Hebrew-Speaking Goyim

Itzik the kibbutznik goes for the jugular

The weathered man pushes himself off the bookshelf with the unhurried confidence of someone who's spent decades watching idealists come and go. His calloused hands and sun-lined face speak of years spent building something real, not just theorizing about it.

"I'm Itzik," he says, his voice carrying the gravelly authority of a man fully grounded. "From Gan Shmuel—one of the most socialist, secular kibbutzim." His eyes fix on Rachel. "Yes, the kind you claim to admire. We practically invented the idea of a 'religion-free' Judaism. And let me tell you something about that particular piece of stupidity."

Rachel's posture stiffens slightly. The room, despite its hazy atmosphere, seems to sharpen into focus.

"There is no basis for nationalism without a common past, a common vision, common values," Itzik continues, each word precise as a chisel strike. "Nationalism without a religious foundation—without knowledge of who we are and where we come from—it doesn't just fade. It corrodes. First into universalism, then, inevitably, into a hatred of Judaism itself."

Rachel's glass hits the table with more force than necessary. "That's quite a leap. I love Judaism. I just want—"

"The state to be secular? Yes, I heard your little manifesto." Itzik's interruption is casual, almost bored. "Tell me, since you're so fond of citing him, how many of Berdichevsky's descendants still live in Israel?"

The host, sensing the rising tension, takes a particularly long drag on his joint. Through the thickening smoke, I notice Rachel's hands have balled into fists.

"You know what I've watched happen over sixty years?" Itzik's voice carries no trace of doubt. "My friends and I have become Hebrew-speaking goyim waiting for our grandchildren to finish their army service so they can move to Berlin. The only thing Jewish about Tel Aviv is the language, and even that's becoming more English every year. That's bad enough, but it doesn't stop there."

"That's just globalization," Eden interjects. "It affects religious communities too."

"The difference," Itzik responds, "is that religious communities have something that can resist it. They have a why. Without that, what makes Israel different from any other Western democracy? What keeps people here when times get tough?"

He pauses, his eyes sweeping the room. "My grandfather helped found our kibbutz. Real old guard, straight from Poland. Every Pesach, he'd lead the kibbutz seder. Revised Haggadah, naturally—all about spring and freedom and labor, not a mention of God. Very progressive." His smile is razor-thin. "That vapid ceremony died exactly the death it deserved. But now there are those who would object even to that for being too religious. Judeophobes, we've become."

Bernie shifts forward in his chair. "But surely there's a middle ground? Some way to maintain cultural Judaism without full religious observance?"

"Ah, the comfortable middle ground," Itzik nods. "Very appealing. But show me where it's worked. Show me one example of cultural Judaism surviving past a generation without some religious foundation. Even the kibbutzim couldn't manage it, and we tried harder than anyone."

He turns his gaze back to Rachel. "And that's why your vision of a purely secular state will fail. Not because religion needs state power—it doesn't. But because the state needs a religious foundation, whether we care to admit it or not. Without it, there's no answer to the simple question: why here? And for precisely that reason, the moment my friends cease to control all the unelected institutions of this country, they’ll declare the whole Zionist project dead and move on."

The host, perpetually amused, interjects. "Itzik, you seem to have very little patience for Rachel, even though you yourself are secular, are you not?"

Itzik's laugh is sharp enough to cut glass. "As for my religiosity, let’s just call that a work in progress. But Rachel? Rachel is a fraud. She portrays herself as a rebel, but she's rebelled against what exactly—some tiny aspect of religious Zionism? But in most respects, she represents religious Zionists all too well, particularly their inferiority complex vis-à-vis the old establishment, the so-called elites, who have nothing going for them – let me be honest and say us – except control of all of Israel’s unelected institutions, which we have inherited, not earned."

Through my Balvenie-induced haze, I notice Eden subtly positioning herself between Rachel and Itzik. The host's joint has gone out, forgotten in his hand.

"Some of you," Itzik presses on, "just took Rav Kook's patronizing flattery of secular Zionists a bit too seriously. But others are just insecure snobs attracted to those with power. Too filled with your own sense of inferiority to see that we, all of us, are rotten through and through, completely detached from our Jewish roots, ignorant about anything Jewish, and willing to abandon or even destroy the state if it's anything but our pet project."

"Which type are you, Rachel?" he practically shouts. "Are you flattering me to be mekarev me, like the old Kookniks you claim to have abandoned, or have you just become another Gush Etzion sophisticate, convinced that you're the first to discover that the world is complicated and eager to dissociate yourself from the babboons?"

Rachel's voice could freeze hell. "Fascinating analysis. Tell me, does this amateur sociology routine usually work better with more alcohol, or less?"

"For your information, meideleh, I haven't touched a drop of alcohol since long before you were born. I'm just this straightforward sober. Get used to it. And I see I've touched a nerve, haven't I? So I surmise our great revolutionary has found her way to Gush Etzion, is that right?"

Rachel stammers, "That's irrelevant and none of your damn business."

The Balvenie is definitely hitting me harder now. The bookshelves behind Itzik seem to be swaying slightly, and I could swear the volumes of Talmud are rearranging themselves in new and interesting combinations. Someone has put on Leonard Cohen's "Who By Fire," and the Hebrew prayer's melody weaves eerily through his English lyrics.

"You know what's truly sad?" Itzik sighs, the fire in his voice giving way to something closer to disappointment. "Twenty years ago, I thought religious Zionism might actually save us. Our secular culture was already hollowing out—you could see it happening. But there was this generation of religious Zionists who seemed different. They weren't just mimicking their teachers' reverence for secular pioneers. They were starting to develop their own voice, their own confidence."

He shakes his head slowly. "But instead of genuinely developing the quiet confidence to take over the leadership of the country, as you should have, you and your friends alternate between false bravado and abject kowtowing – and trust me the difference between the two is much less significant than you think it is."

The room holds its breath, uncertain where this is heading. Through the window, Jerusalem's lights flicker like distant prophecies, and somewhere in the background, Leonard Cohen continues to wonder who shall be consumed by fire and who by water. I find myself wondering what Itzik sees when he looks at those lights—something tells me it's neither the secular utopianism of his kibbutz youth nor the comfortable modernizing orthodoxy that Rachel represents.

Whatever it is, he is surely going to tell us about it, soberly and straightforwardly.