 353, 355–356 French 255–265, 269, 270, 356 and French revolution 11–12 in FSU 195, 198–199, 201–215, 217 and God 345, 349 and Internet 159–160 Israeli 3–4, 65–66, 68, 76, 94, 98, 101–103, 115–116, 124–126, 178–179, 243, 353–354

394



of Russian Jews 236, 243, 244, 251–252 and Jewish people 349 and Land of Israel concept 349–350 modern 15, 18–19, 346–359 national model of 352–353 nonreligious 124–127, 137, 200–201, 213–215 normalization quest of 163, 164, 177 Orthodox 348, 350, 351, 353 particularistic versus universalistic tendencies in 16–17, 163–164, 165, 166, 173, 177, 179 pluralism of 19, 356–359 post-modern 159 privatization of 148–149, 153 Reform 348, 350 and religion and ethnicity in 143, 150, 201–203 and nationality in 18–19, 102–103, 111–113 Russian 5, 195, 196–215, 217–234, 234, 243, 356 in Israel 236, 243, 244, 251–252 in Soviet Union 183–193 and Zionism 50, 95, 349, 350, 351, 352 Jewish movement in FSU 224 in Soviet Union 190–191, 223 Jewish nation, and Jewish people 95 Jewish nationalism 1 Jewish organizations in FSU 205, 223–224 in Israel 228–233 in North America 172, 225, 226–227 in Soviet Union 205, 222–223, 230–232 see also diasporic organizations Jewish people aspect of Jewish identity 349 covenant with God 83, 84–85, 90, 91 as ethnicity 46–47 and Jewish nation 95 and Land of Israel 74 transformed from exilic into diasporic people 21, 40 see also Klal Yisrael

Jewish population 49–51, 55–56, 57–59, 59–60 core 47–48, 49 in diaspora 57, 58 enlarged 48 in Israel 3, 50–51, 57, 60, 94 FSU immigrants 68, 107–109, 116, 117, 140, 199, 216, 218, 228–233, 235, 238–239, 240–252, 354 haredim 98–100, 102, 105, 117 immigrants from FSU 107–109, 116, 117 Mizrahim 104–107, 117, 240 National-Religious community 100–101, 102, 117 native born (sabras) 95–96, 117, 244, 361 pioneers 96, 97 Yemenite 103–104 in Russian Republic 48–49, 216 transnational mobility of 53–54 in United States 48, 58–59 Soviet and Russian immigrants 201, 216, 218, 220, 225–227, 232 Jewish religion see Judaism Jewish Renewal movement (France) 262 Jewish solidarity 126, 128, 165, 340 Zionism as form of 114–115 Jewry existential problems of 7 fertility rates of 58 geographical dispersion of 51–52 growth rates of 49–50 multiculturalism of 15 social profile of 53 Joint Distribution Committee ( JDC, Argentina) 338, 339 Jost, Isaac Marcus 12, 13 Judaism attitudes of Jewish Israelis towards 102 boundaries with Christianity 195 contemporary 7 controversies within 344–345 conversion from 203–204 conversion to 122 n2, 145 and Jewish identity 199–201, 202–203 and Jewish-Israeli nationality 41 Messianic idea in 83–84

 religious pluralism in 128 salvation in 83, 86–88 universalistic ideology of 161–162, 163, 166–167, 171, 178 Judaism and Democracy statement (Reform Movement, 1945) 169 Judaism and Race Relations (CCAR conference, New York, 1945) 166–167 Kaganskaia, Maia 220 Kalle, Horace 137 Kaplan, Mordecai 137 Kastelman, Jose 300 Keysar, Ariela 157 Kfar Etzion 75 Khanin, Vladimir 5, 382 Kimmerling, Baruch 71 King, Martin Luther 284 Klal Yisrael (commonwealth of Jewish people) 1, 2, 7 changing perceptions of 11, 16, 18–20, 42 maintaining of 292 modern approaches to 13–14, 20–22 schisms in 264 Kliksberg, Bernardo 307 n3 Konopnicki, Maurice 6, 382 Kook, Hillel 111 Kook, Rabbi Abraham Isaac 75, 79, 81 Kook, Rabbi Zvi Yehuda 75, 79–80 Korenhendler, Marcos 327 Kovadloff, Jacobo 329 n55 Krauthammer, Charles 283 Kriegel, Annie 255 Kubovy, Arie 320, 321 ‘kulturniks’ 223 Kymlicka, Will 270 Labor Party (Argentina) 310 Labor Party (Israel) 229 Land of Israel (Eretz Yisrael ) concept of 101, 347 and Jewish identity 349–350 and Jewish people 74 and religious myth of settlement on 75, 100, 101 Landau, Moshe 327 languages choice of, by haredim 98–99, 117, 350

395

and ethnicity 204 used in Israel 97, 109, 117 Latin American Jewry 6, 356 and centrality-of-Israel issue 292 Law of Return 48, 362 calls for repeal of 112, 119 n1 and definition of Jewish identity 120, 122 Le Pen, Jean Marie 266 ‘legalist kulturniks’ 223 Leibowitz, Yeshayahu 72, 85, 101 Lerner, Nathan 6–7, 325 n43, 326–327, 382 Leshem, E. 220, 229 Levavi, Arye 318 n23, 321–322, 323 Levayev, Lev 226 Levin, Nahum 295 Levy, S. 102 Liberal Judaism ( journal) 170 liberalism challenged by Nazism and Fascism 173–174 commitment of American Jews to 146–147 Lieberman, Avigdor 229 Liebman, Charles 4, 382 Likud 229, 361 linguistic behavior 247, 250, 252 Lissak, Moshe 113, 220, 229 Luna, Félix 322 La Luz ( journal) 297, 298, 333 Ma"ariv (newspaper) 230 n12 Mahler, Raphael 12–13, 18 Maimonides, Moses 83–84, 89 mamlakhtiut (statism) ideology, in Israel 96–97, 361 Manachaim Tora (Soviet Union) 230–231 Manguel, Pablo 315 manipulative approach, towards ethnicity 46 Marcus, Jacob R. 169 Markowitz, Fran 220, 237 Marrus, Michael Robert 261 Maslow, A. H. 157 materialist values 157–158 Matteoli Commission (France) 262 Meir (Meyerson), Golda 188, 229, 320, 323, 324, 332 Melamed, Diego 304

396



Messianic idea in Judaism 83–84 and State of Israel 88, 92 Messianism of National-Religious movement 75–76, 79, 101 and Zionism 81, 84 Meyerson, Golda see Meir migrants 30–33 see also diasporans migrations creating ethnonational diasporas 26 by diasporans from host countries 29–30 voluntary 26–27 Mimouna festival 105 n3 minorities, Muslim in Belgium 283–284 in France 278–280 minority status of Israeli Arabs 109 of migrants in host countries 30–31 Mishne Torah (Maimonides) 83 mixed marriages children of 55 see also intermarriage Mizrahim 361 in Israel 104–107, 117, 240 Orthodox 354 Russian-Jewish teenagers’ attitude towards 242–243 see also Sephardim MNT (Movimiento Nacionalista Tacuara) see Tacuara modern societies culture shifts in 157, 158 Jewish survival in 162–163, 164–165, 166–168, 179–180 religion in 160 modernity 260 Moldava, Jewish community in 218 Monjardín, Federico Fernández 320 Morasha ( journal) 296 Mossad (Israeli security forces) 321–322, 325, 361 Movimiento Nacionalista Tacuara (MNT) see Tacuara multiculturalism 1, 270 in Brazil 296 in France 270, 271, 274 and fundamentalism 296 in Israel 103, 108, 109, 110, 116–117, 228, 267–268

in Jewry 15 in United States 267, 273–274 Muslim minorities in Belgium 283–284 in France 278–280 myths 76–77 religious, of settlement of Eretz Yisrael 75, 100, 101 role in nation-building 65, 66–67 of Zionism, Crusader 65, 69–70, 71–72, 73 Napoleonic era, and assimilation of French Jews 255 Narot, Rabbi Joseph R. 176–177 nation-building, role of myths in 65, 66–67 National Conference of Soviet Jewry (US) 226 national integration ideology, in Israel 95 National Jewish Population Survey (NJPS, 1990, United States) 151, 153, 199, 211 national model, of Jewish identity 352–353 National-Religious movement 20, 72, 78, 81, 100–101, 102, 117, 241 Messianism of 75–76, 79, 101 nationalism Arab 70 Argentinean antisemitic 309–312, 313, 315 Israeli 354 Jewish 1 religious 3 in Soviet Union 189 nationality category on Israeli identity cards 122 n2 and religion, in Jewish identity 18–19, 102–103, 111–113 in Soviet Union 184, 192, 198, 212 native born Israelis (sabras) 95–96, 117, 244, 361 native culture, in Israel 97–98 Nazi criminals, taking refuge in Argentina 325 Nazism, challenging liberalism 173–174 The Near East, the Socialists, International Equity, [and] Electoral Efficiency (Boniface) 278–279

 neo-Canaanism and post-Zionism 65, 74 religious 65, 74–75 networks, intra-state and transstate 38–39 New Soviet Man 183 New York Times Magazine 159 Newly Revised Union Prayerbook (Freehof ed.) 175 newspapers in Argentina, Yiddish language 335–336 in Israel, Russian-language 229 Nietzschean influences, on Zionism 96 Niznick, Marina 5, 382 NJPS see National Jewish Population Survey non-Orthodox religious movements 351 see also Conservative movement; Reform movement nonreligious Israelis 99, 102, 124–126 nonreligious Jewish identities 124–127, 137, 200–201, 213–215 nonreligious Jews in Diaspora 127 religious Jews seeking cooperation with 81, 82 normalization quest, of Jewish identity 163, 164, 177 North African immigrants, in France 280 n3 Novosti Nedeli (newspaper) 229 Nudel, Janan 300–301 Nueva Sion ( journal) 297, 298, 302 Nunca más (Never again) 337 Ohana, David 3, 115, 382 OIA see Organización Israelita Argentina (Argentinean Jewish Organization, OIA) Olan, Rabbi Levi A. 173–174 Organización Israelita Argentina (Argentinean Jewish Organization, OIA) 308, 313–314, 316 Oron, A. 102 Orthodox religious movement 20, 127–129, 348, 350, 351 and Jewish identity 348, 350, 351, 353 Mizrahi 354

397

Pablo Pardo, Luis María de 323 Papon, Maurice 261 Pappe, Ilan 71, 72 particularistic versus universalistic identification, with victims of Holocaust 171–180 particularistic versus universalistic tendencies, in Jewish identity 16–17, 163–164, 165, 166, 173, 177, 179 passive identity 191 passportization, in Soviet Union 184 Paxton, Robert O. 261 A People Apart: The Jews in Europe 1789–1939 (Vital) 13 Peralta, Santiago 312, 313 Perón, Evita 313 Perón, Juan Domingo 308 and antisemitic nationalism 309–312, 313, 315 and Argentinean Jewry 308–309, 311, 313–314, 316, 336 Peronism, resurgence of 330 personal status laws, in Israel 120 personalization, of religion 147–149, 153 Phinney, Jean S. 239, 240 Pilchik, Rabbi Ely E. 167 pioneers, among Israeli Jewish population 96, 97 pluralism of diasporic organizations 36 of Jewish identity 19, 356–359 religious, in Judaism 128 Polish, Rabbi David 167–168, 171–172 political behavior of American Jews 146–147 of French Jews 279 of Russian Jewish immigrants 218, 232–233, 240–241 political centrality, of Israel 293 political change, in Israel 66–67, 106, 228 political exile, replaced by spiritual exile 21 political leaders, Russian-Jewish 220–221 political power, ethnicity as basis for 107, 108 political systems, in Argentina 339 politics, ethnicization of, in France 278–280 Pompidou, Georges 259

398 population projections 56–57 Porat, Hanan 75 post-materialist values 158 post-modern era, identities in 157, 158 Jewish 159 post-Zionism 70, 112–114, 291, 354 and neo-Canaanism 65, 74 use of Crusader myth of Zionism 71–72, 73 Prawer, Joshua 70 La Prensa (newspaper) 324 n39 Di Presse (newspaper) 335–336 Prisoners of Zion (‘refusenicks’) 230, 362 privatization, of Jewish identity 148–149, 153 purity, maintaining of 345 Putnam, Robert 158 Qol dodi dofeq (. . .?, Soloveitchik) 91 The Quest for National Identity (Gorny) 291 race relations in France 263 and Judaism, CCAR conference (New York, 1945) 166–167 Raíces ( journal) 298–300 Ratosh, Yonathan 73, 111 Ratzabi, Shalom 3, 383 La Razón (newspaper) 321, 325 realistic symbolism 71–72 redemption, Holocaust as stage in process of 80 Reform Jewish Practice and its Rabbinic Background (Freehof ) 175 n2 Reform Judaism 4–5, 13–14, 20, 127–128, 161, 348, 350, 362 compared to Zionism 163, 164, 165, 179 coping with Holocaust 165, 166–168, 170, 171–180 education system of 167 integration ideal of 169 on Jewish identity 348, 350 on Judaism and American democracy 169–170 religious rites of 167–168, 171–172 in United States 4–5 refuseniks (Prisoners of Zion) 230, 362 Rein, Raanan 6, 383

 Reines, Rabbi Isaac Jacob 79, 81 religion and ethnicity, in Jewish identity 143, 150, 201–203 in Israel 98–103 in modern societies 160 and nationality in Israel 122 n2 in Jewish identity 18–19, 102–103, 111–113 personalization of 147–149, 153 religious elites, in Israel 105, 106 religious Jews, cooperation with nonreligious Jews 81, 82 religious myths, of settlement of Eretz Yisrael 75, 100, 101 religious nationalism 3 religious neo-Canaanism 65, 74–75 religious pluralism, in Judaism 128 religious rites, of Reform Judaism 167–168, 171–172 religious significance, of Israel 78–80, 82, 84–86, 87, 88–92 religious Zionism 78–82, 84–92, 100, 354 remembrance, of Holocaust, in France 261 Republican model, in France 256–257, 261–262, 263, 264, 269–270 revisionist history 76–77 Rheingold, Howard 159 Ro"i, Yaacov 5, 383 Rosen, Jonathan 159 Rosenne, Shabtai 323, 324 Rosenzweig, Rabbi Ephraim M. 174 Rúa, Fernando de la 308, 339 Russell, S. 346 Russian culture, cherished by FSU immigrants in Israel 107, 108, 235–236, 237, 243, 245 Russian identities, among immigrants from FSU 243–246, 251, 252 Russian Jewish communities 216, 217, 233–234 in FSU 218, 220, 224 in Germany 219 in Israel 5, 220, 228–233, 237 in North America 220, 225–227, 232 in South Africa 219 Russian Jewish elites 220–221, 224, 228

 Russian Jewish identities 5, 195, 196–215, 217–234, 243, 356 in Israel 236, 243, 244, 251–252 Russian Jewry, Zionism among 222–223, 231 Russian language, used by FSU immigrants in Israel 107 n5, 236, 237, 248–250 Russian Republic, Jewish population in 48–49, 216 russification trend, in Soviet Union 184 Sábato, Ernesto 327 n50 sabras (native born Israelis) 95–96, 117, 244, 361 The Sacred Canopy (Berger) 160 salvation in Judaism 83, 86–88 State of Israel as 88 San Francisco Platform (Reform Movement) 178 San Martín, General José de 321 Sapir, Pinhas 320 Schechter, Solomon 137 Schmueli, A. 344 Schmukler, Samuel 318, 319 Schneider, Michael 306 Schteingart, Mario 326 Schweid, Eliezer 291 Schwenkfeld, Kaspar 147 n5 Second (Al-Aqsa) Intifada 71, 362 secondary migrations 29–30 secular see nonreligious security, decreased sense of, in United States 158–159 Security Council (UN), dealing with Eichmann affair 322–323 self-awareness, of Jews 12–13 Semana Trágica pogrom (Argentina, 1919) 327, 336 Seminars for Zionist Thought (South America) 301, 302 Sephardim 106, 240, 361 Russian-Jewish teenagers’ attitude towards 242–243 see also Mizrahim September 11 events 43–44, 158 settlement of Eretz Yisrael, religious myth of 75, 100, 101 settlers of occupied territories, seen as yordim 72 Shafir, G. 113–114 Shapira, Yonatan 112

399

Shapiro, Vladimir 197 Sharansky, Natan 231 Sharett, Moshe 308 Sharon, Ariel 306 Shas Party 20, 106–107, 116, 240, 354, 361 Sheffer, Gabriel 2, 383 Sheleg, Yair 307 Shiff, Oler 4, 383 Sigelman, Lee 213 Silberstein, L. J. 115 Sirota, Garciela Narcisa, attack on 331, 332 situational approach, towards ethnicity 46 Six-Day War (1967) 362 and Holocaust 86 influence on French Jewry 258–259 SJZF (Soviet Jewry Zionist Forum) 231–232 Sklare, Marshall 143, 144, 157 socialist ideology, hostility of Russian Jews towards 218 sociology, conflict 105 n2 solidarity among diasporans 36–37 Jewish 126, 128, 165, 340 Zionism as form of 114–115 Solodkin, Marina 216 n1 Soloveitchik, Rabbi J. 85, 91, 92 Sorj, Bernardo 297 South Africa, immigrants from FSU in 219 South American Jewry 6, 356 and centrality-of-Israel issue 292 Soviet Jewry 5 acculturation of 189, 204 emigration to Israel 138–140, 190, 230 higher education among 185, 191 and Holocaust 186 identities of 183–193 and State of Israel 187, 188, 189–190 Zionism among 222–223 Soviet Jewry Zionist Forum (SJZF) 231–232 Soviet Union antisemitism in 186–187, 212 de-Stalinization in 188–189 dissident movement, Jewish role in 189 ethnicity in 198

400



Jewish Autonomous Region in 187–188 Jewish movement in 190–191, 223 Jewish organizations in 205, 222–223, 230–232 nationalist movements in 189 nationality in 184, 192, 198, 212 spiritual centrality, of Israel 293, 294, 303 spiritual exile, replacing political exile 21 spiritual Zionism 301 Stalin, Joseph 184 n2 State of Israel see Israel state-linked diasporas 37 strategies, available to diasporans 35 survival of Israel 133–134, 138 of Jewry American 4, 134, 136, 137, 140–142, 149, 150, 160, 161–163, 168–169 diaspora communities 133, 136, 137 in modern societies 162–163, 164–165, 166–168, 179–180 symbolic ethnicity 152–153 symbolism, realistic 71–72 Taboada, Diógenes 321–322 Tacuara (Argentina) 328, 331, 334 Tal, Uriel 75 Talmon, Jacob 75 Tami party 106, 361 Taylor, Charles 270 teenagers, Russian-Jewish, in Israel 237–252 Tenenbaum, Manuel 299 territory, as aspect of Israeli identity 115–116 ‘thick’ and ‘thin’ culture 196 Topolevsky, Gregorio 326 Touraine, A. 116 Touvier, Paul 261 transnational diasporas 2 Jewish 15 transnational diasporism 1 transnational mobility, among Jewish population 53–54 Tribuna (newspaper) 229 Tsur, Yaacov 315, 316, 317 n22 Tzedaka (charity) 339, 361

U-viqashtem mi-sham (And You Requested From There, Soloveitchik) 92 Ukraine, Jewishness in 5, 195, 196–215 ultra-Orthodox (haredim) 360 choice of language 98–99, 117, 350 definition of Jewish identity 99, 351 and Israeli society 98–100, 102, 105, 117, 241 and Mizrahi religious elite 105, 106 Russian-Jewish teenagers’ attitude towards 242 Union of American Hebrew Congregations 175–176 Unión Democrática (Argentina) 311 United Nations, dealing with Eichmann affair 322–323 United States decreased sense of security in 158–159 immigrants from FSU 201, 216, 237 Jewish population in 48, 58–59 Soviet and Russian immigrants 201, 216, 218, 220, 225–227, 232 see also American Jewry multiculturalism in 267, 273–274 universalistic ideology, of Judaism 161–162, 163, 166–167, 171, 178 universalistic versus particularistic identification, with victims of Holocaust 171–180 universalistic versus particularistic tendencies, in Jewish identity 16–17, 163–164, 166, 173, 177, 179 Unlike the Crusaders (Harel) 72 USSR see Soviet Union Vaad (Soviet Union/FSU) 223, 231 values 157–158 Verhofstadt, Guy 285 Vichy et les Juifs (Vichy and the Jews, Marrus and Paxton) 261 victims, of Holocaust, identification with 171–177 Vidal-Naquet, Pierre 258 virtual communities 159 Vital, David 13, 18

 voluntary confederation, of Jewish communities 15 voluntary migrations, in Jewish diaspora 26–27 Waxman, Chaim I. 4, 151, 383 Webber, Jonathan 211 Weinfeld, Rabbi Avraham 82 Weingrod, Alex 105 n3 Werbicki, Bernardo 294 ‘white ethnics’ 108 Widening the Scope of Covenantal Consciousness (Hartman) 90 Wieviorka, Michel 5–6, 383 Wilgoren, Jodi 159 Wistrich, Robert 286–287 Wittgenstein, L. 343–344, 357 World Association of Russophone Jewry 5, 234 world Jewry see Jewry Yaffe, Rabbi Philippe 300 Yagupsky, Maximo 294, 325 Yemenite Jews 103–104 yerida (descent, Jewish migration from Israel) 27 Yiddish language Bund preferring use of 350 knowledge of, among American Jews 156 newspapers in Argentina 335–336 use by Brazilian Jews 295 by haredim 350 Yiddish Renaissance movement 20–21 Yiddishist movement 14 Yisrael Ba"aliya 233, 240, 361 Yisrael Beiteinu (Israel Is Our Home) 233, 240, 361

401

yordim ( Jews migrated from Israel) 27, 361 settlers of occupied territories seen as 72 Yossef, Rabbi Ovadia 106–107 ‘Young Guard’ 100, 101 Young Hebrews Center 111 n6 Yugoslavia, collapse of 194 Zion in America (Feingold) 4, 133 Zionism 19, 21–22, 72–73, 113, 114–115, 138 among American Jewry 133, 134–136, 142, 163, 293 among Argentinean Jewry 300–302, 303 among Brazilian Jewry 296, 297 Canaanite challenge to 73–74 compared to Reform ideology 163, 164, 165, 179 Crusader myth of 65, 69–70 ideology of 163, 164, 179 and Jewish identity 50, 95, 349, 350, 351, 352 likened to colonialism 69, 71, 72, 113–114 and Messianism 81, 84 and neo-Canaanism 65, 74 Nietzschean influence on 96 promoting Hebrew language 350 religious 78–82, 84–92, 100, 354 among Russian Jewry 222–223, 231 spiritual 301 views on Diaspora 96, 110–111 see also anti-Zionism; post-Zionism Zionism as Colonialism (Pappe) 72 ‘Zionist kulturniks’ 223 Zionist movement 14, 293

CONTEMPORARY JEWRIES ISSN 1570-7997

1. Eliezer Ben-Rafael, Jewish Identities. Fifty Intellectuals Answer Ben Gurion. 2002. ISBN 90 04 12535 3. 2. Eliezer Ben-Rafael, Yosef Gorny and Yaacov Ro’i (eds.). Contemporary Jewries. Convergence and Divergence. 2003. ISBN 90 04 12950 2.