I have a confession: I’m not Jewish. I want to say that from the outset because people often assume I am, just because I write about Jews, Israel, Zionism and antisemitism all the time. Admittedly, I can be pretty intense about these matters, so I can see how the misapprehension might come about.
I’m not one of those normal, even-keel gentiles who reckon Jews are a sound bunch and who speak out against Jew-hatred, but otherwise leave conversations about communal disputes and diaspora relations with Israel to Jews themselves.
Oh no, I can’t pass a broiges without sticking my nose in, whether the issue is inviting Nigel Farage to rallies against antisemitism (of course you invite him) or requiring the Charedim to serve in the IDF (yes, while recognising that studying Torah is also service to Israel).
Honestly, I can’t help myself. I’m no good at being an onlooker on things I care about, and the freedom and safety of Jews, the thriving of Jewish custom and culture, the defence of the State of Israel, and the struggle against the moral nihilism of antisemitism are things I care about profoundly.
It’s impossible to take part in these debates without taking sides, even though it would be prudent to hold my tongue on some matters rather than yapping on like an MoT (Member of the Tribe). Understandably, this can be a bit insufferable to Jews who think, “What right has he to infiltrate our communal debates, this intruding blowhard?” And while I prefer the term “undocumented blowhard”, I get that it can seem a bit much.
The best way to deal with this is humour. Many years ago, I spent some time in New York as the only non-Jew on a Jewish political and moral philosophy course run by Roger Hertog’s Tikvah Fund, an excellent think tank committed to promoting the best of Jewish and Zionist ideas.
Surrounded by brilliant thinkers, scholars, writers and lawyers, I thought nothing of volunteering my unlettered cogitations on various rabbinical tracts, which would often draw the bemused response: “Are you sure you’re not Jewish?”
Eventually, an instructor, the wise and witty Rabbi Meir Soloveichik, interrupted one of my rambling disquisitions (on the Rambam, if I remember correctly), indicated his briefcase, and smiled: “Just so you know, I’m a certified mohel.”
Which is a long-winded way of saying I’m not Jewish. I’d make a terrible Jew. I can barely cope with one sink, let alone two. The thought of being without my phone for an entire Saturday – every Saturday – brings on a mild panic attack. Plus, a day of atonement? I’m a Catholic. Every day is a day of atonement. (With apologies to Crocodile Dundee: That’s not a guilt complex; THIS is a guilt complex.)
While I have great reverence for the Jewish faith and its various observances, I’m not built for the demands placed upon even the most secular lifestyle. Take Succot. I’d be hopeless at that. Erect a structure in your back garden every year and sleep in it? I have a flatpack potting shed that I bought during lockdown and still haven’t taken out of the box.
And at risk of conforming to the stingy Scotsman stereotype: an etrog costs how much? And if I knock the pitom off the top, I have to go buy another one? I think I’d be making do with three species, thank you very much. Cost-of-living crisis and all that.
In times such as these, it’s a little fraught being an opinionated gentile who writes about Jewish affairs. For one, I keep hearing that Jews need more allies. I have to be honest with you, I think what you need are fewer antisemites. All the warm words and well wishes amount to only so much when there is a growing and increasingly emboldened Jew-hater demographic in this country.
That requires us, Jew and non-Jews alike, to confront familiar sources of danger, including fascism, Christian nationalism and other recrudescences on the radical right, as well as threats the mere mention of which turn our liberal stomachs queasy: multiculturalism without integration and the rise of political Islam.
Besides, I have a problem with the notion that I am an “ally” to British Jews. To my mind, an ally is a stranger with whom you form a pact of mutual benefit. But British Jews aren’t strangers. The clue is in the name. You are not our allies, you are our countrymen. We owe you the civic solidarity that is the hallmark of a civilised society of equal citizenship and universal dignity.
Of course solidarity can run into difficulty, as seen over the weekend. Any number of good progressives who pledge their solidarity with Jews, and even some who actually mean it, have made known their displeasure at the booing of Labour minister Pat McFadden at the London rally against antisemitism in Downing Street on Sunday. I hope that in future Jews protesting against racist street violence show a little more concern for the feelings of the government allowing the racist street violence to go unchecked. You can’t rally against antisemitism here, gentlemen! This is the rally against antisemitism!
Solidarity sometimes means telling little white lies and at other times it calls for bracing candour. Most Jews feel very glum right now, and when they ask, “What can we do to make them stop hating us?” the honest answer would be: “Stop being Jewish,” but the more diplomatic reply would be some pabulum about the need for more education, or better reporting systems for radicalisation, or other reassuring verbiage that can calm someone on an individual level even as it stands not a chance as a policy response.
It’s like when nice Jewish ladies ask me how concerned they should be about their grandson donning a keffiyeh, reading Edward Said, and taking up with some antizionist rabble at their university. What I want to say is: “Tell the little darling to knock it off or he’s out of the will and his inheritance will go to the One Israel Fund.” What I typically say is: “Don’t worry, he’ll grow out of it.”
There have to be some of those bracing truths, too. Jewish communal organisations need to be unashamedly for themselves, and not just for others.
Then again, why should you listen to me? I’m not a Jew. I just get mistaken for one a lot.
Stephen Daisley is a columnist for the Daily Mail and a regular contributor to The Spectator
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