The Israel I Heard on a Mountaintop

In June 1967, a high school friend and I spent six consecutive nights driving from our homes in Albany, New York, to the top of John Boyd Thacher Park in the Helderberg Mountains. We arrived just before midnight carrying a portable shortwave radio, hoping to catch the English-language broadcast of Kol Yisrael, the Voice of Israel.

In those days before the internet, before cable news, and before information arrived instantly, that five-minute broadcast was our lifeline. As the clock struck midnight, we would search the dial for the familiar seven beeps that preceded the announcement: “This is Kol Yisrael, the Voice of Israel.”

Our hearts pounded with anticipation as we listened to reports of a tiny Jewish state fighting for its survival against enemies sworn to its destruction. When the war ended, the pride that swept through the Jewish world was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

For Jews of my generation, Israel became more than a country. It became a source of pride. A source of inspiration. A reminder that after centuries of persecution, the Jewish people could once again stand tall.

Nearly six decades later, I find myself asking a painful question:

What happened?

Today, the twenty-four-hour news cycle delivers a steady stream of stories that leave many of us shaken and disheartened. Around the world, anti-Israel politicians gain support and legitimacy. On university campuses, Israel is portrayed not as a democracy grappling with impossible challenges, but as a pariah state. For many Jews, the steady stream of criticism has become so relentless that it no longer surprises us—it simply exhausts us.

Yet some of Israel’s deepest wounds are self-inflicted.

Reports of settler violence continue to rise. Jewish extremists attack Palestinian villages. Haredi rioters surround the homes of judges and public officials. Cabinet ministers make statements that, not long ago, would have placed them on the political fringe. Today, they sit at the highest levels of government.

No country is perfect. Israel certainly isn’t. No reasonable person expects perfection from a nation fighting for its survival in one of the world’s most dangerous neighborhoods.

But there is a difference between falling short of one’s ideals and losing sight of one’s moral compass.

What pains me most is not the criticism directed at Israel from abroad. It is the growing sense that too many Israeli leaders no longer seem disturbed by behavior that once would have shocked the conscience of the nation.

Prime Minister Netanyahu often presents himself as a spokesman for the Jewish people. Yet he has been silent and unwilling to impose consequences on coalition partners whose rhetoric and conduct undermine the very values upon which Israel was founded.

Israel’s enemies need no help discrediting the Jewish state. Yet time and again, Israel’s political leaders hand them ammunition.

But beneath the headlines and opinion pages lies a deeper struggle—one that is not merely about security, settlements, or coalition politics. It is a struggle over the soul of the Jewish state itself.

I recently found myself thinking about Joshua Harmon’s play, “Bad Jews.” Beneath its humor lies a question: What does it mean to be a “good” Jew? The characters in the play battle over inheritance, identity, tradition, and authenticity. They argue not only about a family heirloom, but about the meaning of what it is to be Jewish.

Increasingly, I find myself wondering whether Israel is engaged in a similar struggle.

The Israel that captured the world’s imagination in 1967 was not admired merely because it won a war. It was admired because it stood for something larger. It was a country that believed how it fought mattered as much as winning.

That Israel still exists.

I know it does because when I visit, I meet its soldiers, doctors, teachers, volunteers, and the families who have sacrificed so much since October 7. They continue to embody the very best of the Zionist dream.

But they deserve leaders worthy of their example.

What saddens me is not that Israel has enemies. It always has.

What troubles me most is how far the Israel that appears in today’s headlines has drifted from the Israel that inspired the world in 1967.

Yet I refuse to believe that this distance cannot be bridged.

My fear is not that Israel has lost Herzl’s vision—it is that too many have forgotten it.

And my hope is that Israel will again be heard the way I heard it on that mountaintop in 1967—and that the Israel which inspired a generation of Jews nearly sixty years ago will once again inspire the world—not because of its military victories, but because of its moral courage.