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Judaism doesn’t want you to wander and live just anywhere — or does it?
(JTA) — I was a remote worker long before the pandemic made it a thing, but it was only last month that I really took advantage of it. Early on the morning of New Year’s Day, I boarded a plane from Connecticut bound for Mexico, where I spent a full month sleeping in thatch-roofed palapas, eating more tacos than was probably wise and bathing every day in the Pacific. I’ll spare you the glorious details, but suffice it to say, it wasn’t a bad way to spend a January.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, I found myself again and again coming into contact with expats who had traded in their urban lives in northern climes for a more laid-back life in the tropics. There was the recently divorced motorcycle enthusiast slowly wending his way southward by bike as he continued to work a design job for a major American bank. There was the yoga instructor born not far from where I live in Massachusetts who owned an open-air rooftop studio just steps from the waves. There were the countless couples who had chosen to spend their days running beachfront bars or small hotels on the sand. And then there were the seemingly endless number and variety of middle-aged northerners rebooting their lives in perpetual sunshine.
Such people have long mystified me. It’s not hard to understand the lure of beachside living, and part of me envies the freedom to design your own life from the ground up. But there’s also something scary about it. Arriving in middle age in a country where you know nobody, whose language is not your own, whose laws and cultural mores, seasons and flora, are all unfamiliar — it feels like the essence of shallow-rootedness, like a life devoid of all the things that give one (or at least me) a sense of comfort and security and place. The thought of exercising the right to live literally anywhere and any way I choose opens up a space so vast and limitless it provokes an almost vertiginous fear of disconnection and a life adrift.
Clearly, this feeling isn’t universally shared. And the fact that I have it probably owes a lot to my upbringing. I grew up in an Orthodox family, which by necessity meant life was lived in a fairly small bubble. Our house was within walking distance of our synagogue, as it had to be since walking was the only way to get there on Shabbat and holidays. I attended a small Jewish day school, where virtually all of my friends came from families with similar religious commitments. Keeping kosher and the other constraints of a religious life had a similarly narrowing effect on the horizons of my world and thus my sense of life’s possibilities. Or at least that’s how it often felt.
What must it be like — pardon the non-kosher expression — to feel as if the world is your oyster? That you could live anywhere, love anyone, eat anything and make your life whatever you want it to be? Thrilling, yes — but also frightening. The sense of boundless possibility I could feel emanating from those sun-baked Mexicans-by-choice was seductive, but tempered by aversion to a life so unmoored.
The tension between freedom and obligation is baked into Jewish life. The twin poles of our national narrative are the Exodus from Egypt and the revelation at Sinai, each commemorated by festivals separated by exactly seven weeks in the calendar, starting with Passover. The conventional understanding is that this juxtaposition isn’t accidental. God didn’t liberate the Israelites from slavery so they could live free of encumbrances on the Mayan Riviera. Freedom had a purpose, expressed in the giving of the Torah at Sinai, with all its attendant rules and restrictions and obligations. Freedom is a central value of Jewish life — Jews are commanded to remember the Exodus every day. But Jewish freedom doesn’t mean the right to live however you want.
Except it might mean the right to live any place you want. In the 25th chapter of Leviticus, God gives the Israelites the commandment of the Jubilee year, known as yovel in Hebrew. Observed every 50 years in biblical times, the Jubilee has many similarities to the shmita (sabbatical) year, but with some additional rituals. The text instructs: “And you shall hallow the 50th year. You shall proclaim liberty throughout the land for all its inhabitants. It shall be a jubilee for you: each of you shall return to your holding and each of you shall return to your family.”
Among the requirements of the Jubilee was that ancestral lands be returned to their original owners. Yet the word for liberty is a curious one: “d’ror.” The Talmud explains its etymology this way: “It is like a man who dwells [medayer] in any dwelling and moves merchandise around the entire country” (Rosh Hashanah 9b).
The liberty of the Jubilee year could thus be said to have two contrary meanings — individuals had the right to return to their ancestral lands, but they were also free not to. They could live in any dwelling they chose. The sense of liberty connoted by the biblical text is a specifically residential one: the freedom to live where one chooses. Which pretty well describes the world we live in today. Jewish ancestral lands are freely available to any Jew who wants to live there. And roughly half the Jews of the world choose not to.
Clearly, I’m among them. And while I technically could live anywhere, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to. I like where I live — not because of any particular qualities of this place, though I do love its seasons and its smells and its proximity to the people I care about and the few weeks every fall when the trees become a riotous kaleidoscope. But mostly because it’s mine.
A version of this essay appeared in My Jewish Learning’s Recharge Shabbat newsletter. Subscribe here.
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A 19-Year Name vs. 3,000 Years of History: Judea vs. ‘West Bank’
The Jewish community of Beit El in Judea and Samaria. Photo: Yaakov via Wikimedia Commons.
Read a story about Israel from almost any major news outlet and you’ll see the same convention: “West Bank,” stated as fact, and “Judea and Samaria” treated as controversial.
In fact, these outlets all treat “Judea and Samaria” as a label used by Israel, often with a caveat that it is “biblical,” “right wing” or even “far-right.”
One term is presented as neutral. The other arrives with a warning. That is not linguistic housekeeping. It is a political choice, often made in a conscious way that reshapes history.
“West Bank” is a directional term. It describes where the land sits relative to the Jordan River. It was coined in 1949 by the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan after its army crossed the river in 1948, seized the territory as part of the Arab League’s declared war to annihilate Israel, and later annexed it. East Bank, West Bank. It is a geographic label attached to a military and political act. Jordan’s 1950 annexation was recognized by only a handful of countries and never produced a Palestinian state.
“Judea and Samaria” are not modern inventions, and they are not merely “biblical” in the dismissive sense often implied.
They are the names by which this region was known across centuries of rule, from antiquity through successive empires. They appear in ancient records, persist through administrative usage, and reflect a continuous historical vocabulary.
Even the 1947 UN Partition Plan — the plan that proposed to create the first independent Arab state in the Holy Land — referred to this area as the “hill country of Samaria and Judea” in describing the territory proposed for this new Arab state.
One can debate the modern implications of that 3,000+ years of history. One cannot plausibly claim it is recent, or invented.
Yet for the media, a term born of a 19-year Jordanian occupation following an offensive war becomes the unmarked standard. A name used across millennia is treated as ideological.
That inversion is not limited to vocabulary. It reflects a broader pattern in how the Arab-Israeli conflict has been framed since at least 1947: history is compressed, revised, or ignored, and cause and effect are routinely severed.
Start with 1947. The UN proposed partition into a Jewish state and an Arab state. Jewish leadership accepted the plan despite its limits and the British creation in 1921 of the Arab Kingdom of Transjordan out of almost 80% of the territory originally allotted after 1917 for the British Mandate for Palestine.
The local Arab leadership rejected the 1947 UN Partition Plan and chose war. That decision matters. It explains why the map did not follow the proposal — and why there is no Arab state today.
Yet in much contemporary coverage, that sequence disappears. The rejection of what would have been an independent Arab state –- in close to 80% of the arable land west of the Jordan River — followed by a multi-state war aimed at destroying the nascent Jewish state — is flattened into a vague “conflict” with outcomes detached from their cause.
Move to 1948–1967. Jordan controlled what it called the “West Bank,” while Egypt controlled Gaza. No Palestinian state was created in either territory. There was no serious effort to create one. That absence is rarely emphasized, though it is central to claims about what the conflict has always been “about.”
Then there is June, 1967. Israel took control of Judea and Samaria, and Gaza, because its neighbors tried to wage a war to destroy it and kill or subjugate all its Jewish residents. However one evaluates the legal debates that followed, the sequence is not credibly in dispute. Yet retellings often begin later, presenting outcomes without any reference to the threats and actions that produced them.
None of this resolves the conflict. But it does something more basic. It restores sequence. It places events back in order and returns language to its context.
That context is what is lost when “West Bank” is treated as neutral, while “Judea and Samaria” is treated as suspect or extreme.
In other regions, imposed modern labels — often by conquerors — are distinguished from older ones. Here, that instinct disappears. The origin of the dominant term is rarely mentioned. Its recency is almost never acknowledged. A label from the mid-20th century is presented as if it were timeless. It is not.
The question is not which term must be used. It is whether the current asymmetry can be defended as neutral. A 19-year name replaced 3,000 years. The least we can do is acknowledge that before arguing about what it means.
Micha Danzig is an attorney, former IDF soldier, and former NYPD officer. He writes widely on Israel, Zionism, antisemitism, and Jewish history. He serves on the board of Herut North America.
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Words of rescue: Yermiyahu Ahron Taub’s new book of poetry
עס זײַנען דאָ פּאָעטן װאָס זײַנען נבֿיאים, ווי למשל משה קולבאַק און חיים־נחמן ביאַליק. פֿאַראַן פּאָעטן פֿילאָסאָפֿן, װי עמילי דיקינסאָן אָדער אַהרן צײטלין. און טײל פּאָעטן זײַנען קינסטלער פֿון אימזאַש, װי רחל פֿישמאַן. זעלטן װען אָבער זעט מען אַ פּאָעט, װאָס איז מסוגל דורך זײַנע לידער צו באַלעבן אָדער באַװױנען עטלעכע פּערזענלעכקײטן, פּאַרשױנען, און דערבײַ אױפֿצובױען אַ גאַלעריע פֿון פֿאַרשײדענע מענטשן־טיפּן.
דער פּאָעט איז אָפֿט מאָל אַ שרײַבער פֿון ליריק, דאָס הײסט, פֿערזן װאָס װערן אַרױסגעזאָגט פֿון אַ געװיסן „איך“ װען לידער זײַנען אינטערעסאַנט, װיל מען הערן אַלץ מער פֿונעם „איך“. נאָר אַ פּאָעט װאָס קען באַשילדערן פֿאַרשײדענע פֿיגורן טוט אױף עפּעס ברײטערס.
אין זײַן נײַסטן ביכל פּאָעזיע, „עלות־הלילה אױפֿן בױדעם,“ שטעלט ירמיהו אַהרן טאַוב פֿאָר סײַ קאָמפּאָזיציעס פֿון לירישן „איך“, אַ נאַראַטאָר װאָס איז אין געװיסע אַספּעקטן ענלעך צו טאַובן אַלײן, סײַ דיכטונגען פֿון אַנדערע װעלטן, גאַסן און געגנטן. דאָס אַלץ טוט ער אין פֿאַרשײדענע זשאַנערס (לידער, פּראָזע־מיניאַטורן) און פֿאַרשײדענע שפּראַכן: נישט נאָר ענגליש מיט ייִדיש, נאָר אױך (אין אײן פֿאַל) ענגליש צוזאַמענגעפֿלאָכט מיט לשן־קודש.
לײענערס װאָס זײַנען שױן באַקאַנט מיט טאַובס װערק װעלן דאָ דערקענען פֿריִערדיקע מאָטיװן, װאָס זײַנען עיִקר־טעמעס פֿאַרן דאָזיקן מחבר. ער איז דער מײַסער־פּאָרטרעטיסט פֿון סעקסועלע דערװאַכונג, אַנטױשטן באַגער (סײַ רעליגיעזער, סײַ קערפּעלערכער), ריסן צװישן דורות, פֿאַרװעלקטער פֿרומקײט. נאָר זיכער האָט מען שױן אין אַנדערע קאָנטעקטן באַרירט די פֿאַרבינדונגען צװישן „קװירשאַפֿט“, אָפּגעפֿאָרנקײט פֿון פֿרומען דרך, און ייִדיש, װי טעמעס פֿון פּאָעזיע און ליטעראַטור בכלל. די דאָזיקע צװישנשײדן זײַנען גאָר װיכטיק פֿאַר טאַובס שאַפֿונגען.
באַזונדערש רירנדיק דאָ זײַנען די בילדער פֿון משפּחה־רײַבונגען, פֿון באַגעגענישן װאָס ברענגען נישט צו קײן עמאָציאָנעלע פֿאַרשטענדיקונגען.
אין אײנעם אַ ליד טרעפֿן מיר דעם נאַראַטאָרס פֿאָטער, אַ פֿרומען ייִד, װאָס סע װילט זיך אים גאָר שטאַרק לערנען זײַן קינד װי אַזױ צו װאַרפֿן אַ בײסבאָל. צום באַדױערן, טױג דאָס קינד צו דעם אַזױ פֿיל װי ער טױג צו לערנען — דאָס הײסט, גאַנץ שװאַך.
די זעלבע פֿיגור, דער פֿרומער פֿאָטער װאָס איז נישט צופֿרידן מיט זײַן אָפּגעפֿאָרענעם קינד, באַװײַזט זיך אין נאָך עטלעכע לידער אין באַנד, אַלע מאָל אין הינטערגרונד, בעטנדיק נאָך אַ קדיש, נאָך אַ בלאַט גמרא, כאָטש אַ מנחה, און אַלע מאָל דעם שטױס נאָך פּרו־ורבֿו. דער נאַראַטאָר, װידער, פֿאַרצײכנט זײַנע פֿאָטערס באַגערן. זײַנע אײגענע באַגערן ליגן אָבער ערגעץ אַנדערש.
טאַוב פֿאַרברײטערט אָפֿט זײַן קוק צו באַקענען אונדז מיט אַנדערע פּאַרשױנען: פֿרױען אין פֿאַרשלאָפֿענע שטעטלעך, ערשטמאָליקע „גײ“־ליבע־באַגעגענישן, אױסשטאַרבנדיקע מנינים. אױך חיות באַלעבט ער אין זײַנע פֿערזן:
די װילדע קאַץ װאָס האָסט געראַטעװעט פֿונעם הינטערגעסל
קאָרטשעט זיך, אומרויִק אונטערן גלעט פֿון דײַן האַנט,
ניט אין שטאַנד אױסצוהאַלטן, ניט אין שטאַנד זיך אַװעקצודרײען פֿון אַזאַ הנאָה.“
אַ באַמערקונג װעגן שפּראַך: װי אין זײַנע פֿריִערדיקע ביכלעך, װערן דאָ אַרײַנגענומען לידער אױף ענגליש און אױף ייִדיש. די ייִדיש־נוסחאות זײַנען אַלע מאָל באַגלײגט מיט פּאַראַלעלע ענגלישע װערסיעס. (איך דערלױב זיך דאָ אַ פּאָר אײדעלע טענות װעגן די גרײַזן װאָס זײַנען אַרײַנגעפֿאַלן אין די ייִדישע טעקסטן, און דאָס, װאָס טײל פֿון די ייִדיש־װערסיעס װערן געדרוקט אין קלענערע אותיות פֿון די ענגלישע.)
מע װאָלט דאָ געקענט זיך אַרײַנלאָזן אין אַ לענגערער דיסקוסיע װעגן די באַציִונגען פֿון די דאָזיקע װערסיעס. זײ זײַנען איבערזעצונגען אײנס פֿון אַנדערן, נאָר אױך אינטערפּרעטאַציעס. די ייִדישע לידער זײַנען (װאָדען?) מער אַדורכגעדרונגען מיט דער דראַמע װאָס באַגלײגט דאָס גאַנץ ביכל: די רײַבונגען צװישן דעם טראַדיציאָנעלן לעבן־שטײגער, פֿול מיטן שטרענגען דין, און דער בענקשאַפֿט פֿון דעם נאַראַטאָר, אַן אָפּגעפֿאָרענער װאָס װיל זיכער נישט זיך אומקערן, און פֿאָרט בענקט זיך אַהין. אינעם ליד „מילך־און־האָניקדיקע לבֿנה־האַרבסטונג“ לײענט זיך אַ ביסל טרוקן די ענגלישע שורה And, in that way, the Day of Rest lived up to its name
בשעת דאָס ייִדישע „און אַזױ טאַקע האָט דער יום־מנוחה אונדז נישט אַנטױשט“ גיט איבער אױף אַ קלאָרן אױפֿן װעגן װאָסער מין רו גײט דאָ די רײד.
איך האָב דאָ באַװיזן איבערצוגעבן נאָר אױפֿן שפּיץ מעסער די טעמאַטיק פֿון די דאָזיקע לידער. כאָטש טאַוב, בדרך־כּלל, גיט די בכורה עמאָציעס און געפֿילן, נישט קאָנסטאַטירונגען און אידעאָלאָגיעס, איז דאָס ביכל נישט קיין אומפּאָליטישע. פֿאַרקערט, די (ענגלישע) לידער „דער אָפּרו פֿון אַקטיװיסט“ און „פּערמאַנענטער אײַנװױנער, אָן קײן גרינעם קאַרטל“ גיבן איבער אױף אַ האַרץ־רײַסנדיקן אופֿן, װי זײערע טיטלען זאָגן אָן, די אָנשטרענגען און קאָמפּראָמיסן פֿון הײַנטיקן פּאָליטישן מאָמענט.
לױט מײַן מיינונג ווערט דאָס ביכל אָרגאַניזירט מיטן דראַמאַטישן בױגן פֿון אַ מענטשלעכן לעבן, פֿון ענגלישן ליד „דאָס ליכט בײַם אָנהײב טונעל“, אין אָנהײב, ביזן לעצטן ליד „צום סוף“, װאָס װענדט זיך צום לײענער אַזױ:
װען איך גײ אַװעק,
רײַס ניט די קלײדער,
און טראָג ניט קײן שװאַרץ,
באַהאַלט ניט דעם שפּיגל….
זײַ נישט קײן אָבֿל אין גאַנצן.
„װען איך גײ אַװעק,“ זאָגט דער נאַראַטאָר, „מאַך פֿאַר זיך אַ שׂימחה.“
נאָכן געזעגענען זיך מיטן דאָזיקן ביכל, װינטשט מען דעם מחבר נאָך לאַנגע יאָרן פֿון דער שׂימחה פֿון שאַפֿן נאָך טיף־גרײכנדיקע און פֿילעװדיקע מעדיטאַציעס װעגן לעבן און טױט, פֿרומקײט און װעלטלעכקײט, סעקס און ליבשאַפֿט, „קװיר“־ און העטעראָ־אידענטיטעט.
אין „געבעט“, דאָס סאַמע ערשטע ליד, װענדט זיך דער פֿאָטער צום נאַראַטאָר: „דער טאַטע רופֿט מיך צו היטן שבת“, צו דאַװנען, צו לערנען, זאַכן װאָס דער נאַראַטאָר װיל נישט, איז נישט מסוגל צו טאָן. קומט דער פּאָעט צום אױספֿיר אַז „נאָר די װערטער קענען מיך ראַטעװען.“
אַ בעסערע װעלטלעכע תּפֿילה קען נישט זײַן. הלװאַי אױף אונדז אַלעמען געזאָגט געוואָרן.
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Israel, US condemn Belgium over planned prosecutions tied to Jewish circumcisions
(JTA) — A diplomatic spat erupted on Wednesday after Belgian prosecutors moved to charge two Jewish men tied to ritual circumcisions, prompting Israeli and U.S. officials to accuse Belgium of targeting Jews for practicing their faith.
Gideon Saar, Israel’s minister of foreign affairs, lit into the country in a post on X Wednesday morning, calling the indictments a “scarlet letter on Belgian society.”
“With this act Belgium joins a short and shameful list, together with Ireland, of countries that use criminal law to prosecute Jews for practicing Judaism,” Saar wrote, later calling circumcision a “cornerstone of Jewish faith” and urging the Belgian government to “act immediately and to find a solution.”
Saar’s condemnation was quickly joined by the U.S. ambassador to Belgium, Bill White, who had previously called on Belgium to drop the “ridiculous and antisemitic” investigation of mohels in February.
“This is a shameful stain on Belgium,” White wrote in a post on X. “The prosecution of these religious figures (mohels), one of whom is American, is WRONG and won’t be tolerated. Belgium will be thought of now as anti Semitic by world. Until this is resolved – there is no way around it.”
White, a President Donald Trump appointee who faced criticism for amplifying social media posts by a far-right Belgian political activist convicted of racism and Holocaust denial, added that the “Trump Administration condemns this judicial action” and called on the Belgian government to “work with the Jewish leaders and communities to find a certification solution immediately.”
The condemnation by White and Saar comes after the Antwerp Public Prosecutor’s Office announced that it intends to prosecute two Jewish men on charges related to performing circumcisions, a practice that is required by law to be performed by licensed medical professionals in Belgium.
Last year, Belgian authorities raided multiple sites, including two in Antwerp’s Jewish Quarter, at the beginning of an investigation into illegal circumcisions. Investigators also requested lists of children who had recently been circumcised, according to VRT NWS, the Flemish public broadcaster.
But the sharp criticism by the two leaders was later dismissed by Belgian Foreign Minister Maxime Prévot, who wrote in a reply to White’s post that it was “inappropriate to publicly criticize a country and tarnish its image simply because you disagree with judicial proceedings.”
“I recall that the proceedings in question were initiated by representatives of the Jewish community themselves,” Prévot continued. “To portray those as a country’s desire to undermine the religious freedom of Jews is defamatory. This freedom has never been called into question and never will be in our country. Our Constitution protects it. And it is not for an ambassador to dictate the government’s agenda.”
In response to Saar’s post, Prévot wrote, “Enough with these caricatures.”
“Since you yourself recently urged against conducting diplomacy via Twitter, I suggest that we discuss all these issues during a meeting in Israel at a time that suits you best, in order to put an end to any misinterpretations,” Prévot continued.
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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