I was raised a reluctant Jew. My parents provided the raising and the Judaism, and I supplied an ocean of reluctance. As a child, most things about religion confused me, but there were two questions I held inside for years, firm in my belief that no grown-up was interested in hearing or answering either.
The first was when I found out Jesus was Jewish. To my keen but underdeveloped mind, this scaled new heights of the nonsensical. With what seemed like an endless supply of Christians in the world, why, quite literally for Christ’s sake, would they pluck a saviour from our tiny pool of long-suffering applicants? It took me longer than it should have, but eventually I figured that one out.
My other inter-denominational enquiry was, with all the marginally inhabited places on the planet to choose from, why would they put a Jewish homeland in a spot surrounded by people who seemed to hate us so much? I’m still waiting for a good answer to that one.
This stroll down a messianic memory lane has been occasioned by Hamas’s horrific attack on Israel and the arguably even more horrifying response by Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and his band of merry autocrats. When I was a kid, picking sides in the conflict was easy, as in my world, Israel could do no wrong. My father, a native of then-largely antisemitic Poland and a World War II veteran, was a tireless Zionist, which for members of his generation made perfect sense. His people had come close to being wiped off the face of the Earth, so the quest for a homeland was truly existential. For my and subsequent generations of American Jews, things are considerably thornier.
Jews and Arabs have been fighting in Israel since there was an Israel – the rumble of guns could be heard the very day, May 14, 1948, the Jewish state was established. And I am certainly not among the small handful of humans who truly understand the conflict in all of its historical, religious, ethnic and geopolitical bends.
I am among the gazillions of humans who are flummoxed and saddened by the violence, suffering and death that persistently visit on the most innocent and vulnerable citizens of the region and, frankly, the planet. But there are some things I do know. Like, it’s very easy to lob uncompromising rhetoric from the safety of 9000km away, as many US Jews have done for decades. I know that the Iranian regime of religious nut jobs, still a cushy 2000km from Tel Aviv, would rather spend US$16 billion annually to fund terrorism to ensure peace never comes than help the one-third of its population who live in extreme poverty.
And I know that people who live without hope that tomorrow can be better than the misery of their today have nothing to lose, so how can they be blamed for turning to groups, however misguided their mission, that offer them a chance for some agency over their own lives – and deaths?
A 2022 Save the Children study found that 70% of kids in Gaza experience nightmares, and 55% have contemplated suicide. Now think of the children you love, whoever they are, and see if that doesn’t make you want to throw up.
I believe the primary drivers of much of the world’s cruelty and intolerance are insecurity, ignorance and fear. People who have enough to eat, a safe place to live, education to activate their hopes and dreams and friends and family with whom to share those hopes and dreams tend not to blow things up. And they don’t tolerate leaders who stoke their fears to line their pockets.
So we have no choice but to hope. Hope that grudges can fade with the optimism of youth – in the US, Israel, Iran and elsewhere. Hope that at some point, the cycle of faith-fuelled violence can be broken, and that, as Randy Newman sang in his brilliant God’s Song (That’s Why I Love Mankind): “Lord, if you won’t take care of us, won’t you please, please let us be.” Jesus would probably like that.
Jonathan Kronstadt is a freelance writer working in Washington, DC.
