בְּתוֹךְ עַמִּי אָנֹכִי יֹשָׁבֶת “I dwell among my own people”
Over the past three years, I have found myself increasingly puzzled by a phenomenon that I hadn’t given much thought to. Some of the strongest public criticism of Israel and of Jewish organizations comes not only from Israel’s opponents but from Jews themselves. In Brookline discussion groups, on social media, and in national newspapers, Jewish identity is often invoked—”As a Jew…”—to give particular moral authority to criticism of Israel, AIPAC, or other Jewish institutions. At times, I have also been struck by how readily some Jews minimize concerns about antisemitism while focusing instead on whether the Jewish response has been excessive.
I found myself asking:
Why do some Jews appear to identify more readily with the moral framework of movements that are often deeply critical of Israel and mainstream Jewish institutions than with the Jewish community itself? Is this a new phenomenon, or has it accompanied the Jewish people throughout history?
As I reflected on these questions, I realized that my own instincts had been shaped by a value I had given little thought to, which is beautifully expressed in the Book of Kings. When the prophet Elisha offers the Shunammite woman the opportunity to seek special favor from the king, she simply replies:
בְּתוֹךְ עַמִּי אָנֹכִי יֹשָׁבֶת—“I dwell among my own people” (2 Kings 4:13).
For centuries, Jewish tradition has understood that belonging to the Jewish people is not merely a matter of ancestry or religion but of shared destiny. The rabbis taught, כל ישראל ערבים זה בזה—”All Israel is responsible for one another.” Hillel warned, אל תפרוש מן הציבור—”Do not separate yourself from the community.” Jewish tradition elevated אהבת ישראל—love of the Jewish people—into a religious ideal. Together, these teachings suggest that Jewish tradition developed not only a theology and an ethical tradition but also a profound moral vocabulary of peoplehood. The prophets rebuked Israel relentlessly, yet they never stood outside the covenant. Moses defended the very people who had repeatedly challenged him. Jeremiah wept over the nation whose sins he condemned. Again and again, Jewish tradition teaches that criticism and responsibility arise from belonging.
Yet many Jews today are unfamiliar with this moral vocabulary or do not reflect on what it means. If these ideas no longer shape the way some Jews think about their relationship to the Jewish people, perhaps part of the explanation is simply that they have not become part of their moral imagination.
For me, בְּתוֹךְ עַמִּי אָנֹכִי יֹשָׁבֶת has never meant suspending moral judgment. It has meant beginning with the understanding that my fate is inseparable from that of the Jewish people. Criticism, when necessary, arises from love, responsibility, and shared destiny. Its purpose is to strengthen rather than weaken the Jewish community. It asks not only, “Is this true?” but also, “Will these words help my people become better, or will they primarily strengthen those who wish them ill?” If I believe Jewish institutions or Jewish leaders have erred, my instinct is to work for change from within the community while taking care not to unintentionally strengthen those who seek to delegitimize or harm our people.
To be clear, some of the greatest achievements in Jewish history occurred when Jews participated confidently in the broader society without losing their sense of Jewish peoplehood. Perhaps the greatest flowering of Jewish civilization outside the Land of Israel occurred precisely because Jews confidently engaged another civilization while remaining rooted in Jewish peoplehood. Medieval Spain produced extraordinary Jewish philosophers, poets, physicians, and statesmen who engaged deeply with Islamic culture while enriching Jewish civilization. Maimonides wrote in Arabic and drew upon Greek philosophy as transmitted by Muslim scholars, yet produced works that remain foundational to Judaism. German Jews helped shape one of Europe’s great civilizations through extraordinary contributions to science, medicine, music, literature, and philosophy. American Jews have likewise flourished while helping shape virtually every aspect of American life. These examples remind us that some of Judaism’s greatest periods of creativity emerged through confident engagement with the broader world.
Yet history also reveals another recurring pattern.
Again and again, the surrounding civilization eventually became hostile—not necessarily to Jews as individuals, but to some essential aspect of Jewish identity, Jewish religion, or Jewish national aspirations. At those moments, Jews confronted a difficult question: Where does my deepest loyalty lie?
The Hebrew Bible repeatedly describes Israelites embracing the gods and values of neighboring peoples despite the prophets’ warnings. The story of Hanukkah commemorates not only resistance to the Seleucid Empire but also a struggle within the Jewish people themselves as some Jews embraced Hellenistic culture at the expense of Jewish tradition.
Jewish history offers no single explanation for why some Jews have found בְּתוֹךְ עַמִּי אָנֹכִי יֹשָׁבֶת so compelling while others have not. The reasons undoubtedly varied from one generation to another. Yet the recurrence of the phenomenon suggests that the tension itself is deeply human. At times, this tension had tragic consequences for our people, as when some Jews informed on fellow Jews to hostile authorities, endangering entire communities. The rabbis regarded this possibility as so serious that they incorporated ולמלשינים אל תהי תקוה into the Amidah. Whether motivated by fear, personal gain, or identification with hostile powers, the phenomenon reminded the rabbis that the bonds of Jewish peoplehood could not simply be taken for granted.
The modern era transformed this question. The issue was no longer simply whether Jews would remain physically within the Jewish community. Increasingly, it became whether they would continue to see themselves as belonging to it. As European societies offered Jews unprecedented opportunities for acceptance, the challenge was no longer overt persecution but whether Jewish peoplehood would remain central when the broader culture seemed ready to embrace them.
German Jewry illustrates both the promise and the peril of integration. Many German Jews remained deeply engaged in both Jewish and German life, contributing enormously to German civilization while maintaining a sense of Jewish identity. Others increasingly hoped that full assimilation would finally overcome centuries of antisemitism. When Germany ultimately rejected both groups, the limits of assimilation became tragically clear.
Theodor Herzl emerged from this same German-speaking world. The Austro-Hungarian journalist admired European civilization and initially believed that assimilation offered hope. But the persistence of antisemitism convinced him that Jews remained not merely adherents of a religion but members of a people with a shared destiny. His vision of Jewish national renewal grew from that conviction. Long before political Zionism, the Shunammite woman had expressed the same intuition in six simple Hebrew words: בְּתוֹךְ עַמִּי אָנֹכִי יֹשָׁבֶת.
That same value found expression in very different ways throughout Jewish history. Rabbi Akiva continued teaching Torah despite the Roman prohibition and accepted martyrdom rather than abandon Judaism. In the late 15th and early 16th centuries, Don Isaac Abarbanel could have remained in comfort in Spain by converting or separating himself from the fate of Spanish Jewry. Instead, he shared his people’s exile and became one of Judaism’s great biblical commentators.
During World War II, Hannah Senesh left the safety of Palestine to return to wartime Europe because she could not separate her own fate from that of Jews she had never met. Her sacrifice reflected the same ancient conviction that Jewish destiny is shared.
A surprising example of someone who embodies בְּתוֹךְ עַמִּי אָנֹכִי יֹשָׁבֶת is Yoseph Haddad, because while Haddad is Israeli, he is not Jewish. He often says that Israel is his country, that he served in the IDF because he wanted to defend it, and that he refuses to let extremists define him. His example reminds us that belonging is not always determined by ancestry but by a conscious decision to bind one’s fate to that of a nation, even when one does not share the ethnicity of its majority.
When the values of the surrounding culture come into tension with the values, interests, or security of one’s people, how do we decide where to look for guidance?
That question has returned to me repeatedly during conversations in Brookline, while reading essays by Jewish public intellectuals, and while watching debates over Israel and antisemitism unfold. I have sometimes had the impression that some Jews now speak less from within the Jewish people than from within the moral framework of movements that often regard Jewish nationalism, mainstream Jewish institutions, or even Jewish self-defense with deep suspicion.
Ideas shape the way we see the world only if they become part of our moral imagination. One of the challenges facing the Jewish community today may be to recover this moral vocabulary of peoplehood, so that בְּתוֹךְ עַמִּי אָנֹכִי יֹשָׁבֶת is understood not simply as a biblical verse, but as a way of seeing ourselves and our responsibilities to one another.
בְּתוֹךְ עַמִּי אָנֹכִי יֹשָׁבֶת.
Perhaps our challenge today is not simply to preserve this moral vocabulary, but to help it once again shape how Jews understand their obligations to one another.
