by DovBear who blogs at dovbear.blogspot.com

I was at an event sitting next to one of the guys I enjoy from my neighborhood when he called me a Zionist. He’s a Hassid, in the very modern sense, which means he sends his kids to yiddish speaking school but watches broadcast TV through a gizmo attached to his computer. I’m modern, in every sense, which means the modern Hasidim I pal around with occasionally make cracks about the authenticity of my Judaism.

I got called a Zionist because I said, quite facetiously, that I wanted my kid to go to the all-yiddish school with my friend’s daughter. My friend, smiled, and said this was impossible, and when I pressed for an explanation he said three things disqualified me: I wear jeans. I don’t have payos. And “you’re a Zionist.”

Having looked in the mirror that morning, I have no choice but to accept the first two charges. But a Zionist? Me.

Though I went to Modern Orthodox schools that attempted to teach me to be a good Modern Orthodox Zionist, I never thought it took. I don’t say Hallel on Yom Haatzmaut, and though I wish my kids (who attend ordinary Bes Yaakovs) knew more about the history and the religious significance of Israel, I never felt especially inclined to take them to community Yom Haatzmaut events. This year, around Yom Haatzmaut, I told some stories at the Friday night table about Israel, and made sure the smaller kids knew the holiday’s name, but that was it. No blue and white cookies for us.

But this is ambivalence, not anti-Zionism, god forbid. I’m as committed as anyone to the permanence of the Jewish state. I want my kids to learn Hebrew, and I want them to grow up knowing that every Jewish life, indeed every life, is precious before God. I worry about my brothers and sisters in Israel, and I support policies which I believe will make them safe and prosperous. But I am not a Zionist, in the way that other American Orthodox Jews are Zionists. I’m missing the intangible passion, the bit of madness that makes people want to rally and march and dance on Yom Haatzmaut. I put Jerusalem before my greatest joy, but not Israel.

When I was a kid, I described this ambivalence toward Israel, this perceived flaw in my Jewish character with a joke: I said that I didn’t have blue and white underwear. Later, as an older cynic, I explained my indifference by saying that I didn’t hate ordinary Arabs enough to qualify as an American Zionist. But the truth is simpler: I’m just an American, and in my mind 21st century Zionism is just Israeli nationalism. Nowadays, my way of explaining myself is to say that I am a non-Zionist, pleased to pray for our brothers the children of Israel, desirous of their safety and prosperity, and eager to visit and soak up the culture and atmosphere of the Jewish state, but at the end of the day, an American.

And that I think is as good an explanation as any for my ambivalence. Eight of my great-grandparents were born in America. One of my grandfathers, and several of my great uncles wore American uniforms during the second World War. My father flies Old Glory on National Holidays. I have a close friend, who comes from Holocaust survivors, who says that her own Zionism comes from fear. Having grown up hearing stories of Nazi and concentration camps, she became convinced that only Israel makes us safe. I’m smart enough to respect the intelligence of that argument, but I don’t feel it. At her childhood dinner table there were stories about life in the ghetto, about living as sub-humans, and non-citizens, with no rights, and no opportunities. Hearing that sort of thing binds. It creates obligations. And its an experience I never had.