Israel Wants My Loyalty, But Not Me

When Loyalty, Sacrifice and a Lifetime of Commitment Mean Nothing

There are moments in life when disappointment goes far beyond sadness, when something you have believed in, defended and loved almost unconditionally suddenly reveals a side you never wanted to see. Today, I experienced such a moment. After years of trying to find a way to become an Israeli citizen, after decades of emotional attachment to the Jewish state, after twelve years of relentless advocacy that have cost me relationships, employment opportunities, money and even my personal safety, I received an answer that has shattered something inside me. Israel does not want me. Not because I am unwilling to contribute, not because I lack commitment, not because I have anything to hide, but because I cannot produce the documents that would establish my eligibility under the Law of Return. Apparently, the only realistic route left for me is religious conversion. And that is where my admiration for Israel collides headfirst with what I consider an extraordinary example of moral hypocrisy.

My love for Israel did not begin with politics, October 7, or some fashionable ideological movement. It began almost in my cradle. I grew up in a secular family, although Judaism was never far away, particularly on my mother’s side. My maternal relatives presented themselves publicly as Roman Catholics, yet birthdays were celebrated with cries of Mazal Tov, conversations effortlessly switched between Dutch and Yiddish, and Jewish traditions seemed to exist quietly beneath a carefully maintained public identity. Nobody openly discussed Jewish ancestry. Perhaps history had taught them that silence was safer. My grandfather, a decorated resistance hero during the Second World War, left me his Torah and Tanakh when he passed away. My father’s family history also contains strong indirect indications of Jewish ancestry. These are pieces of a family history that cannot easily be reduced to official certificates, particularly when generations had reasons to conceal their origins. Yet today, in the eyes of Israeli bureaucracy, these memories, traditions and historical indications apparently count for almost nothing.

My parents’ commitment to Israel went far beyond emotional attachment. During our years in the Middle East, they undertook activities on Israel’s behalf that placed not only their own lives at risk, but potentially those of my brother and me. They believed in Israel strongly enough to accept dangers that most people would never contemplate. Their commitment was not a convenient slogan printed on a flag. It was a matter of action, conviction and personal sacrifice. I inherited that commitment, and for the past twelve years I have devoted an enormous part of my life to defending Israel publicly, challenging antisemitism, confronting misinformation and standing up for the Jewish state when doing so was neither popular nor personally advantageous. I founded Time To Stand Up For Israel, built an international audience, wrote countless articles, organized initiatives and invested thousands upon thousands of unpaid hours. I did not do this because Israel promised me anything. I did it because I believed Israel was worth defending.

And what has that commitment cost me? Relationships, jobs, professional opportunities, financial security and, increasingly, my sense of personal safety in the Netherlands. I live in a country where open support for Israel can make someone a target of intimidation and hostility. I have never demanded compensation for my advocacy, nor have I expected Israel to reward me for every sacrifice. But when the situation became increasingly unbearable, I hoped that the country I had defended so fiercely might at least consider giving me the opportunity to build a future there. I was prepared to work, contribute, serve and use whatever skills I possess wherever they might be useful, whether in communications, administration, research, security-related work or another field. I was not asking for a comfortable retirement or a privileged position. I was asking for a chance to belong.

There was, however, one enormous obstacle. I could not sufficiently document my Jewish ancestry to qualify for aliyah under the existing rules. Consequently, I began exploring conversion and eventually entered a conversion process through a Reconstructionist Jewish community. From the very beginning, I was completely honest about my motivation. I explained that I wanted to convert because I wanted to live in Israel. To my astonishment, this was accepted without hesitation. I had always understood that conversion to Judaism was a profound spiritual undertaking, a demanding process intended to establish whether someone genuinely wished to embrace Jewish faith, identity, obligations and communal life. I had been taught that conversion was not something to pursue casually and certainly not something to undertake merely to obtain immigration documents. Yet here I was, openly admitting that my primary motivation was Israeli citizenship, and apparently this raised no immediate objection.

What disturbed me even more was encountering people whose religious motivations seemed, to me, fundamentally incompatible with the purpose of conversion. I met individuals from strongly evangelical Christian backgrounds who continued to speak passionately about Jesus and their Christian beliefs. I could not understand how someone could sincerely embrace Judaism while apparently remaining committed to religious doctrines that Judaism explicitly rejects. I began questioning whether everyone involved truly intended to become Jewish or whether some were pursuing entirely different objectives. I cannot claim to know what was in their hearts, nor can I establish that their conversions were insincere. But what I witnessed raised serious questions for me about religious integrity and the motives behind conversion. I also became increasingly uncomfortable with the community’s attitudes toward Israel, which differed considerably from my own. Eventually, my conscience refused to cooperate any longer. I could not pretend to embrace a religious identity merely to obtain a passport. For me, conversion without genuine religious conviction would be dishonest, and I refuse to build my future on a lie.

Here lies the moral contradiction that I find almost impossible to accept. A person may sincerely convert to Judaism and potentially establish eligibility for immigration, subject to Israeli law and recognition requirements, while someone with generations of family connections, decades of commitment and a demonstrated willingness to contribute may remain outside the system. I fully understand that Israel is a Jewish state and that the Law of Return exists for profound historical reasons. I understand why Jewish identity matters, why the state must protect its immigration framework and why governments cannot simply grant citizenship to everyone who expresses admiration for the country. But understanding the purpose of a law does not mean accepting every consequence of its application. When a legal system becomes incapable of recognizing exceptional circumstances, it risks replacing justice with bureaucracy and moral judgment with paperwork.

Through personal contacts, including people in senior positions, I tried to explore whether my circumstances could be considered individually. I hoped that someone might recognize the unusual combination of my family history, my parents’ activities, my long record of advocacy and my willingness to make a meaningful contribution to Israeli society. The answer communicated to me was devastating. No. No apparent willingness to consider an exception. No practical solution offered. No recognition that some people’s relationship with Israel cannot be measured through a religious certificate or a genealogical document. I am aware that immigration law contains different legal pathways and that individual decisions depend on specific circumstances. Nevertheless, after my attempts to find a legitimate route, the message I received was painfully simple: my history, my sacrifices and my commitment were insufficient.

And this is where I must ask a question that will undoubtedly offend people who have become accustomed to treating Israel as morally untouchable. What kind of country accepts the loyalty, labor, sacrifices and international advocacy of people who defend it, yet refuses even to seriously consider their exceptional circumstances when they ask for a place within its society? What does loyalty actually mean if it carries absolutely no moral weight? What does contribution mean if twelve years of voluntary work are treated as irrelevant? And what does Jewish identity mean when someone feels pressured to undergo a religious transformation that would be insincere, simply because the administrative system offers no realistic alternative?

There is also a legitimate question about consistency. Israeli society includes citizens who are not Jewish, and Israeli citizenship is not exclusively dependent on religious identity. Yet the immigration route specifically designed to bring Jews and eligible relatives to Israel does not provide a general pathway for people like me. I am not demanding that Israel abandon the Law of Return, nor am I suggesting that every supporter of Israel should automatically receive citizenship. I am asking why there cannot be a carefully controlled exceptional pathway for individuals whose contribution, history, commitment and circumstances can be independently verified. A serious security screening, thorough background investigation, evidence of sustained contribution and a clear obligation to integrate into Israeli society would be entirely reasonable. Surely a country celebrated for its ingenuity, flexibility and ability to overcome seemingly impossible challenges can design a process that distinguishes genuine commitment from opportunism without demanding religious dishonesty.

What makes this experience particularly painful is that I have increasingly noticed a troubling attitude among some of the very people whose country I have spent years defending. There are people who seem perfectly happy to accept the support of volunteers abroad but show remarkably little interest in those volunteers as human beings. They appreciate the articles, the campaigns, the public defense, the international networks and the willingness to confront hostility, but when the person behind those efforts needs something in return, the enthusiasm suddenly disappears. I have sometimes felt that asking for help makes me appear foolish, as though expecting reciprocity after years of giving is somehow an unreasonable weakness. I know there are countless Israelis who are generous, compassionate and deeply committed to helping others. I have met many of them. But that does not erase the coldness I have experienced, nor does it excuse a system that seems unable to recognize loyalty unless it arrives in an officially approved form.

For years, I have written about Israel’s extraordinary achievements, its resilience, its democracy, its medical innovations, its soldiers, its humanitarian contributions and the remarkable determination of its people. I still believe those achievements are real. I will not suddenly rewrite history or deny the truth simply because I have been personally disappointed. But perhaps I have been guilty of something else. Perhaps I have loved Israel so intensely that I overlooked flaws I would have condemned without hesitation in another country. Perhaps I confused my unconditional commitment to Israel’s existence and security with an obligation to defend every decision made by its institutions. Those are not the same things. A state can be worth defending against its enemies while still deserving fierce criticism from those who love it. In fact, sometimes the harshest criticism comes from the people who have invested the most.

I am now seriously considering whether my planned visit in December will be my last. Writing those words hurts more than I can explain. Israel has been woven into my identity for almost my entire life. I have traveled there repeatedly, formed friendships, created memories and imagined a future in which I could finally call it home. For me, Israel was never merely a destination on a map. It represented belonging, history, family, survival and a connection that I could never fully explain. To discover that this feeling of belonging may be entirely one-sided is devastating. I have spent years telling the world that Israel stands for something exceptional. Today, I find myself wondering whether the institutions governing that country understand what exceptional moral responsibility actually means.

Some will undoubtedly accuse me of bitterness, entitlement or betrayal. They will say that nobody owes me citizenship, that rules are rules and that thousands of others face similar obstacles. They are correct about one thing. Israel does not legally owe me citizenship simply because I love it. But legality and morality are not identical. The existence of a law does not automatically make every outcome just, and pointing out an injustice does not constitute an attack on the legitimacy of the state. If anything, a country that constantly emphasizes its moral foundations should be especially willing to examine situations in which those foundations appear to collide with its own bureaucracy.

I refuse to undergo a religious conversion merely to obtain documents. I refuse to pretend to believe something that I do not genuinely believe. I refuse to treat Judaism, a religion and civilization with thousands of years of history, as an administrative shortcut. If that honesty makes me less eligible than someone whose conversion is genuinely religious, I accept the legal distinction, but I will not accept that the resulting system is beyond criticism. A country that effectively leaves a person choosing between religious insincerity and permanent exclusion should have the courage to examine whether its laws adequately reflect its professed values.

My greatest disappointment is not that Israel has failed to reward me. It is that I believed a country built upon the survival of a persecuted people would understand the difference between belonging on paper and belonging in one’s heart. I believed it would recognize that family histories are not always neatly documented, especially when Jewish identity may have been concealed for generations. I believed it would understand that commitment can be demonstrated through actions, not merely declarations. And above all, I believed that a nation so often forced to defend its own moral character would be willing to question the moral consequences of its own decisions.

Today, that belief has been profoundly shaken.

I still believe in Israel’s right to exist. I still believe in the Jewish people’s right to self-determination, security and a homeland. I will never excuse antisemitism, terrorism or the deliberate distortion of Jewish history. But I am no longer prepared to confuse love with silence or loyalty with unquestioning obedience.

The moral bankruptcy I am confronting is not the existence of the Jewish state. It is the apparent inability of its institutions to recognize the human being standing before them when that human being does not fit into the correct bureaucratic category.

And perhaps the most painful realization of all is this: I spent much of my life standing up for Israel, believing that if I ever truly needed Israel, it might stand up for me.

Today, I am no longer sure that it would.