An American Jewish Education, Reconsidered

I grew up in the glittering heart of American Zionism. Campfire sing-alongs in Hebrew, escape to Israel night games, and celebration of the greatest miracle yet, the birth of the modern state of Israel. We learned how to “defend” Israel before we learned how to question anything. We didn’t think we were part of a political project. We thought we were just Jewish.

We were told: this is how you belong. You love Israel, or you don’t love yourself. You support the IDF, or you don’t support Jewish survival. You raise money, you clap at the slideshow of soldiers visiting your JCC, you absorb the talking points like Torah.

And now… what the hell do we do with that?

Because if you're paying attention—really paying attention—you know that we weren't just on the sidelines. We were the donor base—the moral cover. The suburban cheerleaders in synagogue basements and Shabbat tables across the country, making excuses for an apartheid system while feeling very spiritual about it.

We told ourselves it was complicated. That it was about survival. That any criticism of Israel was antisemitism, unless it came from Israelis themselves—and even then, only if they were center-right and said it nicely.

We did all of this while believing, truly, that we were on the side of justice.

And now, it’s all unraveling.

The myth. The moral high ground. The convenient silence.

I’m not saying I have answers. Most days, I just have a deep sense of nausea and a voice in my head saying, “Wait, were we complicit in ways we never let ourselves see?”

The worst part? We were trained not to even ask that question.

But maybe this is the beginning of something else. Not performative guilt. Not easy outrage. Just an honest reckoning.

Maybe we don’t need to choose between being Jewish and being decent. Maybe the actual tradition—the one buried under the flag pins and Birthright slideshows—is calling us back. Back to tzedek, to emet, to the idea that our story isn't more sacred than anyone else’s. People who have suffered should know better than to make others suffer in our name.

If you’re feeling complicit, cracked open, unsure how to talk to your parents, stuck between loving your people and hating what’s been done—same.

Pull up a chair.

Turns out “never again” wasn’t supposed to come with an asterisk. We’ve got some dismantling to do.