Defining Jewish Identity: Re’eh.26

 Defining Jewish Identity: Re’eh

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

August 7, 2026

 

This week’s Torah portion, Re’eh (“Behold,” Deut. 11:26-16:17), contains several problematic passages. With its call to “utterly eradicate” (12:2) all foreign idols and forms of worship and even their locations (“Upon the lofty mountains, upon the hills, or under every lush tree”), Re’eh comes off not only tough, but downright ruthless towards any other religious practices that might dissuade the Israelites from the worship of the one God, “Adonai, the God of your ancestors.”

The vehement tone of the commandment, accompanied by “blessings” and “curses” that would result from following or, conversely, disobeying it, is proof of the importance given to it by the author/s of Deuteronomy—be they Moses in the 13^th century BCE or the High Priest Hilkiah who “discovered” it during the reign of King Josiah in the 7^th century BCE.

Controversial as this commandment might seem to us today, it’s only one of 55 commandments that the portion contains, many of which seem excessive—not to mention illegal—when viewed through the lens of modern sensibilities. Yet the focus of Re’eh as a whole is greater than the sum of its parts. The overall intent of the portion is not only to prescribe and proscribe, but rather to define Jewish identity.

Who is a Jew? 

The question comes up throughout history, yet to this day remains unresolved. The answer varies from one individual to the next, from one rabbi to the next, from one community to the next. 

Jewish identity has evolved through the ages. At our earliest point, we were called “Hebrews.” That’s how Abraham is identified; that is how Joseph identifies himself to Pharaoh.

During the centuries of Egyptian slavery, however, we were transformed. No longer a single family or tribe, in Egypt we became a people, unified under a new name—B’nai Yisrael, the Children of Israel (Jacob).

Our faith (not called Judaism for several centuries yet) combined individual as well as collective duties and responsibilities. Our relationship with God, on the other hand, was always singular and unique, which is one reason why it’s so difficult to define Jewish faith: It varies with each person’s perspective and belief. Yet, while resulting in divisions and sometimes even uprisings, one thing remained certain through the ages: Our peoplehood. 

The purpose of the commandments in Re’eh is not to enforce belief. Rather, it is to help us define ourselves as a people. Thus, the portion lists laws and customs, sets a distinct calendar, institutes religious practices that differ from other peoples’ even if they occur at the same time and season of the year, and emphasizes the centrality of our national homeland and the Jerusalem Temple in our hearts, souls and minds.

The forms of Judaism have evolved through the eons. Most visibly today we have Reform, Conservative and Orthodox Jews; Ashkenazi, Sephardi and Mizrahi Jews; secular, Haredi and Hassidic Jews. Each movement has its own subdivisions, streams and branches. Each can be identified by its foods, clothing, music, spoken language and dialect.

Yet what we all have in common is our Peoplehood. Called Hebrews, Israelites, Jews, Bnei Menashe, Beta Israel, B’nai Yisrael—we are one people with many names. We share common roots of history and culture. We share a language, sacred and secular texts, and we celebrate the same holidays as have our ancestors throughout the ages.

Our various communities share similar histories and the amazing texts and teachings that resulted from historical events that helped shape us.

We share a national homeland—though our attitudes and relationships with it may differ. Some ultra-Orthodox groups believe that the return of our exiled People to the Promised Land hinges on the coming of the Messiah at some unspecified time in the future. At its inception in the early 1800’s, the Reform Movement, for its own reasons, downplayed Israel’s significance to our People. 

All Jews share a history of persecution and redemption. The ancient Greeks and Romans considered us barbaric. Christianity and Islam saw us—at best—as religious heretics and kafirs, deserving of every punishment and indignity inflicted upon us. Under the Inquisition, Jewish bloodline was considered impure, giving rise to the racist views that developed during the Enlightenment and which then led to the systematic horrors of the Shoah, the Holocaust. 

Yet the Jewish connection to the Land of Israel was never disputed. Hard as the nations of the world tried—beginning with the Romans, who attempted to erase our history and identity by renaming Judea “Palestine” and Jerusalem, “Aelia Capitolina,”—they were not successful. All the same, for centuries the Land itself remained a ruin—posted “proof” of the consequence of our supposed rebellion against God. As late as 1867, in his Innocents Abroad, Mark Twain described the Land as “a blistering naked treeless land… The more sacred the place, the greater the devastation….” 

This was no coincidence. It was the culmination of thousands of years of cancel culture, religious, national, cultural, racist antisemitism.

In a recent campaign speech, Abdul el-Sayed, the Democrats’ candidate for one of Michigan’s Senate seats, claimed that “AIPAC and Israel are not the same as Judaism and the Jewish People.” This brazen and absurd statement reeks with the same stench as all the rest of antisemitism and antisemites. By sowing discord and divisiveness among the people he presumes to represent, el-Sayed proves his Machiavellian nature. Additionally however, by dissociating Judaism from Israel, el-Sayed not only shows complete ignorance of Judaism but also cancels one of the most important tenets of the Jewish People—its connection with the Land of Israel.

In Re’eh, this week’s Torah portion, written more than 1500 years ago, we read, “For you are a holy people to Adonai your God, and God has chosen you out of all the nations upon the earth to be His treasured people” (Deut. 14:2). One may disagree with the theology or philosophy of this verse, but not with its historicity. As objectionable as some Jews and many gentiles find it, within this belief lie the roots of our identity as a people and as a nation, and these cannot and will not be taken from us. 

Our identity as Hebrews is a product of Mesopotamian persecution. We emerged from Egyptian slavery as the People of Israel. The Torah came out of the Babylonian captivity; Hanukkah celebrates our victory over the ancient Greeks. The Talmud and Midrash came out of the destruction of Judea by the Romans. The Sephardi and Ashkenazi communities arose from other destructions—and became glorious cultures in themselves. The State of Israel is the Jewish response to European, Islamic and American antisemitism of the 1800’s and 1900’s.

What the current crisis will lead to nobody knows, though history has a lot to teach us and unfortunately its lessons aren’t always happy or easy. Yet whatever the outcome, one thing will remain unchanged: Our identity as a People and our deep-seated connection to the Land of Israel. Some may dismiss the book of Deuteronomy and particularly this week’s portion, Re’eh, as obsolete. Yet this one truth is undeniable: We ARE a people, and the Land of Israel is our national homeland. One may hold whatever belief one chooses to; one may disagree with Israel’s government or policies; one may choose to live in Israel or be part of the Jewish diaspora. But one cannot say that Israel is not the same as Judaism. They are one and the same, interwoven with every breath and fiber of Jewish life and existence.

 

 

© 2026 by Boaz D. Heilman

How Goodly Thy Tents: Balak.26

How Goodly Thy Tents: D’var Torah for Parashat Balak

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

June 23, 2026

 

In the second of this week’s double Torah portion, Balak (Numbers 19:1—25:9), the Moabite king Balak hires a famous spiritualist named Balaam to curse the Children of Israel as they are gathered and about to cross the Jordan into the Promised Land. The blind seer, however, though hired to curse, instead is moved to bless the Israelites:  מַה־טֹּבוּ אֹהָלֶיךָ יַעֲקֹב מִשְׁכְּנֹתֶיךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל— “How goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your tabernacles, O Israel” (Num. 24:5). These words, part of the most beautiful poem of praise ever written to, of, or for the Jewish People are now sung by Jews all over the world as they enter synagogues every morning. 

 

I’ll get back to this poem shortly, but first, a few personal reflections.

 

I’m getting old. My grandson reminds me of that often—he’s young enough to say it as a normative fact of life, not as a put-down. But of course he’s right. Amazingly, I have become old. I’m old enough to remember stereo as well as mono albums,  LP’s and the A and B sides of 45’s (at one point or another I even picked up a few 78 RPM’s). I remember when the Beatles played the Hollywood Bowl, and when people wore their underwear under instead of over—and certainly not instead of—their outer clothing. It is often the case that we look at the past with nostalgia, but it seems to me now that common decency was more common then. Of course, anyone with just a bit of objectivity will agree that discrimination and abuse were also common in those “olden” days, though—with the exception of Nazi and KKK rallies—for the most part they were more restricted to drawing rooms and locker rooms and not plastered all over social media.

 

I remember when antisemitism was confined to the fringe of society, when antisemites were shamed into silence and/or forced to face consequences for their hateful words and actions. But back then—and I’m talking about as late as the 1950’s, ‘60’s and ‘70’s—was also the time when being Jewish wasn’t something anyone wanted to particularly display publicly. You changed your name to fit the hat you chose to wear. As more and more neighborhoods became open and accepting, many moved out of “golden ghettoes,” taking along with them a smattering of jaded memories of earlier traditions, and perhaps a few relics of “organized religion.” Just watch the Dick Van Dyke Show, Season 5, Episode 22 (“Buddy Sorrell: Man and Boy,” https://youtu.be/m54VraF-1PM?si=a3q24blWdMRnal1d) to get a glimpse of the length some went to hide their identity, and the amount of courage and effort it took to admit that one was Jewish. 

 

I’ve lived long enough to see many changes in attitudes—some for the better, others less so. Most of all, I’ve been shocked to realize that nowadays it’s OK to say anything about anyone, in their presence or not (the term we use for this kind of speech is l’shon ha-ra);  to come up with horrible epithets and nicknames for anyone who doesn’t agree with your opinions or views; and, most of all, that it’s again become socially and politically acceptable and even respectable to gang up on the most ancient whipping-boy stereotype that ever existed: the Jew.

 

In the first half of the 20^th century, ostracized and snubbed out of country clubs, hospitals and ivy-league colleges, American Jews built their own. In the second half, “freed” of the ancient social fetters imposed on us, we became involved in social liberation movements, in national and local ecological and environmental groups—many of which we started and developed. (Jews were disproportionally represented in civil rights organizations such as the Freedom Riders—activists who traveled by bus to the South to help fight anti-Black discrimination and secure Blacks the right to vote). 

 

When all that began to change is not totally clear. Already in 1992, Ruth Wisse wrote her seminal book, If I Am Not For Myself: The Liberal Betrayal of the Jews. Today it seems that the process of banishing the Jews from liberal advocacy groups is at a peak not seen for nearly a century. The quick expulsion of Jews from the very organizations that we had founded or joined, gave our money—and often our lives—to, is astonishing (though probably not so much for people who can remember, or have studied, the similar process that took place in the first half of the 20^th century. History does repeat itself). 

 

But now back to our Torah portion. 

 

From the heights of the Mountains of Moab, the prophet Balaam describes the Israelites: הֶן־עָם לְבָדָד יִשְׁכֹּן וּבַגּוֹיִם לֹא יִתְחַשָּׁב – “A people that dwells alone, not reckoned among the nations” (Num. 23:9). Three thousand years ago this truth was already apparent, even to a half-blind prophet. Only we, the very people he so keenly observed, forget this, and evidently need the occasional reminder. We may integrate, assimilate, and even convert in order to fit in. Yet at crucial times such as these, our deepest identity is doxxed—searched out and weaponized against us by people still stubbornly holding on to ancient hatred and prejudice. 

 

In the past, we found new worlds opening for us. In the 12^th and 13^th centuries, in the wake of crusades and expulsions from western Europe, the Jews migrated en-masse to eastern Europe. In the 1500’s, Turkey, the Netherlands, Greece, Italy, the Balkans and large swaths of northern Africa welcomed the exiled Sephardi Jews. Shortly after, the New World beckoned, and we followed. In the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, pogroms in Ukraine and Russia resulted in the migration of millions of Jews back to western Europe and America. Then, after the Holocaust, the newly established State of Israel accepted survivors of the death camps, a million and a half Jews robbed of their culture and identity by the former Soviet Union, refugees from all parts of the world—and—lest we forget—almost one million Jews who were expelled from Arab countries.

 

But where to now? Awakening to the precipitous rise of antisemitism today, Jews are looking again. Anywhere, elsewhere, other than where they are at the moment. But times have changed. Globalization has had an unexpected effect. There are no longer safe spaces anywhere for us. Shootings, firebombing, boycotts, the “verboten” warning signs are again found—not confined to Europe anymore, but rather everywhere, in every language and land. A meme recently posted on a site called Heimish Humor reads: “What you really have is a billion people who hate Israel for religious reasons trying to trick 7 billion people to hate Israel for humanitarian reasons.” It might not be statistically precise, but the general idea is spot on. Today, the hate, the ancient blood, money and power libels are dug up once again and put on display in public spaces, inciting violence. Today what we are witnessing is not only yet one more attempt to eliminate us physically, but also a concentrated campaign meant to take from us our identity, culture, and history. 

 

However—and I turn us back again now to our Torah portion—the Moabite king Balak does not get his wish. Balaam does not succeed in cursing us. Instead, his blessings fortify us to this day. Israel’s war with Iran was called  עָם כְּלָבִיא—Am K’lavie, “a people that rises like a lion” — a phrase also taken from Balaam’s song of praise (Num. 23:24). 

 

Balaam concludes his poem with the words, “Blessed are they who bless you, accursed they who curse you!” We know this to be true, even if God’s work is often unseen until it is complete.

 

And yet today we cannot afford to wait for God’s miracles. Today we need to find our own strength—physical and spiritual—to make the blessing come true. We cannot allow ourselves to weaken. Our ancestral, national homeland—the State of Israel—needs to remain strong. It needs—and deserves—the most widespread support from Jewish People everywhere. That is the oath Moses exacted from the tribes of Reuben, Gad, and half the tribe of Menashe when they requested to establish their domicileseast of the Jordan River, outside the boundaries of the Promised Land (Num. 32:16-18). Like those ancient tribes, we cannot remain comfortable and at ease today, while our brothers and sisters in Israel are attacked daily by a cruel and bloody enemy, even as we ourselves are threatened by individuals or fanatic mobs that are ignorant of the history of the Arab-Israel conflict but refuse to learn. 

 

For those of us living in the Diaspora, over the years we have learned to build homes for ourselves wherever we lived. From the start, we created communities that sought to serve both our own people and those among whom we lived. Our strength is still there: within ourselves and our community; in our synagogues, shuls and temples; in our brotherhoods, sisterhoods and schools; in the legal and social fabric which is the framework of our Covenant and social contract with God and all humanity.

 

Over the years—and I am approaching 77—I’ve learned many lessons. Having lived in Israel, the United States and now in Canada, the most important lesson before me now is this:  My home—my eternal, non-geographic home—is in my tradition. It’s in our houses of prayer and our texts; in our history and culture; with others who share common hopes and anxieties; whose hearts break daily with anguish and fear as we hear more hate speech and witness acts of hatred carried out against fellow Jews, regardless of political views or associations. Just because we’re Jews by birth or by choice.

 

מַה־טֹּבוּ אֹהָלֶיךָ יַעֲקֹב מִשְׁכְּנֹתֶיךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל: “How goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your tabernacles, O Israel!” The “tents” are our dwellings, temporary shelter from the elements, which the ancient Rabbis called holy because they were respectful of each other’s privacy and integrity; the “tabernacles” are the Mishkan, our houses of worship, the dwelling of the Holy Presence among us. These have always been our home, our safe space and source of strength, serving as our fortress as well as refuge. May they continue to be filled with joy, love and peace. 

 

יְהוָה עֹז לְעַמּוֹ יִתֵּן יְהוָה יְבָרֵךְ אֶת־עַמּוֹ בַשָּׁלוֹם—May God grant us continued strength; may God bless us with peace.

 

 

 © 2026 by Boaz D. Heilman

 

Birthday Wishes, Israel

 Birthday Wishes, Israel

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

April 22, 2026

 

 

When people ask me where I’m from, I always have to think: how far back?

I’ve lived in many places, moved many times. Five-six years here, six there, thirty plus (!) in another. 

I have ties to families that no longer exist (guess why) in Poland and in Lithuania. A younger member of my family did some research and traced our genealogy to the mid-1700’s or longer. It’s hard to trace when individual members or an entire family were made to disappear. Hard to trace when family names weren’t in use by the general population yet (these were imposed on the Jews late in the 1800’s, after the breakdown of the ghettos, when Jews began “to count” as part of a country’s population, whether for tax or armed-service purposes).

There is no magnetic north when it comes to belonging to any geographical place in the world. At least, there isn’t such a thing in the physical realm. Only in the spiritual.

My home and heart are always in Israel—though the time I’ve actually “lived” there isn’t that long. Maybe because that’s where I spent my childhood, peering at the not-so-distant sea from the top of a tree I climbed in the summer, riding my bike to school, learning the language and culture of my people, seeing the land grow green, grow up.

Or maybe it’s because of ties that go much further than that. As I’ve said—there is no magnetic north to “belonging.” You just do.

And I haven’t anywhere else. Belonged, that is.

Always the “outsider,” always the “wanderer.” 

Today is my homeland’s 78^th birthday. I wasn’t there 78 years ago—my brother was, and the generation he grew up with.

But it’s an ancient land, with a history that goes back to the beginning of human civilizations, and somewhere there, a seed that was planted generations ago, sprouted. And I grew as part of that field of poppies and anemones, tulips and narcissus flowers with their intoxicating smell.

And that’s what keeps me tied to the land that gave me birth.

A vast graveyard exists between me today and the many who preceded me. Burnt villages and towns, burnt bodies and hidden souls.

But they are not gone. They are part of the air we breathe, the ground we till and build upon. Their words and songs are part of who I am today.

They all live through me, wherever I find myself. They always have been, always will be.

So Happy Birthday, Israel, you young and ancient land. May you see peace. May life rush through your veins and streams for all of us, those who were, are and will be yet. Long live the words, עם ישראל חי – the People of Israel yet lives.

ה' באייר, תשפ"ו

5^th of Iyar, 5786

 

 

© 2026 by Boaz D. Heilman

Yom Ha-Shoah To the Infinite Power

 Yom Ha-Shoah To the Infinite Power

by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

2026

It’s Yom Ha-Shoah eve. So many words to speak, so many stories to tell. 

But what can we, a generation or two removed, our parents’ and grandparents’ voices now stilled—what can we say? How many words will fill the void of their absence, of their silence? 

Bikrovai ekadesh—“Through those who are near Me I am sanctified”—Moses says to his brother, Aaron, who had just witnessed the burning fire that consumed two of his sons, Nadav and Avihu.

How holy You must be, O God! How sanctified Your name!

Yom Ha-Shoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day, as though we need a day to remember.

Yes, I know—You have Your grand designs, Your grand plans of which we have no knowledge but in which we play a part, like dumb players on a stage, with no script or clear direction. But then you have the chutzpah—the gall—to ask us, Nachamu, nachamu ami—Comfort Me, Comfort Me O My people!

Who by fire, who by water…. Who by gas and who by hanging….

The executioners You appoint, the mercy that You show…

Nations have surrounded me, exuding their fiery breath at my existence, my insistence to abide by Your Covenant, my belief that Tzedek and Tzedakah—justice and righteousness—will save the world but not my grandmother or my grandfather, my uncles and my aunt—a child I never met, who forever will remain a child--in my late father’s eyes, in my mind through the flames….

I have cared, my God. I have planted vines and shade trees, built Tabernacles to Your name, I have not run from Your instruction. But now my tears blind me to Your words, fall upon the parchment, on torn pieces of paper stuffed into shoes, letters sent across the seas, all begging not to be forgotten: Hear me! Sh’ma! Hear me!

I am drowning in the silenced screams, yet vow to remember every last syllable, every last cry. 

Perhaps the joined rivers of tears, the thunderous roar of the masses calling out Your name, will reach You in Your hallowed space beyond all space. Perhaps You will hear and join Your tear to ours. 

You are sanctified, but we are the holy ones.

Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh… Holy to the infinite power. 

Let the Holy sanctify Your Name. May it be so.

©2026 by Boaz D. Heilman

Relief and Celebration along with Mourning and Tears: Ceasefire between Israel and Hamas

  

Relief and Celebration along with Mourning and Tears 

Observations on the Signed Ceasefire Agreement between Israel and Hamas 

By Boaz D. Heilman 

October 12, 2025 

 

With the ceasefire agreement between Israel and Hamas now signed—and hopefully fulfilled and maintained—I find myself filled with various reactions and emotions. 

First and foremost, I pray that the hostages will indeed return to their families and begin their long journey towards renewed health and strength.  

I am hoping that all the bodies of those hostages murdered by Hamas and other evil jihadist organizations in Gaza be found and brought home for a decent burial. Along with the joy of seeing the living hostages returning, there will be many tears for those who did not survive. All we can pray for is closure and consolation for their families and friends.  

And there will be tears as we remember the more-than 1200 Israelis and other nationals who were murdered in the most brutal ways by Hamas terrorists on the sacred Jewish holiday of Simchat Torah, October 7, 2023. 

There will be relief—relief as soldiers return home to their families and accustomed life and work; relief from the sirens and “Red Alert” warnings that have punctuated life in Israel for the past two years; relief from the constant fear of turning on the news and hearing even more tragic news.  

Citizens will begin to rebuild their homes, destroyed by drones and missiles launched from Iran, Gaza, Yemen, Lebanon and Iraq. 

And there will be hope as Israelis begin to look towards a brighter future again. 

But there will also be skepticism. After all the disappointments and raised hopes that fell through, after all the years and wars that Israel has been fighting for its survival, what does the future hold? Aside from shaky peace agreements that Israel signed with Egypt and Jordan, there is no peace with Israel’s other neighbors, no guarantee, promise or even the slightest hint that the various jihadist organizations might at some point in the future agree to lay down their arms and learn to coexist. What was agreed upon just a couple of days ago was just another ceasefire, not the first and probably not the last in the ongoing war between Arabs and the Jews. 

A ceasefire isn’t peace. There has never been long-lasting peace in the Middle East, except perhaps during the time that the Ottoman Empire controlled the region and the rest of Europe was focusing on colonizing the New World. Since the end of World War One and the collapse of the Ottoman Empire there have been only intermittent periods of truce and rebuilding. For Israel, the foreseeable future will mean the rebuilding of its infrastructure of life and security. For the Arabs, in most probability it will be renewed preparations for the next attack. 

The conflict between Jews and Arabs goes back centuries—to the time of Mohammad and probably even longer, to the hazy eons before the rise of Islam. But to look only at “modern” times, i.e., going back to Mohammad and his followers, the historic facts are much clearer. When it refers to the Jewish People, the Koran, the basic scripture of Islam, is mostly inflammatory, at best referring to the Jews as “People of the Book” and allowing us the status of dhimmis, second-class citizens. While it does not exactly call for the killing but rather begrudging tolerance of the Jews, a well-known hadith (collections of sayings outside the Koran traditionally attributed to Mohammad) states that on the Day of Judgment nature itself will turn against the Jews (“When the Jew will hide behind stones and trees. The stones and trees will say O Muslims... there is a Jew behind me, come and kill him”).  

The Moslems’ wars against Jews didn’t begin in 1967 (The Six Day War) or even with the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948. Massacres in the holy cities of Safed, Jerusalem, Tiberias and Hebron preceded this historical date by decades, as did anti-Jewish pogroms and forced conversions in Iran, Yemen, Spain and elsewhere in Moslem-controlled lands. 

So at this point Israelis will sigh with relief and accept—joyfully yet also tearfully—the most recent ceasefire and the return of the remaining hostages. But then the work will need to begin in earnest, starting with the rehabilitation of the fighters, particularly those who were injured in body, spirit or soul. Restructuring families that had been separated—wives from husbands, parents from children, children from parents—doesn't happen automatically. It will take years to repair. Israeli society today is more fractured than ever—wars tend to do that—along cultural, religious and economic lines. Traditionally differing opinions and views between right- and left-wing politics have turned into seemingly unbridgeable rifts. Contention between secular and Orthodox Jews, particularly the haredim (ultra-Orthodox observant Jews) has turned into rage and even violence during the past two years, with the majority of haredi youth refusing to enlist in the IDF (with the support of their rabbis), leaving the brunt of the war effort and sacrifice to others who see that studying Torah isn’t only a cultural right, but also a privilege that entails responsibilities. Taking advantage of what the modern State of Israel has to offer while refusing to fulfill the mitzvah—the essential commandment—to defend the People and its Homeland—is not merely unethical. It is sacrilege and transgression of conditions set by Moses 3200 years ago and affirmed by Maimonides more than a thousand years ago.  

Israel’s society will have to find a way to rebuild itself, and so will the Israel Defense Force. The courage and heroism of the IDF fighters is legendary, yet also very real, often carrying with it a heavy price. The asymmetrical nature of modern warfare, in which one side resorts to indiscriminate killing, including the use, misuse and abuse of the civilian population while the other tries to minimize collateral casualties—often at a high price for itself—will have to be re-evaluated. The reliance on missile and drone technology will require new and improved means of self-defense. Yet in the end any future conflict will still and inevitably come down to combat personnel and boots on the ground. We are all Monday morning quarterbacks; few of us however know the real facts and factors that shaped this round of fighting, and experienced leaders will need to study and draw conclusions from this conflict for a long time. 

The nation of Israel will have to reunify along some basic principles. The shock and unexpected reality of seeing so many countries around the world come down against Israel as it fought one of its most vicious and dangerous enemy—an enemy that sees the war against Israel as merely part of a wider goal: the destruction of the entire West—might help reunite a deeply riven nation.  

The restructuring of the political configuration of Israel’s government will prove a necessary step. A government that has relied on divisiveness to remain in power; that has blinded itself and all society to the dangers around it; that ignored significant warnings against an imminent attack; that thought it could buy peace through monetary donations from both friendly and enemy nations while simultaneously pocketing substantial payoffs and kickbacks, is a corrupt government. A government that does all that and in the process fails to protect its people has lost its right to remain in power. 

An independent commission of investigation along the lines of the Agranat Commission that followed the 1973 Yom Kippur War will have to be set up, and its recommendations considered and acted upon without delay. Short of that, the blame game will continue and exacerbate, leading to even further erosion in public opinion and national stability.  

For Jews worldwide, October 7 was a watershed moment. For a few decades following the Holocaust, we lived in a bubble. Coexistence was more than a possibility, more than a dream. Or so we thought. Some Jews, taking the State of Israel for granted without realizing that their own sense of security was founded upon this rock, have adopted slogans that not only decry Israel’s government and military, but call for the actual destruction of the State of Israel. Others, ignorant of their own history and tradition, uninformed about the background of the conflict and naive about the historical connection between the Land of Israel and the People of Israel, have joined or at the very least shown support for fascists and neo-Nazis who would like nothing better than to see all Jews dead. 

The unity of the entire Jewish People is being tested and must prove itself. The October 7 pogrom was not an isolated event. It was not “resistance” against any sort of occupation or colonialization—terms adopted by cynical terrorists and their supporters. Rather, this horrific event was part of an ongoing deadly war against the Jews. How we defend ourselves against future attacks is something we will all have to consider and rethink. What we teach our children and all future generations (and to whom we entrust this important endeavor) can no longer be relegated to theories or theological discussions. October 7 was horrific and all-too-real. How we survive as Jews is a something we have always asked ourselves after such events and which we will now have to ask ourselves yet again. 

The world will always remember this day as October 7. But for the Jewish People the date has another meaning. October 7 2023 fell—by coincidence or not—on the Jewish holy day of Simchat Torah, the day of Rejoicing with the Torah, the Covenant between the People of Israel, our God, and our homeland. At synagogues and temples around the world, the last few paragraphs of the Torah are read, followed immediately by the first few verses in its first book Genesis. It’s a return to a new beginning, filled with prayer and hope. Let us pray that this anniversary will indeed be a celebration—filled not only with relief and joy but also with hope for a new beginning, for which we always pray, upon which our existence has always rested: A safe, thriving and secure Israel, along with peace and acceptance of Jews in every home and land. 

 

 

(c) 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman