Is there still a place in this world for someone who is unapologetically Jewish, deeply American, and proudly Zionist: not necessarily in that order?

For many American Jews today, that identity feels increasingly difficult to hold together. We are asked, implicitly and explicitly, to choose: between our values and our people, between our country and our homeland, between solidarity and criticism. But the truth is far more complicated than the choices being offered.

Many American Jews understand why Israelis support the war in Iran and why they admire our president. They understand the trauma that shaped those views and the existential stakes Israelis feel every day. The threats are real. The fears are real. The sense of vulnerability is real. To dismiss those feelings is to misunderstand the reality of Israeli life.

At the same time, many of those same American Jews are struggling with another reality: the political climate in the United States and the direction of our government. They are wrestling with what it means to support Israel while also holding firm to the democratic values that define their American identity.

This is not hypocrisy. It is the natural tension of living between two deeply held commitments.

Yet the gap between Israeli Jews and American Jews appears to be widening. Israelis, understandably focused on survival and security, often struggle to understand the pressures American Jews face in the diaspora – on campuses, in workplaces, and in political discourse. At times, the message from Israel can feel dismissive: support us, defend us, send resources, but remember this is not your home.

For American Jews who have spent their lives advocating for Israel, raising money for Israel, sending their children to study in Israel, and defending Israel in hostile spaces, that message can sting.

I’m a diehard Zionist. I’m also a diehard Liberal Democrat. I can’t remove either one without becoming another person. This is who I am – though there’s more to me along the lines of Bob Marley, the Grateful Dead, the San Francisco Giants, and chocolate, but that’s another conversation.

I support this war. And I do not believe it began recently.

For the United States, this conflict stretches back decades – to 1979, when Iran’s regime captured 52 Americans and held them hostage for 444 days. It continued in 1983 with the Beirut barracks bombing that killed 241 American service members, and through attacks on the Khobar Towers to the USS Cole. This is not a new war. It is another chapter in a long one.

But supporting the necessity of confronting this regime does not mean supporting the absence of strategy. I cannot support engaging in conflict without a clear plan for how it ends. It is not a success if the regime simply declares victory, or the United States becomes trapped once again in another country with American troops dying, something no one here wants. 

I do not hide how I feel about President Trump and his administration. But I refuse to base my judgment of whether an action is justified solely on who occupies the White House. Could this be a “wag the dog” moment? Perhaps. But even if it were, that alone would not make the action wrong.

What pains me is feeling betrayed from multiple directions.

I feel betrayed by fellow American Jews and Zionists who oppose this war simply because of Trump – or worse, because they do not see the necessity of confronting the regime in Iran. I remain open to rational arguments for why this action might be wrong, but those arguments must be grounded in reality rather than reflexive opposition.

At the same time, I feel betrayed by Israeli leaders whose decisions over the years have placed Israel’s future as a Jewish and democratic state at risk. My frustration is not limited to the usual political villains. I feel anger not only toward Ben Gvir and Smotrich, but also toward Levin, Chikli, Goldknopf, Karhi, Zohar, Silman, and others who have enabled a direction I believe is dangerous.  

My frustration with Benjamin Netanyahu may run even deeper than my anger toward American leadership. This administration, at least, has an expiration date. Netanyahu appears determined to extend his political survival indefinitely, even if the cost is the erosion of the democratic foundations many generations fought to build.

Did Netanyahu launch the latest attacks partly to distract from his government’s failures? It is possible. But even if that were true, it does not automatically negate the legitimacy of Israel defending itself.

These tensions are not new for me.

I opposed the JCPOA not because I rejected diplomacy with Iran, but because I believed it was a deeply flawed agreement. At the same time, I opposed the way Netanyahu chose to fight it, particularly his confrontational approach toward President Obama. In my view, that strategy deliberately damaged Israel’s relationship with the Democratic Party and with large segments of American Jewry.

Yet when Donald Trump withdrew from the JCPOA, I opposed that as well – not because my view of the deal had changed, but because he offered no coherent strategy for what would come next. Once again, the absence of a plan.

I also feel betrayed by Democrats who, in trying to satisfy every faction, often stumble over their own positions regarding Israel. But unlike some others, I do not believe the answer is to abandon them. There is still an obligation to engage, to work with them to get it right, while understanding the political pressures they face from their own electorate.

Despite all of these frustrations, one thing has never changed.

I have never given up the fight for our homeland. Even when I disagreed with Israeli governments, I remained committed to the idea that Israel’s existence is essential to Jewish survival and dignity. That commitment has not wavered.

But loyalty should not require silence. And solidarity should not erase the complexity of diaspora Jewish life.

American Jews do not experience Israel as Israelis do. Nor should they be expected to. Our lives are rooted in a different political system, a different culture, and a different set of responsibilities. Yet our connection to Israel is no less real for that distance.

In fact, it may be precisely that distance that gives diaspora Jews a unique perspective – one that combines love for Israel with the lived experience of pluralism and democracy outside its borders.

The challenge before us is not choosing between identities. It is refusing to abandon any of them.

We can be proud Jews, committed Americans, and passionate Zionists at the same time. We can support Israel’s security while questioning its politics. We can defend its legitimacy while urging empathy for the concerns of Jews beyond its borders.

The Jewish story has always been one of multiple homes and overlapping loyalties. That complexity is not a weakness. 

It is our inheritance.

The real question is not whether there is a place in the world for Jews who live between these identities.

The question is whether we will insist on making one.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)