Zionism and Jewish Culture: A Study in the Origins of a National Movement 9798887196374

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
Acknowledgements
Introduction
Part One - History
Chapter 1. Shaping a National Consciousness of the Past
Chapter 2. Zionism as Evolution—Ahad Ha’am and Jewish Studies
Chapter 3. Haim Nahman Bialik and the Formation of Hebrew Culture
Part Two - Politics
Chapter 4. Between East and West
Chapter 5. Between People and Land
Part Three - Vision
Chapter 6. The Zionist Utopia
Chapter 7. The Hebrew Bible as a National Model
Epilogue
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

Zionism and Jewish Culture A Study in the Origins of a National Movement

Zionism and Jewish Culture A Study in the Origins of a National Movement

Y i t z h a k Co n fo r t i

ACADEMIC STUDIES PRESS B O S TO N 2024

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Conforti, Yitzhak, 1961- author. | Setbon, Jessica, translator. Title: Zionism and Jewish culture : a study in the origins of a national movement / Yitzhak Conforti, [translated by Jessica Setbon]. Description: Boston : Academic Studies Press, 2024. | “This book is an expanded and updated edition of my Hebrew book: “Shaping a Nation: The Cultural Origins of Zionism, 1882-1948” ( Jerusalem: Yad Itzhak Ben Zvi, 2019).”--Note from the author. | Includes bibliographical references. Identifiers: LCCN 2024030559 (print) | LCCN 2024030560 (ebook) | ISBN 9798887196374 (hardback) | ISBN 9798887196381 (adobe pdf) | ISBN 9798887196398 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Zionism--Social aspects. | Zionism and Judaism. | Zionism--History. | Jews--Civilization. | Nationalism--Israel--History. Classification: LCC DS149 .C674 2024 (print) | LCC DS149 (ebook) | DDC 305.892/4--dc23/eng/20240702 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2024030559 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2024030560

Copyright © Academic Studies Press, 2024 ISBN 9798887196374 (hardback) ISBN 9798887196381 (adobe pdf) ISBN 9798887196398 (epub) Book design by Lapiz Digital Services Cover design by Ivan Grave On the cover: Reuven Rubin (1893-1974), Jerusalem, 1925, oil on canvas, Rubin Museum collection, Tel Aviv. Reproduced by permission. Published by Academic Studies Press 1007 Chestnut Street Newton, MA 02464 [email protected] www.academicstudiespress.com

Contents

Acknowledgementsvii Introduction1 Part One. History Chapter 1. Shaping a National Consciousness of the Past Chapter 2. Zionism as Evolution—Ahad Ha’am and Jewish Studies Chapter 3. Haim Nahman Bialik and the Formation of Hebrew Culture

25 27 61 99

Part Two. Politics Chapter 4. Between East and West Chapter 5. Between People and Land

139 141 184

Part Three. Vision Chapter 6. The Zionist Utopia Chapter 7. The Hebrew Bible as a National Model

229 231 279

Epilogue296 Bibliography303 Index327

Acknowledgements

I have been carrying the idea for this book with me for almost a decade. During this period, I benefited from the use of various research institutions, libraries, and archives, mostly in Israel and the USA. I extend my gratitude to the Herbert D. Katz Center of Advanced Judaic Studies at the University of Pennsylvania. Many thanks also to center director Steven Weitzman, the center staff, and fellow scholars, who helped made this period a wonderful experience. I also wish to thank the Taub Center for Israel Studies at New York University, headed by Ronald Zweig, and the Center for Jewish History in New York, where I was a visiting researcher. During both periods of my stays at these centers, I made use of the Dorot Jewish Division in the New York Public Library, and I am thankful to the librarians and staff of these institutions. The Schusterman Center for Israel Studies at Brandeis University hosted me as a visiting research scholar in the final stage of the research. I wish to express my gratitude to Alexander Kaye, Shayna Weiss, Jonathan Sarna, and the entire staff and faculty for their generous hospitality. As a member of The Israel and Golda Koschitzky Department of Jewish History at Bar-Ilan University, I was fortunate to receive support from my department colleagues and financial support for the publication of the book. I am grateful for assistance from the Israel and Golda Koschitzky Foundation and the Rector’s Prize for Scientific Innovation Fund. I thank all my department

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colleagues for their intellectual partnership, and the students in various courses for their incisive questions, which encouraged me to hone my arguments. I am also thankful to teachers and friends who guided me on the journey of researching Jewish history: Moshe Rosman, Dan Michman, Shmuel Feiner, and Gershon Bacon. Deep thanks to the scholars of Zionism whose important work and encouragement assisted this study: Israel Bartal, Aviva Halamish, Ella Belfer, Arieh Saposnik, Allen Arkush, Kimmy Caplan, and especially to Gideon Shimoni for his wise and effective advice. I would also like to mention two late distinguished scholars of nationalism who influenced my writing, Anthony D. Smith and Hedva Ben-Israel, may their memories be a blessing. I am grateful to translator Jessica Setbon for helping me to fine-tune my writing. And finally, heartfelt thanks to ASP, to Alessandra Anzani, Stuart Allen, and the entire team, for bringing this book to print. I wish to express my deepest thanks to my family who accompanied me on this journey: to my wife Hila and my children—Itamar, Nitzan, and Noa; my son-in-law Aviel and my daughter-in-law Nitzan; and especially to my beloved grandchildren—Evyatar, Yair, Maayan, Allon, and Anna.

Introduction

The aim of this book is to uncover the cultural roots of Zionism as a modern nationalist movement. Research on nationalism, as it has evolved over the last generation, has deeply influenced the study of the Jewish national movement and Zionism. The importance given in research to the modernist aspects and the dimension of invention in Zionism has led me to reveal the cultural dimension, without which it is impossible to explain the success of the Jewish national movement in establishing a modern nation-state. The Zionist movement’s relationship with Jewish history is complex. On the one hand, the movement wanted to inherit the entire Jewish past, viewing itself as representing the historic Jewish people aspiring for sovereignty. On the other hand, Zionism is sometimes described as a revolution that changed the old world order and shaped the “new Jew”—a Jew disconnected from history, who used his muscular arms to break free from the chains of tradition which “bound him up in the straps of tefillin.”1 However, the deeper we delve into investigating the roots and foundations of Zionism, the clearer we realize how deeply it was 1 Shaul Tchernichovsky, “Le-nokhaḥ pesel Apollo,” in Kol Kitvei Shaul Tchernichovsky (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1990), 1:85-87. This poem resembles Max Nordau’s 1898 call to return to “a Judaism of muscles” in his Ktavim tsiyoni’im ( Jerusalem: Hassifriya Haziyonit, 1955-1962), 1:117. See also Hagai Harif, Tsiyonut shel shririm: Tafkidav shel ha-sport ha-yiẓugi ba-yishuv u-ve-medinat Yisrael, 1898-1960 ( Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 2011), 112-116.

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embedded in the world of Jewish symbols, values, myths, and historical memories. Premodern Jewish culture not only shaped Zionism’s perception of the past, but also influenced political decisions during the Yishuv period, planning for the future, and the Zionist utopian vision. The foundational element uniting all Zionists was a shared Jewish destiny and a common cultural and religious heritage. However, beyond this fundamental unity, the movement was a tapestry of diverse, and at times conflicting, ideologies and approaches. The multifaceted nature of Zionism reflects the differing aspirations of these various groups, all striving towards the same goal but with distinct methods. Despite the similarity between Zionism and other modern nationalist movements in Europe, it has certain distinguishing features. Zionism began as a form of diaspora nationalism—it did not develop out of a shared territory, but rather from a shared ethnic and cultural heritage. Unlike other nationalist movements in Europe, Zionism lacked two key components: land and language. A profound cultural revolution in Jewish consciousness was needed to return to the Land of Israel and to the Hebrew language, which represented the ancient Hebrew era. Jewish French historian Marc Bloch defined the work of the historian as the study “of men in time.”2 This definition is also applicable to the approach I have used in this book when examining Zionism and its relation to the past, present, and future. Bloch cautioned historians against two pitfalls. The first is ignoring the historical context in which a specific historical phenomenon emerges, meaning that a historical phenomenon must be understood within the context of its time and development. The second is the opposing tendency, which glorifies the present and overemphasizes the immediate. Such a stance tends to sever the connection between past and present, overlooking the deep cultural linkage between historical periods.3 Considering these principles, the cultural approach in this book relates to Zionism as a modern, novel phenomenon that remains connected to history and premodern Jewish culture. Zionist historical consciousness took root in the last third of the nineteenth century, adapting the activity of Wissenschaft des Judentums (the academic study of Judaism) from the Western Jewish Enlightenment to the Jewish nationalist movement. Beginning at this point, Jewish nationalist scholars focused on strengthening Jewish historical awareness through journals, literature, and education. Within this Zionist mindset, Jewish history held exceptional importance, casting the Jewish past as part of a unified narrative for a nation with

2 Marc Bloch, The Historian’s Craft (New York: Vintage Books, 1953), 27. 3 Ibid., 20-27.

Introduction

both a history and a future. This might also explain why history occupies such a central role in the Zionist version of Jewish studies. Beyond this, the Zionist attitude toward time reflects a modern outlook that emerged during the Enlightenment. This view centers on the aspiration to both understand the Jewish past and shape its future. Examining Zionist consciousness reveals its premodern cultural roots, showing that the movement was grounded in ethnic heritage and ancient Jewish memories. These became the foundation upon which the aspiration for a modern Jewish nation-state was built. In the Introduction, I will present the book’s central argument and my methodological approach. Unlike scholars who adopt a purely modernist perspective on nationalism, I examine Zionism through a cultural lens, acknowledging its deep-rooted connections to the historical past of the Jewish people. My emphasis on the cultural dimension of Zionism in this book stems from the desire to understand the full array of factors that contributed to the development of Jewish nationalism. Alongside the political, rational, economic, and secular drivers behind the formation of the Zionist movement, I propose a deep dive into its cultural element. This examination allows us to uncover the subjective consciousness of the movement’s activists and supporters, rather than just the stated objectives of its leadership. Investigating this cultural aspect can help us understand the desire to join the Zionist movement from below, as well as the deep identification of Jews from around the world with its goals and objectives. In this book, I will focus on the Zionist consciousness of the Jewish past and future, as it evolved from the early days of the movement to the establishment of the State of Israel, and its impact on the Zionist imagination. The goal of this research is to add another layer to a more complete and nuanced understanding of Zionism as a national movement. Throughout this book, I’ve employed terms from the field of nationalism studies, particularly those developed by scholars who adopt an ethno-symbolic approach. According to this perspective, modern nationalist movements are deeply rooted in premodern ethnic foundations. These movements incorporate elements of identity, myth, symbols, values, culture, solidarity, and a connection to what is viewed as a historical homeland.4 Advocates of this approach place a greater emphasis on the cultural heritage of ethnic groups, rather than focusing

4 Anthony D. Smith, Myths and Memories of the Nation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 3-27.

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on biological or racial ties as the group’s unifying factors.5 They also argue that these ethnic groups existed well before the modern era, predating both the eighteenth century and the formation of modern nation-states. Contrary to the modernist concept of “inventing tradition,” the ethno-symbolic perspective views the incorporation of cultural elements from a group’s collective past into modern national culture as a form of continuity, even if it occurs in the context of conflict. In the discussion below, I will explore various approaches to nationalism studies and examine how they have influenced the scholarly understanding of Zionism.

Was the World Created in the Eighteenth Century? Since the second half of the twentieth century, multiple approaches have developed in the study of nationalism, primarily focusing on the question of whether nationalism and nations are modern or ancient phenomena. The dominant approach that emerged around the mid-twentieth century is the modernist perspective. Proponents of this view emphasize that modern nationalism is a relatively new phenomenon, primarily originating in the nineteenth century, or at the earliest, in the late eighteenth century. According to them, nationalism is fundamentally a political and economic phenomenon that developed in the wake of major revolutions that ushered in the modern era. These revolutions led to a break from the old traditions of the medieval period. The Industrial Revolution, the French Revolution, the American Revolution, and the Enlightenment brought about such profound changes in societal life that it became impossible to identify any continuity between the modern era and preceding collective traditions and identities. In essence, the creation of modern nationalism and the nation-state was a reorganization of local identities that existed before the national era. These identities ceased to exist, and in their place, new identities were created for the express purpose of forming nation-states.6 The assumption that modern nationalism is a new phenomenon, born out of modern revolutions, was established in the study of nationalism following

5 John Hutchinson and Anthony D. Smith, eds., Nationalism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), 151. Gideon Shimoni, Ha-leumiyut ha-yehudit ke-leumiyut etnit in Leumiyut u-politika yehudit: perspectivot hadashot, ed. Yehuda Reinhartz et al. ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 1996), 81-92. 6 Oliver Zimmer, Nationalism in Europe, 1890-1940 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), 4-26.

Introduction

the two World Wars by scholars such as Hans Kohn, Karl Deutsch, and Elie Kedourie.7 This idea gained further momentum from the influential works of Ernest Gellner, Eric Hobsbawm, Benedict Anderson, and John Breuilly.8 Each of these nationalism scholars emphasized different aspects. Kedourie highlighted the importance of the ideological dimension of nationalism from the time of the French Revolution onwards. Gellner, perhaps the most prominent among the modernist scholars, emphasized the socio-economic transformation that Western society underwent following the Industrial Revolution. According to him, the change was so fundamental that it was impossible to compare pre-industrial society with modern industrialized society. Anderson pointed to the formation of national imagination following the printing revolution and the era of mechanical reproduction. National literature, novels, and particularly newspapers, were the catalysts for the growth of national imagination from the eighteenth century onwards. Hobsbawm, referring to the “mass production of traditions,” focused on the invention of tradition in the modern nation-state, which was greatly accelerated between 1870 and 1914. While Hobsbawm did not negate the influences of proto-nationalist phenomena, he advocated examining nationalism “from below,” through the masses, as well as “from above,” through the leaders.9 Breuilly placed the power of the state and politics at the center of the development of nation-states in the modern era. Despite these different emphases, two conclusions unite these modernist scholars. First, national movements, and by extension nations themselves, are new phenomena created in and as a result of the modern era. Second, there is no genuine connection between nations and nationalism to premodern traditions.10

7 Hans Kohn, The Idea of Nationalism: A Study in Its Origins and Background (New York: Macmillan, 1967 [1944]); Karl Deutsch, Nationalism and Social Communication: An Inquiry into the Foundations of Nationality (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1953); Elie Kedourie, Nationalism (London: Hutchinson, 1966). 8 Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Oxford: Blackwell, 1983); John Breuilly, Nationalism and the State (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1982); Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1998); Eric J. Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, eds., The Invention of Tradition (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1983). 9 Hobsbawm and Ranger, The Invention of Tradition, 263-308; Eric J. Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism since 1780: Programme, Myth, Reality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 1-13. 10 Anthony D. Smith, Ethno-Symbolism and Nationalism: A Cultural Approach (London: Routledge, 2009), 4-6; Azar Gat and Alexander Yakobson, Nations: The Long History and Deep Roots of Political Ethnicity and Nationalism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 8-9.

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The modernist approach has faced criticism from scholars across different disciplines. Some have pointed out that nationalism as a universal phenomenon, as a category of human association and as an expression of collective identity, is not necessarily dependent on the modern era and can be traced back to premodern times and even to the ancient world. This was argued, for example, by anthropologists Clifford Geertz and Edward Shils in the 1960s, and also by Steven Grosby in his contemporary research.11 Medieval historians, notably Adrian Hastings, identified the development of nation-states centuries before the Enlightenment era of the eighteenth century.12 Hastings claimed that England served as the first model of a nation-state in the early Middle Ages. Aviel Roshwald, Caspar Hirschi, Azar Gat, and Alexander Jacobson trace the phenomenon of nations and nationalism back to the ancient world.13 Ethno-symbolic scholars like Anthony Smith, John Armstrong, and John Hutchinson rejected the modernist claim that it is impossible to demonstrate a connection between the phenomenon of nations and nationalism, and ancient ethnic traditions. According to them, examining the cultural dimension of modern nationalism establishes such a connection.14 Ethno-symbolic scholars have not disputed that nationalism is a modern phenomenon, but according to them, focusing only on the political and economic aspects paints an incomplete picture of nationalism in the historical context. According to Smith et al., adding the cultural dimension—not just as a political tool but also as a deep layer that contributes to understanding the subjective world of the nationalist movement—allows for a more complete understanding of modern nationalism and the nation-state. In the final analysis, modern nationalism has shaped the new world order in the last two hundred years. The nation-state is not a characteristic exclusive to nineteenth-century Europe, and therefore it deserves to be examined across the diversity of its manifestations.

11 Anthony D. Smith, The Nation in History: Historiographical Debates about Ethnicity and Nationalism (Hanover, NH: University of New England Press, 2000), 52-71; Steven Grosby, Biblical Ideas of Nationality, Ancient and Modern (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2002); Steven Grosby, Nationalism: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). 12 Hastings, The Construction of Nationhood. 13 Aviel Roshwald, The Endurance of Nationalism: Ancient Roots and Modern Dilemmas (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006); Caspar Hirschi, The Origins of Nationalism: An Alternative History from Ancient Rome to Early Modern Germany (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). 14 Anthony D. Smith, The Ethnic Origins of Nations (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1986); John A. Armstrong, Nations before Nationalism (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1982); John Hutchinson, The Dynamics of Cultural Nationalism: The Gaelic Revival and the Creation of the Modern Irish Nation State (London: Allen & Unwin, 1987).

Introduction

Ernest Gellner framed the polemic between modernists and primordialists (including the ethnic approach) as a fundamental argument between “creationists” and “evolutionists.” The former believe that modern nationalism was created out of thin air at the end of the eighteenth century, while the latter see it as the result of developments from earlier periods.15 Gellner outlined the differences between the approaches as follows: The dividing line between what I call now primordialists and modernists, where one side says that nations where there all the time or some of them where anyway, and the past matters a great deal; and where the modernist like myself believe that the world was created round about the end of the eighteenth century, and nothing before that makes the slightest difference to the issues we face.16 This leads us to conclude that according to the modernist view, an ethnic group’s historical past has no significance in relation to the development of its nationalist movement and nation-state. Gellner added and argued that the dispute between modernists and primordialists is a deep philosophical divide: “Some of the real debates of this kind are embedded in the division between the creationists and evolutionists.”17 According to this analogy, modernists are “creationists” who believe that modern times and the nation-state are entirely detached from the history that preceded them. By contrast, the “evolutionists” maintain that there is a close connection between the nation-state and historical past. Therefore, modernists represent the revolutionary stance that nationalism is a new creation without historical roots, whereas proponents of the ethnic approach believe that the collective past plays a decisive role in the development of the nationalist movement. Gellner remarked that the debate about modern nationalism is rooted in a philosophical dispute between creationists and evolutionists—this is particularly interesting in the context of the debate within the Zionist movement between evolutionists and revolutionaries. According to Gellner, the debate between philosophers who believe that the world was created and those who believe it has always existed essentially mirrors the question of the origins of modern nationalism.

15 Ernest Gellner, “Do Nations Have Navels?” Nations and Nationalism 2, no. 3 (1996): 336-370. 16 Ibid., 366-370. 17 Ibid., 366 (author’s emphasis, Y. C.).

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Gellner believed that after the Industrial Revolution, a new world was born with weak ties to premodern history. Smith, on the other hand, believed that certain cultural threads crossed the lines that separate the modern era from the Middle Ages and ancient times. Ethnic groups, which represent the cultural core of the modern nation, existed before the modern era and before the emergence of nation-states. According to Smith, modern nation-states, although created in a modern historical, economic, and political context during the nineteenth century, are nourished by their premodern cultural heritage. Modernists consider that even if one could identify ancient historical traditions, nationalist movements have radically transformed them, rendering them irrelevant to the development or functioning of the nation-state. In his book Nations and Nationalism, Gellner states: “Neither nations nor states have existed at all times and under all circumstances.”18 According to Gellner, nationalism was created from scratch in the eighteenth century. He adds: It is nationalism which engenders nations, and not the other way round. Admittedly, nationalism uses the pre-existing, historically inherited proliferation of cultural wealth, though it uses them very selectively, and it most often transforms them radically. Dead languages can be revived, traditions invented, quite fictitious pristine purities restored.19 Gellner thus clearly and sharply articulated the entire modernist position. In contrast to this view of nationalism as a modern phenomenon that created and invented the nation, proponents of the ethno-symbolic approach believe that the ethnic past and history play a significant role in shaping and creating the nation-state. According to the cultural perspective outlined in this book for the case of Jewish nationalism, it is not nationalism that gave rise to the nation, but rather the opposite: the ethnic group is the force that created nationalism. As articulated by John Armstrong in his book Nations Before Nationalism, nationalism is part of a long-standing, cyclic ethnic process that operates on a protracted historical timeline of consciousness.20 Intriguingly, a similar view was

18 Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, 6. 19 Ibid., 55-56. 20 “A time dimension of many centuries (similar to the longue durèe [. . .]) is essential for disentangling independent ethnic experiences from the effects of diffusion and mimesis. An extended temporal perspective is especially important as a means of perceiving modern nationalism as part of a cycle of ethnic consciousness” Armstrong, Nations before Nationalism, 4.

Introduction

also held by the historian Jacob Katz. In summarizing his historiographical work over five decades, Katz argued: The esteemed French-Jewish historian Marc Bloch (1886-1944) warned his students not to mistake a phenomenon we encounter today as directly resulting from what happened yesterday. Temporal proximity can deceive, because the primary cause of today’s phenomenon may well be rooted deep in the distant past. This is the principle of longue durée, meaning that behind various events and the ups and downs of generational changes, there are hidden forces that operate quietly over a protracted time span.21 Katz characterized the development of Jewish nationalism as part of the cyclic ethnic process that operates along the extended cultural timeline, not on the brief political one.22 Several approaches to understanding nationalism have emerged among scholars of modern nationalism. The modernist approach argues that the world of nations was essentially created at the end of the eighteenth century. The primordial approach posits that nationalism is an ancient phenomenon existing throughout history. Finally, the ethno-symbolic stance recognizes both the novelty of the modern era and the influence of premodern cultural heritage as twin forces that have shaped the modern nation-state.

Nationalism and History One of the central debates among the various approaches to studying nationalism pertains to the relationship between history and nationalism. According to many, modern historiography is closely tied to the rise of the nationalist movement in the nineteenth century. The difference between the various approaches stems from the importance they attribute to history and the collective past in the nationalist movement. Since modernists do not place great importance on the past, they see national historiography as a tool in the hands of stakeholders for nation-building. The

21 Jacob Katz, Et lahkor ve-et le-hitbonen: masa historit al derakho shel beit Yisrael me-az tseto me-artso ve-ad shuvo eleyhah ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 1998), 47. 22 Jacob Katz, Le’umiyut yehudit: masot u-mehkarim ( Jerusalem: Hassifriya Haziyonit, 1979), 15-35.

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critique of this modernist approach primarily arises from the fact that history played a central and prominent role in the nineteenth century, and not merely as a top-down nationalist instrument. The loss of collective identity in the modern era led to the desire to construct a national historical consciousness, not just as a political tool but also as part of a grassroots effort to build a collective identity. This identity was undermined by universalist trends that blurred ethnic uniqueness. Thus, the rise of national historiography to the status of a leading science in national movements was closely related to the high importance that the nationalist movement attributed to the historical past of the group it claimed to represent.23 In this context, it is important to note that shaping a national historical consciousness is a comprehensive social endeavor. National historical awareness is not merely the creation of historians and history books. Philosophers, opinion leaders, writers, playwrights, poets, artists, educators, and politicians have all actively participated in shaping the national view of the past. The central figures of the first three chapters in this book—Peretz Smolenskin, Ahad Ha’am, and Haim Nahman Bialik—were not professional historians, yet they had a significant impact on the shaping of national historical consciousness. They were known as cultural leaders, national intellectuals, and literary figures. These individuals created the Hebrew literary republic without external funding and without top-down national guidance. The considerable influence of these individuals on the development of Jewish studies in its Zionist form justifies an attempt to describe and reveal their literary and cultural activities in this regard. They laid the foundations for national historical consciousness and Zionist historiography as it evolved in Palestine during the 1920s and 1930s. This cultural trend began to emerge with the vigorous pioneering activities of many nationalist intellectuals, mainly in Eastern Europe. The early cultural activity in Zionism crossed camp lines and served as common ground even for those who advocated a political approach, such as, for example, Moshe Leib Lilienblum, secretary of the Hibbat Zion movement in the 1880s, or Nahum Sokolow, a leader of the Zionist movement. These national intellectuals were highly active in the field of Hebrew culture and provided a national interpretation to Jewish history. They were responsible for adapting traditional premodern Jewish terms to a modern national cultural language. Some scholars of the Zionist movement have adopted modernist positions, either literally or implicitly, placing Zionism on “invented” foundations. Shlomo

23 Paul Lawrence, “Nationalism and Historical Writing,” in The Oxford Handbook for the History of Nationalism, ed. John Breuilly (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 713-730, esp. 716.

Introduction

Sand’s book The Invention of the Jewish People explicitly relies on Hobsbawm’s stance. Sand argued that the Jewish people as an entity was invented during the nineteenth century, and that its inventors were Zionist or proto-Zionist intellectuals. These historians—ranging from Graetz to Dinur, from Dubnow to Baron—systematically constructed the national narrative that defined Jews as a nation, or in his terms, a “race.”24 Sand claimed that the role of nationalist intellectuals in the modern era was to create a fictional national historical narrative rooted in an imagined past. In doing so, they served the new public order—the national order: “Taking events related to diverse and unconnected political entities, they welded them into a consecutive, coherent narrative that unified time and space, thus producing a long national history stretching back to primeval times.”25 On publication, Sand’s book ignited controversy both in Israel and beyond its borders. It would be both an exaggeration and a misstatement to claim that he embodies the entire modernist perspective in the field of Zionist research. Many scholars who lean toward the modernist view do not deny the existence of a Jewish communal life before the modern era; rather, they dismiss the national elements of that existence. In Henry Wasserman and Yossi Dahan’s book, the modernist approach of “nation invention” serves as the starting point for the study of Zionism.26 Their modernist approach stems from the following ideas: From Hobsbawm’s words, it emerges that even concepts such as “people,” “nation,” and “homeland” are the result of “social engineering” intended to serve the political aims of a ruling minority. Therefore, nationalism is like a new religion that provides a substitute for social bonds that were previously based on church communities, royal families, and other independent collective representations that have become ineffective over time.27

24 Shlomo Sand, The Invention of the Jewish People, trans. Yael Lotan (London: Verso, 2009), 28-29, 64-128. 25 Ibid., 62. 26 Yossi Dahan and Henry Wasserman, eds., Le-hamtzi umah: antologiyah (Ra’anana: Open University Press, 2006). See, for example, Eric Hobsbaum, preface to ibid., 7-10; introduction to ibid., 11-28; and in more detail, Henry Wasserman, Am, umah, moledet: el reshitam, toldotehem ve-aharitam shel shloshah musagim meholelai le’umiyut (Ra’anana: Open University Press, 2007). 27 Dahan and Wasserman, Le-hamtzi umah, 15.

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The authors argue that invented nationalism is “healthier” and more desirable than primordial nationalism: “If we want to honestly examine the virtues of invented nationalism, we must recognize that the only world power in existence today, which is also the leading country in the world by a noticeable margin in every respect [. . .] is none other than the United States of America!” From this example, the authors draw a parallel to Jewish nationalism and the State of Israel, stating that “it too is a product of invention.”28 In his book The Time of the Post, Uri Ram devoted an in-depth discussion to the historiographical thought of Ben-Zion Dinur and examined his role as a national historian from a modernist perspective.29 Ram emphasized the difference between the primordialist interpretation of the historical tradition and the modernist interpretation. According to Ram, the primordialists are aligned with the “self-perception of nationalism, which sees itself as authentic culture. On the other hand, the modernist approach regards nationalism with critical detachment and sees it as an ideology, even as manipulation carried out on the masses by vested interests.”30 Therefore, in the process of nation-building, Ram saw the premodern Jewish tradition as raw material in the hands of the creators. In a softer modernist approach, he stated: “It is argued here that nationalism, even in the modern Jewish case, is a constructed illusion, or in the words of Ranger and Hobsbawm—a ‘fabrication,’ although it draws its materials from the historical reality of Jewish communities.”31 Ram acknowledged the historical existence of Jewish communities but sought to deny the nationalist aspect of this history, as nationalism is only a modern category. According to modernist scholars, Zionism used the Jewish past in an instrumental manner, invented a tradition, or even invented a nation. Contrary to the modernist stance, we might say that there is also a primordialist approach in the study of Zionism, which was mainly characteristic of the founding generation of Zionist historiography in Jerusalem. This, for example, was the position of Ben-Zion Dinur and Yitzhak Baer, as reflected in their opening remarks for the journal Zion in 1936:

28 Ibid., 19-21. 29 Many studies have been done on Ben Zion Dinur’s work as a historian. See Yitzhak Conforti, Zman avar: Ha-historiografiyah ha-tsiyonit ve-itzuv ha-zikaron ha-le’umi ( Jerusalem: Yad BenZvi, 2006), 97-190. 30 Uri Ram, Ha-zman shel ha-‘post’: le’umiyut ve-ha-politikah shel ha-yeda be-Yisrael (Tel Aviv: Resling, 2006), 22. 31 Ibid., 24.

Introduction

The fundamental assumption in our concept of the past, which should serve as a point of departure for examining the role of Jewish historiography and also for determining the topic of historical research, is this simple and binding assumption: Jewish history is the history of the Jewish nation, which has never stood still and whose importance has never deteriorated in any period. Jewish history is unified by a cohesive homogeneity that encompasses all periods and places, and which shed light on each other.32 Indeed, Dinur posited that the beginning of the “rebellion in Exile” should be seen as the starting point of the Jewish modern era, namely the national era. He identified the year of Rabbi Yehuda Hasid’s ascent to the Land of Israel in 1700 as the inception of Zionist immigrations, a process that continued throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and, in his view, signaled the advent of the Zionist movement. Other historians like Mordechai Eliav and Aryeh Morgenstern also traced the origins of Zionism back to the late eighteenth or early nineteenth centuries, long before the establishment of the Hibbat Zion (Lovers of Zion) movement or the Zionist movement led by Herzl.33 To summarize the shortcomings of the two approaches I have mentioned: the modernist approach in the study of Zionism lacks an understanding of the importance and centrality of the cultural dimension in Zionism and its profound impact on the self-perception of its activists. Modernist scholars believe that through political or economic manipulation, one could “invent” a nation and construct a culture that was not previously present in Jewish consciousness. On the other hand, those who adopt the primordialist approach fall short in understanding the historical context in which Zionism emerged in the late nineteenth century. They anachronistically attribute what they perceive as Zionist intentions to earlier periods. Unlike these two positions, I argue in this book that the cultural perspective in the study of Zionism allows for a deeper, more nuanced, and more accurate

32 Ben-Zion Dinur and Yitzhak Baer, “Megamatenu,” Zion 1 (1936): 1 (original emphasis). 33 Ben-Zion Dinur, Be-mifneh ha-dorot: mehkarim ve-iyunim be-reshitam shel ha-zemanim ha-hadashim be-toldot Yisrael ( Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1972): 26-27; Mordechai Eliav, Eretz Yisrael ve-yishuvah ba-meʼah ha-19, 1777–1917 ( Jerusalem: Keter, 1978); Ya’akov Barnai, Historiografiyah u-le’umiyut: megamot be-heker Eretz Yisrael u-yishuvah ha-yehudi 634–1881 ( Jerusalem: Magnes, 1995), 54-55. Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin, “Yitsugah ha-le’umi shel ha-galut: ha-hisṭoryografyah ha-tziyonit ve-yehudie yeme ha-benayim” (PhD diss., Tel Aviv University, 1996).

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understanding of Zionism as a national movement. Below I will outline the principles that guide my methodological approach and the central argument of this book.

The Cultural Approach and the Study of Zionism The cultural approach to the study of Zionism that I present in this book serves as a middle ground between the modernist stance and the primordialist perspective. I do not deny the revolutionary innovations of the modern era, but I reject the claim that modern times hold exclusive rights to the elements of national identity. National identity is not an invention, but rather a modern interpretation of pre-existing ethnic or communal consciousness. Proponents of the cultural research approach emphasize the following elements in the study of nationalism:34 (a) Examining the symbolic sources of nationalism, such as traditions, memories, values, myths, and symbols, to allow for an understanding of the internal, subjective tendencies of nationalism. (b) Understanding nationalism within the framework of la longue durée, meaning within a broad cultural context, not just in its immediate political setting. This allows for an exploration of how premodern ethnic and cultural heritage influences the national movement. (c) Assuming that the ethnic foundation is central to national movements. For some of these movements, we can describe the historical process of transitioning from ethnicity to nationalism. (d) Assuming dynamic relationships between elites and other activists in the movement and their mutual influence. (e) Studying internal conflict within the national movement in light of reinterpreted tradition in the modern era. Beyond understanding the phenomenon of nationalism as a material or class-based political discourse, the cultural research approach aspires to re-examine the centrality of the cultural factor in national movements and modern nation-states. This method allows for a deeper and more comprehensive understanding of nationalism and the nation-state than the viewpoint of modernists. 34 Smith, Ethno-Symbolism, 13-40.

Introduction

This approach has yet to be applied to the study of the Zionist movement, as is done in this book. However, important research on Zionism has contributed to understanding its complexities and aided the writing of this study. In his book The Zionist Ideology, Gideon Shimoni draws on Anthony Smith’s earlier approach in characterizing Zionism as an ethnic national movement.35 Shimoni showed how Zionism developed out of Jewish ethnic existence and described the actual transition from ethnic affiliation to a Jewish national movement in the nineteenth century. While Shimoni’s important book dealt with the ideological aspects of Zionism and surveyed a range of approaches within the Zionist movement from its inception to the establishment of the State of Israel, it did not examine the influence of premodern cultural sources on Zionism. Other scholars from the mainstream of Zionist studies, such as Shmuel Almog, Yosef Salmon, Hedva Ben-Israel, Israel Bartal, Shlomo Avineri, Ehud Luz, Ella Belfer, and Michael Brenner have pointed out the connection between the Jewish national movement and the historical past of the Jewish people.36 Unlike the studies mentioned earlier, this book is the first to reconstruct the cultural dimensions of Zionism, illustrating why understanding Zionism is incomplete without considering its premodern cultural underpinnings. I have explored a range of case studies in the book’s chapters to underscore the significance of cultural elements within Zionism. These chapters delve into the formation of Zionist historical consciousness, the interplay between political choices and Jewish cultural heritage, as well as the incorporation of Jewish symbols, myths, and values into Zionist utopian thinking. As previously noted, the symbolic-ethnic approach has increasingly gained traction as a methodology for examining nationalism since the start of the current century. Anthony Smith and other scholars have adopted this approach in later studies, emphasizing the cultural foundations of modern nationalism. For example, Smith’s book Chosen Peoples (2003), as well as his work The Cultural Foundations of Nations (2008), highlighted the cultural aspects of nationalism

35 Gideon Shimoni, The Zionist Ideology (Hanover: Brandeis University Press, 1995), 3-51. Smith and others developed the ethno-symbolic approach at the beginning of the current century. 36 Hedva Ben-Israel, Be-shem ha-umah: masot u-ma’amarim ʿal le’umiyut ve-tsiyonut (Be’er Sheva: Ben-Gurion University of the Negev Press, 2004); Israel Bartal, Me-“umah” le-“le’om”: yehudei mizrah eiropah 1772–1881 (Tel Aviv: Ministry of Defense Publishing, 2002); Shlomo Avineri, Ha-ra’ayon ha-tsioni le-gvanav: perakim be-toldot ha-mahshavah ha-leumit ha-yehudit (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1991); Ella Belfer, Zehut kefulah: ʿal ha-metah bein artziyut le-ruhaniyut ba-ʿolam ha-yehudi (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University, 2004); Michael Brenner, In Search of Israel: The History of an Idea (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2016).

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research in general, and within the Zionist context in particular.37 Moreover, Smith underscored the importance of the spiritual and religious dimensions in secular modern nationalism, which its activists perceived as a sacred communion that gives its followers a sense of identity for a greater and noble cause. The connection to the national movement was often as strong and binding as the connection to the world of religion or to what Hobsbawm calls “authentic tradition.” These insights are particularly helpful for the study of Zionism, where the relationships between religion and nationalism for a tight knot that cannot easily be untangled. The cultural approach that I adopt in the current book does not overlook the significance of political aspects or the modern historical context in which Zionism emerged in the late nineteenth century, at the time of the founding of nation-states in Europe. However, I intentionally emphasize the cultural components of Zionism to understand its internal, subjective tendencies within Jewish nationalism. In my view, the renascence of Hebrew culture in the late nineteenth century, the renewal of the Hebrew language, the creation of Hebrew literature, and the strengthening of the position of the Land of Israel in modern Jewish consciousness should be examined as independent and highly significant elements in national awareness and Zionist imagination. The cultural revival within Zionism was not merely the product of instrumental political thought. The cultural aspect in Jewish nationalism was, in fact, primary, central, and decisive in shaping the Zionist movement. Here we note that the political Zionist movement preceded a broad Hebrew cultural awakening in Eastern Europe. This was expressed in Hebrew literature, Hebrew journalism, and the rich intellectual discourse among enlightened Jewish intelligentsia. Moreover, Herzl’s Zionist movement, founded in the late nineteenth century, was itself preceded by Hibbat Zion, an Eastern national movement in which the cultural dimension was especially prominent. In fact, until the end of World War I, political Zionism had failed to become a significant factor on the international stage. The repeated failures of Herzl and the political Zionist leadership to find a diplomatic solution for the Jewish people led to the reinforcement of the cultural Zionist strategy of within the diaspora.38 This activity, which dominated the movement after Herzl’s death, involved a range of political and cultural actions aimed at strengthening the Zionist consciousness of Jews in their respective countries.

37 Anthony D. Smith, The Cultural Foundations of Nations: Hierarchy, Covenant, and Republic (Oxford: Blackwell, 2008). 38 Shmuel Almog, Tsiyonut ve-historiyah ( Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1982), 130-173.

Introduction

The realization that the Zionist vision would not materialize rapidly, but rather over a long period of time, worked to strengthen the cultural dimension within the movement. From the early twentieth century onward, the Hebrew language, the development of Hebrew education, and their importance as primary channels of Zionist activity both in Palestine and in the diaspora became powerful catalysts for the Zionist movement. In its formative years, then, the cultural element held a central place in the Zionist agenda. The profound influence of Jewish cultural heritage can also be gleaned from the fact that Zionism was not the only Jewish national movement in the late nineteenth century. Alongside it emerged other diaspora national movements, which vied for the hearts of Jews. These movements, whether autonomist or socialist, leaned heavily on the principles of Jewish ethnic solidarity and a shared culture.39 Unlike most European nationalist movements, Zionism did not stem from an existing national territory but rather from the Jewish diaspora.40 The fact that Zionism originated from “the people” rather than “the land” indicates that it was initially grounded in shared historical memories, common values, collective myths, and a shared religious faith. Culture played a central role in the inception of Zionist identity, and it fueled political processes and actions more than politics shaped culture. Disputes continued to ignite divisions within Zionism, from its inception until the establishment of the State of Israel.41 These were often led by polemicists, such as the “culture controversy”—the dispute over Hebrew education, religion and nationalism; the question of the land versus the people; and East vs. West orientation. These debates still resonate within Israeli society today. When referring to Jews as an ethnic group, community, or people, I primarily focus on their cultural, spiritual, and religious characteristics rather than their genetic, biological, or racial origins. Therefore, in the following discussion, I will emphasize the cultural aspects of Jewish nationalism as articulated by its early proponents. Zionism has traditionally been described from a political and state- building perspective, as its stated goal was to establish a Jewish state.42 39 Simon Rabinovitch, ed., Jews and Diaspora Nationalism: Writing on Jewish Peoplehood in Europe & the United States (Waltham: Brandeis University Press, 2012), xv–xli. 40 Anthony D. Smith, “Diasporas and Homelands in History: The Case of the Classic Diaspora,” in The Call of the Homeland: Diaspora Nationalisms, Past and Present, ed. A. Gal, A. S. Leoussi, and A. D. Smith (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 3-28. 41 Ehud Luz, Makbilim nifgashim: Dat ve-leumiyut ba-tnuʿah ha-tzionit be-mizrah eiropa be-reshitah (1882–1904) (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1985); Yosef Salmon, Do Not Provoke Providence. 42 See Dimitry Shumski, Beyond the Nation State: The Zionist Political Imagination from Pinsker to Ben-Gurion (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2018). See also the review by Allen Arkush,

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However, to gain a deeper understanding of Zionist consciousness, it is essential to systematically examine its cultural dimensions. Zionism is a modern national movement that emerged in the late nineteenth century in Europe, but its premodern cultural foundations had a profound influence on its development. These cultural elements guided its objectives and shaped its unique character as a Jewish national movement. In this book, I do not question the innovation and revolutionary nature of Zionism. However, my intention is to reexamine the interpretation given to the Zionist revolution. Is it a tradition invented from scratch, with no connection to the historical foundations of Judaism, or is national innovation a continuation of Jewish history? The diversity, conflicting ideological positions, and clashing traditions that characterized the early Zionist movement ultimately reveal a dialectical relationship with the premodern Jewish past. The struggle for modern Jewish identity is a central part of Jewish history in modern times. Jewish nationalism participated in this struggle against alternative proposals presented by modern Jewish movements such as Orthodoxy, Reform, and the aspiration for the civic integration of Jews in Western countries. Jewish nationalism, beyond being a political movement, has always been a movement of cultural revival aiming to strengthen modern Jewish identity on a national basis.

Structure of the Book Above I have introduced the central thesis of the book, namely, that to gain a comprehensive understanding of the evolution of Zionism as a Jewish nationalist movement, we must delve into its cultural underpinnings alongside the political and historical backdrop of its emergence in the late nineteenth century. In simpler terms, Jewish nationalism should be regarded as an integral, inseparable component of Jewish history. This statement may appear perplexing, as Zionist ideology at times seemed to reject it. For example, the radical aspects of the principle of “diaspora negation” (shlilat ha-galut) expressed the yearning to detach from the “flawed,” exilic Jewish past, particularly in the eyes of the sabras, the native-born Jews in the Land of Israel during the early years of the Yishuv.43 An illustration of this is

“State or Substate,” Jewish Review of Books 39 (Fall 2019); M. M. Silver, Zionism and the Melting Pot: Preachers, Pioneers, and Modern Jewish Politics (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2020). 43 See, for example: Yehezkel Kaufmann, “Hurban ha-nefesh,” Moznayim (Tevet 1934): 6-18.

Introduction

found in the character of Yudka in Haim Hazaz’s short story “Ha-drasha” (The sermon) (1942), symbolizing the aspiration to break free from the Jewish past. Yudka declared with open scorn, “We have no history! Ever since we were exiled from our land, we are a people without history.”44 Nevertheless, as demonstrated in this book, a profound examination of Zionism’s roots underscores the indelible connections between Jewish history and Zionism. The chapters in this book present a series of case studies that illuminate the unmistakable link between Zionism and the Jewish past, across three dimensions: history, the national perspective on the Jewish past; politics, the impact of culture on Zionist politics; and vision, the correlation between the Zionist vision for the future and ancient Jewish heritage and the Bible. Chapter One of the book examines the formation of Zionist historical consciousness from the last third of the nineteenth century until the 1920s. During this period, the foundational assumptions of Zionist historical consciousness were formed, serving as the basis for Zionist historiography during the Yishuv period and in the early years of the State of Israel. The first chapter focuses on the development of an alternative to Jewish studies in Germany in the latter half of the nineteenth century. Peretz Smolenskin, writer and editor of the journal Ha-Shahar, was the most vocal critic of the universalist stance among Jewish scholars in Western Europe. Published in Vienna starting from 1868, his journal gained him a wide following among nationalist intellectuals in Eastern Europe of the 1870s. Smolenskin’s national-cultural stance defined Jews as a people, not just as a religious community. In his view, the abandonment of Hebrew and loss of faith in Jewish political redemption led to the disintegration of Jewish solidarity among Western Jews. Smolenskin criticized the Berlin Enlightenment and Jewish studies scholars of his era as paving the way for the loss of Jewish national solidarity. Many of the foundational principles that he established served the cultural leadership in the Zionist movement in later periods. Chapter Two addresses the cultural leadership of Ahad Ha’am during the 1880s and 1890s. Unlike Smolenskin, whose main activity occurred before the rise of Hibbat Zion, Ahad Ha’am served as a cultural leader and spiritual guide for many Zionists during the formative days of the Zionist movement. As leader of the Bnei Moshe association and especially as editor of the journal Ha-Shiloah, Ahad Ha’am developed the evolutionary aspect of Zionism as a 44 Hayim Hazaz, “Ha-drasha,” in Avanim rot’hot (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1968), 224. See also: Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory (Seattle: Washington University Press, 1996), 97. For more on the role of this story, see Luz, Makbilim nifgashim, 233-249; Iris Parush and Bracha Dalmatzki-Fishler, “‘Ma anachnu osim kan?’ (Od kri’ah be-‘Ha-drashah’),” Iyunim bi-tkumat Israel 16 (2006): 1–40.

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movement for Jewish national revival. Through his work in Odessa among a group of writers and scholars, Ahad Ha’am stood out as a spiritual leader whose influence extended far beyond Russian Jewry and Eastern Zionism. His evolutionary view drew opposition from various and conflicting directions: from the Orthodox, who saw his approach as a threat to halakhic religious tradition, to the “young” writers, who saw his views on Jewish culture as a continuation of the “old” diasporic mentality. The criticism Ahad Ha’am leveled at Herzl’s political Zionist leadership and the polemics waged against him reflect the struggles that took place within Zionism as it began to develop a modern national interpretation for the Jewish past. These struggles over the nature of the Zionist movement illustrate how important Jewish cultural heritage was to all its streams. The third chapter completes the picture of the formation of national historical consciousness in the early Zionist movement. In the early twentieth century, Haim Nahman Bialik became the national poet, as well as a key initiator of Hebrew culture and a central cultural leader of the movement. Along with a host of other writers and scholars, Bialik aimed to shape national consciousness based on the “Jewish bookshelf.” He sought to impart a national cultural historical consciousness grounded in the ancient Jewish spiritual resources. Bialik’s call to initiate a literary ingathering project for Hebrew books (mif’al ha-kinus) was accompanied by vigorous efforts to encourage Zionist scholars to explore Jewish history with a national emphasis and in the Hebrew language. With the founding of the Hebrew University, Bialik hoped that this vision would be fully realized. While this did not fully come to pass, it had a profound impact on many scholars, including leading Zionist historians in Jerusalem during the 1920s and 1930s. The existence of struggles and debates over the character and nature of a Jewish state even in the early days of the Zionist movement highlights the centrality of the cultural component in Jewish nationalism. This book examines two of the many debates that shaped the Zionist movement. The first debate, explored in Chapter Four, erupted around the time Herzl published his utopian book Altneuland. The confrontation between Ahad Ha’am and Herzl represented a fundamental distinction within Zionism between East and West, or between an ethnic orientation and a civic one. This debate was initiated by Ahad Ha’am with his critique of Herzl, and in 1903 it shook the entire Zionist movement. All forms of Zionism blended liberal civic elements with cultural ethnic components. However, the escalation of this conflict over the place and weight of the cultural elements within the

Introduction

movement illustrates the Zionists’ sensitivity towards issues concerning the cultural heritage of Jewish nationalism. Chapter Five tackles a divisive and emotionally charged issue that has been at the heart of the Zionist movement from its early days to the present: the intricate relationship between the Jewish people and the land. This contentious issue is deeply rooted in both Jewish history and current Zionist discourse, and it remains a focal point in contemporary Israel. Initially, the Zionist movement was torn apart by debates surrounding the Uganda Plan. Eventually, this conflict led to a schism between Zionist purists (Zionists of Zion) who insisted on a Jewish state in the historic land of Israel, and the territorialists, who ultimately broke away from the movement in 1905. This ideological struggle didn’t end there; it resurfaced in 1937 when the Peel Commission proposed the Partition Plan for Palestine. In both critical junctures, the central question was the relative importance of the land as compared to the people. These heated debates not only risked splitting the movement but also brought to the forefront deeply ingrained myths, values, historical memories, and narratives. These foundational elements shaped the worldviews of Zionist leaders and activists, who saw themselves as belonging to the historical Jewish people.45 Chapter Six is devoted to a discussion on Zionist utopia, the future envisioned by the Zionist movement, and the aspirations to shape the future character of the Jewish state. In this chapter, I analyze Zionist utopian literature from its inception to the establishment of the State of Israel.46 I discuss the utopian literature that characterized early Jewish nationalism, such as the works of utopian socialist Moses Hess, and the religious messianic vision of Rabbi Yehudah Alkalai. I categorize utopian literature from the era of classical Zionism according to the various parties of the Zionist movement at the time: political, cultural, religious, and socialist. This Zionist utopian literature was an inseparable part

45 Benedict Anderson’s use of Walter Benjamin’s terms “Messianic time” and “homogeneous, empty time” is not entirely accurate in the context of Jewish nationalism; nor is his argument that in modern nationalism the concept of time is “horizontal-secular, transverse-time.” See his Imagined Communities: Reflection on the Origins and Spread of Nationalism (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1998), 22–36, 37. 46 Rachel Elboim-Dror extensively researched the classical period of Zionist utopianism, in Ha-mahar shel ha-etmol, 2 vols. ( Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1993). Yosef Gorny examined the utopian thought in Zionism during the Mandate period in detail in Policy and Imagination: Federal Plans in Zionist Political Thought, 1917–1948 ( Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1993); Anshei kan ve-ʻakhshav: ha-realizm ha-utopi shel meʻatzvei ha-hevrah ha-yehudit ha-hadashah be-Eretz Yisrael (Sede Boker: Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, 2015); “Hirhurim ʻal ha-yesodot ha-utopyim ba-mahshavah ha-tsiyonit,” Ha-Tsiyonut 9 (1984): 45-54.

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of the cultural and political actions of the movement’s activists until the end of World War I. It is steeped in religious, messianic, and historical terms, and interestingly, this rich blend of terms can be found in all Zionist utopian writers, whether religious or secular. Many Zionists aimed to realize their vision through various forms of utopia: whether it was a socialist dream embodied by the kibbutz, a liberal political fantasy inspired by Altneuland, or even religious and cultural utopias. Each sought to create an ideal Jewish society, one that would capture the essence of ancient Jewish values and aspirations while also looking to the future. This utopian thinking was not limited to ideology alone; it was deeply ingrained in the practical planning of the era. During the British Mandate period, when the Zionist movement was building a state in the making, mainstream Zionist leadership was fueled by these utopian ideas. Their plans for constructing an exemplary Jewish society in the land of Israel were steeped in utopian visions. Analyzing how these visions of a utopian future were portrayed in literature and planning during the Yishuv era offers valuable insights. It not only opens a window into the imagination and ideals that drove Zionism, but also sheds light on the self-perception of its activists and leaders. Chapter Seven examines the powerful connection between Zionism and the Bible in a broad historical context, from the early modern period to the establishment of the State of Israel. We examine the use of the Bible in the context of modern nationalism and the Zionist movement in Palestine. Unlike other ancient Jewish texts—the Mishnah, Talmud, and rabbinic literature—the Hebrew Bible set a model for the creation of a nation-state. Zionism viewed the Bible as a foundational text because it contained two fundamental elements that the movement lacked: the Hebrew language and the Land of Israel. Zionist education focused on Bible stories as a unifying historical element, glorifying the biblical period as the “golden age” of Judaism. To the Zionists, the Bible was a guide to forming the “new Jew.” In the early modern period, Jewish society encountered a new set of circumstances unlike anything experienced during the Middle Ages or the early modern age. The numerous changes taking place in broader society had an immediate impact on the lives of Jews. The Enlightenment that swept through Europe in the eighteenth century, the economic shifts leading to the Industrial Revolution, the rise of nation-states, and significant political revolutions, foremost among them the French Revolution, led to immediate changes in the legal status of Jews in Europe and part of North Africa. The process of Jewish emancipation fundamentally transformed the traditional Jewish community, altering its structure and integrating Jews into civic life. The emancipation

Introduction

reshaped the foundation of Jewish community, making way for a new kind of societal involvement and identity. The hopes and anxieties that Jews harbored in the face of these dramatic changes shaped their self-identity as a Jewish community in the modern world. However, the crisis of Enlightenment in the late nineteenth century, which emerged following waves of unrest among East European Jews and the rise of political antisemitism in Western Europe, strengthened the national alternative among Jews. The idea that a political solution to the “Jewish question” could be found through the establishment of a Jewish state in the Land of Israel began to gain traction primarily in the late nineteenth century. Yet, the political form of Jewish nationalism also incorporated a cultural aspiration to strengthen Jewish identity in the face of the challenges posed by modernity. Jewish nationalism thus emerged as a response to the civic integration of Jews in their countries of origin, and to the universalist ideas that challenged the distinct Jewish identity and their collective fraternity.

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Par t One

H I STO RY

Chapter 1

Shaping a National Consciousness of the Past

Introduction One of the hallmarks of the modern era is a critical approach to history and the past. While traditional societies viewed the past as a source of authority, this perspective underwent a substantial transformation during the modern period, particularly from the eighteenth century onward. As historian Ernst Breisach astutely observed, “For centuries, the past as tradition has guided human actions in the present and hopes for the future. Now, in total reversal, the expectations for the future governed the life of the present and the evaluation of the past.”1 This fresh perspective is foundational to modern historiography at large and is a defining characteristic of modern Jewish historiography. Viewing the past as a tool to shape the future was a common thread between the academic study of Judaism as it emerged in Germany in the early nineteenth century and national Jewish historiography that began to blossom at the century’s end. Despite sharing this methodology, they were driven by differing agendas. Jewish studies scholars, active during the Emancipation, aimed to facilitate the civil integration of Jews in their native countries. Conversely, the 1 Ernst Breisach, Historiography: Ancient, Medieval, and Modern (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1994), 207.

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nationalist Jewish Enlightenment scholars sought to affirm the existence of the Jewish people as a distinct nation. These opposing stands mirrored distinct ideologies, but both employed scientific methodology as a means to assess the past and mold the future. Therefore, the evolution of national historiography should be understood within the broader framework of the ascent of modern Jewish historiography in the nineteenth century.2 In the last third of the nineteenth century, Jewish intellectuals laid the foundations for a national perspective on history and Zionist historiography. The crisis of Jewish Enlightenment undermined the basic assumptions upon which Jewish studies relied, and in their place, a national view of the Jewish past was created. This new approach laid the groundwork for the development of the Zionist version of Jewish studies in Mandate Palestine. National Jewish scholars worked to establish Hebrew as the language of the people, emphasized the connection to the Land of Israel, and called for the creation of a national Jewish Enlightenment that would serve the Jewish people and the national future. These thinkers founded many Hebrew cultural enterprises, including journals, Hebrew literature, schools, educational institutions, publishing houses, and Hebrew bookshelf. They sought to establish a national culture and laid the foundation for a national interpretation of the Jewish past. From the early 1880s until World War I, the Jewish national movement developed in multiple forms, relying almost entirely on ethnic and cultural foundations.3 The Zionist consciousness of the past that developed in the late nineteenth century laid the foundations for the national consciousness of the past and for Zionist historiography in Palestine during the Yishuv period. In this discussion, I use the term “historiography” in its widest sense, encompassing not only the endeavors of historians in examining the Jewish past but also the collective awareness of that past. I illustrate how national scholars reshaped the approach to understanding the Jewish historical narrative, steering it away from religious or liberal viewpoints to adopt a national perspective.

2 On trends in Jewish historiography in the nineteenth century, see Michael A. Meyer, Judaism Within Modernity: Essays of Jewish History and Religion (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2001); Ismar Schorsch, From Text to Context: The Turn to History in Modern Judaism (Hanover: University of New England Press, 1994); Shmuel Feiner, “Nineteenth-Century Jewish Historiography: The Second Track,” Studies in Contemporary Jewry 10 (1994): 17-44. 3 As noted, in this era Zionism was merely one of several Jewish national movements. Alongside it, other diasporic Jewish national movements were flourishing, including the national-socialist Bund; autonomism, which emerged from the teachings of Simon Dubnow; and successive movements inspired by them. All these Jewish national movements sought recognition for the right of Jews to cultivate a unique national identity and culture.

Shaping a National Consciousness of the Past

Zionist historiography was grounded in nationalist foundational beliefs, or on national metahistory, a project undertaken collectively by national thinkers and Zionist historians. In his book Metahistory, Hayden White delved into the concept of metahistory, relating it both to the professional historiography that emerged in the nineteenth century—championed by figures such as Jules Michelet, Leopold von Ranke, Alexis de Tocqueville, and Jacob Christoph Burckhardt—and to the philosophy of history as developed by philosophers like Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Karl Marx, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Benedetto Croce. White dismantled the established distinction between “proper history,” typically aligned with Ranke’s approach, that aimed to narrate historical events “as things really happened,” and “speculative history,” rooted in Hegelian tradition, which sought to discern overarching trends in history through a philosophical lens. White challenged this dichotomy, illustrating that no fundamental difference exists between these two approaches to historical study. Both are founded on the historical narrative selected by the historian, and both are predicated on pre-existing metahistorical assumptions.4 Consequently, all professional historiography also embodies a philosophy of history. I believe it is necessary to distinguish between historiography as a craft of scientific writing rooted in the analysis of a specific historical context, and the overarching approach of historical philosophy, which examines the past from “above,” drawing on broader general lines to infer expansive conclusions from history. However, I concur with White’s perspective that underlying every piece of modern historiography are metahistoric assumptions. These preliminary assumptions set the stage for all historical research, guiding the scholars’ fields of interest and influencing the emphasis of their studies. In the case of modern Jewish historiography, as illustrated by Moshe Rosman, we may discern various streams of historiographic approach, such as those influenced by the Enlightenment, nationalism, liberalism, socialism, and postmodernism. Rosman labeled these preliminary assumptions adopted by modern Jewish historians as “metahistory.” He posited that “a historian’s position on the type raised here determines the framework within which he or she conducted research and composed a narrative.”5 Consequently, historians

4 Hayden White, Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973), ix–xii, 1-42. See also David Carr, “On the Metaphilosophy of History,” in Re-Figuring Hayden White, ed. Frank Ankersmit et al. (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2009), 15-33. 5 Moshe Rosman, How Jewish Is Jewish History? (Liverpool: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, Liverpool University Press, 2008), 47.

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delve into researching the past grounded on foundational assumptions, a set of principles reflecting their comprehensive worldview. In light of this, I have demonstrated below that the Zionist historiography that developed in Palestine during the 1920s and 1930s relied on foundational national assumptions that were formulated earlier, alongside the rise of Jewish nationalism in the last third of the nineteenth century. The nationalist scholars I discuss below set the groundwork for a Jewish national historical consciousness that fueled the Zionist historiography created in the Land of Israel. These basic assumptions were distinct from the Emancipationist metahistory that informed Jewish studies in nineteenth-century Germany. Early Zionist thought highlighted the critical role of the Hebrew language as a necessary tool for properly understanding Jewish history. It underscored the unified narrative of Jewish history as expressing Jewish fraternity, and the bond to the Land of Israel. These principles served as the foundation for researching Jewish history, with the goal of addressing contemporary issues and ensuring the future of Jewish existence. Most research delving into the development of Zionist historiography from the 1920s onwards have predominantly focused on the founding of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem.6 In a pivotal article, Jonathan Frankel underscored the central role of the Jewish Russian school in modern Jewish historiography, which originated with the work of Simon Dubnow. Indeed, in the formative generations of Zionist historiography in Jerusalem, one can identify the influence of this Russian stream, which we may call “Eastern,” alongside the German one, or “Western.”7 Several studies have addressed the link between the emergence of Jewish nationalism in Eastern Europe and the growth of academic Jewish studies. Notably, the works of Israel Bartal have explored this direct relationship,

6 David N. Myers, Re-Inventing the Jewish Past: European Jewish Intellectuals and the Zionist Return to History (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995); Ya’akov Barnai, Historyografiyah ve-leʾumiyut: megamot be-heker Eretz Yisrael ve-yishuvah ha-yehudi 634-1881 ( Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1995); Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin, “Yitzugah ha-le’umi shel ha-galut: ha-historyografyah ha-tsiyonit ve-yehudei yeme ha-benayim” (PhD diss., Tel Aviv University, 1996); Arielle Rein, “Historion be-binuy umah: tzemihato shel Ben-Zion Dinur u-mif ’alo ba-yishuv (1884-1948)” (PhD diss., The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2001); Conforti, Zman avar; Michael Brenner, Prophets of the Past: Interpreters of Jewish History (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2010). 7 On the Russian Jewish school, see Jonathan Frankel, “Assimilation and the Jews in NineteenthCentury Europe: Towards a New Historiography?” in Assimilation and Community: The Jews in Nineteenth-Century Europe, ed. Jonathan Frankel and Steven Zipperstein (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 23-56. See also Conforti, Zman avar, 27-56.

Shaping a National Consciousness of the Past

emphasizing the nexus between Jewish nationalism in Eastern Europe and the establishment of Jewish studies in Jerusalem.8 Zionist thinkers such as Peretz Smolenskin, Moshe Leib Lilienblum, Ahad Ha’am, Haim Nahman Bialik, Yehoshua Hone Ravnitzki, and Joseph Klausner played a prominent role in crafting a national version of Jewish studies (Hokhmat Yisrael). While they staunchly opposed the ideological foundation, goals, and agenda of Jewish studies in Germany, they embraced the principles and scientific methodology of the Enlightenment. Viewing themselves as national disciples of the Enlightenment era, they sought to forge a national alternative to Jewish studies. Their resistance to the German rendition of Jewish studies was partial and limited, and did not entirely negate the influence of these studies on the Zionist perception of history and the national Zionist research.9 Championing a nationalistic perspective of history, these scholars aimed to find a middle ground between the universal scientific approach and the conservative Orthodox position. In this chapter, I explore the struggle to shape national foundational perspectives concerning Jewish historical consciousness. In this setting, the instrumental contribution of Peretz Smolenskin becomes evident. As a national intellectual, Smolenskin bridged the worlds of the Eastern Jews in the Russian Pale of Settlement and the Western Jews in Vienna, where he published his journal, significantly influencing the discourse.

Peretz Smolenskin: Ha-Shahar and the Emergence of National Historiography Contemporary research seldom explores the captivating figure of Peretz Smolenskin (1842–1885), the writer, editor, and publisher of Ha-Shahar [The dawn] Hebrew-language journal. Smolenskin stood as one of the lone nationalist voices among the Jews of Europe in the 1860s and 1870s. However, in the early stages of Zionism, activists often explored his teachings and his

8 Israel Bartal, Kozak u-beduy: ‘am ve-eretz be-leumiyut ha-yehudit (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 2007), esp. 80-121; Brenner, Prophets of the Past, 157-196. See also Tzafi Sabba-Elran, Zikhronot hadashim: asufot ha-agadah ve-itzuvo shel canon ivri moderni ( Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 2017); Eyal Chowers, The Political Philosophy of Zionism: Trading Jewish Words for Hebraic Land (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 153-214. 9 Brenner, Prophets of the Past, 159.

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literary output as the mastermind behind Ha-Shahar.10 He established a distinct national standpoint early in his literary and journalistic journey, which began in 1868 in Vienna. Smolenskin was born in 1842 in the village of Monastyrchina, near Mohilev on the border of Smolensk, in Belarus. As a child, he attended a yeshiva in Shklov, later joining a Hasidic yeshiva in Lubavitch. Like many Jewish intellectuals in Russia who left the yeshiva world, he spent several years in the bustling port city of Odessa, situated on the Black Sea. In the 1860s, he relocated to Vienna with his brother Leon Leib. There Peretz founded the journal Ha-Shahar. Despite numerous economic hurdles that initially hampered the consistent and orderly publication of the journal, Ha-Shahar blossomed into the foremost Hebrew periodical among Eastern European Jews in the 1870s. It became the publishing home for Smolenskin’s literary works, including stories like “Ha-to’eh be-darkhei ha-hayim” (The one who errs in the ways of life), “Simhat hanef ” (The joy of the hypocrite), “Kevurat hamor” (The burial of a donkey), and his significant polemical essays like “Even Yisrael” (The stone of Israel), “Am olam” (The eternal people), “Et la-ta’at” (A time to plant), and “She’elat ha-yehudim” (The Jewish question). The prominence of Ha-Shahar escalated among Eastern European Enlightenment intellectuals, largely owing to Smolenskin’s literary achievements. Additionally, during the 1870s considerable contributions were made to the journal by luminary figures in Hebrew literature, notably the poet Yehuda Leib Gordon (Yalag) and the esteemed writer Moshe Leib Lilienblum. Beyond establishing Ha-Shahar as a distinguished literary platform, Smolenskin also transformed it into a hub for the discussion of Jewish studies with a national emphasis. He forged meaningful friendships with prominent scholars and researchers, including Aaron (Adolf) Jellinek (1821-1893), David Heinrich

10 At the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, Smolenskin was seen as a pivotal figure in the Jewish national movement, which led early Zionist activists to write extensively about him. However, recent generations of researchers of Zionism have not devoted comprehensive monographs to his life and work. See, for example, Reuven Brainin, Peretz ben Moshe Smolenskin: hayav u-sefarav (Warsaw: Tushiya, 1896); Mordechai ben Hillel HaCohen, Me’erev ad erev (Vilna: Garber Press, 1904), 186-244; Nahum Slouschz, The Renascence of the Hebrew Literature (1743-1885) (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society of America, 1909), 224-270; Yosef Klausner, Ha-historiyah shel ha-sifrut ha-ivrit ha-hadashah, vol. 5 ( Jerusalem: Ahiassaf, 1952-1959), 14-231; Charles Freundlich, Peretz Smolenskin, His Life and Thought: A Study of the Renascence of Jewish Nationalism (New York: Bloch, 1965); Shmuel Feiner, Haskalah and History: The Emergence of a Modern Jewish Historical Consciousness (Oxford, Portland Oregon: The Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2002), 317-340; Uzi Shavit, Ba’alot ha-shahar: shirat ha-haskalah: mifgash im ha-moderniyut (Tel Aviv: HaKibbutz HaMeuchad, 1996), 97-117.

Shaping a National Consciousness of the Past

Müller (1846-1912), and David Kaufmann (1852-1899), all of whom enriched the publication with their comprehensive research.11 Despite facing economic hardships in the early stages, Smolenskin remained undeterred in his ambition to uphold Ha-Shahar as a Jewish national forum for literature and science. To sustain its regular circulation, he undertook fundraising tours across Europe. The popularity and success of Ha-Shahar also attracted detractors, instigating ideological battles due to its persistent and deep-seated criticisms of the Berlin Haskalah ( Jewish Enlightenment) and, specifically, its emblematic figure, Moses Mendelssohn. During the peak of Ha-Shahar’s success in 1876, the journal Ha-Boker Or began publication. Edited by Abraham Ber Gottlober (1811–1899), this journal supported the Berlin Haskalah while endeavoring to undermine Smolenskin’s resolute positions.12 In his lead article “Et la’akor natu’a” (Time to uproot the planted) in the inaugural volume of Ha-Boker Or, Gottlober sought to counter the assertions presented by Smolenskin in “Et la-ta’at” (A time to plant), a serial work published starting in 1875 in Ha-Shahar.13 Subsequent articles in Ha-Boker Or continued to oppose Smolenskin’s criticism of the Berlin Haskalah.14 Ha-Shahar effectively served as the inception point for forming a national alternative to Jewish studies, challenging the universalist direction prevalent among Jews in central and western Europe. From its very beginning, the national inclination that Smolenskin championed as editor was evident. He aimed to carve out a national trajectory that diverged from the religious stances held by the Reform movement and the Orthodox Jews. In Smolenskin’s perspective, Jewish identity was less about religious adherence and more about a national sentiment, a fraternal bond that united the Jewish people. While Ha-Shahar was widely recognized as a turning point in Hebrew Enlightenment literature, yet another significant contribution of the journal was forming a national perspective on Jewish studies. This objective was

11 Regarding Smolenskin’s relationship with Kaufmann, see Mirjam Thulin, Kaufmanns Nachrichtendiest: Ein judishes Gelehrtennetzwerk im 19. Jahrhundert (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2012), 66-73. See also Smolenskin’s letters to friends: Peretz Smolenskin, Mikhtavei Peretz ben Moshe Smalensky—me’ah mikhtavim, ed. R. Breinin (Warsaw: M. Katzenellenbogen, 1905), 1-148. 12 Menuha Gilboa, Leksikon ha-itonut ha-ivrit ba-meʼot ha-shemoneh-esreh ve-ha-tesha-esreh ( Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1992), 256-258. 13 Avraham Ber Gotlober, “Et la-akor natua,” Ha-Boker Or 1 (1876), 4-17, 77-86. Opposition to Ha-Shahar was also expressed by the socialists, including Aaron Shmuel Lieberman (18451880), and Ben Netz (Benzion Novachovitz, 1856-1930). See Klausner, Ha-historiyah shel ha-sifrut ha-ivrit ha-hadashah, 5:116-121. 14 Ibid., 5:106-107.

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echoed in the journal’s evocative subtitle: “Ha-Shahar: Shedding Light on the Pathways of the Children of Israel, Past and Present.” The opening manifesto of Ha-Shahar proclaimed a struggle on two primary fronts: one against Orthodoxy and the other against the Enlightenment and Reform movements in Germany. It vowed: “The goal of Ha-Shahar will be to shed light on the paths of the children of Jacob, to open the eyes of the blind who have not yet seen the light of wisdom or grasped its value, to enhance the glory of the Hebrew language, and to increase its supporters.”15 Despite this pledge to engage on two significant fronts, Smolenskin largely concentrated his criticisms on the universalist tendencies among Enlightenment intellectuals, maintaining that it was primarily they who were shutting their eyes to the present reality, rather than the Orthodox. Hence, Ha-Shahar’s central mission was to counter the anti-nationalist inclinations of the Enlightenment: Previously, the battle was solely on the front. Now, it is on the front and on the rear. As the eyes of the previously blind gradually open and they begin to shake off the long reign of ignorance, those who have already accepted wisdom in their hearts are sealing their eyes, refusing to acknowledge the [Hebrew] language that remains our sole tether, a way to unite all of Israel to be one people in one land.16 Smolenskin was particularly concerned about the abandonment of the Hebrew language. He viewed the language as a central component for preserving Jewish national unity, and to him, its neglect among the educated elite posed a serious threat to Jewish existence. Within the conservative Orthodox camp, Smolenskin saw glimmers of the effect of the Haskalah. However, on the side of the Western European Enlightenment scholars, he did not identify the foundations of national unity, and therefore was more worried about their neglect of the national aspect: “They will shake off the Hebrew language and those who grasp on to it.” As a result, as a journal addressed Jewish studies, Ha-Shahar was published specifically in the Hebrew language. “What will the Hebrew language give us?” they may ask—I will tell them what it will give us. It will give us honor and strength; it will tie us together, allowing us to be called by the name of

15 “Preface,” Ha-Shahar 1 (1868-1869), iii. 16 Ibid., iv–v.

Shaping a National Consciousness of the Past

Israel. The nations will erect monuments, build towers, and their blood will be spilled like water so that their nation’s name and language will not be erased from the face of the earth. They long with all their might for the day of salvation when sovereignty will return to them, and if the day seems distant, they will not cease to hope. Yet we, who have neither monuments nor land, neither name nor memory, have but one monument, one memory left from the ruins of our Temple: the Hebrew language. Those who scorn or reject it will, in essence, reject the entire nation. They will have neither name nor memory among the house of Israel; they betray their people and their faith!17 Smolenskin placed significant emphasis on using the Hebrew language in Jewish studies, seeing it as crucial for fostering a distinct national identity. He felt that Hebrew encapsulated the spirit of the Jewish people through history. This perspective was a constant theme throughout the lifetime of Ha-Shahar and remained important to him until his death in 1885. In contrast to the dominant approach of German Jewish studies—which he viewed as leading to assimilation and cultural erosion—Smolenskin argued that studying Jewish history could serve as a powerful means to build a cohesive national, spiritual, and cultural consciousness. Unlike other scientific journals of the time, Ha-Shahar included both Hebrew literature and poetry, but its focus on research of Jewish history was especially prominent. As Shmuel Feiner has shown, Smolenskin shifted the perspective on Jewish historical consciousness from an Enlightenment viewpoint to a national one. In his article “Even Yisrael,” published in the first year of Ha-Shahar, Smolenskin laid out the fundamentals for a national historiography.18 According to him, Jewish history should be written by a Jewish historian because the course of Jewish history differs fundamentally from that of other nations: “Israel is not like other nations, he will not be judged as other nations. Its ways are as far apart from those of other nations as the East is from the West. If the writer does not exercise caution and walks in the paths of typical chroniclers, he will err and mislead the readers.”19 In Smolenskin’s view, due to the ancient nature of Jewish history and the unique circumstance of Jews not residing in their homeland, the task of writing

17 Ibid., v–vi. 18 Feiner, Haskalah and History, 319; Brenner, Prophets of the Past, 158. 19 Ha-Shahar 1 (1868-1869), 235.

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Jewish history was extremely complicated, causing much disagreement among scholars. Unlike their counterparts who followed a clear path set by previous historians and differed only in minor opinions, a historian of Jewish history confronted an array of disputes and conflicts: “A Jewish historian will only see arguments and battles before him until one judgment contradicts another, thus requiring tremendous intellectual force to arrive at the truth.”20 Smolenskin presented his cultural-nationalistic approach in expansive essays published in Ha-Shahar between 1872-1881, particularly in four major works: “Am olam” (The eternal people), “Et la-ta’at” (A time to plant), “Et la’asot” (A time to do) and the first part of “She’elat hayehudim” (The Jewish question). His Jewish nationalism was based on cultural and spiritual foundations, with Hebrew language and the belief in redemption at their core. In his view, the Hebrew language preserved the “spirit of the people” across all diasporas, while the belief in redemption served as the bedrock of national unity. In the opening manifesto of Ha-Shahar, he declared: “It’s neither a shame nor a disgrace for us to believe that the end of our exile will come, that a day will arrive when the kingdom will return to Israel, as all other nations are not ashamed and long for redemption from foreign yoke.”21 Later, in the 1870s, Smolenskin further solidified his national, cultural, and spiritual position, but even then, his philosophy remained imbued with hope for political sovereignty. He was influenced by the spirit of the era and the rise of European nationalism in the 1860s and 1870s—most notably German and Italian nationalism, the nationalist revolutions in the Balkans, and British liberal nationalism. Smolenskin’s aspiration for political redemption found expression in the first poem he published in the initial volume of Ha-Shahar, titled “Ahavat eretz moledet” (Love of the homeland). The poem reveals the influence of European nationalism and his own latent sentiments, especially as he witnessed the rise of German nationalism in the late 1860s. In a passionate preface to the poem, he wrote: These thoughts came to me during the Shooting Festival (Schützenfest), where crowds gathered by the thousands from all over the country. While every street was filled with celebrating masses and joyful songs were heard from every direction, the

20 Ibid., 237. 21 Ha-Shahar 1 (1868-1869), vi.

Shaping a National Consciousness of the Past

memory of Jerusalem during its festivals rose within my spirit, inspiring me to write this poem.22 The poem was written in the spirit of love for both the nation and the homeland, and includes the following lines: The Germans hear a voice proclaiming peace; they alone have heard. They rise, stand in joy, and form an everlasting pact; But within my heart, these words pierce like arrows, My bones tremble, my soul flutters; my heart aches. Songs of brotherly love, memories of the homeland, Kindle a fire in my bones, a burning, unquenchable fire. Wretched, wretched, where is your homeland? Where are your brothers? Born into misfortune! All nations rise up, but your nation’s daughter descends. Nations unite, but your brothers are divided. Since they have walked into exile, they have forgotten their land, Broken the covenant of brotherhood, abandoned peace and love . . . Ah, would that I were dwelling in a desolate desert land Would that I had a homeland, though it be far away, Than be sated with the world’s plenty in a foreign land, As long as my people are separated from their kingdom and land. Though I may dwell in halls of ivory, adorned with gold, If I forget you, Jerusalem, I will forget my daily bread! This patriotic national anthem sheds light on Smolenskin’s fervent hope for political redemption. The European nationalism that emerged in the 1860s had a significant impact on him, as clearly reflected in his poem. This same sentiment also influenced other proto-Zionists of the period, such as Moses Hess, Zvi Kalisher, and David Gordon. In contrast, in his book Am Olam, which was serialized in Ha-Shahar, Smolenskin developed a spiritual nationalist approach in which the land—the homeland—took a secondary position. Within Am

22 Ibid., 107-109. The Schützenfest shooting festival was celebrated in German-speaking countries in the nineteenth century, and is still held today.

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Olam, the chapter titled “Love of Homeland and Love of Humanity” appeared, revealing his stance as a national liberal influenced by contemporary nationalist thought. Smolenskin emphasized that national brotherhood did not stand in contradiction to universal human brotherhood. The aims of nationalism were freedom and human liberty, and these should be achieved through peaceful means. According to him, nationalism was not opposed to universal human fraternity, but was an essential step on the path to achieving general human freedom and equality. As he stated: Indeed, both viewpoints aim for the same goal. However, those who hold the view of love for the nation will set up a ladder whose base is grounded on earth and whose top reaches the heavens. They will ascend it step by step until they attain its highest point. However, the viewpoint rooted in universal love for all will seek to leap to the heavens in one jump; therefore, those who follow it will fall, stumble, get trapped, and even corrupt the noble goal.23 According to these remarks, Smolenskin believes that the correct path to practically implement the principles of universal freedom and equality passes through liberal nationalism. In contrast, a universalist approach that neglects the national foundation cannot guarantee human rights.24 Smolenskin is sometimes portrayed as a progenitor of diaspora nationalism that developed parallel to the Zionist movement and is primarily associated with Dubnow’s ideology. In my view, this characterization is imprecise. The poem “Love of the Homeland” discussed earlier, along with other expressions from Smolenskin in the 1870s, suggests that the nature of his nationalism was not diasporic but cultural-spiritual. The diasporic nationalist stance that emerged later, shaped by Dubnow and his disciples, differs from Smolenskin’s position. While Smolenskin indeed developed a cultural nationalism and placed “the people” at the center and “the land” as secondary, he never abandoned the hope for political redemption, as it represented, in his eyes, the foundation of national fraternity. True, he viewed political redemption as a distant vision unlikely to materialize soon, but from this perspective, his view is similar to Ahad Ha’am Zionist cultural stance. Therefore, it is erroneous, in my eyes, to consider

23 Ha-Shahar 3 (1872), 14. 24 Peretz Smolenskin, Ma’amarim ( Jerusalem: Smolenskin Fund, 1925-1926), 1:15.

Shaping a National Consciousness of the Past

Smolenskin the founding father of diaspora nationalism, as we find, for example, in Simon Rabinovitch’s book Jews and diaspora Nationalism. Smolenskin was not anticipating Dubnow and Jewish diaspora nationalism, but rather Ahad Ha’am and cultural Zionism. Dubnow idealized the diasporic condition, as manifested in his historical essays such as “What is Jewish History?” or “Letters on Old and New Judaism,” while Smolenskin based his nationalism on spiritual and cultural aspects.25 Moreover, after the pogroms that began in 1881 in Russia, Smolenskin shifted his stance, becoming an ardent supporter of settling in the Land of Israel and a fierce opponent of migration to America. His changing views are evident in the second part of his article “She’elat ha-yehudim—She’elat ha-hayim” (The Jewish question—the question of life). In this piece, he intensified his critique of the Berlin Enlightenment and henceforth saw Palestine as the appropriate foundation for Jewish nationalism.26 Consequently, Smolenskin transitioned from being an enthusiastic supporter of Alliance Israélite Universelle in the 1870s—when the organization provided aid to persecuted Romanian Jews—to becoming its sworn enemy for supporting Jewish migration to America in the 1880s. He rebuked the Alliance, stating: “It is clear today that Palestine would have already been in our hands, and nearly a hundred thousand families would be residing there if not for the obstruction set by Alliance.”27

Trends in Jewish History Smolenskin shaped his historical approach in the vein of moderate Enlightenment figures like Nachman Krochmal (also known by his acronym, “Ranak”), Shmuel David Luzzatto (“Shadal”), and Shlomo Yehuda Rapoport (“Shir”). Like them, he believed in the historical unity of the Jewish people and thought that research on the Jews should be written in Hebrew. Similar to Krochmal, Smolenskin also believed that the Jewish people had a “national spirit” that endured throughout history, despite the presence of divergent and even opposing trends in Judaism.28

25 See Rabinovitch, introduction to Jews and Diaspora Nationalism, xv–xli; Yitzhak Conforti, “State or Diaspora: Jewish History as a form of National Belonging,” Studies in Ethnicity and Nationalism 15, no. 2 (2015): 230-250. 26 Smolenskin, Ma’amarim, 3:37-93. 27 Ibid., 3:85. 28 Freundlich, Peretz Smolenskin, 13. He was also influenced by his encounter with Nachman Krochmal’s son Avraham, in Odessa.

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In his eyes, the approach of Krochmal, Luzzatto, and Rapoport was the right way to bridge the different perspectives within the community, between Enlightenment intellectuals and conservatives.29 Accordingly, he saw nineteenth-century British history, and even British historiography, as a model worth emulating. For instance, the existence of opposing factions within the British nation, the Whigs and the Tories, did not, in his opinion, prevent national unity in England.30 According to Smolenskin, the Jewish community has historically been divided between two opposing forces: the “enlightened” and the “pious.” Therefore, he argued that in his own time, the nineteenth century, it was crucial for enlightened Jews to refrain from taking radical actions against the Orthodox segment, to maintain national unity. His practical conclusion was to avoid directly confronting rabbis in the name of “religious reforms.” Instead, the enlightened community should shoulder the responsibility of seeking a moderate path for gradual change, rather than pushing for sweeping, radical alterations in traditional Judaism.31 Smolenskin believed that the clash between the Enlightenment and Reform Jews against the rabbinical establishment could potentially shatter national unity, especially in a modern era where the Jewish people’s existence was already at risk: “But now, when in many countries the pillars of faith are faltering, [. . .] who among us can assure that by the third generation they will not even recall the name Israel?”32 In Smolenskin’s view, the central core of Jewish history is spiritual, embodied by the “spirit of the Torah.” For him, the Torah is the spirit of the people, safeguarding its unity even in exile: The prophets, foreseeing that the day would not tarry when the kingdom and land would disappear from Judah, focused on embedding thought and Torah in the heart of the people, for it would not be lost even with the loss of the kingdom; it would

29 Smolenskin admired Shlomo Yehuda Rapoport (1796-1867) and met him in Prague. On Rapoport’s nationalist trend, see Natan Shifris, “Shelomo Yehuda Rapoport (SHIR), 1796–1867: Torah, Haskalah, ve-hokhmat Yisrael, ve-reʾshitah shel ha-le’umiyut ha-yehudit ha-modernit” (PhD diss., Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2012), 328-364. 30 Smolenskin, Ma’amarim, 1:39-42. 31 Ibid., 24. 32 Ibid., 43.

Shaping a National Consciousness of the Past

not be destroyed even if the land and the House of the Lord were to be destroyed.33 To Smolenskin, the Torah was not merely a religious element but a cultural one, and religious faith was part of the nation’s spirit. According to his perspective, the Torah served as the spiritual tool that united all factions of the people throughout Jewish history. This was as understood by illustrious leaders of the Jewish people like Ezra the Scribe and Hillel the Elder. These individuals transcended narrow divisions and opposing forces within the community, allowing the Torah as a spiritual principle to unify the entire people, both the “enlightened” and the conservative “pious,” as one.34 Smolenskin saw Jewish history as a history of the present. As he experienced in his own life the cultural war between the maskilim (followers of the Enlightenment movement) and the rabbis, he viewed Jewish history as a tapestry of struggles between forces advocating unity and freedom of thought, and those promoting disintegration and religious radicalism.35 For instance, the conflicts that occurred between the Jewish Sages during the medieval period were, in his eyes, battles between those great in wisdom and those great in Torah—”the wise” versus “the pious.” This conflictual history between the different factions negatively affected the character of Judaism both religiously and nationally. Those who valued wisdom, like Maimonides, conceded to the conservatives, adding various restrictions so they would not be suspected of being too liberal. The conservatives also added their own restrictions due to their cautious stance. In Smolenskin’s view, this only worsened the state of Judaism, turning it into a long saga of religious stringencies that did not allow for bridging the gap between the various factions within the people. Consequently, national solidarity was harmed, and no broad common ground for collaboration between all factions of the people was established.36 Smolenskin believed that Jewish faith and religious practice were indeed in need of change. He argued that there was room for halachic changes that would allow both—“the enlightened” and “the pious”—to find their place within a

33 Ibid., 87. 34 Ibid., 111-115. 35 Feiner, Haskalah and History, 322-323. 36 Ibid., 130-131. In a letter to his learned friend David Kaufmann, Smolenskin distinguished between the “fundamental laws” or core religious principles like Shabbat, circumcision, and Yom Kippur, and the “laws that were produced by later authorities without reason or judgment.” See Smolenskin, Me’ah mikhtavim, 9-12.

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single national framework.37 However, he opposed radical changes that could undermine religious faith altogether. Particularly, he was against the Reform movement in Germany because he saw it as negating faith in national redemption. In his view, the Reformers aimed to emulate the Lutheran Reformation, but Judaism fundamentally differed from Christianity. Unlike Christianity, Judaism was not solely in the hands of a religious clergy; it was the heritage of the entire people. Therefore, only principles that were widely accepted by the entire community would withstand the test of time and become part of the “national spirit.”38 Contrary to the radical models of modernization represented by Germany and France, Smolenskin favored the moderate and gradual British model. According to him, England successfully preserved national unity and freedom of thought during its transition from a traditional to a modern society. In contrast, France and Germany failed in this regard, creating radical and destructive paradigms. German humanism produced an ideal of “love for humanity,” a love that was entirely unrealistic: “The Germans would love all people as Don Quixote loved his Dulcinea—only in their imagination.”39 On the other hand, the French prioritized action over thought, formulating lofty principles of human and civil rights, but failing to root these principles in society and among the people. As a result, the French Revolution led to bloodshed rather than equality and justice. In contrast to these radical models, the British, in Smolenskin’s opinion, skillfully blended universal humanism with nationalism and love for one’s homeland. This is the model Smolenskin aspired to in the Jewish context: a model that integrates the principles of Enlightenment with nationalism, rather than rejecting national brotherhood in the name of abstract universal Enlightenment principles. For this reason, he admired nineteenth-century British historiography.40

37 Smolenskin, Ma’amarim, 1:126-127. 38 Freundlich, Peretz Smolenskin, 158-168. 39 Smolenskin, Ma’amarim, 1:137. 40 Ibid. Smolenskin was very impressed by British historiography, particularly the works of major British historians Henry Buckle (1821-1862) and Thomas Macaulay (1800-1859). See Ya’akov Shavit, “Ha-shimush shel maskilim yehudim be-mizrah eiropah be-mishnato shel Henry Thomas Buckle,” Zion 49, no. 4 (1984): 401-412.

Shaping a National Consciousness of the Past

What are the Jews: A People or a Religion? The central issue of Smolenskin’s engagement with Enlightenment thinkers was the question: what defines Jews? Is the Jewish collective best understood through its religion, or through its sense of peoplehood? “Are we, the House of Israel, a single nation or merely adherents of one faith?” Smolenskin’s answer was unambiguous: religion alone does not capture the essence of Judaism. While faith is a central element, it is not the defining feature of Jewish identity. Given that Jews are not just a religious community, it is clear that assimilation and emancipation could not offer a full solution to the “Jewish question.” Smolenskin’s primary goal with Ha-Shahar was to shift the prevailing view that Jews could solely rely on Enlightenment or that Judaism could exist on universal principles alone. Ha-Shahar was intended to serve as a nationalist alternative to Jewish studies in Germany. This approach is particularly evident in his work Et la-ta’at, published in 1875 to 1878. Smolenskin aimed to lay a national foundation for the study of Jewish history, serving the needs of Jewish life in the present rather than merely exploring the past for academic inquiry alone: “Ha-Shahar is an observer of the Jewish people, for it was founded on behalf of Israel, its history, customs, and its wisdom. It is an observer that will research the past and investigates the roots of the present. But he (Ha-Shahar) may never close his eyes to what is happening in these days, before his very eyes,” he declared.41 This declaration positioned the primary goal of Ha-Shahar as investigation of the Jewish past for the sake of addressing current issues. The struggle led by Ha-Shahar against the Berlin Enlightenment and the universalist perspective of Judaism was designed to reinforce the claim that Jews are defined primarily by their peoplehood rather than their religion. According to Smolenskin, this universalist religious outlook started in the days of Moses Mendelssohn. Smolenskin transformed Mendelssohn from an admired symbol of Jewish Enlightenment to a despised figure, an anti-hero of national identity. In the days of Ben Menachem [Moses Mendelssohn], this opinion started to find its way into Jewish hearts, and now it has spread far and wide. Our brothers in other lands, who have raised the banner of the Enlightenment, have accepted it with open arms, without much inquiry. For just as the man Moses, our lawgiver, was to the God-fearing a spokesman for the word of God, so this Moses Ben Menachem was for the Enlightened; 41 Smolenskin, Ma’amarim 2:8.

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they look up to him, study him, and consider every word he utters to be holy.42 Smolenskin assailed Moses Mendelssohn as the emblem of Jewish Enlightenment, viewing him not as a worthy role model but as a demonic figure who robbed Jews of their national consciousness and took away their hopes for redemption.43 In Smolenskin’s eyes, the Jews were one people, even though the key elements—land, language, and statehood—had been absent from Jewish history since their exile from their homeland: The people of Israel were born on foreign soil, yet they began to consider themselves a people. [. . .] They even had a kingdom and legal systems before settling in their own land, which is why the idea has never taken root in their hearts—as it has in all other nations—that if their land is stolen or if they are exiled and scattered to the ends of the earth, they would cease to be a people.44 Smolenskin’s nationalism, therefore, was not based on the Land of Israel but on the ethnic, cultural, and spiritual foundations of the Jewish people. The uniqueness of the Jews, according to him, was in their existence as a “people of the spirit”: If we acknowledge that the Jewish people have outlasted all other nations because they considered themselves a people of the spirit, a term that has been consistently used by all their sages, writers, prophets, and in their liturgy, should we not recognize the immense power of this single term to bring together those who are divided? If a Jew in one country thinks of his Jewish brother in another land as part of his own people, then a fraternal love and national brotherhood will develop between them. We must remember that the bond linking them was not formed yesterday, but four thousand years ago. Four thousand years! The sheer magnitude and gravity of this idea alone is sufficient to instill in the hearts of all sensitive and thinking individuals a

42 Ibid., 10. 43 Ibid., 14-17. 44 Ibid., 21.

Shaping a National Consciousness of the Past

deep reverence for this enduring connection. For four thousand years, we have been brothers, part of one people. Let everyone take this to heart: How can I betray generations upon generations and destroy this fraternity? How can I seek to save only myself when my people are in despair? How can I stand idly by when my brothers are drowning in a sea of trouble? How can I sit with folded arms and not come to their aid when they are faced with the cup of wrath?45 In Smolenskin’s worldview, the definition of Jews as a nation, rather than solely through their religion, held a pivotal place. This perspective anchored Jewish identity in a sense of national fraternity, rather than in the observance of religious commandments. This view was not just theoretical; it was the driving force behind Smolenskin’s call to assist Jews in Eastern Europe. Although he was born and raised in Eastern Europe, he spent his adult life in Vienna, often considered part of “the West,” which made him acutely aware of the hardships and challenges faced by Eastern European Jewry. His writings reveal the deep-seated frustration of Eastern Jews, who were grappling with persecution and yearning for a sense of brotherhood and solidarity from their Western counterparts. Thus, for Smolenskin, the debate over a universal Jewish perspective was not just an intellectual exercise, but also a matter of urgent practical concern. Smolenskin was deeply committed to fortifying Jewish national unity, particularly as a way to aid Jews in Romania who faced persecution in the mid-1870s. As part of the Alliance Israélite Universelle, he took on this mission with fervor.46 In opposition to the Berlin Enlightenment, he aimed to validate the historical existence of the Jewish people as a nation, not just a religious community. He viewed this common perception as not only historically inaccurate but also morally questionable, dangerous, and deserving of contempt. According to Smolenskin, this perspective fueled antisemitic sentiments and undermined the Jews’ rightful claims to assert their existence as a nation: “A unique covenant made with Israel assures that it will be in the land and will not be exterminated among the world’s nations and kingdoms—neither by its external enemies nor due to the acts of its internal destroyers.”47

45 Ibid., 28. 46 Peretz Smolenskin, “Al dvar malakhuti le-Romania,” Ha-Shahar 5 (1874): 521-532, 593-600; Freundlich, Peretz Smolenskin, 110-112. 47 Smolenskin, Ma’amarim 2:84-86, 98.

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In contrast to the optimistic stance of the Enlightenment towards the modern age, Smolenskin’s attitude was more pessimistic and skeptical.48 The hopeful assumption of the Enlightenment that transforming Jews into individuals and citizens would solve “the Jewish question” failed to hold up against the rise of antisemitism in the 1870s in both Eastern and Western Europe. Faced with this reality, Smolenskin believed that Jews must not relinquish their national identity. He argued that “even if we sacrifice everything for their sake, and even if we convert our name [Israel] and assimilate into another nation, they will never cease persecuting us. The root of this hatred lies in family disputes or jealousy, which will never end.”49 According to Smolenskin, any attempts by Jews in the modern era to integrate into other nations—even at the cost of forsaking their Jewish identity—would be ineffective. Such an approach, he felt, would not serve the proper integration of the Jewish people into the modern world. He stressed that Jews had never been persecuted for being a nation, but rather for having a different faith. None of the detractors, who are many, criticize Jews for considering themselves a people; it is rather because their faith sets them apart from other nations. The animosity towards them stems from this, or from their financial success and prosperity in trade. On the other hand, we have often seen that the critics, who seek to lift them from the dust, address them as a people and not as followers of a single faith. Cromwell labeled them a “nation,” as did the chief advocate Mirabeau, and others. None of these supporters ever suggested that such labeling would bring harm to those they claim to want to help. This is a reliable indication that those who argue that the term nation is inappropriate or harmful for the Jews are mistaken. Everything about the history of Jews suggests otherwise.50

48 See the seminal work on the Jewish modern age by Shmuel Feiner, The Jewish Eighteenth Century: A European Biography, 1700-1800, 2 vols. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2020-2023). 49 Smolenskin, Ma’amarim 2:104. 50 Ibid., 116 (original emphasis). Oliver Cromwell (1599-1658) was head of the Commonwealth of England in the mid-seventeenth century. During his time, the Jewish settlement in England was renewed after the expulsion of the Jews in 1291. Honoré Mirabeau (1749-1791) was a French politician and writer during the French Revolution, who supported equal rights for Jews.

Shaping a National Consciousness of the Past

Smolenskin blamed the Berlin Enlightenment and contemporary Jewish studies scholars with universalist views, like Abraham Geiger, for obsequiousness to antisemites. According to him, this approach led to a rise in antisemitism and hatred against Jews. These individuals are willing to sell their people’s honor for a pittance, bringing an unforeseen disaster upon it. They’re the feeble-minded, the faint of heart, those lacking the foresight to see the bigger picture. They believe that by kissing the hand that strikes them or bowing to their adversaries, they will somehow ease their oppressors’ anger. [. . .] Such individuals have been a thorn in Israel’s side for generations, from the days of Ben Menachem to the present. They lack both wisdom and courage, and in their misguided attempt to secure some semblance of freedom or safety for themselves and their children, they are willing to bend over backwards to accommodate every injustice thrown their way. To underscore their readiness to be subservient, they stand up and loudly declare, “We are not a nation; we are merely sons of a single faith!”51 Smolenskin sharply criticized German scholars of Jewish studies, an approach fully adopted later by many Zionist thinkers including Haim Nahman Bialik and Gershom Scholem. This shift from the optimism that underpinned the Jewish Enlightenment to a more pessimistic stance, not just hopeful about the modern age but also deeply concerned about rising antisemitism, essentially marked the crisis of Jewish Enlightenment in the late nineteenth century. As Feiner observed, Smolenskin was at the forefront of challenging the foundational assumptions of the Jewish Enlightenment.52 While he did not entirely reject Enlightenment ideas, he infused them with a sense of romantic nationalism, much like the cultural leaders who followed him in the Zionist movement. He offered a national and spiritual alternative: Indeed, we have been a people from ancient times to the present day. The loss of our kingdom and our exile from our land have not erased our national identity. No matter what challenges or hardships may come our way, they will not prevent us from

51 Smolenskin, Ma’amarim 2:121. 52 Feiner, Haskalah and History, 319 ff.

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being a people. We are distinct from other nations, just as we were when we resided in our own land. We were never merely a people whose existence depended on a kingdom or a territorial homeland. We were not born as a people in our land, its loss did not undermine the foundation of our national character. From the very beginning, we have been a people of the spirit, for whom the law serves as our land, our kingdom, and our system of justice. This belief has prevailed because our people have long held that the Torah precedes our settled land and our kingdom. We are a people in spirit and thought, closely bound in ties of fraternity. Even if we do not possess the institutional structures that other nations have, does it make us any less of a people? Have we not always seen ourselves as a people, fully aware that it is the Torah that serves as the cord binding us together? Thus, we continue to be a people, a people of the spirit, to this very day.53 According to Smolenskin, the Berlin Enlightenment and Jewish studies scholars in Germany had relinquished their Jewish national identity. These intellectuals had replaced the national idea of the Jews as a chosen people with the assumption that Judaism represents a universalist idea. They denied the national aspect present in Judaism and abandoned the Hebrew language. In his critique of the research of these German Jewish scholars, Smolenskin noted: “This absurdity of researching in Jewish studies and interpreting the holy scriptures, but doing so in German, has spawned lies, deceit, and endless nonsense.”54 Even Heinrich Graetz’s book, Geschichte der Juden (History of the Jews) which was enthusiastically received by nationalist Jews, was flawed and unacceptable to Smolenskin. This was because it was written in German to serve only Western Jews, and not in Hebrew for the entire Jewish people. As he wrote: “These books will multiply daily, like frogs, all because they are written in a language that most Hebrew speakers will not understand, and those who read these books will mostly be ignorant in Hebrew [. . .] and to this they will call Jewish Studies!”55 Smolenskin thus cast doubt on the professional level of the books written in German by Jewish scholars. According to his approach, only Hebrew could be the proper language for studying Jewish history. He was also angered by the fact 53 Smolenskin, Ma’amarim, 2:145-146 (author’s emphasis—Y. C.) 54 Ibid., 234-236. This was Smolenskin’s general view on scholars of Jewish studies in Germany, with a few exceptions like Leopold Zunz (1794-1886), whom he highly esteemed. Most of them, in his eyes, seemed assimilated and had neglected their own people. 55 Ibid., 236n1.

Shaping a National Consciousness of the Past

that Graetz neglected the history of Russia and Eastern European Jewry, and criticized him sharply for it. In Smolenskin’s view, the true sages of the Enlightenment were not the German-Jewish scholars, but the moderate maskilim from outside Germany, specifically from places like Galicia, Prague, and Italy.56 Notable figures such as Krochmal, Luzzatto, and Rapoport engaged deeply in Jewish studies, wrote their works in Hebrew, and exhibited a strong love for their community. Smolenskin aimed to publish such research in Ha-Shahar, and he successfully managed to feature numerous articles in the field of Jewish studies. For him, the study of Jewish history served as the central vehicle to shape national consciousness of the Jewish people. He believed that a national approach to Jewish history could unveil the Jewish national spirit: Those familiar with the history of Israel knows that its strength resides solely in its unity. Even its opponents have acknowledged this. As long as the people’s heart remains undivided, and all its members consider themselves brothers, sharing in each other’s struggles, no force can succeed in defeating them. Israel may stumble, but it will rise again. This unity can only be sustained through a common spirit, and this great spirit that has guided them until now is the spirit of Israel, the spirit of the Torah. This spiritual essence has guided every aspect of Israel’s life. Without this unifying spirit, the bonds of unity would break. It is not the laws of the Torah that have forged strong fraternity bonds among the people; those laws have changed across different eras and locales. Rather, it is the Torah itself, in its grandeur as a unique gemstone, that has united all hearts and imbued them with a single spirit and shared purpose. When the Torah and its scholars are weakened, love and fraternity will diminish, along with Israel’s moral standing and collective strength.57 As we saw above, Smolenskin’s goal was to establish Jewish studies from a nationalist perspective to uncover the “spirit of the nation” in history, thereby strengthening the spirit of the people in the present. Ahad Ha’am further sharpened this message by creating the Zionist version of Jewish studies in his programmatic plan for the Otsar Ha-Yahadut (Treasury of Judaism), and

56 Ibid., 257-259. 57 Ibid., 284 (original emphasis).

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as the editor of the journal Ha-Shiloah. The expression “spirit of the nation” or “national spirit,” which characterizes Smolenskin’s stance and Ahad Ha’am’s later approach, is borrowed from the conceptual world of Krochmal’s Moreh Nevuchei Ha-Zman (The Guide for the Perplexed of the Time), indicating an affinity with German idealistic concepts.58

On the Verge of Hibbat Zion: Navigating Between Cultural and Political Zionism In the 1870s, Smolenskin laid out his vision for a cultural-nationalist approach in various articles, yet he steered clear of discussing a return to the Land of Israel. Even in his 1881 article titled “She’elat ha-yehudim—she’elat ha-hayim” (The Jewish question—the question of life), published just before the wave of pogroms against Jews in Russia, Smolenskin refrained from exploring the idea of a political realization in Palestine. His national outlook was rooted in two foundational elements: the Hebrew language and belief in redemption. This spiritual-national perspective of Smolenskin drew pointed criticism from Eliezer Ben Yehuda, who considered himself a disciple of the editor of Ha-Shahar. Ben Yehuda, adopting a more political stance, published an article called “She’elah nikhbadah” (A respectable question) in Ha-Shahar in 1879. In it, he lauded Smolenskin as a brave warrior against the then-popular universalist perspectives among Jewish scholars. While acknowledging Smolenskin’s significant contributions to Jewish nationalism, Ben Yehuda critiqued his spiritual approach for its absence of a practical, political dimension. In this essay, Ben Yehudah contended that Hebrew literature alone could not serve as an adequate substitute for a political form of nationalism anchored in territorial grounds in the Land of Israel. He stated, “All our endeavors will be in vain if we do not establish a center for nationalism, a focal point that will draw everyone from this community. Our efforts to revive the Hebrew language will prove futile if the entire people continues to live scattered among peoples who speak different languages.”59 Ben Yehuda expressed significant admiration for Smolenskin, recognizing him as a trailblazer who ardently championed the national idea in opposition to the universalist philosophy prevalent among Jewish scholars and within the

58 On this, see Chowers, Political Philosophy, 171-173; F. M. Bernard, “The Hebrews and Herder’s Political Creed,” Modern Language Review 54, no. 4 (1959): 533-546, especially 540. 59 Eliezer Ben Yehuda, “She’elah nikhbadah,” Ha-Shahar 9 (1879): 359-366, cited from 364.

Shaping a National Consciousness of the Past

German Reform movement. However, from his statements, it is clear that he distances himself to some degree from Smolenskin’s form of cultural nationalism. The deep respect that the young Ben Yehuda had for Smolenskin indicates that during the 1870s, Smolenskin’s articles, such as “Am olam,” “Et la-ta’at,” and others, had a notable influence on many young Hebrew readers in Eastern Europe. In 1881, Ben Yehuda published an open letter to Smolenskin in Ha-Shahar, in which he fervently criticized Smolenskin’s spiritual-cultural approach. This letter came as a response to Smolenskin’s essay “She’lat ha-yehudim—She’elat ha-hayim” (Part One), which continued to follow the author’s cultural-national line. Ben Yehuda charged Smolenskin with undermining his own work, stating, “In this essay of yours, you have demolished, sir, all that you have labored to build for a decade.”60 By basing Jewish nationalism solely on spiritual foundations and not aspiring to establish a state, Ben Yehuda felt that Smolenskin was weakening his efforts to lay the groundwork for a national movement. Ben Yehuda called on him to reinforce his nationalistic approach and to support not only spiritual nationalism but also political nationalism and a return to the Land of Israel. In his letter, he also urged Smolenskin to call for the practical settlement of the Land of Israel and the revival of the Hebrew language, as a spoken language as well as a written one. This, according to Ben Yehuda, would resolve the “Jewish Question” and make Jews “a people like all other peoples.” But we can only revive the Hebrew language if the number of Hebrew-speaking residents in the land exceeds that of the nonJews. Let us then increase the number of Jews in our desolate land; let us bring back the remnants of our people to their ancestral soil; let us first breathe life into the nation and its language will revive. [. . .] If we merely speak empty words all day long, proclaiming loudly that we are a people—even while living on foreign soil—we and our words will be mocked. However, if we speak to the heart; if we tell Jews, Behold, the land of our ancestors is before us. Let us settle it and become the masters of this land, as a people like all other peoples’; if we say this, then our words will find attentive ears.61

60 Eliezer Ben Yehuda, “Mikhtav le-Ben Yehuda,” Ha-Shahar 10 (1881): 241. 61 Ibid., 244.

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Smolenskin’s response to Ben Yehuda exposed the differences in their nationalistic stances, contrasting the political approach with the spiritual one. Although the debate took place in 1881, on the cusp of the establishment of Hibbat Zion, it sheds light on the distinctions between these foundational viewpoints, which continued to exist even during the days of the Zionist movement. Ben Yehuda cast significant doubt on the ability of Jewish scholarship to serve as a starting point for national revival. Instead, he argued that only a modern national existence—“a people like all other peoples”—would allow for a genuine national renaissance. In contrast, Smolenskin took a developmental approach, viewing the Jews as a nation even in the diaspora. He thus aimed to strengthen the spiritual dimension of the Jewish people before any political revival. In my opinion, this fundamental disagreement between Ben Yehuda and his teacher Smolenskin, despite its early emergence even before Hovevei Zion and political Zionism, reflects a powerful and essential distinction within the Zionist movement between cultural Zionism and political Zionism. The positions encapsulated in the debate between Ben Yehuda and Smolenskin would later resurface among the spiritual and political Zionist thinkers, defining their differences. One example of this is the contrast between Herzl’s vision and the approach of Ahad Ha’am—whose utopian perspectives would lay down different paradigms for the realization of the Zionist dream. First, Smolenskin argued, the Land of Israel is not the reason for the eternal national existence of the Jewish people. The source of the Jewish people’s existence is spiritual—the Torah, which he called the “soul of the nation”: The wellspring from which we’ve drawn living waters is not our land, but our Torah. It has walked with us for thousands of years. Therefore, if we wish to breathe new life into our nation that seems near death, we should restore the life that has been taken from it, which is the Torah that has been pushed aside by the enlightenment.62 Here we should note that Smolenskin’s use of the term “Torah” is cultural and spiritual, not merely religious. This perspective is strikingly similar to that of Ahad Ha’am and his successor Bialik. In other words, Smolenskin, like the thinkers of cultural Zionism who followed him, saw the concept of Torah as a spiritual foundation that unites the entire nation. The Torah expresses the 62 Ibid., 248.

Shaping a National Consciousness of the Past

spirit of the people as a whole, as a culture, and therefore this concept is broader than its religious component alone. While the religious foundation is indeed important, it is just one part of the overall cultural sum of the Jewish people in their historical development. Furthermore, the debate clarified that Smolenskin was not opposed to settling the Land of Israel, but rather argued that spiritual work should precede practical action. According to his approach, the first step should be to bridge the gap between the “enlightened” and the “pious,” as each of these opposed the Jewish national idea in their own way. The goal was to restore the belief that Jews are a people, not just a religious group. According to Smolenskin, only when Jewish national solidarity grows stronger and the Hebrew language becomes common can the Jews also reclaim the Land in a political sense. His response reveals just how close, and essentially almost identical, his national stance is to the spiritual position later articulated by Ahad Ha’am in the late 1880s. In words that preceded Ahad Ha’am’s “Lo zeh ha-derekh” (This is not the way), Smolenskin responded to Ben-Yehuda and the other pioneers who went to establish settlements in Palestine: First lay the cornerstone, build the house, and then you can also erect the tower that both you and I desire. Because my intent is not to destroy what we’ve built, but to find a smooth path so we can walk safely. And then, perhaps, our hope will gradually emerge. We must be extremely careful not to stir the spirits of those who would be gripped by contempt when they hear the name “nation” and the hope for redemption. When this idea starts to gain traction in the hearts of many among us, and when the number of our brothers living in Zion and thriving on their own soil grows—not just the poor and destitute relying on handouts—then it will be time to rebuild the ruins of Zion.63 Essentially, Smolenskin argued that they must first prepare the people to “rebuild the ruins of Zion,” a sentiment later echoed by Ahad Ha’am. He believed that a Jewish state in the land of Israel could not be established by relying solely on political maneuvering, as the people were neither ready nor willing for a state. This, he argued, necessitated a long-term process of cultivating a collective mindset among the Jews in the diaspora. He called for a return to Hebrew language and culture before taking the steps to settle the land. 63 Ibid., 249.

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This debate between Ben-Yehuda and Smolenskin was joined by Moshe Leib Lilienblum, a prominent writer. In an article published that same year, titled “Al Yisrael ve-al artso” (On Israel and its land), Lilienblum was more critical of Ben Yehuda than of Smolenskin. However, he also questioned Smolenskin’s spiritual viewpoint. Smolenskin had termed the Jewish people a “people of the spirit,” arguing that their true kingdom was not a physical land but the Torah—a “kingdom of the spirit.” Lilienblum considered these terms to be empty slogans: Yes, the children of Israel are a nation and will remain so as long as there are nations and religions in the world—even if for whatever reason, our hope to reclaim our ancestral land does not come to fruition. I do not subscribe to the notion that we are a people of the spirit, and that our realm is a kingdom of the spirit. These are idealistic phrases, and I am not an idealist. But I am sure that our people will not assimilate among their neighbors as long as other nations and religions exist.64 In response to Lilienblum’s comment, Smolenskin asserted: When I state that the people of Israel are a people of the spirit, and their kingdom is a spiritual kingdom, there is not an ounce of idealism in it, contrary to the writer’s claim. Had I said this in German as Die Macht des Geistes, everyone would have understood what I meant. But in Hebrew, we have somehow failed to give weight to the spirit.65 Smolenskin argued that the notion of a shared spiritual foundation among the Jewish people was not just an idealistic, theoretical expression; hence, “people of the spirit” is not a figment of imagination, as Lilienblum suggested. Smolenskin also pointed out, quite rightly, that Lilienblum himself had used similar terms to highlight the unique national character of the Jewish people.66

64 Ha-Shahar 10 (1881): 395-403 (author’s emphasis—Y. C.). 65 Ibid., 407. 66 Klausner, Ha-historiyah shel ha-sifrut ha-ivrit ha-hadashah, 4:260-261. In his book, Klausner outlined several stages in Lilienblum’s intellectual development, from his struggle against the rabbis for religious reforms in the late 1860s and early 1870s, through his gravitation toward nihilistic and socialist positions during the 1870s, to becoming a Zionist thinker and leader during the days of Hibbat Zion.

Shaping a National Consciousness of the Past

Although Lilienblum, a writer and Zionist leader during the Hibbat Zion era, was a political Zionist, he also made significant contributions to the cultural aspects of Zionism. This was because throughout his intellectually complex journey, he maintained a deep awareness of Jewish culture. In the early stages of his career as a Hebrew publicist and writer in the 1860s and early 1870s, he focused his efforts on criticizing the rabbis and advocating for religious reforms. By the mid-1870s, influenced by nihilistic trends and particularly through his relationship with Avraham Krochmal, son of Ranak, Lilienblum evolved into a committed Zionist and a leading figure in Hibbat Zion. His perspective on Jewish nationalism underwent a radical transformation, even by his own admission. For instance, before his death, when he was compiling his writings, he added a note to his earlier article “Al Yisrael ve-al artso.” Although the article had initially supported the possibility of Jewish migration to America, he added, “I soon realized my mistake; the settlements must come before the state. In my Russian article published two months later in Razsvet, I concluded that the only appropriate place for us is the Land of Israel, even without our state governance.”67 In the 1880s, Lilienblum became the driving force behind the Hibbat Zion movement and served as the movement’s secretary under the leadership of Yehuda Leib Pinsker. From that point on, he adopted a moderate and conciliatory approach towards the Orthodox rabbis. During the 1880s, he sought every possible avenue to find common ground between conservatives and Enlightenment intellectuals, to strengthen the nationalist movement. His national stance was not spiritual; he prioritized practical political action over spiritual and cultural aspects of Zionism. This was the basis for his tempered and substantive dispute with Smolenskin and later also with Ahad Ha’am.68 However, as Smolenskin pointed out, Lilienblum himself used spiritual terms when referring to the Jewish people. Terms like “spirit of the nation” and

67 Moshe Leib Lilienblum, Kol kitvei Moshe Leib Lilienblum (Krakow: Y. Zeitlin, 1910-1913), 4:10. 68 His opposition to the spiritual emphasis was evident in his debate with Smolenskin, as well as later in his response to Ahad Ha’am’s “Lo zeh ha-derekh” in 1889. See Moshe Leib Lilienblum, “Derech bat ami,” in Kol kitvei Moshe Leib Lilienblum 4:157-164 (original source: Ha-Melitz, 1889). See also Shlomo Breiman, Ha-pulmos bein Lilienblum ve Ahad Ha’am ve ha-reka shelo ( Jerusalem: R. Mass, 1951). Klausner testified that these debates were conducted in a substantive manner without causing a rift between the individuals. Their collaboration is also evident from Lilienblum’s publications in Ha-Shiloah, as well as in other literary collections edited by Ahad Ha’am.

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“light of the Torah” appeared in his thinking during the 1880s and 1890s.69 This is especially evident in his 1890 essay “Mah ha-leumiyut doreshet” (What does nationalism require?) published in the collection Kaveret, edited by Ahad Ha’am: Recently, a surge of nationalism has been stirring in the distant corners of our community, along with a concerted effort to bolster our national spirit. Clearly, maintaining national spirit requires unwavering commitment to it. If we aim to reinvigorate our national spirit, we should first grasp its underlying essence and act in line with that understanding. [. . .] The core spirit of our nation is safeguarded in our sacred texts, as well as in the Mishnah and the Aggadah. This is particularly true in the teachings of our forefathers that predate the rise of Hellenism and extend into the Roman and Herodian eras [. . .]. Drawing from these foundational texts, we must define our path if we are to renew our national spirit from within. This is especially vital for our pioneers who have taken it upon themselves to cultivate the Holy Land [. . .]. They have a duty to rebuild what has been lost and to construct a new anything bearing the name of Israel. Additionally, they must nurture a new generation rooted in this national spirit. For our part, we must unearth the illuminating wisdom within the Torah and our national essence, to light the way for both them and us.70 These observations, aimed at bridging the gap between religious leaders and maskilim within the Zionist movement, shed light on the extensive intellectual journey Moses Lilienblum undertook. He evolved from advocating religious reforms in the late 1860s to eventually assuming a leadership role in the Hibbat Zion movement. We now return to the development of Peretz Smolenskin’s national outlook in the 1880s. The cultural stance he formulated in Ha-Shahar served as an alternative to Judaic studies in Germany. In Smolenskin’s view, Jewish history was not just a subject of academic inquiry but a tool designed to meet the contemporary 69 For example, see Lilienblum’s review of Ze’ev Yavetz’s history book, Sefer Toldot Yisrael, vol. 1, published in Ha-Shiloah 1 (1896): 167-177, 364-371. Alongside his critique of Yavetz’s Orthodox historiography, he warmly praises the spirit of the book, demonstrating that, in his view, Yavetz represents the “light of the Torah.” 70 Lilienblum, “Mah ha-leumiyut doreshet,” Kaveret (1890): 7-10.

Shaping a National Consciousness of the Past

needs of the Jewish people and to ground Jewish nationalism in cultural frameworks. This view resonates with the definition of a nation provided by Ernest Renan in 1882: A nation is a soul and a spiritual principle. Two things which, properly speaking, are really one and the same constitute this soul, this spiritual principle. One is the past, the other is the present. One is the possession in common of rich legacy of memories; the other is present consent, the desire to live together, to continue to invest in the heritage that we have jointly received.71 Therefore, Smolenskin’s nationalism was fundamentally cultural in nature, reflecting the identity of a Jewish community with a rich historical past and an envisioned future. From 1881 until his death in 1885, Peretz Smolenskin also strengthened the territorial dimension of his nationalistic approach, advocating for the settlement in Palestine. This shift in his stance was triggered by the pogroms against Jews in Russia in 1881. In the second part of “She’lat ha-yehudim—she’elat ha-hayim,” published after the pogroms, once again he sharply criticized the Berlin Enlightenment. This time, he attributed to it all the sins of the modern era, accusing enlightened Jews of abandoning their people and faith. However, even when discussing the settlement of the Land of Israel, Smolenskin again pointed out that the foundation for successful settlement was Jewish culture and the Hebrew language. According to Smolenskin, the revival of Hebrew culture should not be for the sake of the past but rather to serve the needs of the present and future. However, when I constantly appeal on behalf of the Hebrew language, I ask that you not misinterpret my words. I do not agree with those who build memorials to the books of the wise sages of past days. That is not my intent! Under these memorials, the very names that are to be remembered will be buried. The memorials they erect for our language will become its tombstone. This has been the approach of many Enlightenment thinkers, who, after first dismissing Hebrew, Torah, and religious studies, leaving no trace of our tradition in the schools, then began to collect money

71 Ernest Renan, “What Is a Nation?” in Ernest Renan, What Is a Nation? And Other Political Writings (New York: Columbia University Press, 2018 [1882]), 216.

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to build memorials for the dead. These are the same dead who suffered from their actions, whose lives they critically dissected and preserved as specimens in a box for a memorial.72 From these intense remarks, we learn that Smolenskin viewed the work of Jewish studies in Germany as a mere monument-building project, rather than research aimed to support Jewish life in the present. He even likened this scholarly enterprise to an obsessive focus on the realm of the dead or post-mortem dissection. His use of death and burial metaphors would later be adopted by many Zionist thinkers in their critique of German Jewish studies. Smolenskin emphasized that Jewish studies, in its nationalistic interpretation, should serve as a lever for national revival, rather than a memorial to scholarly achievements. He stated, “Therefore, my words today about the Hebrew language and its revival are not aimed at erecting tombstones but quite the opposite.”73 In contrast to this view, Smolenskin called for the cultural revival of the Jewish people through the study of Jewish history from a national perspective. He implored, “Those of you with hearts and souls, capable of feeling the sensations of life and honor, wake up! Extend your hands to one another and rise to life, so that we do not drift like the dead who have not even been granted a burial.”74 These observations remind us of Gershom Scholem’s provocative 1944 essay “Reflections on Modern Jewish Studies,” in which he critiqued German Jewish studies. Scholem argued that “their historical perception did not allow these scholars to make positive use of their methods, the romantic science and its methods appear in their work as a grand burial ceremony.”75 As we have seen, this trend started with Smolenskin, who saw German Jewish studies as an endeavor primarily concerned with memorializing the past, rather than as a scholarly field contributing to contemporary Jewish life. Even worse, he likened it to a funeral rite for Jewish culture. This perspective gained traction among many Zionist intellectuals. For instance, Galician Zionist Yehoshua (Ozias) Thon (1870-1936) shared this critique. In a 1903 article for the Zionist journal Juedicher Almanach, titled “The Problem of Jewish Studies,” Thon portrayed the German field of Jewish studies as a burial ceremony, referring to its practitioners as gravediggers. He

72 Smolenskin, Ma’amarim 3:90-91 (author’s emphasis—Y. C.). 73 Ibid., 92 (author’s emphasis—Y. C.). 74 Ibid., 95-93 (author’s emphasis—Y. C.). 75 Gershom Scholem, “Mi-tokh hirhurim al hokhmat Yisrael,” in Scholem, Devarim be-go (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1990), 1:385-403, citation from 389 (author’s emphasis—Y. C.); Brenner, Prophets of the Past, 163-171.

Shaping a National Consciousness of the Past

noted that even in the comprehensive historical work of Heinrich Graetz—a man known for his Jewish nationalist sentiment—the atmosphere of each of the book’s eleven volumes felt suffused with the aura of a burial ceremony, as if haunted by the specter of death and decay.76 Smolenskin’s cultural and spiritual approach, developed during the 1870s, was a prominent part of the Jewish cultural nationalism of his time. The concluding words of his essay “She’elat ha-yehudim” highlight how closely his ideas aligned with spiritual Zionism: “Let no one say the task is too great, nor should anyone fear the long journey ahead. For if we begin, then we shall accomplish, and if we accomplish, then we can. For it is not by sword or spear, but by spirit that we can bring about true and eternal salvation for this people that has suffered for thousands of years.”77 These words strikingly resemble the famous quote from Ahad Ha’am’s 1889 essay “Lo zeh ha-derekh,” which concludes, “Not by might and not by power, but by spirit.” This illustrates Smolenskin’s central role in the intellectual tradition of spiritual nationalism. His cultural-nationalist approach significantly influenced Ahad Ha’am’s leadership in cultural Zionism. Smolenskin’s Ha-Shahar served as a significant precursor to Ha-Shiloah, edited by Ahad Ha’am in the late 1890s. Ahad Ha’am tried to create a clear distinction between the two publications, viewing Ha-Shahar as a populist newspaper, devoid of European style and filled with nonsense. However, the differentiation between them is not as stark as Ahad Ha’am tried to claim. Viewed through the prism of the Hebrew literary scene during the days of the Hibbat Zion movement, the connection between Ha-Shahar and Ha-Shiloah is clearly evident. Both aimed, each in its own way, style, and historical context, to offer an alternative to Jewish studies in Germany and to establish a national version of Jewish studies in the Hebrew language.78

Conclusion In the late nineteenth century, at the beginning of the rise of Jewish nationalism, foundational ideas and initial assumptions for a national perspective on Jewish history began to take shape. Peretz Smolenskin and his journal Ha-Shahar

76 Osias Thon, “Das Problem der jüdischen Wissenschaft,” Juedicher Almanach (Berlin, 1903), 183-189, especially 185; Brenner, Prophets of the Past, 165. 77 Smolenskin, Ma’amarim 3:93 (author’s emphasis—Y. C.) 78 Ali Mohamed Abd El-Rahman Attia has written extensively on the similarities and differences between these two publications, in his The Hebrew Periodical Ha-Shiloah (1896-1919): Its Role in the Development of Modern Hebrew Literature ( Jerusalem: Magnes, 1991).

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played a crucial role in facilitating the growth and solidification of these historiographical principles. While Smolenskin was a critic of the Enlightenment as it evolved in Germany, his rebellion against it was nuanced rather than absolute. He adopted the scientific methods that were integral to the Berlin Enlightenment but rejected the prevailing goals and agenda of Jewish studies scholars in Germany of his time. To Smolenskin, these scholars seemed to have weakened the bond of Jewish kinship by abandoning the use of Hebrew in their research, and they also turned their backs on the aspiration for Jewish national redemption. This critique was mainly aimed at Abraham Geiger and the Reform Movement. Smolenskin, like Ahad Ha’am and Haim Nahman Bialik after him, sought a middle ground between the Orthodox religious conception of the past and the “neutral” scientific approach of Jewish studies. His aim was to promote the study of Jewish history and scientifically uncover the “spirit of the nation,” so that it could serve the Jewish people in the present. In his view, studying the past was not intended to immortalize Jewish culture, but rather to assist in grappling with current questions and planning the future of Jewish nationalism. This approach, which began to take shape in the late 1860s, was still far from the supportive framework that the Hibbat Zion movement provided for spiritual and cultural leadership like that of Ahad Ha’am. Nevertheless, by the 1870s many of the foundational assumptions for studying Jewish history from a national Jewish perspective had already been established. The key distinction between the work of Smolenskin and that of later cultural leaders like Ahad Ha’am and Bialik lies in the historical context of Smolenskin’s activities before the establishment of Hibbat Zion. Although the Zionist movement had not yet formally emerged, Jewish nationalist ideas and national metahistory were already taking root, particularly in the intellectual and cultural landscape of Eastern European Jews. The rise of modern antisemitism in the West, along with persecution of Jews in the East in the early 1880s, catalyzed the rise of Jewish nationalism as a political force. Even before this, Jewish nationalist thought was already crystallizing, and evidence of this can be found in Hebrew periodicals, where the extensive contributions of Ha-Shahar were especially prominent.

Chapter 2

Zionism as Evolution—Ahad Ha’am and Jewish Studies

The sages will enlarge the past at the expense of the future, and prophets will follow them who will strengthen the future on the basis of the past. From the two of them together, the “national self ” will expand and become stronger. Ahad Ha’am, “Avar ve-atid” (Past and future), Kol kitvei Ahad Ha’am, 82.

Introduction Asher Ginsberg, known as Ahad Ha’am (1856–1927), was the most influential thinker in the cultural stream of the Zionist movement, a cultural and political leader who acquired the status of a leading intellectual. His disciples and associates saw him as a national teacher or prophet destined to guide the Jewish people during the transition from the traditional world to modern nationalism. Contemporary historiography has often discussed Ahad Ha’am as someone who created a new approach to Jewish nationalism, and his essays were considered essential reading among both enlightened Hebrew enthusiasts and

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religious conservatives alike.1 Among the Jewish intelligentsia in Odessa, Ahad Ha’am was a leading figure, almost like a secular rabbi, whom Zionist devotees eagerly approached, hoping to hear his views on the appropriate direction of the national movement. In his cultural and political activities, Ahad Ha’am had a clear, almost philosophical, nationalist approach for understanding Jewish history, analyzing the present reality, and shaping the future. His coherent and organized thought process made him an uncompromising critical leader who held steadfastly to his beliefs. As a Zionist thinker, he was a sharp critic of both Hibbat Zion and Herzl’s political leadership. He was critical of the young Hebrew writers, confronting them on the nature of Hebrew culture and their relationship to Jewish history. Following the First Zionist Congress, Ahad Ha’am launched a pointed critique against political Zionism. He declared, “Israel’s salvation will come through ‘prophets,’ not through ‘diplomats.’ ”2 By prophets, he referred to the prophets of Israel, who always have in view the truth, rather than short-term political calculations. Ahad Ha’am saw them as leadership models to emulate. According to this model, Ahad Ha’am sought to establish his leadership in the belief that he had the historical insight necessary for Jewish national renaissance. His leadership was fundamentally different from Herzl’s. He lacked Herzl’s level of charisma and he was not capable of leading, at least not on the political level. As a true leader, Ahad Ha’am headed the Bnei Moshe Association (1889-1896), which operated somewhat like a secret order similar to the Freemasons. The society aimed to influence literature, education, and Zionist leadership during the era of Hibbat Zion. In the realm of literature, the society successfully published literary collections and journals, including Kavret, Pardes, Luah Ahiassaf, and Ha-Shiloah. It also initiated the founding of the Tushiya and Ahiassaf publishing houses, though the association’s success was limited.3 Ahad 1 Steven Zipperstein argued that the literary enterprises led by Ahad Ha’am—such as Kaveret, Pardes, Luah Ahiassaf, and Ha-Shiloah—were ideologically and politically oriented from their inception. See his “Between Tribalism and Utopia: Ahad Ha’am and the Making of Jewish Cultural Politics,” Modern Judaism 13, no. 3 (1993), 231-247; Elusive Prophet: Ahad Ha’am and the Origins of Zionism (London: Peter Halban, 1993),105-106. In 1914, Ha-Shiloah devoted a significant part of a volume to discussing Ahad Ha’am’s approach and his articles on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the publication of “Lo zeh ha-derekh.” The volume mainly included appraisal articles but also critiques on his national and literary methodology. See Ha-Shiloah 30 (1914): 193-303. 2 Ahad Ha’am, Kol kitvei Ahad Ha’am (Tel Aviv, Jerusalem: Dvir, 1947), 276. See also Conforti, “East and West in Jewish Nationalism: Conflicting Types in the Zionist Vision?” Nations and Nationalism 16, no. 2 (2010): 201-219. 3 Yosef Salmon, “Ahad Ha’am and Bnei Moshe: An ‘Unsuccessful Experiment’?” in Do Not Provoke Providence, 213-226; Yossi Goldstein, Ahad Ha’am: Biyografiyah ( Jerusalem: Keter, 1992), 86-96.

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Ha’am himself summarized Bnei Moshe’s activities as “an unsuccessful attempt” and faced severe criticism from some of its members, who later became his staunch opponents, such as writer and publisher Ben Avigdor (Avraham Leib Shalkowitz, 1866-1921).4 Despite his organizational failures, Ahad Ha’am had a significant impact on the intellectual community and Zionist leadership. His positions wielded much influence, and he gained status as a national figure, despite his modest literary pen name.5 Like Smolenskin, Ahad Ha’am was also influenced by the contemporary liberal nationalist philosophy. He absorbed intellectual influences both from the traditional and enlightened Jewish world, as well as from scientific developments in historical and social thought of his time. As an eclectic intellectual originating from Eastern Europe and an ethnically and religiously Jewish milieu, he managed to overcome barriers separating East from West, tradition from modernity, and traditional Judaism from contemporary philosophy. Ahad Ha’am adopted European ways, yet remained deeply rooted in the traditional Jewish world of thought, enabling him to develop an independent approach as a national thinker.

4 Shmuel Tchernowitz, Bnei Moshe u-tkufatam (Warsaw: Ha-Zefira Publishing, 1914); Ben Avigdor, “Ahad Ha’am u-‘Bnei Moshe,’” Netivot 1 (1913): 238-290. This critical article by Ben Avigdor exemplified the stance adopted by Netivot, the journal he edited, in contrast to Ahad Ha’am’s policy. The opening issue included a motto stating that the journal aimed “to establish a free forum for creativity and thought as our aspiration. We will not walk in a single path nor proceed in one track.” This was in stark contrast to Ahad Ha’am’s approach and the editorial policy of Ha-Shiloah. The first issue began with an article by Berdichevsky against “the administrators and gatekeepers of our literature,” with Ahad Ha’am being the foremost among them. See Netivot 1 (1913): 5-9; Yossi Goldstein, “‘Bnei Moshe’: Sipuro shel misdar hashai,” Zion 57 (1992): 175-205. 5 Ahad Ha’am argued that his literary pseudonym was entirely accidental: “With this signature, I would like to say that I am not a writer and do not intend to join the ranks of writers in the future, and that I am expressing my opinion on this matter by chance, as one of the people [ahad ha’am] whose is occupied with concerns for the people.” Ahad Ha’am, Pirkei zikhronot ve-igrot (Tel Aviv: Beit Ahad Ha’am, 1931), 11. There he referred the reader to his article “Lo zeh ha-derekh,” published in Ha-melitz in 1889. This modest explanation does not quite fit his consistent use of the pen name throughout his life. I would like to suggest a different explanation for his choice of this pen name, related to a central motif in his thought. In the article “Lo zeh ha-derekh,” one of the central arguments, encapsulating both his historical understanding and his utopian vision, is: “For the people are one [ehad hu ha’am] throughout its generations.” In other words, the Jewish people throughout its generations is a historical personality that develops organically, in an evolutionary way. Ahad Ha’am connected his pen name to his evolutionary approach, aiming to guide the Jewish people, then at a historical crossroads, toward a national future. In his opinion, the people needed prophetic leadership similar to that of Moses, which he sought to offer. See Ahad Ha’am, Kol kitvei, 342-347.

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In this respect, he had much in common with Peretz Smolenskin, who also grew up in Eastern Europe but conducted his literary activity in Vienna. Unlike Smolenskin, however, Ahad Ha’am operated during the days of the Zionist movement and was at the center of a group of writers and scholars who resided in Odessa. This group included Haim Nahman Bialik, Yehoshua Hone Ravnitzki, Moshe Leib Lilienblum, Simon Dubnow, Simcha Ben-Zion, and others, allowing him to exert considerable influence on the Zionist and nationalist intelligentsia. Because of his status as an original thinker and a role model for many during his time, his essays received in-depth analysis from many scholars both in his own time and afterward. His brilliant polemical essays, written in exquisite, precise Hebrew, captivated a wide range of Enlighted Jews—secular and religious, Zionist and nationalist-diasporic alike.6 This chapter does not aim to provide a biography of Ahad Ha’am or a comprehensive review of his thought. My focus is narrower: to describe his contribution to the formation of Zionist historical consciousness. Like other prominent figures in the cultural Zionist stream, Ahad Ha’am was actively involved in shaping the field of Jewish studies and the national historical consciousness. Unlike scholars of Jewish studies in Germany like Leopold Zunz, Abraham Geiger, Moritz Steinschneider, and Heinrich Graetz, who were explicitly identified as scholars of Jewish studies, Ahad Ha’am and his circle were first and foremost considered national Hebrew writers. However, his actual activity and scholarly environment contributed significantly to the formation of a scientific national historical consciousness and to the creation of Zionist historiography. My work is based on the assumption that historiography is driven by a basic urge to understand the past through a comprehensive abstract model, or what one could call “metahistory.” The evolutionary model of Jewish history, shaped by Ahad Ha’am and other cultural Zionist thinkers, was not designed for pure research purposes but to shape the national future. For Zionist thought, Jewish history was a vital tool for understanding contemporary issues and building a Jewish future. Ahad Ha’am made a unique contribution to shaping the organic evolutionary model adopted by the first generation of Zionist historians in general terms.

6 Ben Avigdor described the enchantment Ahad Ha’am wielded over his audience, albeit with sarcastic bitterness: “The well-known distance that Ahad Ha’am was able to maintain between himself and the audience, both writers and readers, aided by various factors and circumstances; the majestic gestures that Ahad Ha’am employed when speaking to us, as if from the heights of the mountain, like the Lawgiver emerging from the mist with the Tablets of the Covenant in hand.” Ben Avigdor, “Ahad Ha’am,” 239.

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Leading historians like Yitzhak Baer and Ben-Zion Dinur, and many of the scholars from the early days of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, strongly identified with this organic evolutionary approach and with the effort to understand Jewish history “from within.” Yitzhak Baer (1888–1980) clarified that the role of modern Jewish historiography is not to rely on either religious dogmatic models or the blending liberal models, but to try to understand Jewish history from within itself: “We do not hold a yardstick taken from the outside, neither from heaven, nor from Orthodox or liberal theology, nor from foreign nations, nor from our modern feelings, but from the consciousness of our own people’s varied generations.”7 Baer also adopted an organic approach to Jewish history. In writing about Jewish history in Christian Spain, he declared that his goal was to uncover one chapter in the organic development of the Jewish people: The history of the Jewish people, from its beginnings until today, is bound by an organic link, and each separate episode can teach us about the nature and development of that unique historical force that everyone acknowledges its original greatness and wonders about the explanation of its future.8 In relation to Jewish history, Baer’s terminology is very close to the conceptual world of Ahad Ha’am. The purpose of the evolutionary model of Jewish history shaped by Ahad Ha’am and thinkers of the cultural Zionist stream was to explore the past not only for the sake of science, in a neutral manner, but also for the sake of the Jewish present and future. Similarly, early Zionist thought in general saw the Jewish past as a reliable source for providing answers to contemporary Jewish issues and for wisely planning the future life of the nation.

Philosophy of Jewish History Richard Gottheil (1862-1936) was a renowned American Jewish scholar, was a professor at Columbia University in New York and an active participant in 7 Yitzhak Baer, Mehkarim u-masot be-toldot am yisrael, vol. 1 ( Jerusalem: Ha-Hevra Ha-Historit Ha-Yisraelit, 1985), 20. 8 Yitzhak Baer, Toldot ha-yehudim bi-sfarad ha-notzrit (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1965), 2. See also the terms that Baer and Dinur used in relation to the issue of the historical continuity of the Jewish people: Conforti, Zman avar, 167-172.

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the Zionist movement, even leading American Zionism in the early twentieth century.9 Gottheil wrote extensively on Zionism, and in his book Zionism, published in 1914, he dedicated a chapter to Ahad Ha’am’s historical thought titled “Ahad Ha’am and Jewish Historical Philosophy.” At the beginning of the chapter, he discussed the development of Jewish studies in the nineteenth century. Subsequently, he conducted a comprehensive discussion comparing three historical perspectives of leading Jewish thinkers at the end of the nineteenth century: French Jewish Orientalist James Darmesteter (1849-1894), historian Simon Dubnow, and philosopher Ahad Ha’am. In his comprehensive and in-depth historical essay “Essay on the History of the Jews,” Darmesteter outlined the development of Jewish history in three stages: the biblical era, the era of diaspora, and the era of Emancipation. He addressed the challenges of modern Jewish historical writing, arguing that only in the nineteenth-century Emancipation era was it possible for a scientific historical account of Jewish past to emerge. When discussing biblical national Judaism, Darmesteter concluded that there should be no contemporary expectations for religious or national redemption of the Jews. In his view, this was an illusion, and even a dangerous one at that.10 He believed that the integration of Jews into Western culture, which began in the modern era, was likely to continue to an even greater extent. As this was his underlying assumption, he predicted that when “the nation that created the Bible” disappears from the face of the Earth, it will leave behind traces that may perhaps continue to exist in general culture.11

9 Richard Gottheil, son of the Reform Zionist Rabbi Gustav Gottheil, was a professor of Semitic languages at Columbia University and one of the editors of the Jewish Encyclopedia in English. Among other contributions to the encyclopedia, he wrote the article on Zionism, spanning twenty pages. He was one of the leading figures among American Zionists in the early twentieth century and wrote extensively on the Zionist movement. For more on his Zionist activities, see Evyatar Friesel, Ha-tnu’a ha-tsiyonit be-artsot ha-brit ba-shanim 1897-1914 (Tel Aviv: Ha-Kibbutz Ha-Me’uhad, 1970), 77–89; Pierre Ferrand, “The Gottheils: Pioneer American Zionists,” Midstream 42, no. 7 (October 1996): 12-16. 10 Interestingly, despite his assimilatory approach, Darmesteter used the term “nation” with regards to Jews in ancient times: “Does this mean that Judaism should nurse dreams of ambition, and think of realizing one day that ‘invisible church of the future’ invoke by some prayer? This would be an illusion [. . .] and when the nation who made the Bible shall have disappeared—the race and cult—though leaving no visible trace of its passage upon earth, its imprint will remain in the depth of the heart of generations.” Richard J. H. Gottheil, Zionism (Philadelpia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1914), 184-185; James Darmesteter, Selected Essays of James Darmesteter, ed. Morris Jastrow Jr. (Boston: Houghton, 1895). 11 Simon Dubnow, Jewish History: An Essay in the Philosophy of History (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1903).

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Richard Gottheil forcefully rejected Darmesteter’s assimilationist stance and the assumption that there was no future for Jewish life in a national community. Gottheil argued that Darmesteter, a French Jew, was completely disconnected from the reality of millions of Jews in Eastern Europe who still lived as a distinct ethnic and religious group and continued to hope for a national future. Despite being a Western Jew from the Reform movement, Gottheil believed in the existence of a Jewish national unity in the modern era, in stark contrast to Darmesteter. Contrary to Darmesteter’s position, Gottheil asserted that the historiography of Simon Dubnow indeed rested on solid ground. However, in his historiosophical essay “What is Jewish History,” Dubnow emphasized life in the diaspora, not the aspiration to return to the Land of Israel.12 This historical essay justified the diaspora and the continued existence of Jews as a cultural nation in the diaspora. According to Dubnow, there are three stages of development in a nation’s life: the tribal racial stage, the territorial political stage, and the spiritual cultural stage.13 In Dubnow’s view, Jews were the only people who reached the third and highest stage of national development. He argued that the Jewish people had succeeded in maintaining its national existence, even when its homeland was taken away and its kingdom lost. Dubnow described Jewish history as a social history in which the Jewish people created geographical centers, such as the Land of Israel, Babylon, Ashkenaz, Spain, and Poland. Because Dubnow justified the diaspora and did not negate it like the Zionists, he believed that a Jewish national center could continue to exist outside the Land of Israel. In his view, there was no need for the Jewish people to return to the Land of Israel; instead, he proposed seeking and developing cultural autonomy in the diaspora. Dubnow had an exceptional ability to describe the past, yet in Gottheil’s opinion, he failed when it came to drawing conclusions about Jewish existence in the present and the future. Gottheil wondered if all Dubnow could offer to the persecuted Jews was to continue suffering for the lofty goal of maintaining their existence as a spiritual nation. According to Gottheil, Dubnow lacked the intellectual and leadership courage, as a historian, to confront the present-day issues at a time when Eastern European Jews were being persecuted and experiencing pogroms. Therefore, despite Dubnow’s

12 Dubnow, Jewish History, 3-11. 13 Conforti, Zman avar, 85-92; Yitzhak Conforti, “State or Diaspora: Jewish History as a Form of National Belonging,” Studies in Ethnicity and Nationalism 15, no. 2 (2015): 230-250.

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substantial contribution to Jewish history, his historical thesis did not truly express the genuine aspirations of the Jewish people.14 In contrast to the prominent scholars Darmesteter and Dubnow, Ahad Ha’am, according to Gottheil, successfully grasped the tendencies of Jewish history. Ahad Ha’am keenly identified the challenges that the present posed to the Jewish people and, based on his analysis of the past, proposed a path for the people’s future existence. Ahad Ha’am rejected Darmesteter’s conclusion that the Jewish people were destined to assimilate and integrate into Western civilization. He also rejected the diaspora nationalism of his close friend Simon Dubnow, who believed that Jewish nationalism did not require a territorial center. The conclusions Ahad Ha’am drew from Jewish history, seen through a historical-philosophical lens, aligned with the reality of the Jewish people in his time and with their legitimate aspirations for life in the present and future. Gottheil pointed to Ahad Ha’am’s article “The Way of Life,” the foundational manifesto of the Bnei Moshe association, in which he wrote in 1891: The history of Israel in its exile, in general, and particularly in recent years, teaches us that we have no hope of living among foreign nations as both individuals and a unique nation: to take part in all aspects of life as citizens of the land while remaining a distinct nation in our beliefs and outstanding in our virtues. Woe to us on bad days and woe to us on good days! Hardships erode our individual spirit, and comforts weaken our collective spirit; the former make us contemptible in the eyes of others, and the latter make us a nation despised in its own eyes. Thus, our efforts to strengthen our position among the nations by expending our energy and resources are in vain; it will not succeed. We have two paths before us: the way of life and the way of death. If our eyes are set on death, let us abandon the advice of false healers and calmly await its arrival, for even if it tarries, it will come; but if we choose life, we must build our own home in a reliable place—and what place is more reliable than our forefathers’ land? Therefore, we must dedicate our best physical and moral energies to this one goal: the revival of our people in the land of our ancestors.15

14 Gottheil, Zionism, 187-188. 15 Ahad Ha’am, Derekh ha-hayim: yesodei agudat “Bnei Moshe” ve-takanoteihah (New York: Avraham Eliyahu Lubersky Publishing, 1905), 4 (article written in 1891, original emphasis). See also Gottheil, Zionism, 189.

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As we see here, Ahad Ha’am rejected the notion that the Jewish people’s national, cultural, and spiritual existence does not require a territorial center. According to him, the Land of Israel is the natural center for the Jewish people, and therefore it is something to aspire to. Only from it can the people draw the strength for their future existence. The emphasis on territorial and political nationalism is clearer in these words than in other writings by Ahad Ha’am, where the focus was generally more spiritual and cultural and less territorial. While he viewed the importance of the Land of Israel as more spiritual than political, he called for the establishment of a “spiritual center” in the Land of Israel that would strengthen and unify the spirit of the Jewish people in the diaspora.16 Nonetheless, he also worked to strengthen the settlement in Palestine at the turn of the twentieth century. Jewish American scholar Richard Gottheil believed that Ahad Ha’am’s philosophical-historical approach was deeper and more accurate than the methods of prominent scholars like Darmesteter and Dubnow. In addition to Gottheil, who saw Ahad Ha’am as a scholar and not just a publicist, there is further evidence that Ahad Ha’am was considered a leading scholar in Jewish studies.17 His historical evolutionary doctrine received considerable attention in America and Western Europe. For instance, in 1910, Professor Cyrus Adler, president of Dropsie College in Philadelphia, invited Ahad Ha’am to deliver a series of ten public lectures at the academic institution. Adler was an Assyriologist and philologist who had graduated from Johns Hopkins University, an editor of the Jewish Encyclopedia (1901-1905), the president of the Jewish Theological Seminary ( JTS) in New York, and active on behalf of Jews in the United States and around the world. He had close ties with the U.S. government and various U.S. presidents for many years.18 In his invitation letter to Asher Ginsberg in London, Adler wrote: “At the meeting of the Board of Governors of this College held on December 18, it was voted to extend to you an invitation to deliver a course of ten lectures on ‘The History of Jewish Ethics’ before this College during the academic term 1911-1912. And that for this course there be tendered to you an honorarium of One Thousand dollars (1000$).”19 16 Alfred Gottschalk, “Ahad Ha’am and Leopold Zunz: Two Perspectives on the ‘Wissenschaft des Judentums,’” Judaism 9, no. 3 (1980): 286-292, esp. 289. 17 See Richard Gottheil, “Zionism,” in The Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. 12, ed. Isidore Singer (New York: Funk and Wagnalls, 1905): 666-686; Leon Simon, Studies in Jewish Nationalism (London: Longmans, Green, 1920). 18 For more about Cyrus Adler, see Abraham A. Newman, Cyrus Adler: A Biography Sketch (New York: The American Jewish Committee, 1942), and his autobiography, I Have Considered the Days (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1941). 19 Cyrus Adler to Asher Ginsberg, December 20, 1910, CAJS, ARC MS26 Box 42 FF 9.

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To encourage Ahad Ha’am to positively respond to the invitation to teach this course, Professor Adler emphasized the prestigious status of the course. Among the lecturers in the series was Dr. Solomon Schechter, president of the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York, who was credited with discovering the Cairo Genizah and was one of the founders of the Conservative Movement in the United States. Adler noted in his letter: “The first of the courses of public lectures was given by Doctor Solomon Schechter of the Jewish Theological Seminary of America last year and during the coming winter, Professor [George Foot] Moore of Harvard University will deliver the course.”20 This was a prestigious lecture series set to last about three weeks. It was also an opportunity for Ahad Ha’am to properly prepare for writing a book on Jewish ethics, a subject close to his heart that he considered the most important area in the history of the Jewish people. Indeed, the exchange of letters between the two men from 1910 to 1913 shows that Ahad Ha’am positively responded to Adler’s invitation.21 Adler proposed to title the lecture series “The History of Jewish Ethics,” whereas Ahad Ha’am decided on “Principal Ideas of Jewish Ethics in Their Historical Development”22 as he was not willing to commit to a full description of the history of Jewish ethics in general. But the plan was never realized. Ahad Ha’am was concerned that he would not have enough time to prepare the lectures in English. That same year, he planned a trip to Palestine, which he did not want to cancel. He detailed these concerns in a letter to his friend Dr. Israel Friedlaender (1876–1920), an Orientalist and Bible scholar living in New York who was in contact with Adler and the Jewish scholarly elite in the United States at that time.23 Ultimately, Ahad Ha’am wrote to Adler that he had decided to forgo his trip to the United States due to illness and “other sad circumstances,” likely the marriage of his daughter Rachel to a Christian social revolutionary named Mikhail Osorogin. These circumstances drained him and his working energy for the academic year 1912-13, so he chose not to carry out the lecture series despite Adler’s clear disappointment.24

20 Ibid. 21 Asher Ginsberg to Cyrus Adler, January 18, 1911, ibid. 22 Asher Ginsberg to Cyrus Adler, February 15, 1911, ibid. See also his letter to Israel Friedlander, in Ahad Ha’am, Igrot, 4:352. 23 Ibid., 4:332-335. 24 Asher Ginsberg to Cyrus Adler, April 3, 1913, CAJS, ibid. Ahad Ha’am never got over his daughter’s marriage to a non-Jew and the fear that his grandchildren would “give their support to antisemites.” Shulamit Laskov offers a fascinating description of the inner conflicts of leaders such as Ahad Ha’am, Dubnow, and their contemporaries, who were forced to confront their children’s intermarriage. See her Hayei Ahad Ha’am: psifas mi-tokh ktavav u-ktavim aherim

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Interestingly, Ahad Ha’am was willing to lecture in English and did not insist that the lectures be held in Hebrew, even though he considered the use of Hebrew key to understanding national identity that he termed “national self.” However, from the correspondence, it seems he was very intrigued by the opportunity as a once-in-a-lifetime chance to cross the ocean and see the United States and the “new Jewish life taking shape there.” Due to his deep historical perspective, Ahad Ha’am was regarded as a Jewish intellectual even though his main writing was publicist. His original understanding of Jewish historical trends interested and even served as inspiration for many Jewish studies scholars worldwide. Ahad Ha’am’s writings were translated into German and English in the early twentieth century and deeply influenced nationalist Jews in the West. Israel Friedlaender translated his works into German, and Leon Simon (1881-1965) translated them into English. These translations exposed Ahad Ha’am’s ideas to English and German-speaking Jews in the West.25 In a lecture delivered at the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York in 1906, Friedlaender pointed out that while Western Jews were very concerned about the well-being of Eastern Jews, they did not dedicate enough time and intellectual effort to learn about the rich cultural and spiritual world of Eastern Jews. According to Friedlaender, the East was home to Jews who perfectly blended Jewish tradition with modernity and progress. In his eyes, Ahad Ha’am was a prime example of such a Jew, successfully navigating the tension that Eastern Jews faced between their traditional cultural identity and the advancing Western culture that had infiltrated their lives. Friedlaender believed that not only did Ahad Ha’am’s unique national philosophy have great value for the ethnic experience of Eastern European Jews, but it could also help Western Jews confront similar identity questions. Friedlaender concluded that Ahad Ha’am was “truly Jewish and truly modern,” succeeding in harmoniously combining “Rabbi Joseph Caro and Herbert Spencer.”26 This admiration for Ahad Ha’am was also evident in the work of Leon Simon, who would later become Ahad Ha’am’s biographer and spent decades writing about his life and thought.

( Jerusalem, Tel Aviv: The Chaim Weizmann Institute for the Study of Zionism and Israel, 2006), 406-409, 413. 25 Ahad Ha’am’s essays have been translated into English and German: Selected Essays by Ahad Ha-am, trans. Leon Simon (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1912); Achad Haam: Am Scheidewege, vol. 1, Aus dem Hebraischen von Israel Friedlaender (Berlin: Judischer Verlag, 1913). 26 Israel Friedlaender, Past and Present: A Collection of Jewish Essays (Cincinnati: Ark Publishing, 1919), 401.

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Eastern European Jewish scholar Ahad Ha’am was one of the few thinkers who succeeded in influencing Western Jews and gained many supporters among Western Jewish intellectuals. Aside from German and English, his essays were translated into French, Russian, Italian, and Polish.27 A review of his correspondence clearly shows that he had close friendships and work relationships with many Jewish scholars and researchers around the world. These factors reveal that through the inspiration of his approach to national scholars, his role as the editor of Ha-Shiloah, and his initiation of various Jewish cultural enterprises, Ahad Ha’am made a significant contribution to advancing research in Jewish studies and the development of Zionist historiography at the Hebrew University.

The Evolutionary Theory of Jewish History We will now examine the picture of Jewish history that Ahad Ha’am formulated and how he shaped national historical consciousness. In his essays, he frequently used terms like “the spirit of the nation” and “the will for national existence,” terms that indicate his organic approach to Jewish history.28 He integrated elements from contemporary European historical and social thought with modern Jewish thinking and classical Jewish sources.29 He was influenced by the scientific literature of his time, by Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution, and especially by the developmental approach of the British philosopher and sociologist Herbert Spencer (1820-1903).30 Much like Spencer, Ahad Ha’am believed that nations evolve as organic beings in an evolutionary manner. He argued that a people or “nation” is an organic body with a “national ego” and a natural will—which he defined as the “will for existence” or “instinct”—to continue and sustain itself through collective memory and hope for the future.

27 Ibid., 407. See also Friedlander’s essays on Ahad Ha’am, ibid., 399-430. For Simon Dubnow’s national approach, see ibid., 371-398. 28 For an analysis of the philosophical foundations of Ahad Ha’am’s theoretical approach, see Yehezkel Kaufmann, “Hefetz ha-kiyum ha-leumi,” Miklat 4 (Tammuz-Elul 1920): 175-194; Kaufmann, “Ikarei da’ato shel Ahad Ha’am,” Ha-tkufah 24 (1934): 421-439; Max Tortell, Bisus ha-leumiyut be-kitvei Ahad Ha’am ( Jerusalem: Hebrew University Press, 1941); Aryeh Simon and Yosef Eliyahu Heller, Ahad Ha’am: ha-ish, poalo ve-torato ( Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1955), 127-247; Gottschalk, Ahad Ha’am. 29 Ya’akov Shavit and Yehuda Reinhartz, Darwin ve-kamah mi-bnei mino: evolutsiyah, geza, svivah, ve-tarbut: yehudim kor’im et Darwin, Spencer, Buckle, ve-Renan (Tel Aviv: Ha-Kibbutz Ha-Me’uhad, 2009). For Spencer’s impact on Jewish intellectuals, see ibid., 103-152. 30 Ibid., 139-147.

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One can learn about Spencer’s approach from his essays, particularly from the chapter called “The Social Organism,” in which he discussed the similarities and differences between organic beings and sociological social structures. Spencer’s analogy between nations and organic beings is not absolute, but it serves his social theory well by identifying similarities between the two.31 Ahad Ha’am, influenced by this approach, integrated social biological elements with a positivist historical view. Both history and biology were highly prominent in European scientific thinking in the late nineteenth century. In Ahad Ha’am’s view, nations are organic beings similar to individual humans, as we can see from this statement: Everything that exists in an individual exists in a people, and similar causes produce similar outcomes in both, for they share the same spirit—the human spirit. Therefore, researchers have rightly used one to judge the other and learn from what is explicit in one about what is implicit in the other. The insights we’ve gained here about an individual’s perspective on his personal life can also shed light on a similar perspective found in the history of the Jewish people’s view of its national life. After all that has been said, a few words and subtle hints will now suffice.32 The analogy Ahad Ha’am drew between nations and organic beings did not prevent him from emphasizing the spiritual foundation as a central characteristic of the nation. For example, in his essay “Avar ve-atid” (Past and future), he argued, following Ernest Renan (1823-1892) and John Stuart Mill (1806-1873),33 that the definition of a nation is spiritual, and that national existence depends on consciousness. Therefore, he saw the preservation of hope for the future as a central issue in the education of the younger generation: A future is needed, a will to live, come what may! [. . .] In this state, there is a big difference between an individual and a nation. A dying man will die, and all his hopes for the future cannot redeem him from the grasp of death. But a people, whose essence is spiritual and not bound by physiological laws 31 Herbert Spencer, Essays: Scientific, Political and Speculative (London: William and Norgate, 1863), 143-184; Gottschalk, Ahad Ha’am, 58-76. 32 Ahad Ha’am, “Heshbon nefesh,” Kaveret (Odessa, 1890): 14-15 (original emphasis). 33 He specifically mentions these philosophers (Ahad Ha’am, Kol kitvei, 81). On the influence of Mill and Renan, see Gottschalk, Ahad Ha’am, 103-106.

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to a finite lifespan, can find a life-giving elixir if it succeeds in incorporating the foundation of the future into its “self,” even if it is just an imaginary image of hope. By doing so, it finds a spiritual nourishment suitable to its nature that will sustain it through the years, despite all illnesses and agony.34 Here Ahad Ha’am emphasizes the importance of the spiritual dimension in the life of nations. Moreover, by incorporating traditional terms into the national text, he shifts the foundation of sanctity from divine intervention to the spiritual social actions of the people itself. For example, the traditional expression “Your years are endless” is usually attributed to God, yet he applies it to the people. This approach can be likened to that of Peretz Smolenskin, who defined the hope for redemption—even if far from realization—as a vital foundation for the existence of the Jewish people. Smolenskin believed that national fraternity depends on faith in redemption. Therefore, a Jew who rejects this belief ceases to be a member of the covenant and excludes himself from the community of Israel.35 Ahad Ha’am’s understanding of the Jewish past bears similarities to the analysis of the Galician Jewish scholar Nachman Krochmal (Ranak,1785-1840). Both posited that throughout history, peoples undergo processes of development similar to organic beings, transitioning from infancy and youth to maturity and old age. In his Guide for the Perplexed of the Time, Krochmal identified three stages of Jewish development: (a) a time of growth and expansion; (b) a period of power and achievement; (c) an era of decline and dissolution.36 Like all nations, the Jewish people have gone through these organic stages of development and faced the risk of extinction. According to Krochmal, the eternal existence of the Jewish people is due to the grace of “the absolute spirit,” meaning Divine Providence, which chose the Jewish people and enabled their renewal, even after periods when they lost their spiritual foundation entirely.37 In particular, Ahad Ha’am learned about the national spirit from Krochmal, to a greater extent than he admitted. But his philosophical stance differed in two main respects: (a) he did not accept the doctrine of “the absolute spirit” and the

34 Ahad Ha’am, Kol kitvei, 81. 35 See his response to Moshe Leib Lilienblum: “Le-hashiv davar,” Ha-Shahar 10 (1881): 403-406. 36 Nachman Krochmal, Moreh nevukhei ha-zman, ed. Yehoyada Amir ( Jerusalem: Carmel, 2010), chapter 8, “Am olam u-mo’adav,” 32. The reader will find a helpful introduction in this edition, 7-64. 37 Ibid., 32-49.

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metaphysical foundation of Jewish existence; (b) he argued that death is not an inevitable process when it comes to nations. In his view, a nation can continue to exist as long as there is hope for future existence, “even if only in the form of an imaginary vision of hope.” Ahad Ha’am believed that the “national will to live” has preserved the existence of the Jewish people throughout history. Therefore, the study of Jewish history aims to uncover of this national instinct, which has sustained Judaism, and by exposing it, clarify the national spirit. Since for him, the memory of the past is one of the pillars of national existence, the study of Jewish history occupies a central place in his national outlook. This is also why Ahad Ha’am criticized Jewish studies scholars in nineteenth-century Germany. While he did not adopt a critical stance towards these scholars as Smolenskin did before him, he also believed that their approach did not contribute to the current survival of the Jewish people. He argued that they essentially erased hope and the future from the consciousness of the Jewish people. The scholars set out to eliminate dormant hope and wipe its memory from the people’s minds. [. . .] Therefore, we find that as the future diminishes, the past of the “national self ” expands—in the same time and place, and by those very scholars. There is an intrinsic, psychological link between the new prayer rituals devoid of future references and the new literature focused on past history. These reformers may not fully understand this relationship. Old age, having knowingly lost its hope, seeks consolation and recompense for its loss. They point to the past as a distraction and a source of nostalgia, until one finally realizes that a past without a future does not require a special “self ” to sustain it indefinitely. Although it may merit preservation in human memory, it can exist independently, without the stewardship of its original guardians. Living and suffering solely for the aristocratic pride of saying, “My ancestors saved Rome,” is not worthwhile. Although the intention of these guardians of the past may not be commendable, their actions are beneficial for those who possess a “complete self.” The scholars will enlarge the past at the expense of the future, and “prophets” will follow them who will strengthen the future on the basis of the past. From the two

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of them together, the national “self ” will expand and become stronger.38 I cite this text in full due to its importance in allowing us to understand how Ahad Ha’am viewed the role of Jewish studies and the role of studying Jewish history. In his view, research on Jewish history should not be conducted merely for scientific amusement or to serve as a source of external pride in the heritage of the ancestors. Rather, Jewish history needs to be explored to reveal the discoveries of the Jewish “national self ” and enable the ongoing existence of the nation into the future. His critique of Jewish studies in Germany was more subtle than Smolenskin’s harsh critique, but he too saw serious flaws in them—namely, a loss of “national existential will.” He blamed them for the loss of hope for the future. In his view, their research orientation amounted to the “amusements of old age” for a community that is losing its world and reconciling with the death of Jewish culture.39 By contrast, Ahad Ha’am believed he was living in an era of national revival, during the rise of Hibbat Zion and hope for a national future in the Land of Israel. In such times, national prophets, like himself, could utilize the study of Jewish history to strengthen the people’s hopes for redemption and fortify the “national self.” In his view, the national approach offered a more complete, accurate, and nuanced perspective on Jewish history as opposed to the universalist stance. Researching Jewish history in its national form was not just for the sake of the past, but also served the present and future. This belief would later also inform the Zionist historiography that emerged in Jerusalem in the mid-twentieth century. Given the reasons outlined above, we understand why using Hebrew for the study of history was vital in the eyes of Ahad Ha’am, as clearly expressed in his essay “The Language and Its Literature” (1894). Hebrew, he argued, served as the language of sages and was a dead language for many generations. In this, it was similar to Latin, which only functioned as a literary language and unified scholars across Europe. From the medieval period until the time of Mendelssohn, Hebrew was the language of the educated elite. But in the modern era, scholars and writers began to revive it:

38 Ahad Ha’am, Kol kitvei, 82 (original emphasis). 39 Ahad Ha’am, Derekh ha-hayim: yesodei agudat “Bnei Moshe.” In this article, Ahad Ha’am distinguished between “the way of life” (referring to nationalism) and “the way of death” (referring to assimilation).

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They took the initial step in a fitting manner. Figures like BenMenachem, Shlomo Maimon, and N. H. Wessely and other contemporaries picked up where medieval Jewish literature had left off. Rather than crafting an entirely new body of work, they aimed to continue the legacy of the existing literature. While introducing modern European ideas, they maintained the traditional, robust style. However, the literary landscape soon took a different turn. Instead of initially enriching national thought, the bedrock of Jewish literature, and allowing the language to naturally evolve, the focus shifted to polishing the language at the cost of substantive thought. This shift was not arbitrary; various elements contributed to it, which we will not detail here. In the end, the change created a chasm between the new and the old literature, both in content and language, distancing it from the people’s spirit. In a single leap, this new literature bypassed countless generations that had come since biblical times, as if they had contributed nothing in thought or writing. It reverted to ancient Hebrew, which was already insufficient for capturing the nuanced thought of our ancestors during the era of the Mishnah, much less so now. Yet, because the primary aim of these new writers was to win over the people’s hearts for specific, practical reasons, they found the ancient language—rich in poetry and beauty—more effective than the later language. While this literature certainly left an impression, particularly on the younger generation, and achieved some of its practical aims, it never attained the status of a national literature.40 Ahad Ha’am viewed the Hebrew language and its historical development as the embodiment of the national spirit of the Jewish people. As evident in the above citation, he critiques the Hebrew Enlightenment writers for making a historical leap over many centuries of Hebrew language development. Instead of continuing to develop the language as part of an organic process, they chose to use biblical Hebrew exclusively. In Ahad Ha’am’s view, the partial use of Hebrew, limited only to its biblical stratum without incorporating later historical layers such as the Mishnah, Talmud, liturgical poetry, rabbinic literature, Sephardic poetry, and Jewish philosophy, does not contribute to its development as a national

40 Ahad Ha’am, Kol kitvei, 95 (original emphasis).

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language.41To Ahad ha’am, a national language should reflect the “national self ” in its historical evolution.

Otsar Ha-Yahadut—A Jewish Encyclopedia From the early days of Ahad Ha’am’s leadership of Bnei Moshe, he made repeated attempts to shape the study of Jewish history in a nationalist spirit, aligned with his developmental perspective. He edited the literary anthology Kaveret, published in Odessa in 1890. He was the driving force behind the journal Pardes, edited by Yehoshua Hone Ravnitzki, as well as other publications with which the Bnei Moshe association was involved. In 1894, Ahad Ha’am made a much more ambitious attempt to publish a Jewish encyclopedia in Hebrew, called Otsar Ha-Yahadut Be-Lashon Ha-Ivrit. He secured financial support from his patron, philanthropist Kalman Wissotzky, who also funded other literary projects initiated by Ahad Ha’am. This encyclopedia was intended to fully express his developmental approach in historiography. It would focus solely on Jewish topics and be written in Hebrew. He estimated that this monumental work would take about a decade to complete and comprise twelve to fifteen volumes. However, the focus was not just on quantity but quality. He viewed Otsar Ha-Yahadut as a book that should guide the needed change in the Jewish people at a historic crossroads.42 Therefore, in his view, this project was of national importance, comparable to Diderot’s Encyclopédie,43 or even more accurately, to classical Hebrew literature like the Mishnah, Maimonides’s Mishneh Torah, and the Shulchan Arukh. In the final analysis, the attempt to publish the Jewish encyclopedia in Hebrew failed. Out of the entire grand plan of Otsar Ha-Yahadut, only a sample booklet was published in 1906. However, it is worthwhile to examine this plan in depth, as Ahad Ha’am strived to implement it for over a decade.44 He addressed it in

41 This is why the Hebrew language was one of the main topics of study in the plan for Otsar Ha-Yadahut. 42 Leon Simon, Ahad Ha-am, Asher Ginsberg: A Biography (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society of America, 1960), 118-119; Zipperstein, Elusive Prophet, 113-116; Adam Rubin, “Jewish Nationalism and the Encyclopedic Imagination: The Failure (and Success) of Ahad Ha’am Otsar Hayahadut,” Journal of Modern Jewish Studies 3, no. 3 (November 2004): 247-267. 43 Robert Darnton, The Great Cat Massacre and Other Episodes in French Cultural History (New York: Basic Books, 1984), chapter 4. 44 Simon Dubnow to Ahad Ha’am, December 4, 1906, Ahad Ha’am Archives, National Library of Israel Archives, ARC 4*791 file 260; Ahad Ha’am, Igrot, 4:77.

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a series of articles,45 the first of which appeared in the newspaper Ha-Melitz in 1894. In it, he clarified the book’s importance for fostering national unity in the modern era. In this article, he detailed the reasons that motivated him to initiate the encyclopedia and the initial plan for its design. If in the past, young people were drawn to Judaism for religious reasons, rooted in the observance of commandments—because “for them, practical religion was the foundation of their national life”—in the modern era, the situation has changed: There is no need to mention the children of the “enlightened,” who do not see any trace of Judaism in their ancestral home. But even fully Orthodox children, especially in large cities, can no longer absorb the spirit of Judaism in a practical way. The life conditions surrounding them outside their parents’ home are able to extinguish any sense of respect for their ancestors’ deeds. This happens particularly if they do not understand these actions in their historical context, and see only their external appearance.46 Modern reality exposed young Jews to education and progress, and Judaism became less relevant to their lives. To Ahad Ha’am, modernity posed a real danger of assimilation and the loss of Jewish national existence. Due to changing historical circumstances, he saw the need to change the way of interacting with the people, to endear Jewish culture to them: “If our fathers said, ‘Great is the study that leads to action,’ then we are obliged to say, ‘Great is the study that leads to love.’ ”47 The foundation connecting Jews as one people is thus a foundation of love, not of faith. Therefore, argued Ahad Ha’am, it is necessary to rekindle the national love that has ceased in the modern era due to the new circumstances he described. He used the term “love” similarly to Smolenskin, who spoke of “fraternity” as the primary foundation defining affiliation with the Jewish people. In the past, it was relatively easy to preserve Jewish identity through religious commandments, but in the modern era, the need arose to find a broader moral justification for maintaining Judaism:

45 Ahad Ha’am Archives, National Library of Israel Archives, ARC 4*791, file 1873, 1902. 46 Ahad Ha’am, Kol kitvei, 105. 47 Ibid. In the text from the abovementioned archival file (note 45 above), the word “affection” appears instead of the word “love.” However, later he mentions the need to inspire the youth to love their people.

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To arouse the children of practicing believers to action, we have only to inform them of the specific deeds required, like meaningless decrees; but to arouse the children of the enlightened to feel love for their people—that can only be accomplished by a thoughtful understanding of the spirit of the people and its historical development, an understanding that will penetrate the depths of Judaism and reveal its intellectual and moral light.48 In this article, Ahad Ha’am warned that the modern era does not guarantee Jewish existence; on the contrary, there are many reasons for the younger generation to drift away from Judaism. His conclusion was that the only way to bring the lost youth back to their people is to endear them to Jewish culture, or in his words, to show them its “intellectual and moral light.”49 To this end, he proposed the creation of Otsar Ha-Yahadut, specifically in Hebrew, in order to preserve the spirit of the nation. Only the use of the Hebrew language could, in his opinion, lead to a “natural” and intimate (“from within”) recognition of the history of the Jewish people. At the outset, Ahad Ha’am noted that while he was planning this Otsar Ha-Yahadut, work had already begun on an English-language Jewish Encyclopedia—a project that indeed came to fruition in 1901.50 He expressed his disapproval of this encyclopedia and its authors, stating, “Who will bear the disgrace, that Otsar Ha-Yahadut is first published not in Hebrew but in English, not by Jews but by non-Jews?”51 Ahad Ha’am’s frustration over the failure to publish Otsar Ha-Yahadut persisted for many years. Not only was the success of the English-language Jewish Encyclopedia like salt in his wounds, but later there was even an attempt to publish a parallel Jewish encyclopedia in Russian, modeled after the English one. In late 1906, his historian friend Simon Dubnow wrote to him that a committee had been formed to publish a Russian-language Jewish encyclopedia. Dubnow expressed his disapproval of the individuals selected for the academic committee of the encyclopedia, deeming them unfit to lead such a scholarly project. He tried to persuade Ahad Ha’am to join the committee and even mentioned a financial incentive for doing so: “If you agree, my friend, to take upon yourself the editing of a section and participate in the committee, I would be confident that the two of us could change the committee composition and place it on a 48 Ahad Ha’am, Kol kitvei, 105. 49 Ibid. 50 Isidore Singer, ed., The Jewish Encyclopedia, vols. 1-12 (New York: Funk and Wagnalls, 1901-1905). 51 Ahad Ha’am, Kol kitvei, 104.

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scientific and literary foundation.”52 Dubnow certainly viewed Ahad Ha’am as a scholar, well-versed in Jewish studies and even proficient in relevant languages, including English. He considered him not only suitable but also desirable to assist him in managing this scientific project. Yet Ahad Ha’am responded bitterly: Regarding your proposal that I take on the editing of a certain section, I reply: Please do not, my friend, add insult to injury [. . .]. However, I will not conceal from you that even without these obstacles, I could not overcome another moral hindrance that involves a bit of small-mindedness, but is too strong for me to ignore. This hindrance is the jealousy I feel that the Russian Encyclopedia finds patrons—while the Hebrew one, for which I had so much hope and to which I devoted myself, remains just a dream. Do not mock me if I tell you that if I were to participate in this work on a continual basis as an editor, I would feel as if I were “assaulting my queen in my own palace.”53 Returning now to Ahad Ha’am’s initiative, in articles he published in the newspaper Ha-Melitz (1894-1895) about Otsar Ha-Yahadut, he stated that the primary goal for publishing it was national and educational. He compared this book to literary rescue efforts made by the greats of Israel throughout history: Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai, who aimed to save the Torah and its scholars during the revolt against the Romans; Rabbi Yehudah Ha-Nasi in the compilation of the Mishnah; Maimonides with his Mishneh Torah; and Rabbi Yosef Caro with his Shulchan Arukh. All aimed to save the Torah during times of crisis for the Jewish people. They acted “like a man who sees his house engulfed in flames from all sides, who abandons his possessions and belongings, and cares only to save from the blaze some small scrap of paper, a debt note or a deed, whose value exceeds all else.”54 In Ahad Ha’am’s view, the encyclopedia was meant to serve a historic role: to save Judaism in an age where love for it was fading and national solidarity was eroding. Unlike previous works aimed at preserving the religious realm of Torah, Ahad Ha’am argued that a new, comprehensive book was needed—one that covered all facets of Judaism, not just religious law. This book would serve 52 Simon Dubnow to Ahad Ha’am (note 44 above). 53 Ahad Ha’am, Igrot, 4:77, referring to Esther 7:8. Ahad Ha’am uses the image of the queen to refer to the Hebrew language as the national language of the Jews, and compared using a foreign language for the Jewish encyclopedia to an assault on his queen in his own palace. 54 Ahad Ha’am, Kol kitvei, 104.

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to reunite the Jewish people and renew their cultural affinity for Judaism in a modern context.55 Self-awareness, reconnecting with the national self, and capturing the zeitgeist of the Jewish people were Ahad Ha’am’s objectives in creating this encyclopedic enterprise. He sketched out a plan that featured four key areas: A. The Torah of Israel in all its aspects [. . .], following its historical development from ancient times to the present; B. The history of the Jewish people, both in the homeland and in the diaspora, focusing on internal dynamics as well as its relationship with other nations and their attitudes toward it; C. Notable Jewish figures, their biographies and contributions in life, literature, and wisdom; D. Jewish literature, from the Bible to the present day, highlighting the most significant works and their impact on Jewish life.56 To these core subjects, he also included an exploration of the Land of Israel and the neighboring nations in ancient times. He expanded upon this preliminary outline in a more detailed article titled “The General Program for a Hebrew Encyclopedia of Judaism,” initially published in the collection Al Parashat Drakhim.57 Prior to outlining this comprehensive plan, he set forth the foundational principles that would shape his overarching view of Jewish history—an evolutionary perspective—which would serve as the guidelines for composing the Jewish encyclopedia he would edit. In the concept of Judaism, we include everything that teaches us to recognize the Jewish people and the characteristics of its national spirit. Like an individual, a people is known through three aspects: (a) its foundational thoughts and perspectives, both in content and in form; (b) its consistent ways and customs across all aspects of life; (c) its reactions to unforeseen events and

55 Op. cit., 106. “The people must know itself in a manner that suits its times.” 56 Ibid. 57 For full details of the program, see Ahad Ha’am, Kol kitvei, 113-114; Otsar ha-Yahadut sample booklet (Warsaw: Ahiassaf, 1906), 18-19.

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actions that arise accordingly. Since all these factors, whether in an individual or a nation, change over time due to internal and external reasons, complete and true understanding is only possible if we know each aspect in its history from the outset, accounting for all the changes that have occurred over time and their causes.58 This definition of Judaism allowed Ahad Ha’am to say that anything likely to contribute to the understanding of the Jewish spirit for future generations should be included in Otsar Ha-Yahadut. It follows that matters which do not reveal the characteristics of “the spirit of the Jewish people” do not belong, and therefore will not be included. This definition also demonstrates how he understood the organic development of the Jewish history, as I have previously shown. From this view Ahad Ha’am derived the topics that the Otsar was to focus on: A. Language: “Language is in many ways the most reliable key to understanding the spirit of the people.” The study of the Hebrew language would occupy a respected place in the encyclopedia, including the relationship between Hebrew and other Semitic languages, and especially the historical development of Hebrew in post-biblical times. B. Hebrew literature: “Literature is a realm of unique visions: a collection of various forms in which the spirit of the people has tried to articulate its innermost thoughts upon their expression.” That is, an analysis of Hebrew literature in its various shades, both ancient and modern. C. Torah: “The sum of all the beliefs, opinions, laws, and judgments that were accepted by the nation as a foundation for its religious, ethical, and social life.” The focus on Torah in Otsar Ha-Yahadut was not meant to dictate religious law, as Ahad Ha’am clarified, but “to reflect upon the spirit of the people as revealed in them.” He wanted scholars to address the world of Torah in its historical development. D. The history of the Jewish people, in which the primary focus would be on internal developments: “The internal movements, both religious and social, that have taken place in Israel throughout time,” as well as a general but less detailed description of other nations’ attitudes towards Israel. E. Noteworthy individuals: Detailed articles about the heroes of the Jewish people throughout its generations.59

58 Ahad Ha’am, Kol kitvei, 113 (original emphasis). 59 Ibid., 113-114.

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These were the central topics planned to be discussed in Otsar Ha-Yahadut, along with “general philosophy,” “the Land of Israel,” “ancient peoples,” and “archeological remnants,” which were allocated a more limited space. The topics in this plan aimed to expose the historical manifestations of the “spirit of the people.” Ahad Ha’am, followed by Joseph Klausner, argued that Otsar Ha-Yahadut was different from general encyclopedias, and even different from those focusing on Judaism. Beyond an enterprise for organizing general knowledge, as in general encyclopedias, it was a national endeavor. When the sample booklet was finally published, Klausner stated in the introduction that the goal of Otsar Ha-Yahadut was “to rescue the nation from harsh oblivion” and to establish “an eternal national foundation that will bear fruits for us, our children, and their children. A nation that feeds only on the past is as if dead, vanished, irrelevant to the world.”60 Ahad Ha’am’s plan was thus far more ambitious than just publishing an encyclopedia; the goal was to write a comprehensive book in which Jewish scholars would participate, serving as a basis for national growth. However, the plan never came to fruition. According to Ahad Ha’am, this was due to opposition from both the ultra-Orthodox and the Enlightenment intellectuals: “Is it not astonishing to see a covenant formed between zealous religious fundamentalists on one side and learned writers on the other, fighting together in brotherhood and friendship against a single literary proposal?”61 Ahad Ha’am made another attempt, proposing to publish not a full encyclopedia, but rather an annual volume. Although Wissotzky accepted the proposal, it too did not come to fruition. The opposition it sparked from both the Orthodox and the Enlightenment intellectuals demonstrates, as Darnton argued regarding the publication of Diderot’s French encyclopedia, that the organization of knowledge is a very serious matter that incites internal struggles due to the shift in the balance between power and knowledge. The transition from a traditional or enlightened perspective to a national agenda, as expected, provoked controversy.62 This disagreement likely significantly reduced the economic viability of publishing the encyclopedia, which Ahad Ha’am intended to be available to every Jewish household. The project failed, due in part to economic reasons and in part to Ahad Ha’am’s organizational inefficiency in fending off critique against him.

60 Otsar Ha-Yahadut, iii–iv. 61 Ahad Ha’am, Kol kitvei, 111; see also 108-111. 62 See Darnton, The Great Cat Massacre, 191-210, especially 193.

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Ha-Shiloah: 1897-1902 After the failure to publish Otsar Ha-Yahadut, Ahad Ha’am founded the journal Ha-Shiloah, again with the financial support of Kalman Wissotzky and the Ahiassaf publishing house.63 Although there is no direct historical connection between Smolenskin and his journal Ha-Shahar, and Ahad Ha’am and his journal Ha-Shiloah, there are similarities in thought, agenda, and methodology between these two prominent Hebrew-language journals of their time.64 Uzi Shavit noted that in both cases, the editors set an agenda that prioritized Jewish studies first, followed by fine literature, and leaving little room for poetry.65 Indeed, according to Ahad Ha’am’s editorial policy, articles dealing with subjects related to Jewish studies were prominent in Ha-Shiloah.66 While preparing for the launch of Ha-Shiloah, Yehoshua Zeitlin, Kalman Wissotzky’s son-in-law and his representative at the Ahiassaf publishing house, wrote to Ahad Ha’am, expressing hope that Ha-Shiloah would be received by Hebrew readers as warmly as Ha-shahar, which had been popular and widespread in its time.67 Ahad Ha’am dismissed this comparison outright, explaining that Ha-Shiloah, unlike Ha-Shahar, was intended to be a sophisticated and refined “European” journal, on par with leading periodicals in Europe: But as for your comparison to Ha-Shahar and your hopes that Ha-Shiloah will eventually surpass it in stature—please forgive me, for I cannot agree with your view. Had I thought that Ha-Shiloah would be like Ha-Shahar, I would not find the strength to labor on it as I have been. Whether the articles in Ha-Shiloah are good or mediocre, each will judge according to his own taste. But I can assure you of this: in a thousand pages of Ha-Shiloah, a European reader will not find as much idle chatter and pointless babble as he would find in any single issue of Ha-Shahar. This is my main goal: to cultivate the good taste of Hebrew readers [. . .]. That is why Ha-Shiloah is more appreciated by readers in Western countries than in our own lands (all the Jewish periodicals in the countries of Ashkenaz, 63 Attia, Ha-Shiloah, 40-42; Zipperstein, Elusive Prophet, 115-116. 64 Attia’s monograph on Ha-Shiloah includes a comparison between these newspapers, even though Ahad Ha’am himself tried to avoid the comparison. Ibid., 173-178. 65 Shavit, Ba’alot ha-shahar, 98. 66 Yehoshua Barzilai, Ha-Shiloah 1897-1927 (Tel Aviv: Ha-Histadrut Ha-Klalit, 1964), 131-161. 67 Attia, Ha-Shiloah, 173.

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France, and England, which have mentioned it, praised it highly, and I have also received private letters to this effect). [. . .] The Western reader enjoys seeing a Hebrew periodical whose articles are written in a European style and contain nothing that would give cause for mockery or derision.68 Ahad Ha’am aimed to create an elitist, refined, and European-style journal. Alongside his criticism of Jewish studies in Germany, he wanted to publish a journal that met the high scientific standards of the West. Despite the haughty disdain expressed by Ahad Ha’am when Zeitlin dared to compare these two journals, I believe the comparison is warranted. Stylistically, they were quite different—Smolenskin was an agile, prolific writer, while Ahad Ha’am was meticulous, laboring over each word. Yet both dedicated significant space to Jewish studies in its nationalist version and allocated room for Hebrew literature and poetry, and scholars and literary scholars of the period referred to the two journals in the same breath.69 Differences between these journals include the timing of their launches, their unique historical contexts, and the specific goals of their editors. Ha-Shahar was essentially a one-man show, with Smolenskin viewing it as his life’s work and working nearly alone to get it published. On the other hand, thanks to backing from Wissotzky, Ha-Shiloah had the financial upper hand from the start. This allowed for regular and smooth publication. Furthermore, Ahad Ha’am had a supportive circle in Odessa, who helped him behind the scenes and contributed to the journal’s success. Ahad Ha’am deserves credit for the quality he brought to the end product, both in content and in presentation. He held his contributors to a strict schedule, demanded a high standard of writing, and paid them on time.70 These factors were missing at Ha-Shahar, which spent many years struggling to stay afloat and was not always published on a regular schedule. The meticulousness of Ahad Ha’am’s editorial approach, aimed at giving the journal a European style, also distinguished it from Ha-Shahar. While this level of editorial scrutiny drew some opposition, the final product was indeed of high quality.71 In his role as editor of Ha-Shiloah, Ahad Ha’am found his rightful place as a cultural leader. For the first time, he was able to engage in a relatively calm

68 Ahad Ha’am, Igrot, 1:166-177. See also Attia, Ha-Shiloah, 173; Simon, Ahad Ha’am, 173. 69 See, for example, the editors’ preface to the Dvir journal, in Dvir 1 (Nissan 1923), v. 70 Zipperstein, Elusive Prophet, 121-122. 71 Ibid.

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exploration of Jewish history, aiming to uncover the inner expressions of the national spirit and “national self.” His goal was to establish a scholarly Hebrew platform that would help explore the inner essence of the Jewish people for the benefit of both the present and the future. This emerges from his “Ha-Shiloah Manifesto,” the journal’s opening statement that appeared in the introduction to the first volume: Only a monthly periodical which is not under the pressure of time will have the power to penetrate gradually into the secret places of our life. To slowly collect “their keys” scattered in terms of time and place, to explain every phenomenon and every problem from all its different aspects and to bring us nearer to the desired end: to know ourselves, to understand our lives, and to wisely shape our futures.72 This statement reveals that Ha-Shiloah was not a neutral academic journal. Its investigation of Jewish culture and history was intended to serve as a tool for the Jewish people in the present. Although Ha-Shiloah was not a scholarly journal in the fullest sense of the term, it did allocate ample space for articles that focused on Jewish studies. Issues related to Judaism and the exploration of Jewish history stood at the center of Ha-Shiloah’s concerns, as is evident from the editorial policies set by Ahad Ha’am, according to the following hierarchy of priorities: A. “Insight articles” that will offer accurate perspectives from various respected perspectives—be they religious, ethical, social, literary, and so on—that relate to the life of the Jewish people and its spiritual evolution from antiquity to today. [. . .] B. Editorials—articles examining the current intellectual, moral, economic, and political condition of our people across all countries. C. Critique, a term we generally use in its narrowest sense: reviews of new books. However, our objective is to broaden this term to its truest extent: evaluating the human spirit and the fruits of its labor in relation to truth (logical critique), goodness 72 Ahad Ha’am, “Teudat ha-Shiloah,” Ha-Shiloah 1 (1897): 3. See also Attia, Ha-Shiloah, 188.

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(ethical critique), and beauty (aesthetic critique). In this sense, criticism encompasses not just books but also ideas and deeds, both new and old, that have had, are having, or could have an impact on the life and spirit of the people. D. Belles-lettres—poetic works that express the perspectives, questions, and principles of existence in elegant, tangible forms.73 Ahad Ha’am placed a strong emphasis on wisdom and intellectual pursuits in the journal’s editorial policy, while relegating fine literature, and particularly poetry, to a less central role. He made his intentions clear, stating, “We may reduce the number of poems in this journal.”74 He aimed to publish a periodical with high standards, yet not one that was strictly academic. It was meant to serve the entire community or, at the very least, the educated segment among Hebrew readers who were not necessarily experts in Jewish studies. Ahad Ha’am pointed out both in his introduction and conclusion to this article that the journal was not intended for scholars alone. While knowledgeable scholars were instrumental in its creation, they did so with the broader community in mind. He articulated, “We are not setting up an exclusive academic forum for scholars to engage in debates and express new ideas merely for the sake of expanding wisdom. Our aim is to serve the entire people, offering it both intellectual nourishment and the essential knowledge it needs to mend its breaches and rebuild its ruins.”75 Since Ha-Shiloah aimed to reach a broad audience rather than just a small circle of experts, the editor urged scholarly contributors to write in plain, accessible language. He said: Our scholars should consider it their duty, like their counterparts in other nations, to occasionally step outside their specialized fields and address the public in clear language about important matters that have widespread need and utility, while many Jewish scholars often remain ensconced in their ivory towers, each diving deep into his own niche field, while largely ignoring the needs and concerns of the people.76

73 Ahad Ha’am, “Teudat ha-Shiloah,” Ha-Shiloah 1 (1897): 3-5. 74 Ibid. 75 Ibid., 2. 76 Ibid., 5.

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In the opening remarks of Ha-Shiloah, Ahad Ha’am launched a harsh critique of Western Enlightenment, which he believed used Hebrew as a bridge for leaving Jewish culture rather than as a means for building a Jewish national future. He identified two trends in nineteenth-century Jewish Haskalah: Jewish studies in the West and Hebrew literature in the East. In the West, Hebrew literature had declined, and Jewish studies scholars in Germany had even stopped using the Hebrew language. Meanwhile, in the East, Hebrew literature persisted but was also at risk of disappearing, were it not for the emergence of the Jewish nationalist movement there. He stated, “It is almost certain that Hebrew literature would have ceased to exist in the East, as it already had in the West, had it not been for a new aspiration born among us for internal revival and progress. This gave our literature the right to survive and advance, not as a gateway to another world as before, but as an integral part of our own inner world.”77 In the West, Ahad Ha’am argued, Hebrew writing had gradually disappeared, referring particularly to Jewish studies in Germany. Although scientific literature in Germany delved deeply into Jewish history, he believed it served as a springboard for assimilation, or in his words, a “gateway to another world.” Unlike Western Jewish studies, which he thought had lost a vital connection to Jewish history and looked at it with scholarly neutrality, Ahad Ha’am advocated for studying Jewish history to understand the inner world of the Jewish people. Ha-Shiloah aimed to reveal this inner Jewish world in its historical development, in order to strengthen the Zionist national revival: No right comes without a duty. By virtue of this right—to be considered an integral part of our inner world—our literature also bears the responsibility to teach us about this inner world: the course of our people’s development throughout the generations, the ways its spirit manifests in all areas of life, its spiritual and physical state in all countries at present, and the visible and hidden connections between these factors and the current events in the lives of the nations surrounding us, as well as the laws governing human and social life in general. For only when the people know what has been and what is, and the true relationship between us and the world around us, will we then understand and recognize our appropriate place in the world.

77 Ibid., 2 (original emphasis).

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Only then can we find our path and make a full repair of our lives.78 Ahad Ha’am attributed a vital role to the study of the past in shaping the Jewish future. Only from a deep understanding of Jewish history and the way the Jewish people operated in the past could a correction to their current situation be proposed. In the age of emancipation, the path to correction was purely individual—the Jew was required to be merely a citizen. However, in the era of national revival, Ahad Ha’am argued, a path for national, not just individual, correction must be offered. He observed that since the beginning of the Emancipation, the Haskalah had begun to explore Jewish history. However, these scholars failed to address the real challenge facing the Jews as a community and as a nation. He believed that in the face of the challenges of the modern era, the Jewish people had lost their communal identity. To the younger generation, Judaism had lost its relevance. Against this challenge, Judaic studies in its Western form offered nothing to bring the young generation back to their people. In the following citation, again we hear Ahad Ha’am’s sharp criticism: The grand question, which was apparent in Jewish experience of the past several decades [. . .]: What is our national or historical “self,” for which or because of which we have battled the universe for thousands of years? What is the state of our lives across the lands of our diaspora, to what extent are these lives genuine, and what aspects are in need of correction? Above all, and arising from all these questions, is the question of our future: How and when will we reach the longed-for shore, despite the powerful current that is tearing us limb from limb and sweeping us, one by one, into the great sea?79 The central motivator for his educational and spiritual activities as a leader of Spiritual Zionism was his concern for the loss of Jewish identity as the identity of a people with a “historical personality.” He feared the replacement of traditional Jewish identity with a universalist identity that would leave no trace of distinct Jewish existence. In his view, Ha-Shiloah was a tool to alter modern Jewish consciousness. This is why, as editor, he never compromised with critics regarding the journal’s editorial policy. He explicitly stated that his aim was to

78 Ha-Shiloah 1 (1897), 2. 79 Ibid., 2-3.

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explore Jewish subjects, past and present, and not to make room for general topics unrelated to the “concept of Judaism,” as he defined it.80 He maintained this strict editorial policy throughout his tenure as the editor of Ha-Shiloah, until the end of 1902. His meticulous editing, both in terms of content—restricted to Jewish matters—and form—marked by clear, polished Hebrew writing—gave the journal a unique place in the realm of contemporary Hebrew literature. Leon Simon correctly noted that as the editor of Ha-Shiloah, Ahad Ha’am found his calling more as a cultural leader than as a political figure.81 In this role, he positioned himself as a standard-bearer of Hebrew literature. He did not see the term “literature” as confined to just belles-lettres, but as encompassing all of Jewish cultural and intellectual creation. This definition aligned with the approach later adopted by Haim Nahman Bialik in his efforts to promote and nurture Jewish studies through the literary ingathering project. Like its predecessor Ha-Shahar, Ha-Shiloah served as a national literary platform focusing on Jewish studies. In doing so, it made a substantial contribution to creating an alternative to the Western Jewish studies that had evolved over the course of the nineteenth century. During the five years Ahad Ha’am served as editor of Ha-Shiloah, the journal was subtitled “For Science, Literature, and Life’s Matters,” and this was no accident, as his focus on intellectual thought and national Jewish studies was unmistakable. Joseph Klausner (1875–1958), who took over as editor from 1903, shifted this emphasis somewhat. In the introduction to the eleventh volume, he announced his intent to give more prominence to fine literature, including poetry. He asserted, “We view poetic work as a tremendous spiritual force, one that should increasingly impact the development of the Jewish nation. One of the greatest oversights made by our scholars in Ashkenaz and our intellectuals in Russia was underestimating the importance of fine literature, and looking almost condescendingly upon it and its writers.”82 This change was reflected in the updated subtitle of the journal: “For Matters of Literature, Science, and Life.” Klausner appointed editors for the literary section of Ha-Shiloah, initially Haim Nahman Bialik (1904–1909) and later Ya’akov Fichman (1925–1927).83 While Klausner did not fully open the doors to the “young writers” led by Micha Josef Berdichevsky, he did announce his 80 Zipperstein, Elusive Prophet, 122-123. 81 Simon, Ahad Ha’am, 127-149. Ahad Ha’am noted that even if Herbert Spencer himself had written an article for Ha-Shiloah, as editor, Ahad Ha’am would have checked it very carefully. 82 Joseph Klausner, “Megamatenu,” Ha-Shiloah 11 (1903): 6. 83 On the change in editorial policy, see Attia, Ha-Shiloah, 124-150.

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intention to make changes. This was enough to concern Ahad Ha’am, wary of the sudden influx of revolutionary tendencies. He quickly published a “Letter to the Editor of Ha-Shiloah,” where he expressed his reservations about the swift changes to the journal’s character: In brief, my friend! It seems to me you still have much to consider concerning the “honorable changes” you propose for the form and content of Ha-Shiloah. [. . .] But such “honorable changes” are made over generations, not in a single day. I would prefer that the face of Ha-Shiloah change like the face of the generation, slowly and carefully, in accordance with real needs, rather than severing its old form all at once.84 For Ahad Ha’am, Ha-Shiloah was a powerful cultural tool for disseminating his evolutionary worldview concerning the Jewish past. This best exemplified his leadership; he could screen everything published in the journal and shape the volumes of Ha-Shiloah according to his comprehensive approach. This was also the reason for the battles against him, primarily led by Berdichevsky and the ‘young writers,’ who disagreed with his evolutionary perspective.85 However, even the young writers within the cultural camp saw themselves as ethnic Jews. They recognized the ethnic, cultural, and religious existence of the Jewish people. Berdichevsky often published criticisms of Ahad Ha’am’s approach in Ha-Shiloah, but he also published his own articles, such as “Le-ruah ha-yom” (In the spirit of the day), in which he criticized the attitude of Western Jews toward Judaism. Here, we see that his critique of Jewish studies in Germany is very similar to that of Ahad Ha’am: I see a reversed world among our Western brethren. In every nation that is still alive and desires to live, concern for its past comes only to invigorate its present. When it engages in the philosophy of its history, its primary focus is on the results

84 Ahad Ha’am, “Mikhtav el ha-orekh,” Ha-Shiloah 11 (1903): 15. 85 Despite his dispute with Ahad Ha’am and his policies Berdichevsky published many articles in Ha-Shiloah. This disagreement is evident in letters to the editor of Ha-Shiloah from him and his young supporters, as well as in responses from Ahad Ha’am and his backers. For example, see Simon Bernfeld’s article “Heshbonah shel sifrutenu,” Ha-Shiloah 3 (1898): 31-41; Berdichevsky’s response, “Mikhtav el ha-orekh,” ibid., 183-185; and Ahad Ha’am’s response, ibid., 185-186. This dispute was also expressed in other parts of Ha-Shiloah. As it has been extensively discussed in the literature.

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arising from this overall account, which will provide the building blocks for its foundation in the present and future. In contrast, our Western brethren do the opposite. They invest the remnants of their national emotions in the abstract history of Judaism in the past, so they can be free in the present to assimilate among the nations and live lives that have no relation to that past. This past is carefully stored in their seminaries and libraries; they seek to fulfill their Jewish obligations solely by engaging in the philosophy of Jewish history, which, in their opinion, is something that has already been completed and does not tolerate change or addition.86 This criticism of Jewish studies is thus very similar to the criticism leveled by individuals like Smolenskin, Ahad Ha’am, Bialik, and others against Jewish studies scholars in Germany. According to them, these German scholars treated the Jewish past as a dead past, without expressing any emotional connection to it or its significance for the Jewish people in the present. The aim of the criticism was clear: engagement with the Jewish past should invigorate the present and create a basis for the national future. The study of the past is not neutral; its purpose must be to write history from the perspective of the present. Berdichevsky’s criticism of Western Jews stemmed from his feeling that they had abandoned the national dimension of Jewish history. Generally, Berdichevsky preferred “Jews” over “Judaism,” the national foundation over the religious one. This strong stance even led him to justify the criticism that Heinrich von Treitschke, the antisemitic historian, leveled against German Jews: “All the ‘wickedness’ of this ‘enemy of the Jews’ was that he keenly sensed the ‘stubbornness’ in our nationalism, the ‘eternity of Israel.’ His great sin, for which our brethren could not forgive him, was that day and night he proclaimed to them: You are children not only of the Lord your God but also of Israel your people; you are Hebrews and Hebrews you shall remain!”87 As promised in the opening manifesto of the journal, we find in Ha-Shiloah many articles dealing with Jewish studies, biographical lists of great figures in Israel, critical reviews, and fine literature. One of the prominent writers in Ha-Shiloah was Simon Bernfeld (1860–1940), an author, historian, and scholar who was close to Ahad Ha’am and even took over as the editor of Ha-Shiloah

86 Micha Josef Berdichevsky, “Le-ruah ha-yom,” Ha-Shiloah 1 (1897): 283. 87 Berdichevsky, “Tsorer ha-yehudim,” Ha-Shiloah 1 (1897): 483-484.

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during Ahad Ha’am’s journey to Palestine.88 Bernfeld published many historical and historiographical articles in Ha-Shiloah. Particularly interesting is his article on Ernest Renan, “Ernest Renan and His Attitude Toward Judaism.”89 In this historiographical article, Bernfeld devoted extensive discussion to the attitudes of Christian scholars toward Jewish history in modern times. He mentioned the works of Jacques Basnage (1653–1723), published in the early eighteenth century, Heinrich Ewald (1803–1875) and his History of Israel, which appeared in several editions in the second half of the nineteenth century, and Renan’s book on the history of the Jewish people, which he reviewed extensively.90 Bernfeld praised these authors but also expressed concern that Renan relied too heavily on German biblical criticism and on Wellhausen’s methodology in his biblical discussions. As a nationalist historian, Bernfeld highly praised Renan’s approach, which focused on writing history not for the past, but for the present. This perspective closely aligned with Ahad Ha’am’s viewpoint and the nationalist interpretation of the Jewish studies. Bernfeld even cited Renan’s statement, “I respect the past, but with all my heart and soul, I love the present.”91 However, Bernfeld’s appreciation of Renan as a national historian was mixed with a certain suspicion of his general attitude towards the Jewish people. Consequently, even though Bernfeld admired Renan’s engaging style, he labeled him as a historian who was not a true ally: Among writers in this field, none have had their works so widely spread among the educated or have made such a significant impact as he. Even though he was mistaken in many generalities and specifics, we still cherish his books and teachings. While he made some twisted statements about our people, it is a characteristic of the Jewish people to embrace the good and not the bad, and to honor anyone from whom we can learn, even a single letter. Therefore, we hold Renan in high esteem both as a writer

88 For an extensive discussion of Bernfeld, see Maya Shabbat, “Historiyah be-sherut ha-publitsistika: mifalo ha-historiografi shel Simon Bernfeld (1860-1940)” (PhD diss., Tel Aviv University, 2016). 89 Bernfeld’s extensive article was published in volume 1 in three parts, under the title Ernest Renan ve-yihuso el ha-yahadut,” Ha-Shiloah 1 (1897): 24-37, 101-116, 197-210. 90 These books were published originally in German and French, and they were also published in English translation: Heinrich Ewald, History of Israel, vols. 1-8 (London: Longmans Green, 1878-86); Ernest Renan, History of the People of Israel, vols. 1-5 (London and Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1890-95). 91 Bernfeld, “Ernest Renan,” 26.

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and as a person. We approach his books with discernment; we consume their substance and discard their husk.92 Bernfeld’s historical perspective, which was closely aligned with Ahad Ha’am’s views, found later expression in his notable three-volume work The Book of Tears, published 1923-1926. In this book, Bernfeld painted a grim picture of Jewish life in exile, marked by a long history of persecution, pogroms, and killings. In doing so, he established the foundation for a Zionist historiographical approach to antisemitism.93 In the introduction, he emphasized that the animosity toward Jews is an age-old phenomenon. While its manifestations have evolved over time, its root cause lies in the fundamental differences between the Jewish people and the nations among which they lived. This was true during the ancient conflict between Israel and Greece, and persisted through the era of major religions, when both Christianity and Islam demonstrated hostility toward Judaism and Jews. Bernfeld argued that the modern era has not alleviated the plight of the Jews; rather, religious hatred has simply evolved into nationalism and racial animosity: Who will still consider the souls of Jews, who have been abandoned for nearly two thousand years? The world has failed in its morality, and Israel suffers at its hands. These events can no longer be recorded in history, for they defy the historical perspective that seeks organic connection and coherence in all acts. These events have no end; the pause is only temporary. The first act of this dreadful tragedy—the tragedy of human life on earth—has concluded, but the drama is far from over. We fear that what will come after us will be even harsher than what we have experienced in our time.94 According to this view, the lives of Jews in the diaspora are a source of trouble and Jew hatred. This perspective was later echoed by prominent Zionist historians like Yitzhak Baer and Ben-Zion Dinur in their treatment of exile.95 In the 1920s, historian Salo Baron strongly opposed this view, labeling it “the

92 Ibid., 210. 93 Maya Shabbat, Simon Bernfeld, 283-301. 94 Simon Bernfeld, Sefer ha-dma’ot 1 (Berlin: Eshkol, 1924-1926): 77. 95 Yitzhak Baer, Galut (Berlin: Schocken, 1936); Ben-Zion Dinur, “Galuyot ve-hurbanan,” in Dorot u-reshumot: mehkarim ve-iyunim be-historiografiyah ha-yisraelit, be-ba’ayoteihah u-be-toldoteihah ( Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1978), 175-192.

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lachrymose conception of Jewish history.”96 Despite the tragic—yet accurately predictive—narrative adopted by Bernfeld in The Book of Tears, he did not advocate for an insular and chauvinistic Jewish nationalism. In fact, he concluded the preface to his book with a liberal nationalist statement: “The Jewish Question can only be resolved satisfactorily by resolving the question of humanity.”97 Like Ahad Ha’am and Smolenskin before him, Bernfeld saw nationalism as a necessary tool for securing the national rights of Jews, which also include human rights, equality, and freedom. In his view, these rights could not be achieved in the Emancipation era within the framework of European nation-states, necessitating the need for a Jewish national movement to secure them.98 He argued that liberal Jews were mistaken in thinking that the Jewish Question could be resolved merely by assimilating into other nations and negating the national aspect of Judaism. The Book of Tears expressed the pessimism of the early Zionist movement regarding the ability of Enlightenment and progress to provide a real solution to the Jewish problem. This position did not negate the value of Haskalah and its values, but sought to integrate modern elements into Jewish life through nationalism. Let us now return to the main topic at hand. In the ten volumes of Ha-Shiloah edited by Ahad Ha’am from its inception to 1902, the enduring link between the historical past of the Jewish people and their contemporary situation is clearly illustrated. Ahad Ha’am’s view that Zionism represents an evolutionary phase in Jewish history is fully articulated. The publication served as a platform for articles exploring Jewish studies, as well as opinion pieces focused on current issues affecting the Jewish people. For instance, it featured surveys on the status of Jewish communities worldwide, articles on a range of historical topics, and a modest selection of fine Hebrew literature and poetry. Examining the volumes of Ha-Shiloah reveals that during the time Ahad Ha’am served as its editor, numerous scholars and writers contributed articles that addressed Jewish studies and contemporary questions.99 Klausner continued the developmental trend set by Ahad Ha’am, although he slightly shifted

96 Salo W. Baron, “Ghetto and Emancipation: Shall We Revise the Traditional View?” Menorah 14 (1928): 515-526. Baron presented his position extensively in the first edition of his comprehensive book: A Social and Religious History of the Jews, vols. 1-3 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1937). A contrasting approach is presented in the critical article: Yitzhak Baer, “Ha-historiyah ha-hevratit ve-ha-datit shel ha-yehudim: he’arot le-sifro he-hadash shel S. Baron,” Zion 3 (1938): 277-299. See also Conforti, State or Diaspora, 234-238. 97 Bernfeld, Sefer ha-dma’ot 1: 77. 98 Bernfeld was a Zionist intellectual, although he sometimes expressed critical views of Zionism’s western leadership. See Shabbat, Bernfeld, 155-168. 99 Barzilai, Ha-Shiloah, 1-64.

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the journal’s emphases. He participated in popularizing the scientific theories of Darwin, Spencer, Buckle, and Renan among educated Jewish readers.100 Eventually, Klausner became one of the founders of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem and influenced its character, much like other Zionist scholars who emerged in the cultural stream of Zionism.101

Conclusion The cultural and political activities of Ahad Ha’am and key figures in the cultural Zionist movement strengthen the view held by scholars of symbolic ethnic nationalism. These scholars argue that one cannot fully grasp modern nationalism without examining its cultural aspects in depth.102 Ahad Ha’am aimed to unveil the inner, subjective facets of Judaism to cultivate a national consciousness. To achieve this, he led the Bnei Moshe Association to make significant literary contributions (1889-1896), attempted to publish the Jewish encyclopedia Otsar Ha-Yahadut (1894-1906), and edited the newspaper Ha-Shiloah. The paper’s explicit objective was to uncover the evolving national spirit of the Jewish people. All these initiatives shared a single aim: to articulate the Jewish people’s subjective foundations and educate the emerging national generation based on these tenets. I am not arguing that the activities of Ahad Ha’am and other cultural leaders in Zionism were apolitical, or that their work had only marginal political significance. However, as seen in this chapter, the cultural component played a substantial role in the activities of these cultural leaders. Emphasizing only the political aspects of Zionism and interpreting Zionist culture in an instrumentalist manner—as if it were merely a means to an end—does not allow us to understand national consciousness as it was expressed during the period under study. Jewish studies greatly occupied Ahad Ha’am and the leaders of the cultural Zionist movement, and they aimed to use it to shape Zionist historical consciousness. In Ahad Ha’am’s view, the Zionist version of Jewish studies was 100 Shavit and Reinhartz, Darwin, 52-53, 147, 155. Klausner served as editor of the journal intermittently, until publication stopped in 1927. 101 See the appendix to Shaul Katz’s article “Mada tahor ba-universitah leumit: makhon Einstein le-matematika u-mekhonim aherim,” in Shaul Katz and Michael Hed, Toldot ha-universitah ha-ivrit: shorashim ve hathalot ( Jerusalem: Magnes,1997), 456; Shmuel Werses, Bein gilui le-kisui: Bialik be-sipur u-va-masa (Tel Aviv: Ha-Kibbutz Ha-me’uhad, 1984). Note that from the 1920s onward, Klausner was the leading political thinker of the Revisionist right in Palestine and forged his own independent path. 102 See the Introduction to this book.

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designed to strengthen Jewish national identity and serve as a foundation for Zionist revival. Cultural activists in Zionism created a non-territorial literary republic whose main aim was to deepen Jewish national identity during the transition from a traditional to a modern society. This is why diasporic Jewish nationalism, like that of Ahad Ha’am’s close friend Simon Dubnow, was also actively present in the cultural circles of Zionism itself. Both the cultural Zionists and the proponents of Jewish diaspora nationalism saw Judaism as a historical nation, not just a religion. Following discussion of the work of Smolenskin and Ahad Ha’am above, in the next chapter, I will address the decisive role played by Haim Nahman Bialik, Yehoshua Hone Ravnitzki, and other scholars in shaping national historical consciousness and Zionist historiography in the Land of Israel. In the early twentieth century, after Ahad Ha’am ended his role as the editor of Ha-Shiloah in late 1902, he continued to be active and contribute significantly, while his students took up leadership roles in the Hebrew cultural sphere. Moreover, in the 1920s, the center of Hebrew culture shifted from Europe to the Land of Israel. During this historically important process of Zionist movement consolidation in the Land of Israel, Bialik emerged as a cultural leader and initiator of Hebrew culture, further reinforcing the cultural component in Zionism.

Chapter 3

Haim Nahman Bialik and the Formation of Hebrew Culture

More than twenty years have passed since Bialik, in a letter to the editors of Dvir, sounded his clarion call heralding the renewal of Judaic Studies returning to its own language from the alien Western vernacular. Twenty years have passed since the establishment, in the summer of 1924, of the Institute for Jewish Studies on Mount Scopus as the first seed of the Hebrew University, a sign of the renewal of Jewish Studies in its homeland. Gershom Scholem, “Reflections on Modern Jewish Studies,” 19441

Introduction Haim Nahman Bialik is renowned in Zionist memory as a leading figure in modern Hebrew literature and as Israel’s national poet. In Zionist historiography as well, Bialik’s name is often closely linked with titles like “the poet” or “the

1 Gershom Scholem, “Reflections on Modern Jewish Studies,” in On the Possibility of Jewish Mysticism in Our Time and Essays, ed. Avraham Shapira (Philadelphia and Jerusalem: The Jewish Publication Society, 1997), 51. Originally published in Luah Ha-Aretz, 1944.

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national poet.” However, in this chapter, my primary focus is on Bialik as the initiator of Hebrew culture and the driving force behind the creation of a national alternative to Jewish studies, rather than on Bialik as a poet. I demonstrate that Bialik viewed his contributions to cultural activity and the shaping of Zionist historical consciousness as central to his life’s work. In the early twentieth century, he collaborated with Yehoshua Hone Ravnitzki on Sefer Ha-Aggadah (Book of legends) and spearheaded the “literary ingathering project for the Hebrew book,” an initiative far more ambitious than Ahad Ha’am’s attempted encyclopedia. In Bialik’s vision, this enterprise aimed to close the chapters of the Jewish diaspora and to form a national Jewish canon. Through his activities, encouragement, and influence on researchers, scholars, and Jewish intellectuals from both East and West, Bialik played a significant role in laying the groundwork for a Zionist version of Jewish studies. In his critique of the development of Jewish studies in nineteenth-century Germany, Gershom Scholem drew on Bialik’s words, which were as sharply critical as Scholem’s own provocative essay, “Reflections on Modern Jewish Studies,” published in 1944 during the dark days of mourning for the destruction of European Jewry. Both authors pointed out the desirable characteristics of Jewish studies in its Zionist version and severely criticized the universalist approach of nineteenth-century Jewish studies. Scholem, one of the heads of Jewish studies at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, fully identified with Bialik’s sharp criticisms of German Jewish intelligentsia. Bialik published his thoughts in a letter to the editors of the scientific journal Dvir, which he had initiated in 1923.2 Named after the publishing house that Bialik founded with Yehoshua Hone Ravnitzki, Dvir was the first academic journal dedicated to Jewish studies in Hebrew. It preceded the journals Tarbiz and Zion, which were published a few years later in Jerusalem. The letter was not a reaction to the editors’ activities, but rather a national statement of intent that Bialik initiated to define the appropriate nature of Jewish studies in their Zionist version. Bialik’s remarks in the letter should therefore be understood in the context of his initiative to establish this journal as a national platform for Jewish studies. The editors, Professors Ismar Moshe Elbogen, Ya’akov Nahum Epstein, and Naftali Hertz Tur-Sinai, began with enthusiastic remarks that underscored the publication of Dvir as an embodiment of Zionist and national rejuvenation.

2 Bialik, “Letter to the Editors,” Dvir 1 (1923): viii–xiii.

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Echoing Bialik, they announced the return of Jewish intellectual treasures to their original home—the Hebrew language and the Land of Israel.3 This chapter focuses on the activities of Haim Nahman Bialik as a cultural leader from the early twentieth century to the 1930s. His collaboration with other cultural figures contributed to shaping a Zionist historical consciousness and set the research directions that interested the founders of Zionist historiography in the Land of Israel. Many historians and scholars of Jewish studies who were active in Jerusalem during the first generation of Zionist historiography strongly identified with Bialik’s developmental approach and that of the cultural Zionist stream. Bialik’s ideas for shaping the Jewish bookshelf or establishing the literary ingathering enterprise for Hebrew books sparked debate and controversy. His evolutionary approach to Jewish history, following figures like Ahad Ha’am and Smolenskin, incensed other Zionist thinkers who aimed to create a revolutionary historical consciousness. This chapter describes the struggle to shape national historical consciousness during Bialik’s time and points to the significance of this cultural issue for the Zionist movement at large.

Zionism: Revolution or Evolution? The ethno-cultural stream in Zionism aimed to shape Jewish nationalism in direct connection with the Jewish past. Prominent Zionist scholars and thinkers saw the national movement as a continuation and development of premodern Jewish heritage. This trend, which began in the 1870s, encountered opposition from those who sought to see Zionism as a radical revolution negating the Jewish life in the diaspora. These two tendencies—the developmental and the revolutionary—operated side by side in the Zionist movement: one sought to renew the Jewish bookshelf in its entirety, while the other was more selective and insisted on building solely upon the foundations of the Bible and the Second Temple period. The evolutionary trend aimed to create a balance and harmony between the traditional past and the national future, whereas the latter aimed to create a new life not based on the heritage of the past. In the polemics between these two tendencies, the expressions “old” and “young” were used during an argument to describe the conflicting positions; the former denoting the developmental, conservative, and moderate approach, and the latter characterizing the revolutionary, radical, and rebellious approach.

3 “Petah Davar,” Dvir 1 (1923): v–vii.

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As I noted in the introduction of the book, scholars of nationalism have debated the question of how the modern nation-state was forced. The central issue of contention was whether nationalism was created as a new invention without historical roots, as Ernest Gellner argued, or whether it evolved from a preceding ethnic group, as Anthony Smith claimed.4 A similar polemic took place within Zionism itself, between “evolutionists,” associated with Ahad Ha’am, and “creationists,” or the revolutionary stance associated with Micha Josef Berdichevsky. As noted, Ahad Ha’am, like Smolenskin before him, held a developmentalist view that valued the Jewish past and was built upon it. In contrast, Berdichevsky’s position was revolutionary. He cast doubt on the heritage of the past and called for a new and original formation of Jewish nationalism. Ahad Ha’am, as we saw in the previous chapter, developed an evolutionary stance based on the thought of Herbert Spencer and a deep belief that the Jewish people are an organic historical entity. From ancient times to the present, it has been evolving within various historical contexts and responding to them.5 In opposition, Berdichevsky believed that the long, fragmented, and traumatic Jewish past stifled the potential for national development in the present. Therefore, it should be discarded: “We are slaves to our memories, slaves to our heritage, shackled by traditional and limited thoughts.”6 In contrast to Ahad Ha’am, Berdichevsky preferred the “big leap” from the nation’s glorious past—namely the Bible—to the era of revival, which is Zionism. His view of the Jewish past was turbulent and full of crises, unlike Ahad Ha’am’s developmental and harmonious picture of history. Berdichevsky’s negation of the past did not deny the historical existence of the Jewish people but left ample room for various shades, innovation, and revolution. He expressed this stance, for example, in the introduction to the anthology Me-Otsar Ha-Aggadah, which he edited. There, he stated: The Hebrew nation is also not a single, unique people with one spirit and one soul, because within it, different tribal forces clash, and they have different temperaments. The people of the East 4 See Introduction to this book, particularly the section “Was the World Created in the Eighteenth Century?” 5 As we saw in the previous chapter, other modern positivist thinkers—Spencer, Mill, Renan, Buckle, and Comte—also influenced Ahad Ha’am’s position. See, for example, the discussion on the influence of general intellectual trends on the different stances in the debate. See Dan Miron, Bodedim be-mo’adam: li-dyukanah shel ha-republikah ha-sifrutit ha-ivrit bi-thilat ha-me’ah ha-esrim (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1987), 363-365. 6 Micha Josef Berdichevsky, Kitvei Micha Yosef Ben-Gurion (Berdichevsky): ma’amarim, vol. 2 (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1960), 36.

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are not like those of the West, and the inhabitants of the North are not like the sons of the South. Anyone seeking one mold for them and one vision in their souls is but fantasizing.7 In other words, in contrast to Ahad Ha’am’s developmental harmonization, Berdichevsky identified cracks and conflicts in Jewish history. The ideological split between Ahad Ha’am and Berdichevsky reflected a deep division within the cultural camp of the Zionist movement, but as Avner Holtzman noted, this was an internal conflict.8 Thus, although Berdichevsky was leader of the young revolutionary writers, he devoted the 1910s to compiling Jewish legends from biblical times to the modern era, similar to Bialik and Ravnitzki’s Sefer Ha-Aggadah, which was first published in 1908. However, Sefer Ha-Aggadah clearly reflected the evolutionary, ethnic trend, which was contrary to Berdichevsky’s revolutionary approach. Nevertheless, the fact that Berdichevsky spent years researching Talmudic legends indicates his desire to preserve post-biblical, diasporic Jewish culture. His engagement with Talmudic legends shows that these divergent stances, between revolution and development, were part of a polemic within the same cultural world.9 Such a debate is not unique to the Jewish national movement. Scholars of nationalism with a cultural perspective have shown that polemics about the heritage of the past arise in many nationalist movements, raising acute questions of identity, such as “who are we” and “what is the purpose of our existence.”10 Therefore, despite Berdichevsky’s rebellion against traditional Judaism, he took an active and vital part in the Jewish cultural discourse of the Jewish community. He should not be confused with the radical positions of the Canaanite school of the 1940s and 1950s, even though they saw Berdichevsky and Brenner as their spiritual forerunners. From the outset of his career, Bialik was deeply influenced by the evolutionary approach of Ahad Ha’am and considered him his spiritual mentor. Internally, he sometimes contemplated the debate between Ahad Ha’am and Berdichevsky,

7 Micha Josef Berdichevsky, Me-otsar ha-aggadah, vol. 1 (Berlin: Aahisefer, 1914), xiii. This book was the basis for his volume Mi-makor yisrael, later edited by Berdichevsky’s son, Emmanuel Ben-Gurion. 8 Avner Holtzman, Melekhet mahshevet—tehiyat ha-umah: ha-sifrut ha-ivrit le-nokhah ha-omanut ha-plastit (Haifa: Zemora Bitan, 1999), 26. 9 Ruth Shenfeld, “Bein Bialik le-Berdichevsky,” in Micha Josef Berdichevsky: mehkarim ve-te’udot, ed. Avner Holtzman ( Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 2002), 327-348. 10 Smith, Ethno-Symbolism, 33-35; John Hutchinson, “Ethnicity and Modern Nations,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 23, no. 4 (2000): 651-669; John Hutchinson, Nations as Zones of Conflict (London: Sage, 2005), 77-113.

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whom he considered the two giants of modern Hebrew culture, but in practice, Bialik remained loyal throughout his life to Ahad Ha’am’s position. From various expressions, we see that Bialik lent an ear to Berdichevsky’s arguments. But in the polemics between the approaches, he always sided with Ahad Ha’am’s moderate developmental approach over Berdichevsky’s revolutionary and radical one. As a poet and literary figure, he understood Berdichevsky’s demand for absolute freedom, emphasizing the centrality of the new Jewish individual. However, as a cultural leader, he operated in the spirit of Ahad Ha’am’s approach, which emphasized the organic unity of the Jewish people in their historical development.11 The personal relationship between Bialik and Berdichevsky is also intriguing. Bialik did not agree to publish his poems in Berdichevsky’s publishing house Ha-Tehiya, which was established to expand the boundaries of Hebrew literature in contrast to Ahad Ha’am’s policy and the journal Ha-Shiloah. As is clear from Bialik’s letter to Berdichevsky, his heart was not with the young intellectuals: “Regarding [the new publishing house), you say you are establishing, even though my opinion leans more toward Ahad Ha’am’s in his article “Tsorekh ve-yekholet” (Need and capability), written in response to two of your articles.” In that same letter, Bialik also lavished praise on Ahad Ha’am, whom he saw as the leading teacher of the generation: “He is unique within us, as one who confidently goes his own way, quietly, without the sound of heroic and vain, like a true disciple of our forefather Abraham, doing more than he promises.”12 This alignment with Ahad Ha’am remained constant throughout his life. A portrait of Ahad Ha’am hung above Bialik’s work desk, and it was not merely a symbolic gesture. Later, when Bialik edited the literature section of Ha-Shiloah, he even rejected Berdichevsky’s stories for publication due to the “nature” of the journal Ha-Shiloah.13 Nevertheless, Bialik viewed Berdichevsky as a “very great Jew,” a prominent scholar whose arguments were not to be ignored. For example, when he eulogized Berdichevsky in Berlin in 1922, he emphasized his central place in modern Hebrew literature: “How poor and destitute our era would have been, how fragmented and stunted, without Berdichevsky.” From this we learn that

11 Bialik’s complex stance toward Berdichevsky’s thought was expressed on several occasions. He remained steadfast in his loyalty to Ahad Ha’am’s developmental approach, but was also irresistibly drawn to the questions posed by Berdichevsky, as evidenced by his unpublished eulogy for Berdichevsky, revealed by Avner Holtzman. See Holtzman, “Hu hai be-moto”: ha-nusah ha-ganuz shel hartsa’at Bialik al M. Y. Berdichevsky, u-svivo,” Huliyot 11 (2009): 61-75; Simon Rawidowicz, Sihotai im Bialik ( Jerusalem: Dvir, 1983), 36, 40-42. 12 Bialik, Igrot, 1:98-99; Holtzman, Ha-nusah ha-ganuz, 64-65. 13 Ibid., 65.

Haim Nahman Bialik and the Formation of Hebrew Culture

Bialik recognized Berdichevsky’s contribution to the national revival project as the “hidden cornerstone.” Bialik also emphasized Berdichevsky’s Jewishness despite his revolutionary approach: “Before us is a heretic in every principle, who sets himself apart and operates outside the rules—yet he himself is the inner core—standing both before and within, he himself is the [ Jewish] entirety.” That is, despite his declared heresy, Berdichevsky remained in Bialik’s eyes a Jew in every fiber of his being, and his literary work belonged to the Jewish canon of modern Hebrew literature. In his eulogy, Bialik also lent a keen ear to Berdichevsky’s historical—or metahistorical—perspective, questioning, “Judaism? Which Judaism? Whose Judaism? That of Moses, Elijah, David, Rabbi Yehuda Ha-Nasi, or Maimonides? Who’s to say the victors are necessarily the righteous? Perhaps the opposite? Perhaps—certainly the opposite. Perhaps doubt is preferable.”14 Bialik’s eulogy was so empathetic toward Berdichevsky and his ideas that Simon Rawidowicz, who was present at the event, noted in his diary, “A complete revolution in Bialik’s views.” In this eulogy, which later appeared partially in a collection of Bialik’s speeches titled Devarim she-ba’al peh, he emphasized the difficult questions Berdichevsky raised concerning the essence of Jewish history.15 Was history a harmonious progression, or did it contain fractures, currents, conflicts, and contradictory tendencies that the victorious forces hid to create a dominant and hegemonic narrative? While Bialik articulated Berdichevsky’s position well, he strongly opposed it. He supported the evolutionary perspective and opposed the revolutionary stance of the young intellectuals. In his view, much like his predecessors Ahad Ha’am and Smolenskin, radical revolution jeopardized the hoped-for national cultural transformation and was therefore detrimental to the national revival effort.16 Bialik wholly identified with the evolutionary approach in Zionism and with Ahad Ha’am, who introduced the evolutionary concept into cultural Zionist

14 Bialik’s original eulogy for Berdichevsky appears ibid., 72-75. 15 Rawidowicz, Sihotai im Bialik, 36, 40-42. Bialik presented Berdichevsky’s positions with an empathy that seemed like complete identification, but that was not the case. See Holtzman, Ha-nusah ha-ganuz, 74. This issue troubled Bialik for many years, as recounted by Levi BenAmitai in “H. N. Bialik be-Degania B,” in Me’asef mukdash le-yetsirat Haim Nahman Bialik, ed. Hillel Barzel (Ramat Gan: Massada, 1975), 353-355. Ben-Amitai referred to a speech that Bialik made at Degania B in the early 1930s. In this speech, Bialik spoke with great enthusiasm and expressed vehement criticism of Berdichevsky’s revolutionary stance. Interestingly, the eulogy published by Holtzman does not appear in Bialik’s collection, “On Y. M. Berdichevsy,” in Bialik, Devarim she-ba’al peh (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1935), 2:184-185. 16 Bialik tried to reconcile these contradictions in a lecture delivered in Berlin in 1922: “Al ha-shniyut be-yisrael,” Devarim she-ba’al peh, 1:39-45.

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thought. As mentioned, Ahad Ha’am argued that “the Jewish people is one throughout its generations, and the individuals who come and go in each generation are but like those small parts in a living body, which are constantly being renewed every day, without changing the general unity of the body as a whole.”17 This national, evolutionary, positivist approach, expressed in his first essay “Lo zeh ha-derekh,” characterized the evolutionary stance in Zionism. Bialik later expressed his full identification with this in a speech delivered at the University of London in 1931: I must begin by expressing my satisfaction that I have the opportunity to speak in this institution and from this podium, which was established in the name of my great teacher, Ahad Ha’am, of blessed memory. On the other hand, I am reminded that in this institution sat and propagated his doctrine the renowned scholar Darwin, the father of the theory of evolution. I see this as symbolic, for Ahad Ha’am’s theory was essentially a theory of evolution in Judaism.18 I discussed the connection between the theories of Darwin and Spencer and Ahad Ha’am’s evolutionary thought in the previous chapter. In Bialik’s remarks, we can discern that this was a coherent theoretical stance that characterized Ahad Ha’am as “the teacher” and subsequently influenced Bialik’s own perspective as “the disciple.” Those who held this developmental viewpoint believed that in their era, spanning the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the Jewish people were in the midst of a significant historical transition: “at a crossroads,” in the words of Ahad Ha’am, or “twilight hours,” in Bialik’s terminology. During this period, the Jewish people were navigating tumultuous shifts between worlds: from tradition to modernity, from religion to nationalism, and from East to West. This crisis consciousness shaped their developmental view, aimed at offering a cautious and balanced path through these turbulent times. The concern was that the Jewish consciousness might weaken and the Jewish identity might crumble beyond repair. Therefore, an awareness of Jewish history and scholarly studies in Judaism served as anchors for these thinkers, providing a foundation upon which to build a national future. Below I will trace this developmental trend

17 Ahad Ha’am, “Lo zeh ha-derekh,” in Kol kitvei, 12. 18 Bialik, Devarim she-ba’al peh, 2:37.

Haim Nahman Bialik and the Formation of Hebrew Culture

and its relationship to Jewish studies in the first three decades of the twentieth century in the Land of Israel.

Haim Nahman Bialik as a Cultural Leader Ahad Ha’am’s retirement from the editorship of Ha-Shiloah at the end of 1902 marked the end of an era in the leadership of cultural Zionism: a changing of the guard took place, from Ahad Ha’am to Bialik in the leadership of the cultural camp. At only twenty-eight, Joseph Klausner was appointed to be the editor of Ha-Shiloah, but he did not have the authoritative standing needed to take over the cultural leadership from Ahad Ha’am. From that point on, Bialik took up the mantle of leadership for the cultural stream in Zionism. Although Ahad Ha’am continued to be active until the 1920s, his immense prestige gradually waned. During the 1890s, even his critics treated him with great respect and viewed him as a spiritual father. In contrast, during the first decade of the twentieth century, the students of Berdichevsky, Yehoshua Thon, and Mordechai Ehrenpreis, including for example Yosef Haim Brenner, demonstrated much less reverence for Ahad Ha’am when aiming their criticism at him.19 After stepping down from the editorial board of Ha-Shiloah, Haim Nahman Bialik wrote the poem “Le-Ahad Ha’am” (To Ahad Ha’am) ( January 1903) about the admired cultural leader. The poem not only extolled the greatness of “the Teacher,” but also marked a transformation in Bialik himself. Bialik became the generation’s representative,20 effectively replacing Ahad Ha’am. From that point, he was perceived by himself and others as the prominent cultural leader of his time.21 Until then, Bialik had written in the first-person singular, but in this poem, he became a representative of the public, the spokesperson of the generation of Jewish revival. Phrases like “we were born” and “we, the children of transition” pointed to a generational distinction between the world of exile and the yeshiva tradition, and the national-cultural renaissance. In this poem, Bialik spoke for many young Jews who had left traditional homes in Eastern Europe and saw in Ahad Ha’am a spiritual father who granted them the legitimacy to choose a national, cultural, and modern Jewish identity, over one based solely on religion.

19 Dan Miron, Bodedim be-mo’adam, 339, 355-362. 20 Bialik, “Le-Ahad Ha’am,” Ha-Shiloah 11 (1903): 93-95. 21 Holtzman, Bialik, 13; Asaf Inbari, “Haguto ha-sifrutit-tarbutit shel Bialik” (PhD diss., Bar Ilan University, 2008), 99-100.

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Thus Bialik referred to Ahad Ha’am in this poem as “the Teacher,” as he saw him as both teacher and prophet. Bialik sang his praises as the one who had illuminated the path for the confused youth. While the young generation was still bewildered and lost during these “twilight” times, Ahad Ha’am appeared as a teacher and prophet, dispersing the fog of confusion for the young generation, graduates of the old yeshiva. While our gaze was still fixed within the mist, As we wandered, despairing and of little faith, Hesitating at the crossroads, asking: Where? Your star, our Teacher, flashed a hidden signal, Called us out of the mist and drew us in— And we all gathered beneath your singular star.22 To Bialik, Ahad Ha’am’s writings and thoughts was a moral compass for a generation of young Jews who were seeking their way. These youths made their way to the Hebrew literary republic at the turn of the twentieth century, they joined this generational experience as individuals.23 In a letter to Joseph Klausner, Bialik explained the immense impact that Ahad Ha’am’s articles had on him while he was a student at the Volozhin Yeshiva: “I was an ‘Ahad Ha’ami’ (follower of Ahad Ha’am). A day on which I read a new article by Ahad Ha’am was a good day for me. Every word that came from him seemed to be aimed directly at me and penetrated the depths of my understanding.”24 For Bialik’s generation, Ahad Ha’am was both teacher and prophet of truth: From the day your teaching’s light, our Teacher, came to rest upon us— We saw you as the angel of truth, a titan of the spirit, Pure of mind, modest and unblemished, both in private and in public, Secure in your own truth, unreliant upon another’s wisdom, Walking your unique path, with keen insight and vigor, Bearing the ember in your heart, far and away within, Guarding the last divine spark—

22 Bialik, Ha-shirim: Ha-mahadurah ha-mle’ah ve-ha-me’udkenet, ed. Avner Holtzman (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 2005), 238. 23 Miron, Bodedim be-mo’adam, 121-122. 24 Bialik, Igrot, 1:168.

Haim Nahman Bialik and the Formation of Hebrew Culture

We behold you as a central star, glittering and circling its sphere, Drawing the satellites of its orbit around it, Binding them from afar by an unseen force to its path; Some will measure their souls by your light and see, Lo, much of their light comes from you and is in you contained. This lofty poem expressed sincere emotions that Bialik harbored for many years, both before and after this period. However, the days of Bialik’s rise to the status of a cultural leader were also days of decline and weakening for Ahad Ha’am. Therefore, the poem also reflects the shift in cultural leadership from Ahad Ha’am to Bialik himself. In late 1902 and early 1903, the first stage of the Zionist culture controversy came to an end. This conflict revolved around the question of Zionist education, its character, and the religious orientation of the entire Zionist movement. Lasting from the second to the fifth Zionist Congress, the culture dispute split the Zionist movement between conservatives and the cultural camp led by Ahad Ha’am.25 Around the same time, Ahad Ha’am initiated another polemic, this time against the leader of the Zionist movement, Theodor Herzl, who in September 1902 published his utopian novel Altneuland. Ahad Ha’am published a sharply critical review in Ha-Shiloah, mocking Herzl’s Western vision that offered a quick, magical solution to the Jewish question. Herzl and Max Nordau, leaders of political Zionism, responded fiercely, portraying Ahad Ha’am as a bitter enemy of the Zionist movement and its objectives. While the polemic was indeed personal—between Ahad Ha’am and Herzl—among Russian Zionists it left a harsh impression of contempt for Eastern Jews on the part of Western Zionists, led by Nordau. The introduction of the Uganda Plan at the Sixth Zionist Congress in August 1903 came as a surprise for all involved. However, when the crisis hit, the Zionist movement found itself divided—split between East and West, between supporters and detractors. The sudden death of Herzl in July 1904 sent shockwaves through all factions of the movement. This disarray was further amplified by the pogroms in Russia in 1905, the same year of the first Communist Revolution. This period of 1902 to 1905 was marked by a series of crises within the Zionist movement. During these years, the once-dominant spiritual influence

25 See Luz, Makbilim nifgashim; Salmon, Do Not Provoke Providence, 239-251, 317-326; Shmuel Almog, Yehuda Reinharz, and Anita Shapira, eds., Tsiyonut ve-dat ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 1994).

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of Ahad Ha’am waned. Although previously viewed by many as the era’s leading teacher and a national prophet—even by his critics—his authority increasingly declined. This period saw the rise of Bialik as not just the national poet, but also a cultural leader. In the 1890s, Bialik made his way into the core of Hebrew literature, thanks to the support of scholarly circles in Odessa. By the early 1900s, he had become a leading cultural figure among the Zionists. Between 1900 and 1905, Bialik published some of his most influential national poems, including “Metei Midbar” (The dead of the desert), which first appeared in Ha-Shiloah in April 1902. This poem defined the relationship between the diaspora Jews, referred to as the “desert generation,” and the Zionists, seen as the “generation of revival.” His next notable poem, “Be-ir ha-harigah” (In the city of slaughter) was a reaction to the Kishinev pogrom in April 1903. It challenged the values of the diaspora and called for Jewish activism. Another major work, “Megilat ha-esh” (Scroll of fire), was written in October 1905 during the first Communist Revolution.26 This poem allegorically charted the course of Jewish history from the days of ruin and Exile to the era of Zionist national redemption.27 During this time, Bialik evolved from a poet of personal sentiment to one who spoke for the nation, signifying a shift in Hebrew poetry from the individual to the collective.28 Bialik’s first major endeavor as a national cultural initiator came in 1901 when he co-founded the Moriah publishing house with partners Simcha Ben-Zion Ben-Zion and Yehoshua Hone Ravnitzki. Their goal was to publish Hebrew textbooks. Moriah became an important book publisher in Hebrew culture,

26 Inbari, Bialik, 101-103. For the text of the poems with explanations of the historical context, see Bialik, Ha-shirim, 218-226, 253-262, 308-328. 27 Regarding the foundational status of the poem “Metei midbar,” see Zvi Luz, ed., Al “metei midbar”: masot al ha-po’emah le-Bialik (Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan University, 1988). Bialik published the poem after leading a delegation on behalf of the Historical Committee headed by Simon Dubnow that was established in Odessa to document the riots. Ahad Ha’am, Dubnow, Ravnitzki, Bialik, and Mordechai Rabinovitz (Ben-Ami) published a proclamation calling for Jewish action and self-defense. Bialik stayed in Kishinev for five weeks to gather evidence and began composing the poem there. He later completed it on October 2, 1903. See Bialik, Igrot, 1:174. On its immense impact, see Moshe Ungerfeld, “Keitsad hiber Bialik et ‘Al ha-shehitah’ ve-et ‘Ba-ir ha-harigah,’” in Me’asef mukdash le-yetsirat Haim Nahman Bialik, ed. Hillel Barzel (Ramat Gan: Sifriyat Makor, 1975), 337-341, and Uzi Shavit and Ziva Shamir, eds., Be-mevo’ei ir ha-harigah: mivhar ma’amarim al shiro shel Bialik (Tel Aviv: Ha-Kibbutz Ha-Me’uhad, 1994). 28 Dan Miron suggests this interpretation of Bialik’s poetry. In the first decade of his work (18911901), Bialik’s focus was primarily on the “I,” even if it included national expressions. In the second decade of his work, he served as a public representative. See Dan Miron, Ha-preidah min ha-ani ha-‘ani: mahalakh be-hitpathut shirato ha-mukdemet shel H. N. Bialik (1891-1901) (Tel Aviv: Open University, 1986); Inbari, Bialik, 98-113.

Haim Nahman Bialik and the Formation of Hebrew Culture

alongside Tushiya, founded by the Bnei Moshe association.29 At the invitation of Klausner, Bialik also served as the literary editor of Ha-Shiloah from 1904 to 1909. Through this role, he cemented his position as a leading authority among Hebrew writers.

From Sefer Ha-Aggadah to the Literary Ingathering Project During the first decade of the twentieth century, Bialik became a central cultural leader in the Zionist movement and beyond. Both because of his poetic writing and his extensive activities in Hebrew culture, he was a beloved figure throughout the Jewish world. The Moriah publishing house played a central role in nurturing Hebrew education and pedagogy at the beginning of the century. During this decade, Bialik and Ravnitzki also focused on Sefer Ha-Aggadah. This cultural project, along with the literary ingathering project for Hebrew books, which he announced in a speech in Vienna in 1913, were in Bialik’s view the most vital matters in Jewish culture. In this, he continued the ethnic cultural trend set by Peretz Smolenskin and Ahad Ha’am. Bialik aspired to create what he called a “people’s book,” that would be found in every Jewish home and become part of modern Jewish life. This was the case with Sefer Ha-Aggadah, which indeed gained widespread distribution, and was part of his broader vision to establish a Jewish bookshelf, which would include the entire range of classical and modern Hebrew literature. After completing work on Sefer Ha-Aggadah Bialik wrote the poem “Lifnei aron ha-sefarim” (Before the bookshelf) in the summer of 1910. This poem expressed his way of grappling with the old Jewish world and his desire to embed these ancient literary treasures into the fabric of modern Jewish life.30 Although Bialik had already written poems that related to the old study halls, such as “Al saf beit ha-midrash” (1894) and “Ha-matmid” (1894/5), on the world of the Volozhin Yeshiva in the early 1890s, his poem “Lifnei aron ha-sefarim” contained an almost explicit reference to his work in compiling the legends in Sefer Ha-Aggadah.

29 Bialik, “Al Dvir u-Moriyah,” in H. N. Bialik, Ktavim genuzim shel Haim Nahman Bialik: mitokh ha-izavon (Tel Aviv: Beit Bialik, 1971), 344-352. 30 Adam Rubin, “‘Like a Necklace of Black Pearls Whose String Has Snapped’: Bialik’s ‘Aron ha-sefarim’ and the Sacralization of Zionism,” Prooftexts 28, no. 2 (Spring 2008): 157-196. See also Dan Miron, Bo’ah, lailah: iyunim be-yetzirot H. N. Bialik ve-M. Y. Berdichevsky (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1987), 125-189, esp. 187-189.

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In vain, as an underground thief, Without lamp or lantern, I groped with shovel Through dusty caverns and in darkness, Day and night I dug through your graves, Burrowing deep in search of hidden life, Beyond and beneath the edges of their roots. While in that time, above and beyond me, They stormed over city and dead, over hill and mound, And before all luminaries, their noise of their learning, Repeated their dance seven times.31 This poem aptly captures the tension between the old world of yeshiva style tradition and the life of the modern Jew who has long abandoned that world. In modern reality, the old world has been severed from life and there is no longer anyone to express its cultural values. The speaker digs “through dusty caverns and in darkness” in an attempt to rescue the cultural treasures that have descended into the grave: I will look, I will see—yet I will not recognize you, elders, From within your letters, you will open your eyes no more No more will you peer into the abyss of my soul, The downcast eyes of ancient elders, Nor will I hear from there the murmur of their lips, The whispering in a grave long forgotten and deserted.32 Bialik sought to bridge the gap between the old world, which was sealed off to the younger generation, and modern Jewish society that had turned its back on its glorious past. This was the aim of his Sefer Ha-Aggadah: to bridge the old with the new. This was also Bialik’s intent when he conceived the idea of the literary ingathering project.33 As depicted in the poem, the author strives to rescue the Jewish bookshelf from the grave. Here, he acts as if he may not have enough time to salvage the forgotten treasures of Jewish culture from the depths of the past. This sentiment in Bialik’s poem recalls the words of Ahad Ha’am when he tried to persuade philanthropist Kalman Wissotzky to support the publication of the Jewish Encyclopedia. Ahad Ha’am wrote that he saw himself as “a man who sees

31 Bialik, Ha-shirim, 377. 32 Ibid., 376-377. 33 Sabba-Elran, Zikhronot hadashim, 260-277.

Haim Nahman Bialik and the Formation of Hebrew Culture

his house ablaze from all sides, who abandons all his possessions and focuses only on rescuing some small scrap of paper from the flames—a promissory note or a deed—whose value exceeds everything else.”34 Bialik rejected Ahad Ha’am’s idea of an encyclopedia as a solution to the problem of modern Jewish national identity, calling instead for a much broader scientific literary endeavor. However, despite their differences in approach, their motivation was identical. They both sought to salvage the treasures of Jewish culture for the sake of building the future. In this context, their motivations were also similar to those of Leopold Zunz, the founder of Jewish studies in Germany in the 1920s. Like Ahad Ha’am and Bialik, Zunz expressed nearly a century earlier a concern for the loss of Jewish culture in the modern era. Despite the ideological and methodological differences, there was much similarity in the sentiments of these Jewish scholars and thinkers who found themselves at the heart of a cultural crisis: between old and new, past and future, and traditional society and modern society. Bialik expressed this in a cautionary poetic manner in “Lifnei aron ha-sefarim”: Like strings of black pearls, their thread severed, Your rows lie before me; your pages are widowed, And each letter and letter is an orphan to its soul— Has my eye dimmed, has my ear deafened? The broken strand of pearls symbolizes the rift between the past and the present. Bialik tried to reweave these disconnected pearls onto a delicate thread to create a modern national narrative that would balance the old world with the new. Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi also expressed the loss of the old world in his book Zakhor, which addresses the Jewish identity crisis between the “age of memory” and the “age of history,” between tradition and modernity. In the opening of the chapter on “Modern Dilemmas,” Yerushalmi quotes Franz Kafka’s “Letter to His Father,” in which the son (Kafka) describes this generational crisis: Indeed, you had brought some traces of Judaism with you from the ghetto-like village community. It was not much, and it dwindled even more in the city and during your military service. Still, the impression and memories of your youth did suffice for some sort of Jewish life . . . in this there was still Judaism enough, but it

34 Ahad Ha’am, Kol kitvei, 104.

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was too little to be handed on to the child; it dribbled away and evaporated as you tried to pass it on.35 Kafka referred to the crisis among the second or third generation, but the “modern dilemmas” that Yerushalmi analyzed are the same dilemmas. The entire effort of the cultural stream in the Zionist movement was a response to the modern Jewish identity crisis, and its aim was to find a way to bridge the gap between the “two authorities” that Bialik pointed out—between the traditional past and the modern present. Bialik’s response to the Jewish memory crisis came to full expression in his literary ingathering project for, which aimed to create a canonization of Hebrew literature for future generations, or as he termed it, a “seal” (hatima). This idea came to him in the first decade of the twentieth century, and he first presented it in 1910 in his speech at the National Conference of the Association for Hebrew Language and Culture in Kiev. He further elaborated on the program in 1913 in his lecture at the Conference for Hebrew Language and Culture held in Vienna.36 In his 1910 speech in Kiev, Bialik argued for the establishment of a “higher institution” that would be responsible for the cultural work of the Jewish people. Then, as before, Bialik emphasized the centrality of the Hebrew language and his aspiration to incorporate into Hebrew all the treasures of Jewish intellectual legacy written in different languages. He said, “We must return to the language of Hebrew literature and restore to it the scattered sparks. We should translate into Hebrew all the creations of our spirit.”37 Bialik believed that the gravest sin committed by Jews throughout history was their abandonment of the Hebrew language. He said, “The national betrayal began not with the abandonment of faith and the weakening of belief, but with the neglect of language; [. . .] Wherever you find a complete neglect of the Hebrew language, there the nation is doomed.”38 He derogatorily referred to Jewish scholars who had forsaken Hebrew as “translated Jews” or “spiritual apostates.” His words were especially directed towards Jewish scholars who developed Jewish studies but wrote their research in other languages, primarily German. In this speech, Bialik called for the first time to “collect Hebrew books,” by which he meant to create a canonical order of Hebrew literature and make it

35 Cited in Yerushalmi, Zakhor, 77. 36 Bialik, “Al te’udat ha-knesiyah ha-tarbutit,” in Devarim she-ba’al peh, 1:9-14. On the various versions of his lecture “Ha-sefer ha-ivri” and the responses to it in the Hebrew press, see Werses, Bein gilui le-kisui, 109-127. 37 Bialik, “Al te’udat ha-knesiyah ha-tarbutit,” 10. 38 Bialik, “Al umah ve-lashon,” in Devarim she-ba’al peh, 1:16.

Haim Nahman Bialik and the Formation of Hebrew Culture

accessible to younger generations. He stated, “All are aware that our language is very rich in all branches of literature—yet there is no book. [. . .] Should one wish to know the content and essence of Hebrew literature, to understand the character of his people not through mediator, we have thousands of volumes but not a single organized set of books.”39 Bialik aimed to establish a literary framework that would unite the entire people through a general, communal institution, rather than through private organization. To that end, he argued for the publication of a Hebrew journal that would bring Jewish studies back into the fold of the people and the Hebrew language: The assembly should establish a journal for Jewish Studies in Hebrew, to reclaim this topic from the domain of the scholars of other nations. There’s no shortage of contributors for this field in our original literature; however, they have no place to develop. Who knows how many Zunzes and Geigers we would have among us if we had literature and a literary institution for scholarly works?40 Clearly, Bialik’s aim in the literary ingathering project (mif’al ha-kinus) was to facilitate the creation of Jewish studies in the Hebrew language. Alongside his sharp critique of Judaic studies in Germany, Bialik formed a plan aimed at developing Judaic studies in Hebrew. This call sparked debate among Zionist thinkers which continued in 1913 when the Conference for Hebrew Language and Culture convened. The conference was covered in the Hebrew press, and Bialik’s plan was presented for public debate across the Jewish world. While the plan never fully materialized, Bialik worked tirelessly until his death in 1934 to implement his literary ingathering project in various ways and with considerable success.41 From his perspective, engaging with Hebrew literature was a matter not only for university scholars and the academic research world, but also for general education at all levels of study and learning. In his lecture “The Hebrew Book,” Bialik laid out his philosophy regarding the ingathering project for Hebrew literature. The full text of this speech was published in Ha-Shiloah (1914), where he distilled the essence of his mission and overall plan. Bialik’s approach was grounded in his developmental

39 Bialik, “Al te’udat ha-knesiyah ha-tarbutit,” 11. 40 Ibid., 12. 41 Bartal, Kozak u-beduy, 98-121.

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nationalism, aiming to bridge the gap between old and new, between religion and nationalism, and between the diaspora and the homeland. This is also why his plan sparked debate and controversy, particularly among those who sought to see Zionism as a radical revolution. To preempt criticism and to counter objections from radical circles, Bialik clarified in his lecture that national revival aimed to renew the Jewish past in a modern spirit, but not to uproot everything from its foundations: Every revival, or “renaissance,” is essentially nothing more than a rediscovery of the past, but via a new and short road, in effect: a new quick turn of an old wheel. Any ‘revolution,’ as long as it occurs within the bounds of the given national culture and its atmosphere, starts there–with early beginnings. The pruning of plants does not mean their uprooting or ultimate destruction. On the contrary, a large part of the trunk is left, whether for the purpose of having it blossom again or in order to graft onto it new shoots; and that “remnant” of the trunk is the indestructible vertebra spinal cord of the age.42 Bialik argued against those leaning towards the revolutionary youth, the “guardians of our freedom,” who opposed his traditional approach to the unity of the people. He clarified that the aim of the literary ingathering was national, not religious, and he had no intention to create a new Shulchan Arukh or to bolster rabbinical orthodoxy. His goal was to “produce a new ‘collection,’ national, of course, and not religious, of the best works in Hebrew literature of all time.”43 From this, it appears that Bialik offered a secular alternative to Hebrew tradition. However, precise examination of his words shows that he used the term “national,” not “secular.” In his view, as in the view of his predecessors in the cultural stream, nationalism encompasses religion, not the other way around. Bialik did not aim to negate the religious dimension in Jewish nationalism. He demanded from Jewish studies scholars involved in the ingathering project: “The attitude towards this work should be the same in all periods, recognizing the great responsibility which is placed by the people upon all who attempt to deal with its holy of holies—I should say: an attitude of sanctification.”44 42 Haim Nahman Bialik, The Hebrew Book, trans. Minnie Halkin ( Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1951), 14. The original Hebrew is in: Bialik, “Ha-sefer ha-ivri,” Ha-Shiloah 29 (1914), 417. 43 Bialik, The Hebrew Book, 15. 44 Ibid. Adam Rubin rightly emphasized the fact that Bialik did not depart from the religious dimension. Yet as opposed to the post-colonial theoretical framework he suggested, I would argue that the ethno-symbolic approach is more accurate in this case. Rubin, “Aron ha-sefarim.”

Haim Nahman Bialik and the Formation of Hebrew Culture

In this context, I believe that the ethno-symbolic approach in the study of nationalism can offer a more fitting explanation to Bialik’s concept of sanctity in the literary ingathering project. In his book Chosen Peoples, Anthony Smith proposed viewing modern nationalism in its “religious” dimensions as a community of sacred partnership. Smith’s distinction is particularly relevant to the case study of Jewish nationalism in general, and to Bialik’s efforts in particular.45 Smith’s approach in the study of modern nationalism reveals the “inner” subjective dimension of modern national movements. Regarding Jewish nationalism, he asserted that “for in the Jewish case par excellence a community of descent is also a faith community, and vice versa.”46 According to Smith, modern nationalism does indeed create modern “civil religions” as sometimes described in research, but in practice, “the result is a national community of faith and belonging, a sacred communion, every bit as potent and demanding as that sought by ancient Jewish prophets and psalmists.”47 Bialik’s demand from Jewish researchers and scholars to exhibit an “attitude of sanctity” when engaging with Hebrew literature through the ages aptly illustrates this insight in relation to Jewish nationalism. In addition to the aspect of sanctity that emerges from Bialik’s words, a careful reading of his lecture “The Hebrew Book” shows how closely his literary ingathering project was tied to his desire to establish Jewish studies in a Zionist spirit. Bialik outlined in his program foundational guidelines for a metahistory of national Jewish identity. Bialik’s literary gathering was not intended to address Hebrew belle-lettres alone. The term “literature” that Bialik adopted refers to Hebrew thought in general. This approach endowed his gathering project with a distinct scholarly aspect, similar in essence to the work of Jewish studies scholars in the nineteenth century. If the term “literature” connotes not merely belle-lettres, but mainly signifies the sum total of the expression of national thought and feeling in every manner of literary form during the different ages—then our modern literature, when compared with that which preceded it, is no more than a drop in the sea. It suffices merely to indicate the known sub-divisions of the literature: the Bible, the apocryphal writings, the Talmud

45 Anthony D. Smith, Chosen Peoples: Sacred Sources of National Identity (Oxford: Oxford University Press 2003), 19-43. 46 Ibid., 23. 47 Ibid.

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in its two principal aspects—Halakhah and Aggadah— Philosophy, Kabbalah, Poetry, Ethics, Homiletics, Hasidism, Folk-literature.”48 Bialik directed his efforts toward the entirety of Hebrew literature. In this aspect, there is a similarity between Bialik’s concept and the cultural enterprise of Leopold Zunz (1794-1886). In his programmatic essay “Etwas über die rabbinische Literatur,” (On rabbinic literature) (1818), Zunz urged his learned colleagues to explore all realms of Hebrew literature, among other reasons, because he assumed that “Hebrew books are still easier to acquire than they are likely to be in 1919.”49 Zunz laid out a detailed scientific plan for the study of Hebrew literature based on an emancipatory ideology. Bialik, on the other hand, operated from a wholly different ideology, a nationalist one that saw the Hebrew language, the historical unity of the Jewish people, and the land of Israel as the threads connecting Jewish past and future. Bialik encouraged Jewish scholars to clarify and compile the best of Hebrew literature. While the two programs are not identical, both related to the past as part of the present, as Zunz noted. Only someone who sees a nation’s literature as a gateway to understanding its cultural evolution over time can truly grasp its significance. Such a person understands how every moment shapes this literature, how it is formed from both internal and external influences—whether it is fate, climate, customs, religion, or even chance. They recognize how these elements intertwine, sometimes as allies, sometimes as adversaries, and finally, how the present is shaped as an inevitable outcome of all that has come before. Only then can someone stand in awe of the monumental truth this represents, and humbly walk through this gateway, ultimately to enjoy the sweeping, uplifting view that awaits from the temple’s heights.50 As previously noted, and as we will see below based on more evidence, Bialik was highly critical of Jewish studies as they evolved in Germany. However, his

48 Bialik, The Hebrew Book, 7. 49 Leopold Zunz, “Mashehu al ha-sifrut ha-rabanit,” in Hokhmat yisrael: hebetim histori’im u-filosofi’im, ed. Paul Mendes Flohr ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 1979), 82. German original: Leopold Zunz, “Etwas über die rabbinische Literatur,” in L. Zunz, Gesammelte Schriften, vol. 1 (Berlin: Louis Gerschel Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1875), 1–31. 50 Zunz, “Mashehu al ha-sifrut ha-rabanit,” 85.

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nationalist approach, like that of Ahad Ha’am before him, did not negate the scientific approach. Instead, it offered a middle path between the universalist scientific stance of the Enlightenment and the Orthodox view that rejected scientific critique. Therefore, his ingathering project was intended to be a national and popular scientific endeavor meant to serve the entire Jewish people. In Bialik’s own words: “All the work of compilation (selection and arrangement of the material [. . .]), must be implicitly scholarly though explicitly popular.”51 As mentioned, Bialik did not support Ahad Ha’am’s idea of a Jewish encyclopedia, because it was designed to present a kind of national summary of Jewish studies. Bialik’s aim was different and more ambitious, akin in nature to Jewish studies itself, that is, to create a scholarly literary project that would allow direct access to historical sources through national, scientific organization and mediation. The Jewish Encyclopedia which Ahad Ha’am conceived of several years ago is not pertinent to the question. A work on the knowledge of Judaism is one thing, while actual knowledge in their original of the very literary works produced by Judaism is another. For all the national importance of The Jewish Encyclopedia, it in itself will never satisfy the Jewish reader who which to understand Jewish creative works themselves, not only through books and articles written about them—but necessarily from them and through them themselves. The serious searching reader wishes to and must know the “genius” of his people at first hand and not through an intermediary.52 Bialik, therefore, called for the creation of a much broader scientific and cultural enterprise than the one proposed by Ahad Ha’am. This project was intended to serve as a basis for uniting forces between Western Jewish studies, as developed in Germany, and the Hebrew literature of Eastern Europe. In his view, the skills acquired from Western Jewish studies could be employed; however, a fundamental shift in their approach was needed: Our Western scholars have labored to create “Jewish Science” (Hokhmat Yisrael) in foreign languages and in the publication of ancient works among the nations. It was the case of quid pro

51 Bialik, The Hebrew Book, 28. 52 Ibid., 9 (original emphasis).

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quo, as it were. They were certain that with ‘the equal rights’ granted to ‘Jewish Science’ the Jewish people would also attain equal rights. The writers in Eastern Europe did not indulge much in Jewish Science. They brought into being a body of letters that was little esteemed by the Western scholars: modern Hebrew literature.53 Bialik believed that Jewish studies in Germany had diluted the sense of Jewish unity and hopes for redemption, effectively preparing the Jewish people for assimilation. His sharp language recalls Smolenskin’s blunt formulations regarding Jewish studies in German in the 1870s. According to Bialik, the work of Jewish scholars in Germany led to assimilation and integration: Jewish Science itself has made foreign languages a permanent fixture in our own academies. It not been an undivided blessing! Jewish national psychology, caustic and rather prickly, has been forced into the permanent mold of a foreign language and has thus became smooth enough to be swallowed be the non-Jewish world. The Jewish spirit has thereby been equipped for complete assimilation.54 In other words, Jewish studies, having abandoned the Hebrew language in favor of an assimilative ideology, prepared the Jewish people for assimilation. However, despite this severe criticism, Bialik called for a unification of efforts and collaboration between Western Jewish studies and Eastern Hebrew literature. Bialik’s comments reveal that his sympathies lay with the work of the Eastern Jews, who upheld their ethnic allegiance to the Jewish people and the Hebrew language. By contrast, he was skeptical of the universalist stance taken by scholars from the West. Even though he used strong language to make his points, much like Ahad Ha’am in his article “Avar ve-atid” (Past and future) he acknowledged the vital role of scientific methodology in researching Jewish history. In Bialik’s view, the intentions of Jewish scholars in Germany might have been misguided, but their work significantly advanced the cause of revival by shedding light on the Jewish past.55 For this reason, he advocated for a merging of efforts: Hebrew literature from the East should collaborate with Jewish stud-

53 Ibid., 32. 54 Ibid., 33. 55 See Ahad Ha’am, “Avar ve-atid,” in his Kol kitvei, 82.

Haim Nahman Bialik and the Formation of Hebrew Culture

ies from the West, working together to achieve the national ingathering project for Hebrew literature: Isn’t the time ripe yet for Jewish Science to unite with the language of the Jews for their own complete renascence as well as for the revival of the Jewish spirit? I am certain that it is. The compact will be mutually beneficial. Jewish Science will rid itself of all those elements which are alien to absolute science: its apologetic tendency, its constant endeavor “to defend and rescue” or “to show the world,” circumspection, and above all, its predilection for scraping the bones of the past. Returning to Hebrew it will return to life, to the people as a whole with its concrete needs of the present and its aspirations towards the future. Thus it, too, will become a living organism, Here, and not elsewhere will it find its absolute freedom and equality of rights. Dose scholarship possess any other higher equality of rights than free creativity in its native language?56 More than any other Zionist scholar before him, Bialik emphasized the centrality of the Hebrew language in the life of the Jewish people in general, and in the literary ingathering project in particular. Therefore, in this lecture, he felt compelled to extensively address the issue of the language in which the ingathering project would be conducted, given that there was a vast body of Jewish literature written in various languages other than Hebrew. Bialik called for restoring the Jewish literary masterpieces originally written in foreign languages back to the Hebrew as a national language: “All the best works by Jews written in foreign languages shall be redeemed! undoubtedly the uprooting of the Hebrew as a spoken language is one of our greatest national sins. if there is the slightest remedy for it, it is only through process of transmigration of souls.”57 That is, classical Jewish literature that was not written in Hebrew would be meticulously translated into Hebrew as part of the ingathering project. Bialik’s use of kabbalistic terminology, such as “elevating the sparks,” lent the ingathering project a more hidden and profound dimension than if it were merely a secular, technical endeavor. Bialik also sought to infuse the literary project with dimensions of redemption: “We must spread a large wide net over the entire sea of human literature and bring up from it all the sparks of the

56 Bialik, The Hebrew Book, 33. 57 Ibid., 23-24.

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creative genius of the Jews. The day will be a great day, a day of liberation and redemption of the Jewish soul returning to its origins and to its heritage and to its sense of the eternal.”58 As seen here, Bialik added a layer of sanctity to the approach of his predecessors, Smolenskin and Ahad Ha’am. While the former used the term “national spirit,” which could align with European nationalist thought of their time, Bialik introduced the term “holy” into the national spirit. For example, when discussing the ingathering and translation of the Jewish intellectual treasures from foreign languages, he stipulated that this project would include works by Hebrew authors “as long as they bear distinct markers of the ‘holy spirit’ of the nation.”59 Above we noted other instances in which Bialik sought to imbue the ingathering project with a dimension of sanctity. This teaches us that the nationalism he sought to shape was not a simple secular replacement for Judaism; rather, it was meant to be an organic development of it. Bialik’s aspiration to draw from the Jewish past the values that could serve the new Jews—the “revival generation”—encountered resistance from those with a revolutionary perspective, who rejected the traditional Jewish legacy of the diaspora. Generally, these critics opposed a developmental approach and sought to create a revolutionary Zionism in the spirit of Berdichevsky. During the Conference on Hebrew Language and Culture in Vienna in 1913, both David Frischmann and Bialik spoke, revealing their differing viewpoints in a subsequent debate. Frischmann focused on the need to support contemporary Hebrew writers and literature, while Bialik discussed the literary ingathering project. Most conference attendees supported Bialik’s stance, yet various writers from Brenner’s circle voiced opposition to the ingathering concept. Essentially, the debate reverted to a confrontation between the “young” and the “old,” between those advocating for a revolutionary approach in Jewish nationalism without ties to ancient Jewish literature—who opposed assembling the “ancient, stale, dry, contemptible, poor, bourgeois, namely: Ahad Ha’am-style books”—and Bialik, who aimed to create a new Hebrew canon based the continuous historic Jewish cultural heritage, thus embodying the evolutionary approach to Jewish nationalism.60 Frischmann represented the revolutionary perspective. He reacted angrily to Bialik’s words:

58 Ibid., 24. 59 Bialik, “Ha-sefer ha-ivri,” Ha-Shiloah 29 (1914), 423. See also: Bialik, The Hebrew Book, 13. 60 Bialik, “Tse’irut o yaldut? Miluim la-‘sefer ha-ivri’,” in Bialik, Sipurim, divrei sifrut (Tel Aviv and Jerusalem: Dvir, 1965), 43-47.

Haim Nahman Bialik and the Formation of Hebrew Culture

Were there not also some young people in that hall? Did their blood not boil, their spirit not storm, and all their freshness awaken upon hearing those words? Are they not obligated to know where the voice of youth speaks and where speaks the isolated old age? Are they not obligated to sense from which side blows the breath of life, and from which side comes the breath that induces sleep, laziness, and inaction? Frischmann accused Bialik and his Hebrew literary ingathering project of strengthening the tendency of isolated old age, which followed Ahad Ha’am’s path: Mister Bialik has plowed with the well-known plow of Ahad Ha’am and found not only our riddle but a solution to all the riddles of our lives. [. . .]: All we need to do is merely to assemble, to collect our literature, to reprint our old books, and at most we can translate into our language what was written by a Jewish man in foreign tongues. Above all, we must reprint the recent writings in a distinguished edition, we must also issue the Kuzari, and likewise we must publish the other books of this kind [. . .] In short, that cheap advice that is so outdated; those dry matters that have truly driven away our young people and led us to this state; [. . .] provided that no air is drawn through the window; those sour and meager fruits that ripened in the confined air of Ahad Ha’am’s study house.61 In his response to Frischmann’s article, Bialik characterized the trend towards “youthfulness” and “freshness” that Frischmann sought to represent—that views heritage as “sour and meager”—as a childish trend that did not contribute substantially to the development of national Hebrew literature. According to Bialik, national revival could only be understood based on the layers of Jewish creativity. Bialik rightly distinguished between his ingathering plan and Frischmann’s critique, as Frischmann focused specifically on the fine literature of his time, while Bialik’s plan was for Jewish studies in general, understanding the term literature in broad terms instead of only refined Hebrew literature. Furthermore, Frischmann did not grasp the essential difference between Bialik’s program and Ahad Ha’am’s Otsar Ha-Yahadut. 61 David Frischmann, “Ba-derekh,” Ha-Tsfira, no. 258 (November 28, 1913), 2.

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The opposition to Bialik’s plan was also pursued by Zvi Auerbuch (Alexander Cheshin, 1886-1939) in his article “Lifnei aron ha-sefarim” (Before the bookshelf) published in the journal Revivim, edited by Brenner. Auerbach attacked Bialik’s ingathering idea in a similar style. According to him, Bialik, as a cultural initiator, operated in a romantic spirit that did not allow Jewish nationalism to separate from the Jewish past and therefore blocked the creation of a “healthy” Jewish future, detached from the diasporic past: Miracles will not occur in the land: the dust of generations will not turn into the dew of revival, and the scroll that has been rolled and sealed will not become the trumpet of the Messiah [. . .]. Thousands of introductions and explanations at the end and beginning of books, according to the latest word of science and modern taste, will not divert our minds from the living springs that flow around us. We will drink from the waters of Tolstoy, Ibsen, Nietzsche, and the like, and quench our thirst only at their wellsprings. We will be drawn more to the words of these great luminaries than to the Talmud or the Zohar, even after they have passed through the “sieve of modern taste and the new spirit of our times.”62 In the revolutionary spirit of Berdichevsky and Brenner, Auerbach asserted that there is no continuity in Jewish history between past generations and the modern national era. “In our time,” he asked, “when the religious dogma has lost its power and charm, how can we bridge the gap between the different and disparate periods in our literature, until they ‘become one’? What spiritual continuity is there between the Bible and the sayings of Abaye and Rava? Is not Bialik closer to the Song of Songs and Ecclesiastes than to Rav Papa and Rav Hisda?”63 This revolutionary stance, influenced by Marxist thought, created a clear divide between the religious past and the secular, national present. During the discussion of Bialik’s idea of literary ingathering, other individuals like Ya’akov Fichman and Rabbi Benyamin (Yehoshua Radler-Feldman) critiqued Bialik’s ideas, albeit in a more moderate manner.64 Nonetheless, Bialik was committed to implementing the ingathering project for many years. As we will see, he deeply influenced Zionist scholars to act in the spirit of the

62 Zvi Auerbach, “Lifnei aron ha-sefarim,” Revivim 5 (1914): 127. 63 Ibid., 125-126. 64 Werses, Bein gilui le-kisui, 122-124.

Haim Nahman Bialik and the Formation of Hebrew Culture

ingathering enterprise during the 1920s and 1930s. This influence was possible because the ingathering project, was primarily aimed at the world of Jewish studies content, of which belles-lettres is but a small part. The project’s focus was on an in-depth analysis of Jewish culture from a national perspective.

Dvir and Zionist Hokhmat Yisrael During World War I, there was a significant decline in cultural activity within the Zionist movement. After the war, Hebrew cultural figures began to renew their creative work. Following the war, Haim Nahman Bialik established the Dvir publishing house as a continuation of the Moriah publishing house.65 After the Balfour Declaration and in the wake of the third and fourth waves of immigration to Palestine, a slow process of shifting the center of Hebrew culture from Europe to Palestine began. As Zohar Shavit showed in the 1920s, dozens of Hebrew publishing houses already existed in Palestine, including major ones like Dvir, Omanut, Shtibbel, and Mitspeh. The Moriah publishing house was established in 1901 by a group of founders from Odessa, including Bialik, Ravnitzki, Ben-Zion, Ahad Ha’am, Meir Dizengoff, and Elhanan Leib Lewinsky. Towards the end of World War I in 1917, Moriah was reestablished in Odessa. Due to the Bolshevik Revolution, it moved from there to Berlin and was renamed the Dvir publishing house. In Berlin, Shmaryahu Levin, Eliyahu Feinstein, and Yitzhak Nayditz joined the group of founders and generously contributed to the publishing house’s capital. In 1924, Dvir moved to Palestine. That same year, Bialik also moved there. Since a significant portion of Dvir’s capital relied on donations, Bialik, had to embark on fundraising tours in Europe and the United States in the late 1920s and early 1930s. Dvir was the largest publishing house in Palestine during the Yishuv period, and it adopted the policy outlined by Bialik.66 Ben-Zion Dinur (Dinaburg), one of the leading Zionist historians in Palestine and later the minister of education in the State of Israel, testified to Bialik’s direct influence on his historiographical work. During the period he spent in Odessa in 1920, Dinur became close to Bialik and Ravnitzki. Together, they developed various programs related to Jewish studies, ranging from a plan to establish a

65 David Aberbach, Bialik (London: Halban, 1988), 1-18. 66 Zohar Shavit, “Hitpat’hut ha-molut be-Eretz Yisrael,” in Bniyata shel tarbut ivrit be-Eretz Yisrael, ed. Zohar Shavit ( Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1998), 199-262, especially 249-251.

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people’s university in Odessa to bibliographical projects and the publication of Hebrew books: In those days, Bialik was effusive in his praise for Hokhmat Yisrael. Bialik said that Judaism had created two national cultural enterprises in the nineteenth century: the new literature in the East and Hokhmat Yisrael in the West. The more important of the two, he argued, was Hokhmat Yisrael. However, unfortunately, the scholars of Jewish Studies have removed their people from their forefathers’ heritage. He compered the breach between Hokhmat Yisrael and the Hebrew language to the Golden Calf sin, after which the Divine Presence withdrew from Israel, and Western Judaism removed all vitality from Jewish life. The first thing to do, then, was to bring back Hokhmat Yisrael into Israel heritage. To that end, plans were made to translate the best of this literature into Hebrew.67 After World War I, Bialik worked on shaping a Zionist version of Hokhmat Yisrael. Together with Dinur, he planned a detailed program and called it Otsar Mada’ei Ha-Yahadut (Treasury of Jewish Studies). The general direction was to shift Jewish studies from the Western German version to a Zionist national version. Dinur detailed this program in his memoirs from that period, but due to the Communist Revolution in Russia, the plan never materialized.68 This context helps to understand Dinur’s work in the 1920s to edit the collection of historical sources in his book Yisrael Ba-Golah (Israel in exile). This multi-volume work was inspired by Bialik’s literary ingathering efforts and was carried out through ongoing dialogue with him.69 In his ingathering project, Bialik aimed to bridge the gap between academic research and public national consciousness. The German scientific tradition dominated the Hebrew University in its early years. As the ingathering project had popular foundations, it did not fully materialize within the university walls,70 as Bialik had hoped. However, his basic approach did influence a significant

67 Ben-Zion Dinaburg, “Tokhniyotav shel Bialik,” Knesset 9 (1944): 18. See also his autobiography: Bi-yemei milhamah u-mahapekhah: zikhronot u-reshumot mi-derekh haim 1914-1921 ( Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1960), 442-477. 68 Dinaburg, “Tokhniyotav shel Bialik,” 19-21. 69 Rein, Dinur, 163-177. 70 Bartal, Kozak u-beduy, 107-108.

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number of the professors at the university.71 To facilitate the ingathering project, Bialik enlisted the support of the publishing houses he headed, Moriah and Dvir. In 1926, about two years after moving from Berlin to Tel Aviv, Bialik outlined the operations and objectives of these publishing houses.72 The main distinction between Dvir and Moriah was the scale of their operations. Dvir was established as a national publishing house intended to serve the Hebrew-speaking public in the Land of Israel, and its scope of activities was much broader than that of Moriah. Its publishing policy emphasized the scientific dimension and was dedicated to publishing literature related to the Hokhmat Yisrael: historical, biblical, Talmudic, aggadic literature, and the like. Moreover, when Dvir was based in Berlin, shortly before moving to Palestine, Bialik founded a scientific journal under the same title. In his report on Moriah and Dvir, he described how the Dvir journal contributed to the realization of his overall vision: It is of note that the establishment of Dvir in Berlin had a significant impact on the German Jewish community. The sudden current of Hebrew scholarship into the vacant Jewish intellectual landscape in Berlin was so dynamic and invigorating that it awakened the slumbering and stunned them. Even the best and brightest of German Jewry [. . .] began to rethink their positions. Some even joined forces with Dvir, contributing to its mission. For example, Dvir’s scholarly journal, which produced two volumes, was edited by three distinguished scholars in Berlin, who had mostly been involved in academic work in other languages. Similarly, a leading figure in Berlin’s Jewish community, who sat on the board of an important scientific institute, sought to collaborate with the Dvir project. His aim was to shift the institute’s traditionally German-language work into Hebrew.73 Bialik believed that the Dvir journal, which was edited by Ismar Elbogen, Ya’akov Epstein, and Naftali Hertz Torczyner (Tur-Sinai), effectively contributed to the realization of his vision to create a Zionist, national version of Jewish studies in Hebrew. He highlighted the collaboration between scholars of Jewish studies in the West, and scholars of Hebrew literature in the East, predicting that from their joint efforts a national scientific awareness of Jewish history

71 Ibid., 107. 72 Bialik, “Al Dvir u-Moriyah,” 344-352. 73 Ibid., 350.

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would emerge. A closer look at the introductory remarks by the editors of Dvir, to which Bialik’s own letter was attached, reveals the journal’s Zionist approach. It explicitly calls for the integration of Jewish studies into the broader national revival project. The journal’s editors also established a clear link between the Dvir collection and earlier attempts to found journals devoted to Jewish studies. One hundred years have passed since Zunz published his journal (Zeitschrift für die Wissenschaft des Judentums), which did not last even a year. Since then, many attempts have been made to publish periodicals dedicated to Hokhmat Yisrael, but only a few were long-lived. Least successful of all were such compilations in the Hebrew language. Even those that set aside space for belletristic literature and questions about life and the nation, did not last long: only twelve volumes of Ha-Shahar were printed and even Ha-Shiloah, which created a whole new type of Hebrew compilation of literature and science, struggled several times with the Angel of Death. It departed from the world and was then reborn but ultimately, after a long stage of dying, it, too, permanently left this world.74 The editors sought to emphasize the connection between the Jewish studies that developed in Germany in the nineteenth century and the national version of Jewish studies. They pointed to Smolenskin’s Ha-Shahar and Ahad Ha’am’s Ha-Shiloah as journals that focused on Jewish studies and allocated significant space for Hokhmat Yisrael in Hebrew. The journal Dvir aimed to continue this Zionist trend in Jewish studies: Here we stand today, in an era of national revival and at a time of resurgence for Hebrew literature. The people of Israel are returning to their national heritage, reverting to the language of their prophets, and turning their hearts towards the wisdom of their scholars. In this moment of literary awakening, we believe there is also hope for the future of Jewish science in Hebrew. Moved by such feelings of hope, we enthusiastically responded to Haim Nahman Bialik’s proposal to undertake the editing of a Hebrew periodical dedicated to Hokhmat Yisrael. We 74 Dvir 1(1923), v.

Haim Nahman Bialik and the Formation of Hebrew Culture

approached this difficult and responsible task with both joy and trepidation, and in May 1922, we issued the following proclamation to the scholars of Israel: “The time has come to gather the dispersed elements of the Jewish spirit, to assemble the scattered thoughts of Jewish thinking that have been cast to the four winds and dispersed among all languages. The time has come to return and sow our fields, to cultivate our vineyards. The time has also come to open the gates of Hokhmat Yisrael to the Jewish people in its broader meaning, and first and foremost, to the Jewish people who have returned to their homeland and speak their language. Finally, the time has come to care for our young forces, who read only our Hebrew literature, both ancient and modern. We must strive to prepare them for Jewish Studies and Hokhmat Yisrael, to grow these forces, to expand and increase them by providing them with suitable spiritual nourishment and keys: Jewish science in Hebrew.75 The opening manifesto of the scientific journal Dvir reveals the extent of Bialik’s Zionist approach on its three editors, individuals with established academic reputations. The enthusiastic opening words are highly Zionist. As the text suggests, they were not confined to the pages of Dvir but served as an invitation to many other Jewish scholars and researchers to join the Zionist revival movement. Dvir was published largely thanks to Bialik’s efforts, who added a letter to the editors to this introduction, expressing his hope that Jewish studies would return to its Hebrew roots: “If we put all our national sins on one side of the scale and the sin of [abandoning the] language on the other, the latter would outweigh them all. It is a cardinal sin.” Bialik argued that the distancing of Jewish studies from Hebrew was preparing the people for assimilation and disappearance: Those who have stripped their people’s spirit naked and prepared it for an assimilation that ends in annihilation—even if they believe in the entire Torah—they should be called apostates of the spirit. “Translated Judaism” is always a greater loss than a gain. We recall that the Land of Israel quaked when Targum Yonatan appeared, and the Greek translation brought darkness into the

75 Ibid. (original emphasis).

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world. As the aggadah relates, “That day was as disastrous for Israel as the day the Golden Calf was made.”76 Bialik’s sharp criticism intended to return Jewish studies to the embrace of the Hebrew language. Like his predecessors Smolenskin and Ahad Ha’am, Bialik emphasized the critical importance of Hebrew as the only research language that allowed a deep understanding of Jewish history. Smolenskin argued that using German as the primary research language led to flawed understanding and numerous errors in the work of scholars like Geiger and Graetz. Similarly, Ahad Ha’am believed that the only way to understand the “spirit of the people” in Jewish history and to expose the “national self ” was through research in Hebrew. Following in their footsteps, Bialik also believed that the spiritual distancing from Hebrew led to the loss of Jewish identity in Western countries. True recognition of Jewish history, a natural and profound understanding, could only be achieved in Hebrew, the tool that carried the Hebrew spirit: Only the intimate, spiritual contact of living tradition—that “quintessence” which cannot be translated—gives strength to Israel and grants it exclusive rights over it. One who uproots the text from its original place and inserts it into the sphere of a foreign language, reassuring himself that he is building Jewish Studies, is merely deceiving himself.77 Bialik accused Jewish scholars of Jewish studies of abandoning Hebrew. His arrows were mainly aimed at the second and third generations of Jewish studies scholars in Germany. Indeed, some of these scholars continued to publish their research in Hebrew, such as Ranak, Shadal, and Shir, who were especially favored by the Jewish national movement. Many Zionists saw them as a role model. However, the majority of Jewish studies scholars abandoned Hebrew as the language of research and writing. According to Bialik, they did this largely due to their apologetic stance, stemming from concern for non-Jewish opinion. Bialik’s critique of Jewish studies in Germany accounted for the processes of cultural assimilation of German Jewry into the surrounding society and their universalist approach. In Bialik’s view, as well as that of many Zionist thinkers before him, Jewry in the West—particularly in Germany and German-speaking countries—had lost all markers of Jewish community and national identity,

76 Bialik, “Mikhtav la-orkhim,” Dvir 1 (1923): viii–xiii (citation from ix). 77 Ibid., x.

Haim Nahman Bialik and the Formation of Hebrew Culture

and therefore had also abandoned the Hebrew language. Bialik’s criticisms of Jewish studies in Germany were extremely pointed and reflected a transparently Zionist stance: I have no way of making assumptions or prophesying about the past, regarding what Judaism would look like today if Hebrew had been also used in the West. But the transition to Hebrew did not win there, to the tragedy of the entire nation. The Hebrew project failed to make its mark there. Instead, the process of assimilating the Hebrew spirit and replacing it from within found powerful representatives and emissaries such as Zunz and Geiger and their ilk. It spread like wildfire from community to community, from country to country, like leprosy, which has no cure. Now we are faced with the devastating consequences of this process . . . why turn a blind eye? The time has come to speak the truth: after three generations of peace and welfare, enlightenment and civil rights, of Jewish Studies and temples and reforms, and reforms of reforms; of preachers and composers of new prayer books, self-righteous Orthodoxy, factories for churning out rabbis, and “mekitzei nirdamim” [those who awaken the sleepers]—after all this abundance of wealth, Western Judaism has been thrown down before us, lifeless. Cut off from its national roots by the sharp knife of foreign culture and language, it has lost its way back to its true source, draining it of its vitality.78 With these harsh words, Bialik intertwined his critique of Jewish studies in Germany with his overall critique of German Jewry. From his subsequent remarks, we can see a strong resemblance to the arguments of Gershom Scholem, written during World War II in his critical essay on Jewish studies, mentioned at the beginning of this chapter. Bialik described Jewish studies in Germany as a study of the past that serves as nothing more than a “dignified burial” for Jewish culture. On one hand, he emphasized the crucial importance of academic engagement with the past for the sake of the present and future; on the other hand, he argued that Jewish studies in Germany led Jewish culture to its grave:

78 Ibid., xi.

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Can the dead bring the dead back to life? This sort of Jewish Studies [in Germany] [. . .] separated itself completely from the Hebrew language and consequently separated from life, decaying prematurely. [. . .] Instead of its ancestors and original creators, who were true scholars and original thinkers, there arose a third and fourth generation, a group of dwarves and small-minded people, gatherers of crumbs and bone-pickers, who turned wisdom into mere craft, making it a tedious labor devoid of creativity and the joy of creation. The living, active, creative, and renewing Judaism—struggling with the waves and rowing toward the shore—this was a Judaism it neither knew nor wanted to know. It turned a blind eye and deaf ear to all that was happening within the soul and in the existential sphere of that Judaism. It narrowed its view [. . .]—to a grave’s width—of a lifeless and dead past, a past that has neither present nor future. Engrossed in graves and in tombstones, it failed to see or recognize the great wonder occurring in history right before its eyes, near at hand, within the main portion of the nation—the wonder of the resurrection of the dead. Can such wisdom, which itself is considered dead, have the power to revive its dying generation?79 In contrast to Jewish studies in Germany, which Bialik accused of assimilation, burying Jewish culture and grave digging, Jewish scholarly in Eastern Europe was for him an integral part of the national revival. To him, scholars like Avraham Eliyahu Harkabi (1835-1919), Simcha Pinsker (1801-1864)—the father of Leon Pinsker, the leader of Hibbat Zion—and Avraham Epstein (1841-1918) explored the past for the sake of the Jewish people’s present and future: “Their eyes were turned forward, not backward. They not only studied the past, but lived it, built their present upon it, and looked toward the future. They carried their past on their shoulders, as priests carry the Ark of God.”80 According to Bialik, the Jewish national revival in Eastern Europe was heralded by Hebrew literature, poetry, and Jewish studies. This, he believed, was the proper way to explore Jewish history: for the sake of the present and the future, and not merely as an academic exercise, as was done by scholars of Jewish studies in Germany. In the above statement, we can again see how Bialik described

79 Ibid. (original emphasis). 80 Ibid., xii.

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the scholarly work of Judaic studies in terms of sanctity, comparing the scholars to priests carrying the Ark. In addition to the journal Dvir, Bialik initiated in the 1920s another journal for Jewish ethnography and folklore called Reshumot, co-edited by himself, Alter Druyanow, and Ravnitzki. The journal was published by Moriah. Bialik also encouraged the study of Jewish communities in the Middle East and North Africa: “A special institute is needed, perhaps a monthly or quarterly, dedicated to Sephardic Jewry for the purpose of uncovering treasures and also for continuing new creation,”81 Bialik argued before the Association of Sephardic Jewry in 1927. The journal Mizrah u-Ma’arav (East and West), edited by Avraham Elmaleh, among others, fulfilled this role. Bialik and Ravnitzki worked for many years on compiling the poetry of Sephardic Jewry, which Bialik saw as the apex of Hebrew poetry in the medieval era, aiming to enshrine it in national Hebrew culture.

From Berlin to Tel Aviv Bialik lived the last decade of his life (1924-1934) in the Land of Israel. During this time, he wrote only a few poems, but was very active in his initiatives as a cultural leader. He dedicated much of his efforts during this period to his work at Dvir publishing house. He also took on various representative roles in educational and cultural institutions in the country. He was a member of the Board of Governors of the Hebrew University and significantly contributed to its activities, including in Tel Aviv.82 He was a member of the Language Committee and the Writers Association Committee, participated in Tel Aviv City Council meetings, and founded the literary journal Moznayim of the Writers Association. In 1926, he also initiated the successful and popular Oneg Shabbat cultural project and was the main speaker at its Sabbath gatherings. These events attracted large audiences to the Ohel Shem community center in Tel Aviv in the late 1920s and 1930s. The residence he built in Tel Aviv, located on the street named after him near the Tel Aviv City Hall, became more than a home for Bialik, his wife Manya, and her parents. During this period, his home also served as a center for his important role in public life in Tel Aviv and in the entire Yishuv community.83

81 Bialik, “Tehiyat ha-sefaradim,” in Devarim she-ba’al peh, 1:110-119. 82 Bialik, “Le-yisud ‘agudat shoharei ha-universitah ha-ivrit,” in Devarim she-ba’al peh, 2:77-79. 83 Holtzmann, Bialik, 207; Inbari, Bialik, 140-156.

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Bialik’s standing in the community granted him a place among the speakers at the opening ceremony of the Hebrew University on Mount Scopus in 1925. In his speech, he emphasized the centrality of Torah study and Jewish education. The term “Torah” in his speech received a renewed national interpretation, which was also the basis of his literary ingathering project. In fact, Bialik endowed this concept with the same national-cultural meaning that Smolenskin had given it fifty years earlier. However, in this speech, as in his previous expressions, Bialik also sought to imbue the opening ceremony of the Hebrew University with an aura of sanctity. In his view, Jewish nationalism was the product of a sacred partnership that had developed within the Jewish people from ancient times until the era of national revival. Bialik began his remarks by highlighting the sanctity of the moment: “The sanctity of the hour and its exalted status command us to refrain from violating it and from wasting it on exaggeration and division.” These words were not merely rhetorical flourish, as he continued to season his speech with the Sheheheyanu blessing, “Who has granted us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this occasion.” He declared, “This is a great day for our Lord and for our people.” Likewise: “Today the good news will reach all the Jewish diasporas, wherever they may be, that the first peg for the construction of the Heavenly Jerusalem has been driven and will not be removed again.”84 These words were not spoken in an Orthodox religious spirit, but in a national evolutionary spirit. They stemmed from Bialik’s overall view of national revival as a process of national redemption and the creation of a sacred Jewish communion. In Bialik’s view, as in that of other cultural nationalists, nationalism was no less obligatory than the practical religious commandments. Therefore, the approach that sees nationalism as a substitute for religion oversimplifies the complex historical process in the transition from the premodern era to the national era and does not assist in understanding Jewish nationalism in its full scope. National fraternity and hopes for redemption, which were the basis for Jewish partnership according to Smolenskin, were also seen by Bialik as foundational for Jewish existence. He saw Jewish educational institutions as the bastion walls that have served the Jewish people throughout history: “The national school in all its forms—the heder, the yeshiva, the beit midrash (House of study)—these have been our securest strongholds throughout our long, hard struggle for existence and for the right to exist in the world as a separate and distinct people among the peoples.”85

84 Bialik, “Li-petihat ha-universitah ha-ivrit,” in Devarim she-ba’al peh, 1:49. 85 Bialik, Bialik on the Hebrew University ( Jerusalem: Palestine Friends of the Hebrew University, 1935), 4.

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In explaining the historical role of Torah study for the Jewish people, Bialik deliberately used the term “Torah” rather than “religion.” This was because, in his view, Torah in the Jewish context was distinct from what is understood as religious faith in other nations and religions. In the Jewish community, the unifying factor is the Torah, and the study of Torah is a deep and fundamental cultural element: The concept of Torah attained, in the esteem of the people, an infinite exaltation. For them the Torah was almost another existence, a loftier existence, added to or even taking the place of real existence. The Torah became the center of the nation’s secret and avowed aspirations and desires. The dictum “Israel and the Torah are one” was no mere phrase: the non-Jew cannot appreciate it, because the concept of Torah cannot be rendered adequately in any other tongue. Its content and connotations embrace more than “religion” or “creed” alone, or “ethics” or “commandments” or “learning” alone, and it is not even just a combination of all these, but something far transcending all of them. It is mystic, almost cosmic conception. The Torah is the tool of the Creator; with it and for it He created the universe. The Torah is older than the creation. It is the highest idea and the living soul of the world. Without it the world could not exist and would have no right to exist.86 In Bialik’s view, “Torah” is not merely religious law but encompasses all aspects of the spiritual existence of the Jewish people. Bialik adapted this traditional term to the realm of national concepts, following Smolenskin’s conception in the late nineteenth century, followed by Lilienblum and Ahad Ha’am. In doing so, Bialik hoped that through the development of Jewish studies, the Hebrew University would realize the consolidation of Hebrew culture. Bialik connected the unifying concept of Torah, which brings together the Jewish people in its diaspora, with the nature of Jewish education, which had always been in the public focus. Faithful to the developmental approach, as a student of Ahad Ha’am, Bialik stated: “In the consciousness of the nation, the comprehensive human concept of culture has taken the place of the theological one of Torah. We have come to the conclusion that a people that aspires to a dignified existence must create a culture, not only apply one but create one—create it with its own hands and its own implements and materials and impress it with its own seal.”87 86 Ibid., 5-6. 87 Ibid., 8.

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Like his predecessors among the cultural leaders of Zionism, Bialik believed in the cultural evolution of the Jewish people from premodern religious tradition to national revival, and from the diaspora to the Land of Israel. Faithful to the organic evolutionary approach, he related in his speech at the opening ceremony of the Hebrew University the legend that in the days of redemption, all the synagogues and study houses in the diaspora are destined to be uprooted and moved to the Land of Israel. He distinguished between the diaspora study houses and the Hebrew University. Then he said: “Ladies and gentlemen, amid the ruins of those hallowed structures there is many a sound and beautiful stone that can and ought to be applied to the foundations of our new edifice. Let not the builders reject these stones. I fill impelled to pray at this sacred moment: may those stones not be forgotten!”88 Bialik reiterated how important it was to base the national resurgence of Judaism on the foundation of the past as a developmental part of Jewish cultural tradition, rather than as a new creation disconnected from the tradition of generations. Therefore, a central part of his public activity in the Land of Israel was devoted to the literary ingathering project and to cultural activities that bridged between popular consciousness and Jewish studies. The Hebrew language, national fraternity, and the Land of Israel stood at the center of Bialik’s world as a cultural leader during the Yishuv period.

Conclusion In this chapter, we have explored how individuals with a deep cultural awareness, led by Bialik, worked from the early twentieth century through the 1920s and 1930s to establish a Zionist national historical awareness. Advocates of the cultural Zionist stream aimed to replace the emancipationist ideology of Jewish studies in Germany with a national ideology, yet they did not reject scientific-critical methodology. The historical consciousness they sought to instill at all levels of Jewish education was intended to serve the Jewish people and strengthen the foundation of national unity for the present and the future. Proponents of this approach aspired to create a national middle path between Orthodox worldviews and universalist perspectives. A deeper discussion of the work of these leaders within the cultural Zionist stream aids in properly understanding Jewish nationalism as part of a historical, modern, and premodern cultural cycle. Cultural activities in the Zionist 88 Ibid., 10.

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movement were not performed in an instrumental way as a form of “inventing tradition,” but rather through a renewed interpretation of premodern historical heritage. Without a strong base of existing religious and ethnic heritage, the project of Hebrew cultural revival could not succeed within the framework of Jewish national movement.89 The case study of Zionism teaches that the transition from traditional Jewish society to modern nationalism was never severed from the heritage of generations and from its traditional aspects, even if at times it was masked in a distinctly secular nationalism. From the many examples examined in the first three chapters of the book, it emerges that the individuals discussed here acted out of recognition of the cultural and historical uniqueness of the Jewish people. The use of Jewish studies to strengthen national consciousness was not done solely in an instrumental manner, but out of a deep inner conviction that Jewish nationalism truly embodies the hopes of the past and the aspirations for the future of the Jewish people. Moreover, despite the divide between evolutionist and revolutionaries, it is important to note that even the radicals within Zionism did not deny the premodern ethnic existence of the Jewish people. These first three chapters surveyed the formation of the national consciousness of the Jewish past. We began with Smolenskin, exploring his extensive use of the concept of Torah to signify the unifying national base of the Jewish people, setting them apart as a “people of the spirit.” Smolenskin based Judaism on two principles: Jewish fraternity and the anticipation of redemption. Ahad Ha’am laid the theoretical foundations for understanding Jewish history as a unified and organic history. He combined classical and modern Jewish thought with historical positivism and the evolutionary philosophy. His cultural activities as well as the image of prophet and teacher ascribed to him by the Zionist literary republic had a significant impact on the development of Zionist historical consciousness. Bialik continued this approach and added to it the dimension of holiness found in Jewish nationalism. His cultural activities, including his work on the Sefer Ha-Aggadah, the ingathering project for Hebrew literature, his public appearances in the framework of Oneg Shabbat, and his many lectures both in the Land of Israel and in the diaspora, had a profound influence on the formation of Zionist historical consciousness as it developed in the Yishuv, and with the founding of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem.

89 See Smith, Chosen Peoples, 121-122.

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Chapter 4

Between East and West

Introduction In contemporary Israel, the terms “Easterners” and “Westerners” generally refer to Jews from the East, known as “Sephardim,” or those from Western countries, known as “Ashkenazim.” However, this was not the case in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. During this period, the distinction between East and West among Jews primarily focused on Jews from Eastern Europe, the “Ostjuden,” who lived in the shtetls and mostly spoke Yiddish, and the mostly urban Jews from Western Europe and North America, the “Westjuden,” who spoke German, French, and English. In the current chapter, the distinction between “East” and “West” refers to some extent to this geographical division between East and West, but it mainly focuses on the political system and the nature of governance in the modern nation-state, as we will elaborate on below. Hans Kohn, a scholar of national movements, established the distinction between Eastern and Western nationalism in the mid-1940s in his classic work, The Idea of Nationalism. Kohn differentiated between Western nationalism, characterized by civic attributes, and Eastern nationalism, marked by ethnic characteristics. This distinction between East and West among national movements is difficult to apply to Jewish nationalism, which encompassed both Western and Eastern elements. In the second half of the nineteenth century, over half of the

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world’s Jewish population lived in Eastern Europe, where the “Eastern” Jewish national movement sprouted in the 1880s. Another significant concentration of Jews lived in Central and Western Europe, England, and America, where “Western” Jewish nationalism began to develop in the 1890s. There was also Zionist activity outside of Europe, but European dominance was evident in early Zionism (1882–1914), both organizationally and ideologically.1 Eastern Zionism grew following pogroms against Russian Jewry in the early 1880s, which led to the founding of the Hibbat Zion movement. This movement, led by Leon Pinsker (1821-1891), author of Autoemancipation, established a national leadership in Eastern Europe and even organized Jewish immigration to the Land of Israel, but its influence on world Jewry was limited. When Zionism was founded as a political movement under the leadership of Theodor Herzl at the First Zionist Congress in Basel in 1897, Hovevei Zion merged with this movement. So from the end of the nineteenth century onwards, East and West effectively merged within the Zionist movement. However, the existence of a single Jewish national movement did not overshadow the existence of different trends and streams within Zionism. From its inception, Zionism encompassed under one umbrella organization several streams and factions: cultural, practical, political, and religious, which expressed different views regarding the movement’s objectives. The very existence of Zionism as a unified national movement, consolidated through the Zionist Congress, seemingly undermines the possibility of distinguishing between East and West within Zionism, as I propose. Nonetheless, the establishment of the Zionist movement did not lead to the abolition of leadership institutions among Russian and Eastern European Zionists.2 In fact, a distinction between the Western and Eastern types within Zionism was possible, a distinction that was indeed made by the Zionist leaders of the period. The difference between the ethnic nature of Eastern Zionism and the liberal nature of

1 At the end of the nineteenth century, there were 10,348,000 Jews worldwide, of which 8.5 million, or 82.1 percent, lived in Europe. In Russia, there were 5.1 million Jews, in AustriaHungary 1.92 million, in America 1.5 million, in Asia 432,000 (4.2 percent), in North Africa 340,000 (3.3 percent), and in Oceania 17,000. See Usiel Oscar Schmelz and Sergio DellaPergola, “Demography,” Encyclopedia Judaica, vol. 5, ed. Fred Skolnik, 2nd ed. (Detroit: Macmillan and Keter, 2007), 553-572, esp. 556. 2 The leadership institutions of Eastern European Zionism (the Odessa Committee) continued to exist until World War I, and the importance of this leadership within Zionism as a whole was decisive. See Israel Bartal and Jonathan Frankel, “Mi-Hibbat Zion le-tsiyonut: ha-tenu’ah ha-leumit be-imperiyah ha-rusit 1881-1917,” in Ha-tsiyonut le-ezoreihah: hebetim geo-tarbuti’im, ed. Alon Gal ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 2010), 49-90; Yossi Goldstein, Anu hayinu ha-rishonim: toldot “Hibbat Zion” (1881-1918) ( Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 2015).

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Western Zionism was pronounced in the struggles over the character and nature of Zionism. The polemics and disputes between Eastern and Western Zionists over the path of Zionism allow for an analytical separation between East and West in the early Zionist movement.3 The distinction I have made here does not intend to obscure the unique characteristics of the Jewish national movement, which, unlike other national movements in Europe, grew out of ethnic solidarity and a shared fate, and not from the civic interests of a population that had lived for many generations in a defined territory.4 Hans Kohn (1891-1971), born in Prague, was an active Zionist from 1909 over the course of roughly two decades. He immigrated to Palestine in the 1920s and became one of the leading activists of the Brit Shalom association, standing out with his many publications in the movement’s journal She’ifoteinu. At the beginning of the 1930s, Kohn migrated to the United States, where he became one of the founders of nationalism studies. His extensive research continues to influence the field.5 The dichotomous model he proposed, East versus West, makes a sharp distinction between two types of national movements: Eastern ethnic nationalism and Western civic nationalism. Kohn preferred Western nationalism because, in his view, it was more inclusive and ethical, as opposed to Eastern nationalism, which he found to be exclusive and chauvinistic. In his eyes, Western civic nationalism, as exemplified by countries like France, Switzerland, England, and the United States, was based on rational principles, secularization processes, individual liberties, universal human brotherhood, and a democratic and liberal regime. In contrast, Eastern ethnic nationalism, which developed in Central and Eastern Europe, and was similar to the version that emerged in Germany, Russia, and Asia, was born in response to external aggression. It adopted principles of patriotism, historical memory, and national mythology, setting the nation

3 Conforti, “East and West.” 4 Almog, Tsiyonut ve-historiyah, 61-75; Conforti, Zman avar, 97-122. 5 Hagit Lavsky, “Leumiyut bein teoriyah ve-praktikah: Hans Kohn ve-ha-tsiyonut,” Zion 67, no. 2 (2002): 189-212; Adi Gordon, “Ein zo ela ahava nikhzevet”: prishat Hans Kohn me-ha-tenu’ah ha-tsiyonit,” in “Brit Shalom” ve-ha-tsiyonut ha-du-leumit: ha-she’elah ha’aravit ke-she’elah yehudit, ed. Adi Gordon ( Jerusalem: Carmel, 2008) 67-92. The annual conference of the Association for the Study of Ethnicity and Nationalism (ASEN) “Nationalism, East and West: Civic and Ethnic Conceptions of Nationhood” (London School of Economics and Political Science, April 2008) was dedicated to the model proposed by Kohn in his The Idea of Nationalism

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in opposition and hostility to other peoples and was a basis for the growth of authoritarian regimes.6 As mentioned, Kohn was a Zionist activist before he became a scholar of nationalism, and in the 1920s he even wrote about Jewish nationalism.7 He held humanistic and pacifist nationalist views and preferred the national approach of Ahad Ha’am, the Eastern Jewish cultural Zionist, over Herzl’s approach, the Western Jewish political Zionist. In his view, Herzl’s Zionism was born of the principles of Eastern nationalism since he was influenced by German nationalism, while the Zionism of Ahad Ha’am was created from Western nationalism, as he was influenced by English nationalism. As a scholar of nationalism, Kohn did not frequently engage with Zionism, but in an article on the history of the Zionist movement published in the American Jewish journal Menorah, he criticized at a Zionism which, in his opinion, was overly influenced by Herzl’s Eastern approach. In this article, Kohn followed Hannah Arendt’s critical stance toward Zionism in general and Herzlian Zionism in particular.8 Both Kohn and Arendt suggested that Herzl’s Zionist approach, created in response to antisemitism, represented a fundamental flaw in the Zionist movement. According to them, positioning antisemitism at the center of Zionist consciousness created the principle that the entire world is acting against the Jews. The central place of antisemitism in the Zionist movement made it, in Kohn’s eyes, an Eastern ethnic nationalism without significant Western universal foundations. Kohn, like Arendt, believed that the nationalism of Herzl’s school drew on the German nationalism of blood, race, and origin. This position contradicts the principles of Western nationalism, where common ancestry does not at all determine national belonging. Western nations, especially the United States, according to Kohn, are not founded on race and ethnic origin but on civic principles regardless of ancestry.9 While Kohn acknowledged the prominent liberal aspect in Herzl’s Altneuland, he minimized its value in Herzl’s overall thought. In his view, Herzl’s revolutionary approach, which was expressed in his book The Jewish State, had a greater influence on the movement. This approach was disconnected from Jewish 6 Kohn, The Idea of Nationalism; Louis L. Snyder, The Meaning of Nationalism (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1954), 117-120. 7 Dmitry Shumsky, Bein prag le-yerushalayim: tsiyonut, prag, ve-ra’ayon ha-medinah ha-du-leumit be-Eretz Yisrael ( Jerusalem: Leo Baeck Institute, 2010), 247-311. See also Kohn’s autobiography: Living in a Word of Revolution: My Encounter with History (New York: Trident Press, 1964). 8 Hans Kohn, “Zion and the Jewish National Idea,” Menorah 41, no. 1 (1958): 17-46; compare Hannah Arendt, “Zionism Reconsidered,” Menorah 33, no. 2 (1945): 162-196. 9 Kohn, “Zion and the Jewish National Idea,” 26-27.

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history and the Jewish ethos of the “people of the book” and “people of the spirit.” Herzl and his successors in the Zionist movement, according to Kohn, created an Eastern nationalism based on the formation of a “new Jew” who was muscular, a figure that was contrary to Jewish tradition. In this article, Kohn briefly and simplistically intertwined the thoughts of Micah Josef Berdichevsky, Saul Tchernichovsky, and Ze’ev Jabotinsky with Herzl’s approach, which was based on militant Eastern nationalism. Kohn believed that as Zionism developed in the Land of Israel, it increasingly based itself on ideas of blood and soil rather than on civic liberalism. Kohn thought that Chaim Weizmann, the last of the liberal Zionists, was losing his influence over the movement, and his place was being taken by the activist leader David Ben-Gurion, who implemented Jabotinsky’s forceful program in practice.10 In the Yishuv era, the liberal ideas of Altneuland no longer had a significant impact on the Zionist movement; instead, Herzl’s approach in The Jewish State prevailed, suggesting that the entire world was acting against the Jews.11 Considering himself a disciple of Ahad Ha’am, Kohn believed that spiritual nationalism expressed the moral, worthy Zionist approach. According to Ahad Ha’am’s theory, antisemitism was not the reason for the creation of Zionism. The central motivator of Zionism, he argued, is the cultural solidarity of the Jews and the desire to build a national identity in the face of modern challenges. In contrast to Herzl, Ahad Ha’am sought to create a cultural and spiritual nationalism and not to react to antisemitism. Interestingly, Kohn attributed a Western approach to Ahad Ha’am even though he saw himself as an Eastern Zionist. Kohn considered Ahad Ha’am “Western” because he was influenced by English liberal philosophy, especially by British political philosopher Herbert Spencer.12 However, in this context, we note that Herzl too was influenced by Spencer, and even sent him a copy of his book The Jewish State. On March 21, 1897, Herzl wrote to Spencer: “Therefore, I seek to know and be assured—for I am already convinced that the Jewish State will arise and exist in one form or another, and it may be after my lifetime—how the beginning of this enterprise is reflected in the great spirit of Herbert Spencer.”13 Kohn’s understanding of the Zionist movement is imprecise, as it ignored or greatly diminished the value of significant civic parts in Herzl’s thought

10 Ibid., 31-32. 11 Ibid., 27-32. 12 Ibid., 32-35. 13 Theodor Herzl, Inyan ha-yehudim: sifrei yoman, vol. 1 ( Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1997-2001), 440-441. Finally, in his autobiography, Kohn admitted that Herzl’s viewpoint did not contradict the Western approach. See Kohn, Living in a World of Revolution, 55.

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and also of prominent ethnic components in Ahad Ha’am’s thought. As a scholar of modern nationalism, Kohn did not often study Zionism, yet from his above-mentioned article, we may gain an understanding of his general perspective on Jewish nationalism. In his view, Zionism chose the forceful path of Eastern nationalism and not Western liberal nationalism. This chapter discusses the distinction between East and West as manifested in the early Zionist movement, through an analysis of the controversy between Herzl and Ahad Ha’am, which began at the onset of the movement and reached its peak in late 1902 following the publication of Altneuland. In this context, I examine the similarities and differences in the visions of the Zionist movement’s founders. I assess to what extent Kohn’s division between East and West in national movements is indeed valid for the Zionist movement, and whether it allows for a description of the historical reality of classical Zionism. I argue that early Zionism integrated ethnic and civic elements, both Eastern and Western, and cannot be characterized as a distinctly Eastern model. Kohn’s distinction serves as an analytical tool for understanding nationalism as a historical phenomenon, and therefore his model had a significant impact on scholars of nationalism in the second half of the twentieth century. However, recently, many scholars have rightly pointed out the problems and difficulties that arise when adopting this dichotomous approach simplistically.14 It seems that the question of how to understand the Zionist movement—as ethnic or civic nationalism—is becoming increasingly relevant in the State of Israel of the twenty-first century. Some scholars have followed Kohn’s path, seeing Zionism and the State of Israel as clear examples of ethnic nationalism, while others believe that the ideological foundations of the State of Israel as a Jewish and democratic state are based on liberal and Western principles that allow for the existence of civic elements within it.15 In my opinion, the debate on the character of the State of Israel today can benefit from examining the foundational positions of the early Zionist thinkers and leaders. Zionism is a fascinating

14 Will Kymlicka, Multicultural Citizenship: A Liberal Theory of Minority Rights (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995); Bernard Yack, “The Myth of Civic Nationalism,” Critical Review 10, no. 2 (1996):193-211; Anthony D. Smith, Nationalism and Modernism (London: Routledge, 1998), 210-213; David Brown, “Are There Good and Bad Nationalisms?” Nations and Nationalism 5, no. 2 (1999): 281-302; Taras Kuzio, “The Myth of the Civic State: A Critical Survey of Hans Kohn’s Framework for Understanding Nationalism,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 25, no. 1 (2002): 20-39. 15 Ruth Gabizon, Israel ke-medinah yehudit ve-demokratit: metahim ve-sikui’im ( Jerusalem: Van Lear Institute, Ha-Kibbutz Ha-Me’uhad, 1999), 11-28; Alexander Yakobson and Amnon Rubinstein, Israel u-mishpahat ha-amim: medinat le’om yehudit u-zekhuyot ha-adam ( Jerusalem: Schocken, 2003), 7-18.

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example of a national movement that integrated Eastern and Western, ethnic and civic elements. This combination of elements existed in the early Zionist movement through the establishment of the State of Israel.

East and West in Zionism: The Roots of the Conflict The distinction between East and West within the Zionist movement was first made by the movement’s leaders and thinkers. Ahad Ha’am, who saw himself as an Eastern Zionist, sharply criticized the leadership style of Theodor Herzl, who in his opinion turned Zionism into a Western national movement devoid of roots in Jewish culture and history. According to Ahad Ha’am, in Eastern Zionism, one could identify “true national freedom and real national life on universal human foundations,” while in Western Zionism under Herzl’s leadership, we find “a monkey’s imitation without any self-national characteristic, and the scent of ‘slavery within freedom,’ born of Western exile, blows in every direction.”16 Ahad Ha’am made this distinction between West and East, between political Zionism and the Eastern Zionism of Hibbat Zion, immediately after the first Zionist Congress in August 1897. To Ahad Ha’am, the Eastern Jewish nationalism of Hovevei Zion was not born out of the pogroms against Jews in the East or due to modern antisemitism in the West. Instead, he asserted, this nationalism was primarily created from Jewish solidarity based on a collective consciousness that faced the crisis of modernity. The national turning point in Jewish life came about because of the crisis that occurred in the Jewish community facing the challenges of modernism, Enlightenment, and emancipation. In contrast, Zionism among Western Jews, in his opinion, arose due to external circumstances: the rise of modern antisemitism and the paradox of emancipation. In other words, the civic integration of the Jews did not lead to proper social integration. Instead, modern antisemitism, which was even more threatening than the Jew-hatred of the Middle Ages, developed in Western Europe. Ahad Ha’am felt that the Western Zionists had no understanding of the cultural depth of the Jewish national movement: The Western Jew, after leaving the ghetto life and seeking to attach himself to the people of the countries in which he lives, is unhappy because his hope to an open-armed welcome is disappointed. He returns reluctantly to his own people, and 16 Ahad Ha’am, “Ha-het ve-onsho,” in Kol kitvei, 322.

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tries to find within the Jewish community that life for which he yearns—but in vain. The life of the community and its needs are no longer sufficient for him [. . .]; and the life of the spirit, the work of national culture, does not capture his heart. Because he was distant from them since childhood, he neither knows nor understands them.17 According to Ahad Ha’am, it is not only the Jewish problem that requires a solution, but the problem of Judaism as well: “not only the Jews have left the ghetto, but Judaism itself.”18 Ahad Ha’am did not aspire to merely establish a state for Jews to solve the particular problem of the modern Western Jew, who faced the rejection and repulsion of Europe. According to his approach, the purpose of Jewish nationalism was to alter the historical life course of the Jewish people: “Not merely a state of Jews, but truly a Jewish state.”19 Thus, the role of Jewish nationalism was to create a spiritual and cultural Jewish renaissance, and this was more important than the need to solve the political “Jewish Question.” Ahad Ha’am was very critical of Western Jews who “returned to their Judaism” because of antisemitism. In his view, their cultural world was tied to Western culture and not to the cultural world of Judaism. Their return to Judaism was artificial and not natural; they did not see a need for Jewish culture, and they required intellectual justifications to affirm their Jewish identity. In contrast, in Eastern Judaism, Jewish communal life was never interrupted. For these Jews, cultural life was natural and not artificial, and there was no need for intellectual justification to affirm their Jewishness because they always saw themselves first and foremost as Jews: “All these reasons that Western Jews are accustomed to ‘apologizing’ for, for adhering to their Judaism and desiring its existence, in truth, are of no substance. Then as now, all Jews, whether in the East or the West, are Jews because—they are Jews.”20 In contrast to Ahad Ha’am, Herzl did not overly emphasize cultural arguments or the effort to put cultural work on the Zionist agenda. Moreover, unlike the small-scale settlement efforts of Hovevei Zion in the Land of Israel, Herzl believed that the Zionist movement should invest its efforts primarily in diplomacy to obtain international agreement or a charter for the return of the Jews to their land. To him, the attempt to build a Jewish state in the manner of Hovevei

17 Ibid., “Medinat ha-yehudim ve-‘zarat ha-yehudim,’” 137. 18 Ibid. 19 Ibid., 138 (original emphasis). 20 Ibid., “Derekh ha-ruah,” 150-151.

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Zion was not suited to modern reality. Returning to agricultural foundations, in his view, was a regression from the idea of progress and the achievements of science and technology. Furthermore, he felt that the lack of diplomatic action by Hovevei Zion diminished its value from a national movement to an underground organization encouraging infiltration into the land. According to him, only as a mass movement could Zionism offer a real solution in a reasonable time to the plight of Jews persecuted in Eastern Europe and those living under the threat of antisemitism in the West. He emphasized that at the rate of immigration to the Land of Israel dictated by Hovevei Zion, it might take hundreds of years before a state for the Jews could be established. In contrast, Zionism aspired to official international recognition in order to establish a state for the Jews as quickly as possible. In his speech at the First Zionist Congress, Herzl articulated the differences between Zionism and Hovevei Zion as follows: “However, it [Hibbat Zion] is not the solution to the Jewish question and cannot be such in its current form. [. . .] Let us suppose that there are nine million Jews and that the settlement manages to settle ten thousand souls per year in the Land of Israel. Then the solution to the Jewish question would require nine hundred years—this seems impractical.”21 Herzl demonstrated respect for Hibbat Zion and began the congress with the blessing of Rabbi Shmuel Mohilever for the congress attendees. But he viewed the solutions proposed for “the Jewish problem” until that point as ineffective. In his opinion, Hibbat Zion had not created the necessary political and governmental mechanism for the success of the national enterprise.22 Ahad Ha’am did not spare his criticism of Herzl and the Western political Zionism he represented from 1897 onwards. This criticism was publicly expressed in his articles: “The First Zionist Congress,” “The Jewish State and ‘Jewish Misfortune’” and “The Congress and its Creator.”23 In a letter sent to his close friend and confidant Yehoshua Hone Ravnitzki immediately after the First Zionist Congress, Ahad Ha’am wrote: “Who knows if this was not the last sigh of the dying nation!”24 Herzl seemed to him an illusion, akin to a “new Shabbtai

21 Ha-protokol shel ha-kongres ha-tsiyoni ha-rishon be-basel [August 29-31, 1897], trans. Hayim Orlan ( Jerusalem: R. Mass, 1997), 13. 22 David Vital, The Origins of Zionism (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975), 334-370, esp. 356-359; Yosef Mohilever, “Rabbi Shmuel Mohilever z”l ve-ha-kongres ha-rishon,” in Sefer ha-kongres: li-mlot hamesh ve-esrim shanah la-kongres ha-tsiyoni ha-rishon, ed. Leib Yaffe ( Jerusalem: A. Eitan and S. Shoshani, 1923), 125-131. 23 Ahad Ha’am, Kol kitvei, 135-140, 275-278; David Vital, Zionism: The Formative Years (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982), 24-35. 24 Ahad Ha’am, Igrot, 1:251-252; Shulamit Laskow, “Ha-riv al odot Altneuland,” Ha-Tsiyonut 15 (1991): 50-51n70.

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Zvi.” Ahad Ha’am met Herzl twice during the congress, encounters that were well engraved in his memory since, in a letter to Yechiel Tschlenow a year later, he recounted them in detail and even articulated his opinion on Herzl’s leadership style: “I could not escape the impression that a sketch writer spirit permeates all his thoughts and sentences on the matter,”25 he wrote dismissively. In his article on the First Congress, he referred with great suspicion to the “Western” leaders of the movement. Europeans are the creators of this movement, well-versed in the laws of diplomacy and the customs of contemporary political sects, and it is these laws and customs they bring with them to the Jewish State. . . . Emissaries were sent before the assembly and various hints were published in writing and orally to arouse an exaggerated hope for imminent salvation in the heart of the masses. And thus, they kindled a foreign fire in hearts, a feverish enthusiasm, which brought to the assembly in Basel a collection of youths, lacking in years or knowledge, who marred its beauty and turned it into mockery with their numerous follies.26 According to Ahad Ha’am, the Western leaders of Zionism were incapable of providing relief for the Jewish plight. Only true spiritual leadership could bring about true salvation. “The salvation of Israel is destined to come through ‘prophets,’ not through ‘diplomats’ . . . ,”27 he wrote disdainfully in his concluding remarks, directing this towards Herzl. Ahad Ha’am was critical of Herzl’s charismatic style of leadership and rejected the personal cult that formed around him. He favored the guidance of “prophets” over “diplomats,” seeing his own style of leadership as closer to the prophetic ideal—a leadership intended to direct the path and act as a moral and ethical compass for the Zionist movement. To him, the leadership that emerged from Western Zionism was rooted too much in the present, a direct outcome of the pressing issue of antisemitism. Such leadership, he argued, was devoid of the historical patience and the deep-seated perseverance necessary for the significant cultural transformation required by the Jewish people at this critical juncture. In particularly sharp terms, he expressed these thoughts: “Antisemitism generated Herzl; Herzl generated the ‘Jewish State’; the Jewish

25 Ahad Ha’am, Igrot, 2:146. 26 Ahad Ha’am, “Ha-kongres ha-tsiyoni ha-rishon,” in Kol kitvei, 275. 27 Ibid., 276.

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State generated Zionism; and Zionism generated the Congress. Antisemitism is thus the primary reason of the entire movement.”28 The leadership of Western Zionism seeks only an immediate solution to current problems but does not meet the long-term cultural needs of the Jewish people. In contrast with the Western leadership, Eastern Zionism understood the necessary change: “A nation can wait. However, Western Zionism apparently cannot wait.”29 To Ahad Ha’am, Herzl was merely a political leader, not the true national leader he should have been, meaning a leader who understands the historical Jewish consciousness and the required rectification towards the national stage in the life of the Jewish people. Ahad Ha’am stressed that the path of prophetic leadership was longer and slower, but its end was true national redemption, not empty political charms. Because of this stance, he rejected the vision of establishing the state in the near future: The state will not be founded in our land in our days in any case, and if we wish to precede it with a slowly organized settlement, the state will never be founded there. For only cultural work (in both the material and spiritual sense) over several generations in the Land of Israel will grant us the right and the power to eventually achieve autonomous life there.30 Ahad Ha’am repeatedly criticized Herzl and his leadership from 1897 to 1902, but he received no response. Herzl was then at the peak of his power as a leader of the movement, and thus did not see this criticism as a threat to his leadership. Beyond the deep differences in worldviews and methods of action, we also note the striking personality differences between the two men. Herzl was a charismatic leader, perhaps the most charismatic in the history of Zionism.31 He had a captivating charm over his listeners, over masses of Jews around the world, and over the movement’s leaders. He possessed an extraordinary ability to mobilize people and to deeply influence them, including those who were more famous or older than him in years and deeds, meaning he was charismatic in

28 Ibid. 29 Ibid., 278. 30 Ahad Ha’am, Igrot, 3:266. See Zipperstein, Elusive Prophet, 194-195; Goldstein, Ahad Ha’am, 244-246. 31 See Derek Penslar, Theodor Herzl: The Charismatic Leader (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2020), 3-10.

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the contemporary sense of the term. Even according to Max Weber’s definition, Herzl was the indisputable charismatic leader of Zionism.32 As a leader Herzl gained superior status in the Zionist movement. He was responsible for the founding of Zionist institutions, and he set the movement on a political track that eventually led to the establishment of the State of Israel. His figure became a symbol of the movement during his own life, and even more so after his death. In contrast, Ahad Ha’am was a spiritual leader, but not an organizational or political leader in the conventional sense. He grew up in an aristocratic family that taught him refined manners.33 Within his circle and among his many students, he was greatly esteemed, and even his opponents generally treated him with respect. However, as a leader within the Zionist movement, criticism was his most effective tool to influence its direction. He never reached a position of political leadership, and his influence remained in the spiritual, moral, and cultural spheres. Nonetheless, he had profound influence on the Zionist intelligentsia, and some of his students, including Chaim Weizmann, reached positions of political power within the movement. As a modern Jew rooted in European culture, Herzl believed in the superiority of Western culture and the idea of progress. He thought that Zionism was destined to be part of the Enlightenment project. He and Max Nordau, co-leader of the Zionist movement, had grown up during the Enlightenment, like many Jewish intellectuals. Nordau was known in the 1880s and 1890s as one of the sharpest critics of the decadent culture of degeneration in Europe at the end of the nineteenth century (fin de siècle). He also believed in the principles of the Enlightenment and the idea of progress and fiercely attacked the literature and philosophy that adopted in the spirit of decadence. His position reflected the views of many in the European liberal bourgeoisie and therefore gained him global fame; his books were translated into many languages and published in many editions.34 Herzl envisioned the establishment of a Jewish state within a decade or two, rather than across many generations, as Ahad Ha’am had thought. He

32 Max Weber, On Charisma and Institution Building: Select Writings, ed. S. N. Eisenstadt (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968), chapter 2. 33 Esther Ginsberg-Shemkin, Be-veit horav shel Ahad Ha’am ba-kfar Gopitshitza  (Haifa: Zikhronot, 1941). 34 Kristof Scholte, “Max Nordau: rishon mevakrei Nietzsche,” in Nietzsche ba-tarbut ha-ivrit, ed. Ya’akov Golomb ( Jerusalem: Magnes, 2002), 67-90; Steven E. Ascheim, “Max Nordau, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Degeneration,” Journal of Contemporary History 28 (1993): 643-657; Michael Stanislawski, Zionism and the Fin de Siècle: Cosmopolitanism and Nationalism from Nordau to Jabotinsky (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), 19-35. See Max Nordau, Degeneration (New York: D. Appleton, 1895).

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confronted the double standards of “enlightened” Europe towards Jews on the one hand, while simultaneously aspiring to integrate Jews as a nation into this very culture on the other hand. Like other Zionist leaders, Herzl lived between two worlds: the Jewish world and the European milieu, between universalism and nationalism. Through Zionism, he sought to resolve both the Jewish Question (Die Judenfrage) as well as Europe’s ailments and flaws.35 We should note that Eastern European Zionists also revered Western culture, with many of these Russian intellectuals acknowledging the superiority of European culture. However, these Zionists absorbed Enlightenment values in a more selective and moderate manner than among Western Jews.

East and West in Zionism: The Height of the Conflict From the First Congress onwards, Ahad Ha’am repeatedly criticized Herzl’s leadership. Yet the opposition Ahad Ha’am set up between East and West in Zionism became more pronounced with the publication of Herzl’s utopian novel Altneuland, in which he depicted the Jewish state more as a civil society than as an ethnic state.36 Ahad Ha’am saw Herzl’s Altneuland as a direct continuation of The Jewish State (February 1896). In his view, The Jewish State was also a utopian plan with only a loose connection to reality. However, when Altneuland was published, Herzl fully revealed his cultural world and the path and life of the Jewish state as he wished to see them. The controversy between Ahad Ha’am and Herzl began in early 1903, after Ahad Ha’am’s critique was translated into German, and Zionist leaders and writers were divided between the Eastern and Western camps. The debate preoccupied the entire Zionist movement and only dissipated by late summer with the onset of the Uganda Plan controversy. However, the dispute and its implications had a far deeper impact than a mere political argument between two individuals.37 In my view, it highlights the existence of two paths or tendencies in Zionism from its inception until the establishment of the State of Israel:

35 In Zionism and the Fin de Siècle, Stanislawski focused particularly on Herzl, Nordau, Ephraim Moshe Lilien, and Ze’ev Jabotinsky as representative examples of Western Jews. On the Jewish Question, see Alex Bein, She’elat ha-yehudim: biyografiyah shel ba’ayah olamit (Givatayim: Masada, 1986). 36 Yossi Goldstein, Ahad Ha’am ve-Herzl: ha-ma’avak al ofyah ha-politi ve-ha-tarbuti shel ha-tsiyonut be-tsel parashat Altneuland ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 2011), 11-27. 37 Ibid.

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an ethnic tendency and a civic tendency. This controversy continues to have substantial implications for the State of Israel today. In December 1902, Ahad Ha’am published a critique in his journal Ha-Shiloah on Herzl’s utopian novel Altneuland.38 In the conclusion of Yalkut Katan—a series of notes in the journal—he wrote: Ten years ago, a Hebrew writer penned a similar utopia titled Journey to the Land of Israel in the Year 2040. There too, we find tolerance, peace, and human brotherhood. It cannot be otherwise, for this has been part the Jewish ideal since the time of the prophets. But one who compares the two stories to each other will immediately see how much higher the Zionist ideal of the Hebrew writer is compared to that of the Ashkenazi leader.39 The comparison Ahad Ha’am made between the two Zionist utopias teaches that in his opinion, there are two ways to realize Jewish nationalism. The political Zionism of Herzl, the Western Zionist, aspired to establish a state for Jews using political and diplomatic means without placing special emphasis on matters of education, culture, and the Hebrew language. The spiritual Zionism of Ahad Ha’am, the Eastern Zionist, represented the approach of Hovevei Zion, who aspired to solve not only the “Jewish problem” but also the “problem of Judaism.”40 Ahad Ha’am’s criticism aroused Herzl’s wrath. Encouraged by Herzl, his friend and confidant Nordau soon published a scathing response to Ahad Ha’am and his “anti-Zionist” approach. Nordau’s status in the Zionist leadership and in the European cultural arena exacerbated the Altneuland Affair into a full-blown conflict between East and West within the Zionist movement. In a sense, this was a continuation of the Culture Polemic (1898-1902). The conflict arose mainly because Herzl’s position as leader of the movement was weakened after repeated failures in the political arena in 1903. Ahad Ha’am’s opinion on Herzl’s leadership was known since 1897, the political leadership headed by Herzl and Nordau paid no attention to it. Now, to his surprise, his cultural approach was up for discussion among the leaders of Zionism in all its shades. I believe that after a careful examination of Ahad 38 Herzl, Altneuland. The novel was published in German in October 1902. 39 Ahad Ha’am, Kol kitvei, 222. The first publication of the critique of Altneuland was in Ahad Ha’am, “Yalkut katan,” Ha-Shiloah 10 (1902-1903): 566-578. From here on, the citations are from the original. 40 Laskow, Altneuland.

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Ha’am’s critique of Altneuland and of Nordau’s response to this critique, we will attain a deeper understanding of the distinction between East and West in the early Zionist movement.41 During this conflict, Ahad Ha’am was the clear representative of Eastern Zionism, while Nordau was perhaps the most Western among the Zionists. Ahad Ha’am’s critique of Herzl was indeed mocking. But beyond the biting sarcasm of his words, it is important to notice the fundamental differences between Herzl’s political Zionism, which proposed a modern political solution to the Jewish question, and Ahad Ha’am’s opposing approach, which reflecting a yearning for the creation of cultural national identity. First, there was a fundamental difference between the two methods in relation to the time required to implement the solution. Herzl sought a quick and revolutionary political solution, while Ahad Ha’am, the evolutionist, aspired to a slow and deep cultural change in the Jewish people that would take several generations. As we have already seen in his conflict with the “young” writers, Ahad Ha’am saw Zionism as a slow developmental process. He intentionally chose the name Ha-Shiloah for the journal that became his life’s work, referring to “the slow-flowing waters,”42 the biblical spring which flows gently through the ancient City of David. Ahad Ha’am saw the role of Ha-Shiloah as having an evolutionary influence on the transition from the world of tradition to Jewish nationalism. Just as he opposed literary revolutionism, he also opposed political revolutionism. Therefore, in his critique of Altneuland, he did not oppose the settlement of the Land of Israel per se, but the revolutionary and radical nature of the political act envisioned by Herzl, namely the establishment of the Jewish state through a swift process of leaving the diaspora: In praising the Land of Israel, the inquirers need no explanation, as they harbor no doubts about its merits, nor do they question: How will the majority of our people settle in the Land of Israel? Rather—How will they establish themselves there? Namely, how will this vast throng leave their countries of origin? [. . .] If hordes exit en masse, several hundred thousand annually, how could such numbers immediately settle and sustain themselves in a land that is small and desolate, with an economy whose

41 Shmuel Feiner, “‘Shum davar enoshi eino zar li’: ha-hevrah ve-ha-tarbut ha-yehudit ha-hilonit be-hazono shel Herzl,” in Herzl az ve-ha-yom: yehudi yasham, adam hadash? ed. Avi Sagi and Yedidya Stern ( Jerusalem: Shalom Hartman Institute, 2008), 171-194. 42 Ahad Ha’am, “Mikhtav el ha-orekh,” Ha-Shiloah 11 ( January–June 1903): 11.

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sources are yet untapped and unknown, revealing themselves only through persistent trials and labor that demands utmost caution and patience? [. . .] Thus, one of two scenarios: If the Land of Israel is to be settled naturally and progressively, then most of our people will inevitably remain in their current lands [. . .] Or, if the majority of Israel abandons their lands of exile and converges on the Land of Israel swiftly through a massive, simultaneous immigration—the Zionists must then clarify how such a wonder will be accomplished, one that surpasses all the miracles our ancestors witnessed from Egypt until today.43 Ahad Ha’am considered Altneuland and The Jewish State as utopian plans devoid of any grasp on reality. Reading them reveals that Herzl envisioned a rapid settlement in the Land of Israel, which was supposed to occur within a mere twenty years. According to Altneuland, the “New Society” was active by 1923, after the charter was signed in Constantinople in 1903 and the Zionist project began. Ahad Ha’am preferred the vision described in Elhanan Leib Lewinsky’s book, depicting the Land of Israel in the year 2040.44 The differences between their time scales was vast. Ahad Ha’am asserted sarcastically: “After twenty years, the entire land had already become an Eden, and the majority of Israel had already returned from their exile, dwelling safely in their land, ‘every man under his vine and under his fig tree.’ ”45 The second difference between Ahad Ha’am and Herzl is in the cultural aspect. According to Ahad Ha’am, Herzl had no understanding at all of Judaism as the Jewish people’s culture, and this misunderstanding led him to forgo any ethnic-cultural element in the Jewish state he described in Altneuland. The New Society described in Altneuland was a cosmopolitan civic society that did not make distinctions based on origin or religion and distanced itself from all markers of unique Jewish identity. In his critique, Ahad Ha’am rejected Herzl’s civic approach and the lack of Jewish cultural identity: Based on the logic that everything in the Land of Israel was not first created there, but rather in England and America, in France and in Germany, everything here belongs not only to Israel but to all nations, and thus the fundamental principle of the New

43 Ha-Shiloah 10 (1902-1903): 566-567. 44 Elhanan Leib Lewinsky, Masa le-Eretz Yisrael bi-shnat t”t (Berlin: Klal, 1922). 45 Ha-Shiloah 10 (1902-1903): 571. See Mic. 4:4.

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Society is for this reason: “Without distinction of religion or nationality!” This great principle is the living spirit throughout the narrative, reiterated with enthusiasm and at great length in almost every chapter, to the point where the reader cannot help but suspect that the author’s efforts were made solely for their sake, so that “they” could see and be convinced how noble this “Zionism” is . . . Indeed, it must be acknowledged that the Jews of the New Society have fulfilled this principle in its entirety with a true self-sacrifice; that is, their own soul is almost invisible in their society, due to their extreme efforts to make room for the souls of others, “without distinction of religion or nationality.”46 In light of this clear statement, it is difficult to understand how Hans Kohn could attribute to Ahad Ha’am a pronounced Western civic character when his criticism of Altneuland states the complete opposite. Ahad Ha’am proved that Herzl’s approach was cosmopolitan, while Ahad Ha’am insisted on ethnic cultural expression in the Zionist movement. For example, life in Haifa as described in Herzl’s Altneuland did not provide evidence of a Hebrew culture. There is no mention of the study of the Hebrew language or the existence of Hebrew magazines and journalism. As is known, such magazines and Hebrew newspapers were already in existence in the second half of the nineteenth century and were widespread throughout Europe. Therefore, Ahad Ha’am wondered “Whether Hebrew is taught there and other Jewish Studies—we do not know. [. . .] Do these journals have any Jewish character at all from any aspect? Is there room in them for questions unique to Jews because they are Jews [. . .] and if in the Land of Israel, at least one journal in the Hebrew language exists.”47 Ahad Ha’am also mocked the idyllic picture Herzl painted of the condition of the Land of Israel and its Arab inhabitants. How lovely is this idyll! But it is a bit difficult to understand. How did the New Society cleverly find enough land for all the millions of Jews returning from exile, if all the land that the Arabs had formerly worked, that is, most of the good land in the

46 Ibid., 572. 47 Ibid., 573.

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Land of Israel, remained in their hands “and nothing was taken from them.”48 Ahad Ha’am described the condition of Palestine in his article “Emet me-Eretz Yisarel” (Truth from Eretz Israel) and was familiar with the material condition of the Yishuv in the 1890s, since he visited as an emissary on behalf of Hibbat Zion to examine the condition of the Jewish settlements.49 Based on his experience, he completely dismissed Herzl’s approach, which in his opinion, sketched a picture of the Land of Israel from a bird’s-eye view without any factual basis. However, this issue did not occupy a central place in his criticism of Altneuland; the main concern he wanted to highlight was, as mentioned, the ethnic cultural aspect. Ahad Ha’am extensively discussed Herzl’s depiction in Altneuland of the journey of the New Society’s leaders through the northern cities, from Haifa through Zippori to Tiberias. The only Jewish settlement described along the way was called “the New Village” (Neudorf). Ahad Ha’am argued, Herzl did not bother to sketch the unique character of Jewish life in this village. Rather, he chose to stage a heated debate between a zealous nationalist named Geyer and the liberal leaders of the New Society: “In Neudorf, there are the peasants who tend to follow Geyer. But David and his friends demand their attention, delivering long and passionate speeches defending ‘the great principle.’ Even the old rabbi, Rabbi Shmuel, supports them, and eventually, the peasants acknowledge the truth and our ‘liberals’ prevail.”50 In this instance, Ahad Ha’am did not criticize the very existence of a tolerant and liberal approach among Jews, but rather lamented the absence of Jewish ethnic and cultural content. His criticism of Herzl’s liberalism underscored his own ethnic stance. Ahad Ha’am’s patience wore thin when he read the description of the Seder night in Tiberias, to which representatives of all faiths were invited: When the time for Seder arrived, the family members and their guests sat around the table, among them Rashid the Muslim and three priests of the three Christian denominations. All ate matzah and drank “cups” in love and brotherhood, and Hopkins reminded his friends the priests of ancient days, when the Passover holiday was a source of hatred and strife between

48 Ibid., 573-574. 49 Asher Ginsberg and Avraham Zussman, Divrei ha-bikoret le-inyanei ha-moshavot be-eretz ha-kodesh (Odessa: Dukhenba Press, 1900). 50 Ha-Shiloah 10 (1902-1903): 574.

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religions, and now here they all sat peacefully together in the house of a Jew on Passover night! Fortunate is the one who has seen all this!—But it is a pity that the author did not inform us as well, whether Priest Ignatius, for example, invited David and his friends along with the Jews’ rabbi to the Franciscan monastery on their Passover night . . .51 It thus seems that to Ahad Ha’am, the kind of religious tolerance described in Altneuland was as far from actual reality as east is from west, a vision for the days of the Messiah. His vision, as described in previous chapters, was more tied to the attempt to maintain the relevance of Jewish culture in the face of the challenges of modernity. His national approach, which was based on ethnic cultural nationalism, rejected the Orthodox perspective on one hand, and on the other, the enlightened liberal alternative of assimilation. Ahad Ha’am was not interested in treating the ailments of Western civilization as a whole, but rather in solving what he called “the problem of Judaism.” He kept strictly to this principled approach in his debates about the editing policy of the Jewish encyclopedia Otsar Ha-Yahadut, and even more so when he edited the journal Ha-Shiloah. Nevertheless, his ethnocentrism was in no way anti-Western, isolationist, or insular, as he took pride in his European style and admired English political philosophy. But his clear preference was to deal primarily with internal Jewish issues as he defined them. Ahad Ha’am felt that Herzl went too far in his liberal and civic approach when he distanced himself from any national Jewish cultural element. In this respect, he showed very little tolerance for the Jewish modernization experience of the Western Jews. Their world was fundamentally different from his own and from that of the Jews of Eastern Europe.52 Ahad Ha’am was so repulsed by Herzl’s utopia that towards the end of his critical essay, he wrote an extremely harsh critique that aroused the anger of Herzl and Nordau: We know the end of the ideal of political Zionism as envisioned by its primary leader. Perhaps we should now ask ourselves, now that we know, just one small question: what is the nature of Altneuland? Here is the bacteriologist Steinbeck, who cries the fate of the Nigerians and dedicates himself to removing the obstacles from the path of their return to their land, all in the name

51 Ibid., 575-576. 52 Feiner, Herzl.

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of Zionism. Accordingly, we could imagine a “Nigerian movement,” led by the leader of the Zionists, who writes Altneuland to vividly depict the realization of the “Nigerian” ideal after twenty years—and so we ask: How would the Nigerian “Altneuland” be different from that of Zionism now? It seems to me that I would not be exaggerating if I said that the author would have needed to make but few changes in this book in order to make it entirely “Nigerian” . . . to imitate others without any original talent; to distance oneself from “national chauvinism” to the extent of almost entirely eliminating the national character of the people, its language, its literature, and all tendencies of its spirit; to shrink and diminish oneself in order to show the foreigners that we are “tolerant” without limit, tolerant to the point of revulsion—all this the Nigerians too would have been capable of doing.53 Ahad Ha’am’s criticism reflects a fundamentally different understanding of the goals of the Zionist movement. Political Zionism focused on rational and swift action to solve the Jewish Question, in light of the rise of modern antisemitism in the West and the persecution of Jews in Eastern Europe. By contrast, cultural Zionism addressed the creation of a modern Jewish national identity based on Jewish culture and history. Ahad Ha’am’s criticism, as sarcastic as it was, demonstrated a systematic stance against the political, state-oriented approach. Ahad Ha’am did not oppose “Nigerian” nationalism, as indicated above. Rather, his opposition was to a generic nationalism, the creation of a people like all peoples. He sought to find in Jewish nationalism the unique attributes of Jewish history and culture and to express them in modern Jewish national identity. In my opinion, this criticism was not just a product of the political or personal threat he felt from Herzl, but was also a profound, albeit exaggerated, expression of his cultural-national approach. Despite this sharp criticism, I believe that a common denominator can be identified between the visions of Ahad Ha’am and Herzl. Despite their differences, both had a national and Zionist approach. I have presented Ahad Ha’am’s criticism above in order to sharpen the differences between them. As Yossi Goldstein showed, the 1903 dispute over Altneuland encompassed the entire Zionist movement, and responses to the controversy came from across the 53 Ha-Shiloah 10 (1902-1903): 577.

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entire Jewish world.54 Even within Ahad Ha’am’s camp, some opposed his harsh criticism of Herzl. One of the first to respond to Ahad Ha’am’s criticism was Shmaryahu Levin. Although he considered himself an admirer of Ahad Ha’am, he reproached him: “Herzl is building, and you are undermining.”55 In Levin view, it was very easy for Ahad Ha’am to find fault with the portrait of the state as painted by Herzl. Levin called on Ahad Ha’am to join the political vision and to integrate his spiritual and cultural contribution. Like Levin, many Eastern Zionists doubted Herzl and Nordau’s ability to understand Hebrew culture deeply. This was also the opinion of Nahum Sokolow, editor of the newspaper Ha-Tsfira. Nevertheless, they recognized Herzl’s significant contribution to the development of Zionism. Many believed that it was possible and even proper to join forces between Eastern and Western Jews in Zionism, so that each side could contribute its part and abilities to the realization of the national goal. However, when Nordau’s vehement response to Ahad Ha’am’s criticism was published, the differences in approach became clearer and the gaps between East and West within the movement deepened.56 Over the course of that year, many Zionists from both East and West were drawn into the debate, although they may have preferred to moderate these differences of opinion as much as possible. Nordau’s response to Ahad Ha’am’s article was published in March 1903, after it was translated into German and brought to Herzl’s attention. Herzl was furious, but he did not respond directly to Ahad Ha’am. Nordau’s response was apparently fully coordinated with Herzl. Firstly, Nordau denied that the fact Altneuland was written in German meant that according to Herzl’s vision, there was no Hebrew culture in the Land of Israel: “Herzl’s future vision is non-Jewish, since the Jewish citizens of the Land of Israel do not speak Hebrew but German.”57 Nordau noted that this fact was due to purely literary reasons and the methodology of the novel’s writing. In his opinion, not only Herzl but also all the great literary figures who wrote about various cultures used their own language. This denial carried a hint of feigned innocence, as Ahad Ha’am did not refer to the use of Hebrew as the language of the book. Rather, he spoke of the vision itself of teaching Hebrew in schools, of Hebrew journalism, of Jewish periodicals, and of engaging in Hebrew culture in general.

54 Goldstein, Ahad Ha’am ve-Herzl. 55 Shmaryahu Levin, “Ha-binyan ve-ha-stirah: mikhtav galui le-Ahad Ha’am,” Ha-zman (December 17, 1903), cited in Goldstein, Ahad Ha’am ve-Herzl, 70-74. 56 Ibid., 75-83. This response was published in March 1903 in the Zionist newspaper Die Welt. Sokolow translated it and published it in Ha-Tsfira. 57 Goldstein, Ahad Ha’am ve-Herzl, 77.

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Nordau’s criticism was primarily aimed at the differences between Ahad Ha’am’s Eastern vision and Herzl’s Western one. Nordau contrasted Herzl’s enlightened, liberal, and humanistic approach with Ahad Ha’am’s “isolationist, counter-Enlightenment perspective.” While Ahad Ha’am lamented the loss of unique Hebrew culture, Nordau praised Herzl’s Western liberalism. Consequently, he characterized Herzl’s method as positively European and labeled Ahad Ha’am’s approach as Eastern and Asiatic: Indeed, Altneuland is a European enclave within Asia. Here, Herzl precisely depicted what his people want and towards what goal we strive. We desire that the Jewish people, once liberated and become unified once more, continue to be a cultural nation—if it has already become so, and become a cultural nation if it has not yet reached that level. We are not imitating any other nation; we are merely utilizing and developing our own heritage. We have contributed to the development of European culture more than our numerical proportion; it is as much ours as it belongs to the Germans, the French, or the English. We will not allow anyone to fabricate an imaginary conflict between Jewish culture, our Jewish culture, and European culture. It is possible that European culture is something foreign for Ahad Ha’am. If so, he should be grateful that we are opening a doorway to it for him. But we will never agree that the return of the Jews to their ancestral land should be a regression into barbarism, as our enemies and slanderers claim. The Jewish people will develop its unique essence within the framework of general Western culture, like any other cultured people, but not outside of it, not from a wild Asiatic, culture-hating perspective, as Ahad Ha’am seemingly prefers.58 This arrogant passage, where Nordau puts Ahad Ha’am in his place as an Eastern, Asiatic Jew (a term derogatorily synonymous with “barbarian”), grateful to Western Zionist leadership for paving his way to the “cultural” salon of the West, expressed the root of the controversy. The offensive nature of these patronizing words towards many Eastern Zionist leaders, whether they agreed with Ahad Ha’am or not, is hard to overstate. Even Ahad Ha’am’s opponents, led by

58 Ibid., 78, and compare Ha-Tsfira, March 15, 1903, 2.

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Berdichevsky, strongly opposed Nordau’s remarks, seeing them as an arrogant attack by a Western Jew on Eastern Jews: It is not just the insult to Ahad Ha’am, a man who has served our spiritual cause for many years, that angers me, but it is a disgrace to the majority of our people, to us Hebrews in our land, and to all that we have achieved. To denigrate an entire generation within our nation as something marginal, merely because our letters are not Ashkenazi [German] and are not read from left to right, is to misunderstand the great world out there.59 In these words, Berdichevsky highlighted Nordau’s broad offense to all Eastern Jews and the decades-long cultural Hebrew efforts they had undertaken. He believed that Western Jews like Nordau failed to appreciate Eastern Jewish culture because they were unaware of the national revival occurring in Eastern Europe, which had given birth to Zionist Hebrew culture. Nordau’s condescending approach deeply offended Berdichevsky and the rest of the Eastern Jewish intelligentsia. While Nordau’s words were blunt and offensive, it is undeniable that the entire Zionist movement aspired to be part of Western culture. In The Jewish State, when Herzl stated, “When we journey out of Egypt again, we shall not leave the fleshpots behind,”60 he expressed not just the desires of Western Jews. Zionism as a whole did not seek to detach itself from Europe, enlightenment, and the modern idea of progress. Instead, it aimed to negate the darker side of Europe, which manifested itself to the Jews with the rise of modern antisemitism. In this respect, Nordau was accurate in asserting that Jews were full partners in the creation of Western culture and did not intend to relinquish it when demanding recognition of their right to sovereignty and to establish a nation-state. Nordau’s distinction between East and West, between the world of culture and barbarism, may also offer insights into the origins of Hans Kohn’s distinction between Western and Eastern nationalism. Nordau portrayed Ahad Ha’am as an intolerant, anti-Western nationalist: “Ahad Ha’am pours all his wrath upon the tolerance found in Altneuland. Christians—even Christian priests—and even Muslims are invited to the

59 Micah Josef Berdichevsky, “Al ha-perek,” Ha-Tsfira, March 26, 1903, 2; Goldstein, Ahad Ha’am ve-Herzl, 94-96. 60 Theodor Herzl, The Jewish State (New York: Herzl Press, 1970), 90; Kitvei Herzl, vol. 1 ( Jerusalem: Hassifriya Haziyonit, 1960), 61.

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Seder. Horrible indeed! [. . .] Ahad Ha’am does not want tolerance. The foreigners should be killed or at least expelled, like in Sodom and Gomorrah. The idea of tolerance disgusts him.”61 Readers of Ahad Ha’am’s critique understand that he did not advocate for xenophobia or intolerance. However, the distinct ethnocentric nature of his words allowed Nordau to depict him as an isolationist, anti-Western nationalist: “The future land of Israel, the land of our hopes and dreams, is not a ghetto but a haven of freedom for every person, eternal freedom,”62 Nordau declared. He dismissed Ahad Ha’am’s call for a stronger emphasis on Jewish Hebrew culture in the Land of Israel, arguing that it would lead to the creation of a ghetto in our land. From Nordau’s perspective, Ahad Ha’am was not a Zionist at all, which is why he attacked him and his criticism of Herzl. Ahad Ha’am is one of Zionism’s sworn enemies. Indeed, he fought against it differently from the assimilationists, who seek the complete disappearance of Judaism, and differently from the anti-Enlightenment ultra-Orthodox, who argue that it is a sin to “hasten the end.”63 But he attacks it with no less ferocity than theirs and with less honesty. [. . .] Ahad Ha’am is one of the protest rabbis, but secular. I have nothing against that. We cannot forbid him from opposing Zionism, just as we cannot forbid it to the protest rabbis. However, we are entitled and obliged to oppose his adopting the title “Zionist.” He is not a Zionist. He is the opposite of a Zionist.64 In the conflict between Herzl and Ahad Ha’am over Altneuland, Herzl himself publicly referred to Ahad Ha’am as an anti-Zionist thinker. In a meeting held in St. Petersburg in August 1903, before the Sixth Zionist Congress, Herzl said to the Russian Zionists:

61 Goldstein, Ahad Ha’am ve-Herzl, 78. 62 Ibid., 79. 63 Nordau referred to the ultra-Orthodox opposition to Zionism, partly due to their opinion that Jewish exile was a punishment from God and any attempt to leave the diaspora before the coming of the Messiah was nothing more than a rebellion against heaven. See Aviezer Ravitzky, Messianism, Zionism, and Jewish Religious Radicalism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 211-234. 64 Goldstein, Ahad Ha’am ve-Herzl, 80-83. See Max Nordau, “Ahad Ha’am al Altneuland,” in Ktavim Tsiyoni’im, vol. 4 ( Jerusalem: Hassifriya Haziyonit, 1962), 114-116.

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Ahad Ha’am’s approach is the opposite of ours. He opposes a Jewish state. He does not see the solution to the Jewish problem in Zion. According to his view, Jews should organize and remain in the diaspora. I could not personally respond to his latest remarks, because he based his criticism on my book. But it was not the criticism that touched me deeply, but rather the revelation of his article’s impact. I saw that there are Zionists who follow his path. I saw that a mix of opinions prevails in our camp. Ahad Ha’am is the only one faithfully adherent to his method and its entire history: he does not pay the tax to belong to the Zionist Federation. But there are those who mix one approach with another, and therefore I asked Nordau to clarify the matter and shed light on this confusion. It’s impossible to be an “Ahad Ha’amist” and a Zionist at the same time.65 Herzl emphasized that defining culture as a central theme in Zionist activity weakened the movement’s power. According to him, adherence to the Basel Program and pursuing a political path towards establishing a Jewish state was essential. The report in Ha-Zman newspaper suggests that Herzl’s direct attack on Ahad Ha’am caused dissatisfaction and was not well received by all attendees.66 Herzl and his associates sharply criticized Ahad Ha’am throughout their conflict. One such critic was Max Mandelstamm, a Russian Jewish doctor close to Herzl in the Zionist leadership. In his letter to Herzl, he wrote: “Do not pay attention to the clamor of Ahad Ha’am and the semi-Asiatic yeshiva boys similar to him.” In this letter, he also mockingly referred to Russian Zionists in general: “The Russian swamp has come to new life and the frogs are croaking.”67 The criticism Nordau directed at Ahad Ha’am was so blunt that many Eastern Zionists were taken aback. Sokolow, editor of the only newspaper that translated Nordau’s remarks into Hebrew and published them in Ha-Tsfira, added a note at

65 Ha-Zman 58 (August 13, 1903). Cited in Michael Heymann, ed., The Uganda Controversy (Tel Aviv: Israel Universities Press, 1970-1977), 1:96. 66 Ibid., 98. 67 Ha-Olam, 55-56 (November 22, 1938), 1085 (letter dated March 29, 1903). The original German is cited in Heymann, The Uganda Controversy, 1:63-64. See also Goldstein, Ahad Ha’am ve-Herzl, 96-97. Max Mandelstamm (1838-1911) was an active member of Hovevei Zion in the 1880s, and with the establishment of the Zionist movement, he became increasingly involved. He was chosen as one of the representatives of Russian Jewry to the Zionist Executive Committee. Mandelstamm was known for his close relationship with Theodor Herzl. See Yehuda Slutsky, “Dr. Max Mandelstamm,” Ha-Avar 4 (1956): 56-76; 4 (1957): 44-68.

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the margin of the article, clarifying that the translation did not imply agreement or identification with the content: “However, we must protest against this article of Nordau tenfold. As stated, we have printed it at Nordau’s responsibility. But there are many things in his article that are incorrect, imprecise, and impolite. [. . .] Unjustifiably, Nordau has turned the tables on one of our best writers and a man of truth, among the finest among us.”68 Sokolow sought to moderate the debate between the sides, recognizing the vital importance of creating a Hebrew culture as it developed in Eastern Europe, in Russia and Poland in the late nineteenth century. He referred to the work of Eastern European Hebrew culture as the “Holy of Holies,” thus highly valuing Ahad Ha’am’s contributions. Sokolow believed that Herzl and Nordau lacked a full understanding of the significance of Hebrew culture and failed to fully appreciate Ahad Ha’am’s contribution to the Zionist national project. Nevertheless, Sokolow also acknowledged the crucial importance of political leadership in advancing Zionist objectives and the significance of Herzl’s work. Therefore, he also gently criticized Ahad Ha’am for overly focusing on the cultural aspect of Altneuland to undermine Herzl and his vision without sufficient reason.

The Vision of an Ethnic Utopia in Levinsky’s Work: “My land and my people! I belong to you, and my dream is yours” Journey to the Land of Israel in the Year 2040, the utopian novel by educator and author Elhanan Leib Lewinsky (1857–1910), was published in 1892 in the journal Ha-Pardes.69 Levinsky, a member of Ahad Ha’am’s Bnei Moshe association, depicted in this book the vision of a Jewish state as reflected in the ideology of Ahad Ha’amist, cultural Zionism. While Lewinsky later supported Herzl’s leadership and did not place great emphasis on the differences between spiritual and political Zionism, his utopian work expressed Ahad Ha’am’s vision and the approach of the ethno-cultural stream within the Zionist movement. Lewinsky depicted a Jewish society in the Land of Israel in the year 2040, a society that combined a modern lifestyle with a deep commitment to Jewish tradition, actualizing the return to biblical values in its way of life and institutions. The utopia was written in Hebrew and aimed to establish a Hebrew vision

68 Ha-Tsfira, March 17, 1903, 3. 69 Ha-Pardes 1 (1892), 128-165; Lewinsky, Masa le-Eretz Yisrael. All citations below refer to the 1922 edition.

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of a Jewish state. The Hebrew language was not just the medium of the utopian story. It was also an integral part of the national revival project aspired to by the Eastern European ethno-cultural Zionists. In his description of the events at the beginning of the national revival project that led to the establishment of the Jewish state, the narrator says: At that time, a strong national movement stirred among the Jews . . . for the revival of the nation. One of the main principles of this national revival was the revival of the language, to rejuvenate it both in speech and in writing. They began to heal it, to strengthen it, and to cure it, and it lived, flourished, and blossomed. For indeed, our Hebrew language had never died. Only the nations of the world, out of their jealousy and ignorance, pronounced it—dead! And following them, many Jews, too, who found it convenient to neglect it, also cried out: Dead, the Hebrew language is dead.70 Lewinsky depicted the struggles for the preservation and revival of Hebrew as they occurred from the days of Smolenskin’s Ha-Shahar and onwards. The protagonist of the story is a Hebrew teacher living in a Jewish community in Syria, who embarks on a honeymoon journey to Paris with his wife Judith. He intertwines his love for his wife and his love for the Hebrew language as a romantic devotion, considering them two sides of the same coin: “My heart is full of love for my wife and for my language, for my language and for my wife.”71 Initially, the young couple’s journey was only meant to briefly pass through Jerusalem, but they were so fascinated by the Land of Israel that they decided to abandon their original plan of enjoying the worldly pleasures of Paris, choosing instead to explore the land for three whole months: “For Jerusalem makes one forget Paris, as in the past, the latter used to make one forget the former.”72 Similar to Herzl’s utopia in Altneuland, Lewinsky let his imagination soar, envisioning the future wonders of technology in the Land of Israel: “Now the coast of Jaffa is one of the most well-organized on the Mediterranean shores, and ships find refuge there from storm and tempest. It has warehouses, provisions stores, a lighthouse, electric lights, a dry dock for ship repairs, canals, and various large

70 Ibid., 7-8. 71 Ibid., 9. 72 Ibid., 10.

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factories. Situated not far from the Suez Canal, ships from all corners of the globe can almost always be found there, and its trade and wealth grow year by year.”73 Like Herzl, Lewinsky also attempted to give his utopia a futuristic dimension, looking beyond the veil of time to the nature of technological developments in the future. Lewinsky was enchanted, for example, by the industrial possibilities inherent in the natural resources of the Dead Sea: In the Salt City, activity is intense, with the hum of machines, the whistles and the smokestacks’ steam rising, and thousands of workers laboring there. The city holds treasures of all kinds of merchandise and metals, which are brought there by ship from Carmel and Lebanon via the Jordan and the Dead Sea, and from there they travel by railroad through Kadesh Barnea to EtzionGeber on the shores of the Red Sea.74 Despite the futuristic descriptions in the story, the essence of Lewinsky’s utopia revolves around the Jewish characters encountered by the protagonist during his journey in the Land of Israel. These characters illustrate the Jewish nature of the land and the Jewish state, and their Hebrew names reflect a connection to Jewish tradition, particularly to the heroes of the Bible: At the afternoon meal, we met the Chief Rabbi of Vilna, who was also traveling to the Land of Israel; Mr. Eshkoli, the mayor of Hebron; Professor Joshua Ben Nun from the Academy of Botany in Rishon LeZion; Evron the Parthian, head of the Property Court with his wife from Jerusalem; Nehemiah Hanahlami, the glass merchant from Etzion-Geber; Avner Ben Ner, a French legion commander; Manasseh Ben Israel, a judge from London with his wife; Avishai Ben Tzruya, an Italian army commander; Baruch Ben Neriah, writer from the journal Beit Israel in the capital; Nachman Bar Abba, a vineyard and orchard owner in the Jezreel Valley; and Mr. Ephraim Yarechinai, a renowned doctor from Berlin.75

73 Ibid., 27. 74 Ibid., 61. 75 Ibid., 18.

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As remembered, Ahad Ha’am aspired to establish a spiritual center for the entire Jewish people in the Land of Israel. The Jewish state, according to Ahad Ha’am, was not meant to be just a regular modern state. It was also intended to serve as a spiritual center that would strengthen the spirit of the Jewish people in the diaspora. Lewinsky’s utopian book tried to realize this vision through the encounter between the narrator and the inhabitants of the Land of Israel, who are portrayed as the ideal model of “the new Jews” in the spirit of Ahad Ha’am.76 In their lifestyle and daily behavior, they integrated the ancient Hebrew tradition with modernism and progress. Agricultural labor is described as a vital return to nature, not as an anti-modernist tendency: There is no one in the entire land of the Jews who does not know the land and does not work it. [. . .] Israel has now returned to its roots, as it was in the days of the first patriarchs—a people of farmers, and now all are farmers, from the greatest in the people to the last farmer . . . We constantly meet teachers, rabbis, professors, craftsmen, artists, judges, and officials who left their work when they became old and returned to their holdings to work and guard them.77 These new Jews, according to the author, have detached themselves from the diaspora existence. They no longer rely on “the tables of others” like the Jews of the diaspora, but engage themselves in productive work as farmers: “How pleasant it is to see the farmers around the table. I delighted in the sight of these healthy and robust men, putting piece after piece into their mouths, chewing with their white and strong teeth and swallowing . . . They have the right to eat! They eat from their own, and not a single piece, not even a mouthful, was bought from strangers.”78 This statement expresses the Zionist image of working the land as a process to repair the flaws of the diaspora Jew. Moreover, the text draws a line between “ours” and “theirs,” the Jewish people versus other nations. This recurring distinction in Lewinsky’s story established the author’s ethnocentric vision as a disciple of Ahad Ha’am. As part of the literary republic of the Eastern European Enlightenment intellectuals, Lewinsky depicted the work of Hebrew newspapers in his utopian

76 Yitzhak Conforti, “‘The New Jew’ in the Zionist Movement: Ideology and Historiography,” Australian Journal of Jewish Studies 25 (2011): 87-118. 77 Lewinsky, Masa le-Eretz Yisrael, 40-41. 78 Ibid., 43.

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Land of Israel as a reflection of the real activities of his time, partly due to the efforts of the Bnei Moshe association in which he was involved. Newspapers such as Ben Ami, Yerushalayim Ha-Benuya, Har Zion, Ha-Tsofeh Me’al Migdal David, Barkai, Ha-Aretz, and Ha-Yehudi79 were published in his vision of the Land of Israel in the year 2040 and participated in the revival of Hebrew culture. In this context, we recall Ahad Ha’am’s critique of Herzl’s Altneuland for not mentioning any Hebrew or Jewish newspapers. When Lewinsky described Jewish life in Jerusalem, he repeatedly emphasized the revival of Hebrew culture in the Jewish state. Jerusalem is the center of the entire world, at the navel of the earth . . . Particularly, it is the center of the Jewish world. In its streets, you will see and meet all our people from every corner of the diaspora. The higher education institutions in Jerusalem are the center of Torah, wisdom, and knowledge for all our brothers in the diaspora. Thousands of students will rush to them from every corner of the world to learn all branches of Torah and knowledge, and from Jerusalem will go forth Torah, and literature to all inhabitants of the earth. Alas, the Temple has not yet been built, and the Western Wall still stands in ruin. It is a sign to Israel that the day of its redemption has not yet come, and that it must wait and wait still, even if it tarries.80 The vision of the spiritual and cultural center in the Land of Israel that was formulated by Ahad Ha’am and the Bnei Moshe association finds full narrative expression in Lewinsky’s utopia. Jerusalem is depicted as the spiritual and cultural center of the Jewish people in the diaspora. Moreover, the fact that in Levinsky’s Journey the Temple has not yet been rebuilt, while in Herzl’s book “They reached the Temple. The times had fulfilled themselves, and it was rebuilt,” illustrates the differences in the two authors’ attitudes towards and understanding of Jewish religious tradition.81

79 Ibid., 37, and see also 29. 80 Ibid., 58. 81 Theodor Herzl, Old New Land, trans. Lotta Levensohn (Princeton: Markus Wiener Publishers, 2000), 250.

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Journey describes the life of a Jewish family through a visit to the home of Nachshon ben Aminadav, the head of Shalom Village, and the ideal figure of the new Jew as depicted by Lewinsky. In this home, the proper integration of modern nationalism and an unmediated connection with classical Jewish tradition is realized. For example, Nachshon’s rich library is described: In Mr. Nachshon’s house, I found a great and abundant treasure of various books, especially from the last century, and extensive literature on farming and knowledge of plants and seedlings, in Hebrew, Russian, French, English, and German, besides the Talmud, halachic responsa, and the holy Scriptures, which are found in the house of every Jewish man, along with three periodicals and journals from Jerusalem and Shechem. His home is a meeting place for the scholars of the area, and they visit him and seek his company.82 Lewinsky made sure to attach to the character of Nachshon, the new Jew, the figure of the ideal new Jewish woman: Nachshon’s daughter-in-law, Miriam, plays the piano remarkably well, and after evening tea, she performed for us several pieces, including chapters from Psalms, “Leil Tu B’Av” by Ha-Levi, the march “Alu Ve-Rashu” by Hacohen, and excerpts from the opera “Deborah and Barak.” Miriam is a woman of striking beauty. Throughout the day, she was busy with her work in the house, garden, and educating the children. In the evening, she changed her clothes, washed her hands and face, and passed the time in a social gathering, playing both the piano and the violin, with her ten-year-old daughter assisting her.83 Thus, the narrative presents a highly romantic, naïve picture, free of conflicts and problems, of the Jewish state in the Land of Israel in the year 2040. Peace reigns in the land, and the new Jewish society perfectly embodies both the national and universal ideals, reminiscent of the biblical verse “renew our days as of old” (Lam. 5:21). The characters depicted in this book are exemplary figures representing the new Jew as envisioned by the cultural stream of Zionism. Like

82 Lewinsky, Masa le-Eretz Yisrael, 44. 83 Ibid., 44-45.

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the heroes of the Bible, the characters in this story reflect simplicity, a closeness to nature, and healthy, open relationships between men and women, devoid of the stringent partitions of the Orthodox world. The Jews live securely in their land, unaffected by the wars that occasionally erupt in Europe.84 While in Altneuland, Herzl developed more fully rounded characters with conflicts, Lewinsky does not rise to the level of a novelist, and his portrayal does not allow the reader to identify with characters that have depth. His style is naive, similar to other utopias that were typically written as ideological literature. Lewinsky envisioned a society without class conflicts, based on the “socialist” principles of the Hebrew Bible. According to him, the Jews did not follow socialist revolutionism but instead: [They] accepted only the law of Moses as a guide to life. Man is made of flesh and blood, he will always wish to hold private property, hence we cannot eradicate private property. The laws of Moses, never took an extreme approach of all or nothing. It neither completely denied the private property, nor allowed unrestricted of wealth for a handful people alone. Instead, it set boundaries and measures for ownership.85 Lewinsky found in Jewish tradition the necessary tools to create a reformed society that allowed equal opportunities for all classes. Although he showed some awareness of the socialist thought of his time, mentioning the ideas of socialist utopian Edward Bellamy for creating an egalitarian society in the United States,86 the solution he proposed for the social issues of the modern era was derived from Jewish tradition, striking a balance between private wealth and a full commitment to social justice: “According to that theory, there is neither excessive poverty nor excessive wealth in the Jewish land. The individual’s desire to accumulate wealth is given its due. Behold, the land is before you;

84 Ibid., 48. 85 Ibid. It is important to note the difference between Lewinsky’s “biblical socialism” and Herzl’s opposing approach, whose social views were based on European social experiments: “For it is among the English that we find the first traced of the co-operated social order, which we have taken over and adapted. German science too has added its profound word here” (Herzl, Old New Land, 147). 86 Edward Bellamy (1850-1898) was an American thinker and socialist, and author of Looking Backward: 2000-1887, one of the most influential utopian novels of the late nineteenth century.

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work, trade, enrich yourself, but know the law and limit and do not cross the boundaries of others.”87 Generally, Lewinsky expressed the worldview of Eastern European Jewish Enlightenment intellectuals, whose exposure to Western culture was filtered through a Jewish lens, focusing on Jewish society and its ethnic culture. This is he depicted the Land of Israel as “the land of the Hebrews” with all Jewish characters and paid little attention to non-Jews. Although Lewinsky mentioned that various peoples lived in Jerusalem, he did not give them a voice in his story. Among the Zionist utopias written in the late nineteenth century, Lewinsky’s was the most isolationist, focusing solely on the Jewish world.88 This was the very issue that Ahad Ha’am criticized in Herzl’s Altneuland. In his view, Herzl went too far in the universalistic tendency of his book, wanting to demonstrate the Jews’ tolerance towards non-Jews. According to Ahad Ha’am, Herzl’s main goal was to justify himself to the nations of Europe and to show how far the Jews were from nationalistic chauvinism.89 Similarly to the comparison made by Ahad Ha’am between Herzl’s Altneuland and Lewinsky’s Journey to the Land of Israel, Zionist writer and publicist Moshe Kleinman (1870-1948), a native of the Podolia region, compared the two utopias in an article published in Ha-Shiloah in 1910. According to Kleinman, Lewinsky’s utopia clearly represented Hibbat Zion and the Hebrew cultural Zionism of Ahad Ha’am, aspiring to establish a “true Jewish state,” not just a state like all other states. Kleinman analyzed Lewinsky’s perspective as inward-looking, a view “from within the camp,” while Herzl’s perspective was external, as if “standing on a high and steep mountain.” Like Ahad Ha’am, Kleinman differentiated between the “Hebrews,” representing the authentic Jews life, and the “Ashkenazim,” which internalized the German cultural world. He believed Lewinsky’s story reached the deepest recesses of the Jewish psyche that yearned for redemption and the establishment of a spiritual cultural center for the Jewish people in the Land of Israel. In his view, Herzl’s book was alien to Jewish values; it reflected the cultural confusion of its author and thus failed to create a “Hebrew” focal point for Jewish life in the Land of Israel. In summary:

87 Lewinsky, Masa le-Eretz Yisrael, 49. 88 Lea Hadomi, “Ha-roman ha-utopi ve-ha-utopia ha-tsiyonit,” Bikoret u-Parshanut 13-14 (1979): 167. 89 Ahad Ha’am, Kol Kitvei, 219.

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When we come to summarize our judgment on the two Zionist utopias, we must say that “Tel Aviv” [Altneuland] is a greater and more complex literary work than Journey to the Land of Israel, and has a much more important political value than the latter; but as far as the depths of our national aspirations are concerned, our small Hebrew utopia need not be ashamed before its Ashkenazi sister, as it is not inferior to it, and in many aspects, it even surpasses it.90 Kleinman thus saw Lewinsky’s book as “our utopia,” faithfully representing the ethnic and cultural world of Eastern European Jews. In summary, Lewinsky’s utopia is much more focused on the inner world of Judaism. It begins with the statement, “My land and my people! I am yours, and your dreams are mine,” and indeed it is entirely written in the spirit of an ethnic nationalistic approach. In Ahad Ha’am’s eulogy for his dear friend Lewinsky, he characterized him as following the principle “I am a man of Israel, all that pertains to the Jewish people and the individual within it is close to my heart.”91 To understand the differences in their approaches, we may contrast this with Herzl’s statement, “Nothing human is alien to me.” We have seen that Ahad Ha’am’s vision is distinctly ethnic, and this is reflected in Lewinsky’s book. Yet Hans Kohn identified this vision specifically as Western civic nationalism, rather than what it actually was: Eastern ethnic nationalism.

Herzl’s Liberal Vision: “Nothing Human is Alien to Me” The story of Altneuland begins with a depiction of the life in Vienna’s cafés in the late nineteenth century. The reader is exposed to the profound despair and difficulty faced by talented young Jews from the European bourgeoisie who have lost hope of integrating as equals in European society. Their Jewish identity placed them on the fringes of society, without the possibility to contribute their talents and energy and be recognized as desirable members. The protagonist of the story, Friedrich Löwenberg, deciphers the untenable situation of European Jews at that time. These Jewish youths turned to liberal professions and aspired to integrate into broader society, but Europe in the era of emancipation did not welcome them, instead relegating them to the radical margins of society. In the

90 Moshe Kleinman, “Shtei utopiyot,” Ha-Shiloah 23 (1910): 509. 91 Ahad Ha’am, Kol kitvei, 434.

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opening scene, Löwenberg parts ways with his two close friends, Heinrich and Oswald. One travels to Brazil in search of a future in a distant place that might welcome him, and the other commits suicide out of bitter despair. Herzl based the second character in memory of his close friend from the university, Heinrich Kana (1857-1891), who shot himself on February 6, 1891.92 In Altneuland, Herzl analyzed the difficulties and marginalization of bourgeois Jews in Europe, as he did previously in The Jewish State. He saw the Jewish Question as arising from the inherent paradox in the emancipation process of European Jews: “Its causa remota [remote cause] is the loss of our assimilability in the Middle Ages; the causa proxima [immediate cause], our overproduction of average intellects who have no outlet beneath them and no chance to rise— that is, no wholesome outlet in either direction.”93 Educated Jews could not find a place in the society where they grew up and were educated; this society simply refused to accept them as equal citizens. Despair over this situation, where young Jews had no hope of realizing their talents and living full and authentic lives, brings the protagonist Friedrich Löwenberg to deep depression and suicidal thoughts.94 In his despair, he accepts the strange proposal of a Prussian aristocrat, Mr. Kingscourt, to leave behind sick, decadent Europe and join him on a journey to a distant island. On their way to the island, they pass through the Land of Israel, make a short tour, and continue their journey. After twenty years of life on the island, these two gentlemen return to the Land of Israel, and their second tour of the country reveals Herzl’s Zionist utopia of the New Society in the old-new land. From this point on, Herzl describes his utopia to the reader. To Löwenberg and Kingscourt, late nineteenth-century Europe had replaced the culture of Enlightenment and progress with decadence, racism, and national chauvinism. Kingscourt recognized the potential in the Zionist experiment of Altneuland to save dying Europe and Western culture in general. Progress and technological developments, alongside certain developments in international relations, convinced him that the Zionist vision could indeed be realized and thus bring relief to the entire world. Ironically, the Jews—the primary victims of modern Europe—could create a reformed society that would solve the Jewish Question and even serve as an enlightened model for other nations. Kingscourt says, “You Jews! Just because you’re so badly off. You’ve nothing to lose. You

92 Alex Bein, Theodore Herzl: biyografiyah (Tel Aviv: Hassifriya Haziyonit, 1961), 46; Herzl, Inyan ha-yehudim, 1:56. 93 Theodor Herzl, The Jewish State (Der Judenstaat) (New York: Herzl Press, 1970), 48. 94 Herzl, Old New Land, 3-9.

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could make the experimental land for humanity. Over yonder, where we were, you could create a new commonwealth. On that ancient soil, old new land!”95 These words clearly indicate that Herzl’s vision in Altneuland assigns Zionism a national task that is also universal and humanistic, for the benefit of Jews and all other peoples. Herzl sketched the image of the Eastern Jew in the character of a Russian ophthalmologist, Dr. Eichenstamm, whom Löwenberg and Kingscourt first encounter during their initial visit to the Land of Israel, before setting sail to the deserted island. Dr. Eichenstamm’s character reflected Herzl’s genuine longing and affection for the authentic Jewish life of Eastern European Jewry. As Dr. Eichenstamm says to Friedrich Löwenberg: “I see what you are—a stranger to your people. If you ever come to us in Russia, you will realize that the Jewish nation still exists. We have a living tradition, a love of the past, and faith in the future.”96 Although he was exposed to their cultural world only indirectly and in a limited way, Herzl greatly valued the ethnic and cultural connection of Russian Jews to their Jewish heritage. The character of Eichenstamm was based on Max Mandelstamm, a Russian Jewish ophthalmologist, a member of Hovevei Zion and one of Herzl’s closest confidants. In contrast to Lewinsky’s utopia, which lacks a detailed discussion of the governing mechanisms of the Jewish state, Herzl’s approach to governance was very detailed and meticulous. The Jewish state in Altneuland was essentially managed by the New Society, a modern alternative to the existing governance systems in Europe. David Litvak, a key figure in the Jewish leadership in Altneuland, described the nature of the New Society as follows: We have no state, like the Europeans of your time. We are merely a society of citizens seeking to enjoy life through work and culture. We content ourselves with making our young people physically fit. We developed their bodies as well as their minds. We find athletics and rifle clubs sufficient for this purpose, even as they were thought sufficient in Switzerland. We also competitive games—cricket, football, rowing—like the English. We took tried and tested them all over again. Jewish children used to be pale, weak, timid. Now look at them!97

95 Ibid., 50. 96 Ibid., 45. 97 Ibid., 79-80.

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The political idea that Herzl described was based on a voluntary social order primarily focused on maintaining normal civic life. Shmuel Almog concludes that Herzl’s New Society vision “envisioned a minimum of independence alongside a maximum of autonomy for civil society, to be established in the Land of Israel.”98 In my view, Herzl’s intended to establish a state for the Jews should not be doubted, if only because of the title of his first book on the subject, The Jewish State. However, Almog is correct in arguing that Herzl emphasized the civic aspects of managing the New Society in Altneuland. Herzl believed that the realization of a Jewish state in the Land of Israel was a reasonable possibility within a short time—twenty years or even less. This was because he thought the driving force behind the success of the Zionist project existed in reality. The continuous simmering suffering of the Jews, the mutual interests of the European powers and the Jews in this region, the technological possibilities already available (trains, steamships, modern rural and urban planning), and the strategic location of the Land of Israel as a commercial crossroads between continents—all these would lead to the realization of the project. Therefore, through Zionist entrepreneurship and proper leadership, it would be possible to connect all the parts of the plan into a comprehensive realization plan leading to the establishment of the Jewish State.99 The integration of Jewish and European interests does not mean that Herzl’s vision was devoid of inner Jewish sentiment, as Ahad Ha’am suggested. Indeed, the weakness of the ethnic component in Altneuland allowed Ahad Ha’am to focus and amplify his criticism on this point. However, this does not mean that Herzl was detached from the inner and cultural world of the Jews. The difference between these two men was related to the nature of their Judaism. While Ahad Ha’am faithfully reflected Russian Jewry, Herzl grew up and acted in Central and Western Europe. As mentioned, Herzl himself acknowledged the more intimate connection of Russian and Eastern European Jews to Jewish heritage, and in his heart, he held a great love for this form of Judaism. He saw Zionism as a “return to Judaism”100 as he understood it, and therefore scorned Western intellectuals who distanced themselves from the national Jewish existence and disconnected their world from the Jewish experience. For example, through the character of Dr. Eichenstamm, Herzl criticized Western Jewish intellectuals and rabbis who

98 Shmuel Almog, Ha-nekudah ha-yehudit: yehudim be-einei atzmam u-ve-einei aherim: masot u-mehkarim (Tel Aviv: Sifriyat Poalim, 2002), 28. Shumsky developed this notion farther in his book. Dimitry Shumsky, Beyond the Nation-State: The Zionist Political Imagination from Pinsker to Ben-Gurion (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2018). 99 Herzl, Old New Land, 80-82. 100 Bein, Theodore Herzl: biyografiyah, 185, 213-214.

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he felt had strayed from their basic commitment to their people: “The best and most cultured men among us have remained true to Judaism as a nation. We desire to belong to no other. We are what our fathers were.”101 Reading Altneuland thus reveals Herzl’s most fundamental beliefs, his loves and hates. Just as he enveloped Russian Jewry with affection, represented by characters like Rabbi Shmuel or Dr. Eichenstamm,102 he vehemently attacked Western Jews who enjoyed well-off lifestyles while failing to assist their brethren when anti-Semitism rose in Germany or during the pogroms in Eastern Europe. Herzl particularly criticized Western rabbis like Moritz Güdemann, the Chief Rabbi of Vienna, and the reform “Protest Rabbis.”103 Rabbi Geyer in Altneuland embodied the type Herzl most despised: “He [Dr. Geyer] denied our people and our land. He read Zion out of the prayer books. And dared to tell the sheep who listened to him that it meant something else. Zion was everywhere but in Zion!”104 Herzl criticized Western rabbis who opposed Jewish nationalism and interpreted Judaism solely on the basis of universal religious principles: The rabbis who sought the immediate advantage made our lives a burden to us. Geyer is doing the same thing now. In those early, difficult days, he did not so much as want to hear the name of Palestine mentioned. Now he is more Palestinian than any of us. Now he is the patriot, the nationalist Jew. And we—we are the friends of the alien. If we listened to him, he would make us out to be bad Jews or even strangers in his Palestine.105 Interestingly, Herzl viewed the Jewish religious figures in the West negatively, whereas Eastern Jewry appeared to him as more tolerant and more faithful to the true Jewish tradition. This tradition, in his view, combined ethnic nationalism with tolerance towards non-Jews. Herzl’s approach to the Arab residents of the land was clearly civic. He depicted the Arabs as equal members in the New Society, both in rights and

101 Herzl, Old New Land, 45. 102 Ibid., 135. 103 Rabbi Moritz Gudemann (1835-1918) was in contact with Herzl following the writing of The Jewish State. Herzl consulted with him and expected his support, but Gudemann strongly opposed the Zionist movement. See Moritz Gudemann, National-Judenthum (Leipzig & Wien: M. Breitenstein, 1897). 104 Herzl, Old New Land, 137. 105 Ibid., 138.

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responsibilities. Unlike Lewinsky’s utopia, which completely ignores the Arabs, Herzl discussed their place. His civic approach was so evident that the journal of the Brit Shalom movement, She’ifoteinu (in which Hans Kohn was active), used Herzl’s words in the preface to its first volume, to demonstrate that Zionism advocated a moderate approach to the Arab residents: “This collection, published by the Brit Shalom association, contains articles from various periods of the development of the Zionist idea. [. . .] They prove that the socio-political principles of Brit Shalom were expressed long ago by Zionist leaders and are not a reaction to transient situations.”106 The volume began with extensive quotes from Altneuland, where Herzl expressed his view on equal rights for Arabs in the new society. Additionally, Rabbi Benjamin (Yehoshua Radler-Feldman, 1880-1957), a prominent activist in Brit Shalom in the 1920s, who enthusiastically supported cooperation with Arabs until the 1950s, was a devotee of Herzl’s political approach and strongly opposed Ahad Ha’am. Unlike most Brit Shalom members, Rabbi Benjamin saw himself as a “maximalist Zionist.” He opposed Ahad Ha’am’s spiritual stance, which preferred a slow and moderate educational process instead of rapid diplomatic action to establish a Jewish state. Thus, Rabbi Benjamin wrote in response to his colleagues who approved of Ahad Ha’am’s approach as moral and appropriate: Indeed, there is a significant difference between those who make their journey to the land of the forefathers in the year 2040, thinking that perhaps “the fourth generation shall return here,” and those who undertake this journey in the year 1923, believing that their heart’s desire can be realized “in our own days.” But the difference is entirely unlike that of Ahad Ha’am: the former, since they postpone their journey for such a long time, for an unlimited period, and for them, “the day is still far off,” therefore, it suffices for them “to bring spiritual inspiration” to us . . . They can, for example, describe in Journey to the Land of Israel how “the revival of the language led to the revival of the land, the ingathering of exiles, and the unity of the nation” [. . .] But for the latter, mere inspiration is not enough, for them “the day is short, and the work is plentiful!”107

106 Preface to She’ifoteinu 1 (1926): 1, and 2-4. 107 Yehoshua Radler-Feldman, Al ha-gvulin: reshimot u-ma’amarim, vol. 2 (Vienna: Oniyon Press, 1923), 9-17, 20-22 (citation from 21-22).

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Rabbi Benjamin also compared Herzl’s Altneuland with Lewinsky’s utopia. Although he was a member of Brit Shalom, whose majority supported Ahad Ha’am’s spiritual stance, he actually endorsed Herzl’s political approach and opposed Ahad Ha’am’s harsh criticism of Herzl. Rabbi Benjamin thought there was nothing wrong with Herzl’s approach, which did not settle for mere spiritual inspiration. Rabbi Benjamin did not see a problem with Herzl’s aspiration to realize the Zionist vision in a short time (1923), as opposed to Ahad Ha’am’s extremely slow vision, which was expected to take shape after several generations and over a hundred years. The fact that this prominent Brit Shalom activist supported Herzl’s vision and not Ahad Ha’am’s suggests that Herzlian nationalism could be interpreted as inclusive and not exclusionary, contrary to Kohn’s claim.108 Rabbi Benjamin himself demonstrated a sympathetic attitude towards the Arabs throughout his time in the Land of Israel, advocating for political cooperation with them. Herzl’s humanistic vision reached its apex in Altneuland when he described Jerusalem. There, the Palace of Peace was established, bearing the inscription “Nil humani a me alienum puto” (Nothing human is alien to me). Herzl depicted Shabbat in Jerusalem as the epitome of Jewish and universal perfection: The streets which at noon had been alive with traffic were now suddenly stilled. Very few motor cars were to be seen; all the shops were closed. Slowly and peacefully the Sabbath fell upon the bustling city. Throngs of worshipers wended their way to the Temple and the many synagogues in the Old city and the New, there to pray to the God Whose banner Israel had borne throughout the world for thousands of years.109 Thus, religion is a human element in modern Jewish life, with both religious and secular Jews recognizing the grandeur and majesty that the religious atmosphere in Jerusalem bestows. Furthermore, Jerusalem offers a sublime spiritual experience to all humanity. “For Jerusalem was now a home for all the best strivings of the human spirit: for Faith, Love, Knowledge.”110

108 Kohn admitted this, at least regarding Altneuland. See Kohn, Living in a World of Revolution, 55. 109 Herzl, Old New Land, 248. 110 Ibid., 249.

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Herzl’s vision thus integrated human advancement with the solution to the Jewish problem. Hence, we learn that for Herzl the Orient, the Land of Israel, will become part of Western Enlightenment project. Altneuland offered relief not only to the Jews but also to ailing, antisemitic Europe. Herzl believed that all of humanity could benefit from the Jewish return to their historical homeland. Jerusalem, which was previously characterized by “filth, noise, and vile odors,” transformed into a city of hope for all humanity, marked by the establishment of the “Peace Palace.”111 Herzl’s Zionism was shaped by challenges and difficulties quite distinct from those that concerned Ahad Ha’am. His vision reflected a different modern Jewish experience than the ethnic Judaism familiar to Ahad Ha’am. Starting from the eighteenth century, Jewish communities in Central and Western Europe began integrating into the life of surrounding nations. In England, the Netherlands, France, and German-speaking countries, many Jews were exposed to the culture of the nations among whom they lived. In practice, there were multiple paths to Jewish modernization, and the transition from the old Jewish world to modern Judaism occurred in various ways and shades.112 As I reach the end of this discussion, I would like to revisit the distinction between East and West in national movements. Hans Kohn, who saw himself as a disciple of Ahad Ha’am, made this distinction. However, Ahad Ha’am himself differentiated between Eastern Zionism and Western Zionism, seeing himself as an Eastern Zionist and labeling Herzl as Western. Interestingly, Kohn, when referring to the Zionist movement, reversed the order, ascribing Western civic nationalism to Ahad Ha’am and Eastern ethnic nationalism to Herzl. However, from the texts we have reviewed, this analysis seems far from historical reality, as Eastern Zionism was far more ethnic in nature, while Western Zionism was more civic. Generally, Eastern Zionist leadership was more connected to the Jewish ethnic culture, while Western leadership was influenced more by Western liberalism.113 The sharp division between East and West within Zionism does not always stand up to reality, as both ethnic and civic elements influenced both camps. This is not unique to Zionism. We would be hard put to find pure examples

111 Ibid., 248, 250. 112 Feiner, Herzl. 113 Yosef Gorny, Ha-she’elah ha-aravit ve-ha-ba’ayah ha-yehudit: zramim medini’im-ideologi’im ba-tsiyonut be-yahsam la-yeshut ha-aravit be-Eretz Yisrael ba-shanim 1882-1948 (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1985), 32-46.

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of Eastern or Western nationalism, whether ethnic or civic.114 However, in the specific case of Jewish nationalism, Kohn’s analysis does not seem accurate. If we cautiously consider Kohn’s model, we might say that Herzl’s vision leaned towards the civic side, while Ahad Ha’am’s strengthened the ethnic tendency, but both contained elements that combined ethnic identity with human universal ethics.

Conclusion The national ethnic aspects versus the universalist aspects as reflected in the visions of two major Zionist thinkers, Theodor Herzl and Ahad Ha’am, highlight a tension within Zionist thought. Zionism was a national movement born under unique conditions between East and West, nationalism and universalism, Europe and the Orient. As such, it encompassed groups representing diverse Jewish experiences and polarized attitudes towards Jewish existence in the modern era. Analyzing the vision of the two leaders revealed that Herzl did not represent solely Western liberal positions as Ahad Ha’am thought, and Ahad Ha’am did not embody isolationist nationalistic as Nordau, on behalf of Herzl, claimed. Both represented varying, and at times polarized, viewpoints within the Zionist spectrum regarding the establishment of a modern Jewish state. From a historical perspective, we may even assert that the State of Israel continues to grapple with similar questions today, shaping its identity and the nature of its regime. The existence of diverse approaches within early Zionism to the vision of the future Jewish state illustrates the multifaceted nature of Jewish nationalism. Zionism embodied Jewish dreams and aspirations that clashed not only regarding Jewish past awareness but also in the hopes for a desired future.115 The internal complexity of Zionism in shaping Jewish nationalism highlights the real difficulties faced by Eastern and Western Jews throughout the nineteenth century. Therefore, external explanations for Jewish nationalism, such as viewing it as a part of European colonialism, are misleading, as they do not expose its depths and do not properly describe its history.116 In reality, the challenges

114 George Schöflin, “Ethnic and Civic Nationalism (Hans Kohn’s Typology),” in Encyclopedia of Nationalism, ed. A. S. Leoussi (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 2001), 60-61. 115 For a detailed examination of the Zionist consciousness of the past, see Conforti, Zman avar. 116 Supporters of the postcolonial perspective view Zionism as a definitive example of European colonialism. This view originates from Edward W. Said, Orientalism (New York: Pantheon Books, 1978). A justified critique of this perspective can be found in Donna Robinson

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and needs of the Jewish people during the Enlightenment, Emancipation, and rising antisemitism were what motivated the leaders of Zionism to propose national solutions. The modern Jewish experiences of Western and Eastern Jews were also reflected in the Zionist leaders’ visions of the Jewish future and the desired nature of the Jewish state. In practice, especially during the British Mandate period in Palestine, the Zionist movement needed both Eastern and Western components to realize its goal of establishing a Jewish nation-state. The ethnic heritage and the liberal democratic foundations of the state of Israel are a historical product of these elements of Zionism. Moreover, the cooperation between Western Jews, particularly American Jews, and the Jewish community in Palestine during the British Mandate was based on the Zionist leadership’s recognition of the importance of Western civic values to the Zionist enterprise. The political vision of the mainstream Zionist movement included not only ethnic values but also liberal civic values.

Divine, “The Middle East Conflict and Its Postcolonial Discontents,” in Postcolonial Theory and the Arab-Israel Conflict, ed. Philip Carl Salzmam and Donna Robinson Divine (London & New York: Routledge, 2008), 208-221; and in Yakobson and Rubinstein, Israel u-mishpahat ha-amim, 94-113.

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Chapter 5

Between People and Land

Introduction The relationship between the people and the land in Zionism can be examined from both a cultural and a political perspective. In this chapter, I examine the political aspect of the relationship between the people and the land, demonstrating how the political decisions in Zionism were deeply influenced by the cultural aspect. The ethnic component in Zionism is fundamentally cultural and folkloric, reflecting the Jewish past heritage, the shared historical memories, the longing for political redemption, and the communal fraternity. The Jewish national consciousness at its inception was based on this ethnic component and the brotherhood among Jews from different places around the world. Zionism, as a national movement in its early stage, was primarily based on the ethnic component, unlike most of the national movements in the nineteenth century which were founded on a territorial component and only later strengthened the ethnic aspect of a shared national consciousness. Zionism is, therefore, a movement of the people, not a movement of the land. In every national movement, the people and the land are central components: the territorial component represents the land, the population that resides in it, and the history of the region. The ethnic component represents the cultural and historical partnership of the people. The territorial component, unlike the

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ethnic component which is primarily spiritual and conscious, is more tangible, material, and forceful. The land component is based on the territory that the national movement sees as its homeland, hence the emotional connection to the land which must be defended and its borders protected from enemies. The French orientalist Ernest Renan defined the nation in spiritual and cultural terms, as we saw in the first chapter. In his influential lecture “What is a Nation?” (1882), he also expressed his view that just as race does not create a nation, neither does the land: No, it is no more soil than race that makes a nation. The soil provides the substratum, the field of battle and labor; man provides the soul. Man is everything in the formation of this sacred thing that is called a people. Nothing material suffices for it. A nation is a spiritual principle, the outcome of profound complications of history, a spiritual family, not a group determined by the configuration of the earth.1 In these words, Renan emphasizes the importance of the conscious and spiritual elements in forming a nation, an insight that is particularly relevant for Jewish nationalism. His focus on the spiritual principle, the cultural heritage, as opposed to the territorial component, the land, aligns well with the early stages of Jewish nationalism. Thus, it’s unsurprising that cultural nationalist thinkers like Simon Dubnow were drawn to and influenced by Renan’s ideas.2 According to Renan, a nation as a spiritual family is not based on race, as modern nations are racially diverse. This is also true for the Jewish people, whose historical heritage was shaped more by spiritual and cultural factors than by race or tribe. Moreover, land is not the only defining aspect of a nation. Below I have defined the relationship between the people and the Land of Israel in the Zionist movement with respect to their role in the internal Zionist discourse. The territorial component enhanced the aspect of power in Jewish nationalism, fostering a love for the homeland, a desire to know and protect it. As Zionism took root in the land of Israel, the land was sometimes perceived as an ontological entity of intrinsic value, akin to a mother awaiting her children’s return after the diaspora.3 For some Zionists, the land of Israel was the primary 1 Ernest Renan, What Is a Nation? And Other Political Writings, 216. 2 See, for example, Simon Dubnow, Mikhtavim al ha-yehadut ha-yeshenah ve-ha-hadashah (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1937), 8n1. 3 On the status of the land in Zionist thought, see Eliezer Schweid, Moledet ve-eretz yi’udah: Eretz Yisrael be-hagut shel am Yisrael (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1979); Dov Schwartz, Eretz ha-mamashut

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objective of Zionism, overshadowing any efforts to bolster Jewish consciousness. This perspective led to a significant rift within the movement when the Uganda Proposal was presented at the Zionist Congress, prompting a critical debate: Is it possible to fulfill Zionist goals outside the Land of Israel? This question resurfaced in 1937 with the Partition Plan, shifting the focus to the borders of a prospective Jewish nation-state and challenging Zionist priorities to determine which was more crucial: the ethnic or the territorial component, the people or the Land? From a cultural perspective, the Zionist movement aimed from its inception to instill in Jewish consciousness the centrality of the Land of Israel as a concrete territory, not merely as a spiritual destination existing in imagination or aspiration. To achieve this goal, scholars, educators, and public figures worked together, initiating the geographic and historical study of the Land of Israel. Scholars like Avraham Moshe Luncz (1854-1918), who founded the journal Luah Eretz-Israel in the 1880s, and other scholars aimed to make the physical Land of Israel present in Jewish national consciousness. Later, during World War I, with similar motives, David Ben-Gurion and Yitzhak Ben-Zvi wrote their book Eretz Yisrael ba-avar u-va-hoveh (Eretz Yisrael past and present). Published in 1918, the authors effectively articulated the Zionist aspiration to integrate the Land of Israel into modern Jewish consciousness: Never for a moment, in the history of its exile, did the Jewish people lose their deep connection to the land of their birth and focus of their longing, and the memory of Zion, the landscapes of Carmel and Sharon, the Jezreel Valley, the Judean hills, and the snow of Lebanon always hovered before the eyes of the exiles by the rivers of Babylon and their descendants by the banks of the Nile, the Rhine, the Danube, the Vistula, the Hudson, and the Mississippi. Yet, it is strange. More than they knew their land, the Jews sang its song. From that ancient anonymous poet who sang “By the Rivers of Babylon” to the latest Jewish poets of our time. [. . .] However, how few scholars, academics, and researchers in Judaism dedicated themselves to the study and description of the Land of Israel. In the rich literature about the Land of Israel, not even one comprehensive work written by a Jew for Jews can be found that portrays a general picture of the Land of

ve-hadimyon: ma’amdah shel Eretz Yisrael be-hagut ha-tsiyonut ha-datit (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1997).

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Israel—past and present—without which a somewhat accurate description of its future possibilities cannot be depicted. All the important books about the Land of Israel, except for a few ancient compositions whose historical importance has waned, are the work of Christian scholars for Christian readers.4 This trend that tied the study of the Land of Israel to Zionism’s goals led to the evolution of academic research. By the mid-1920s, with the establishment of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, the Institute of Jewish studies was set up, focusing specifically on the Land of Israel.5 The Yishuv educational system made extensive efforts to deepen the connection to the land through formal educational programs and extracurricular activities, notably school trips and tours to Jewish historical sites. An example of this approach is the enthusiastic work of educational and cultural leaders in the Teachers’ Council for the JNF ( Jewish National Fund), from 1925 to 1953. This group developed educational materials about the Land of Israel and ensured that Yishuv schools conducted activities to enhance love of the land.6 Knowledge of the land and school excursions were integral to the educational and cultural life from the Second Aliyah period (1904-1914) and throughout the British Mandate. All these factors played a crucial role in shaping the image of the new Hebrew, the Sabra native who embodied the aspirations of the founding generation.7 This chapter deals with the relationship between the people and the land in a political and national context, focusing on the crucial political decisions related to the national territory, its location, and its borders. I examined the debate over the Land of Israel in the context of two sharp political controversies that caused a frontal clash between “the people” and “the land” in Zionism due to the need for a political resolution: the first is the Uganda controversy (1903-1905), and the second is the debate over the Partition Plan for the Land of Israel proposed by the British Royal Commission in 1937. The Uganda controversy defined the boundaries of the Zionist movement and led to its split and the establishment of the territorialist movement, Jewish Territorial Organization (ITO), while the 4 David Ben-Gurion and Yitzhak Ben-Zvi, Eretz Yisrael ba-avar u-va-hoveh ( Jerusalem: Yad BenZvi, 1980), Introduction. 5 Shaul Katz and Michael Hed, eds., Toldot ha-universitah ha-ivrit bi-yerushalayim: shorashim ve-hatkhalot ( Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1997), 439-440, 457-486. 6 Shoshana Sitton, Hinuch be-ruah ha-moledet: ha-tokhnit ha-hinukhit shel mo’etzet ha-morim le-ma’an ha-KKL (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, 1998). 7 Oz Almog, Ha-tsabar: dyokan (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1997). On the cultural aspect of the relationship between people and land in Zionism, see the extensive discussion in Conforti, Zman avar, 97-122, 228-244.

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debate over the Partition Plan became a conflict over the borders of the Jewish nation-state in the Land of Israel itself. This debate, despite its various developments since 1937, fundamentally remained unchanged after State of Israel was founded, and continues to this day. Despite the clear differences between these two controversies in their historical and political contexts, they also share a common denominator that justifies the analogy between them. In both cases, the same question was posed regarding the essence of the Zionist movement. In both, the leaders of the movement were forced to make a political decision on the Zionist priorities, namely, what is more important—the people or the land? Furthermore, this analogy was practically drawn by key figures who participated in the ongoing controversy around the issue of the Land of Israel and its centrality for the Zionist movement. Beyond the political aspects, the relationship between the people and the land has additional dimensions which I did not discuss in this chapter. The ethnic and territorial components I mentioned do not always stand in contradiction to each other, as both are present in any political national movement. However, in the cases analyzed in this chapter, I examine how the Zionist movement dealt with the political conflict arising between these two components—the people and the land—as a result of concrete proposals presented to the movement.

The Uganda Plan and Zionism: The People or the Land? The relationship between the people and the land in the Zionist movement was brought into focus for the first time at the Sixth Zionist Congress in August 1903, held in Basel, Switzerland. Significantly, when Zionist leaders like Pinsker and Herzl outlined their vision, they did not definitively specify the location of the proposed Jewish state, intended as a solution to Jewish persecution in the East and the Jewish Question in the West. These leaders, each in their respective times and contexts, considered various potential locations for the Jewish state. In his book Auto-Emancipation, Pinsker suggested that Jewish leaders convene a national congress to decide upon a suitable territory for the establishment of a Jewish state, whether it be in the Land of Israel or in North America: We need not carry our souls to our holy land now, but to our own land. We seek nothing but a large land for our impoverished brethren, a land that will forever be ours, where foreign rulers cannot expel us. There we will bring our holiest of holies, saved from the upheaval of our ancient homeland; the concept of

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divinity and the holy scriptures. [. . .] Indeed, it is possible that our holy land could also become our land. If so, all the better. But first and foremost, it must be clarified—and this is crucial— what land can we attain that will also be suitable as a safe haven [. . .] for Jews from all countries forced to leave their homes.8 Similarly, in The Jewish State Herzl did not specify where this state would arise, be it in Palestine or Argentina.9 However, in both cases, the urgency to find a swift solution to the increasingly complicated Jewish Question was evident, given the persecution of Jews in the East and the waves of Jewish migration to the West. Other ideas for establishing a Jewish state also emerged occasionally in the nineteenth century, and as the plight of Eastern European Jews intensified, territorial solutions beyond the Land of Israel were proposed.10 Following the First Zionist Congress, Herzl realized that only the Land of Israel had the potential to attract significant Jewish immigration. This was established in the Basel Program of 1897: “Zionism aims at the creation of a home for the Jewish people in Palestine to be secured by public law.”11 Following the diplomatic failures on the one hand, and the persecution of Jews on the other, Herzl began to explore additional solutions near the Land of Israel.12 From mid-1902, the possibility of Jewish settlement in El Arish in the Sinai Peninsula was seriously considered.13 The failed attempt to find a refuge for Jews and the news of the Kishinev pogrom in April 1903 intensified the urgency among the Zionist political leadership. Against this backdrop came the proposal from the British colonial secretary Joseph Chamberlain to establish a Jewish colony in East Africa. This proposal was discussed in the spring and summer of that year and was formally presented to the Zionist movement in August, shortly before the convening of the Sixth Zionist Congress.

8 Yehuda Leib Pinsker, Auto’emantzipatzia: kol kore el bnei amo (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1967), 22-23. Pinsker thought that the decision where to establish the Jewish state had to be made by a congress that would represent the entire Jewish people. But the Eastern Jews of Hovevei Zion decided: “no congresses on behalf of Eretz Yisrael.” See Mordechai Yoeli, ed., Y. L. Pinsker: mevaser ha-tehiyah ha-leumit (Tel Aviv: Masada, 1960), 53, 131-133 (citation from 133). 9 Herzl, Kitvei Herzl, 1:34 ; Pinkser, Auto’emantzipatzia, 22-23. 10 Adam Rovner, In the Shadow of Zion: Promised Lands before Israel (New York: New York University Press, 2014), 15-44. 11 Cited in David Vital, Zionism: The Formative Years (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982), 4. See the work by Nahum Sokolow, one of the formulators of the Basel Program: History of Zionism, vol. 1 (London: Longmans, Green, 1919), 268. 12 Shlomo Avineri, introduction to Herzl, Inyan ha-yehudim, 1:13-50. 13 Ibid., 3:77-80.

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Herzl was engaged in political efforts during this period, meeting with senior representatives of various countries to secure a charter that would guarantee Jewish sovereign autonomy in the Land of Israel or even outside it.14 His diplomatic activity was secretive, and he did not disclose it in real-time to the Congress or even to the Greater Actions Committee of the Zionist organization. Not everyone was privy to his dealings with the powers, and even Max Nordau was only informed of the Uganda Proposal in July 1903, initially expressing opposition to it.15 Out of friendship and loyalty to Herzl, Nordau eventually defended the Uganda Plan at the Sixth Congress against the vehement opposition of the Zionei Zion, the “Naysayers.”16 Herzl viewed the offer from England as an unparalleled diplomatic achievement, as for the first time, the most important global power recognized the Jews as a nation entitled to sovereignty. At the meeting of the Greater Actions Committee of Zionism on the eve of the Sixth Zionist Congress (August 21-22, 1903), Herzl briefly reviewed his diplomatic activities during that year. He mentioned his meetings with Russian government officials and his attempts to gain Russia’s support for the Zionist movement and Jewish settlement in the land of Israel. His interactions with figures like the Russian Minister of the Interior, Vyacheslav von Plehve (1846-1904), were not well received, as Russian Zionists expressed complete distrust in the promises of the Russian government in general, and of Minister Plehve in particular. During the meeting with the members of the Greater Actions Committee, Herzl reported on the failure of the El Arish plan, which was considered in 1903 under the auspices of the British government, for Jewish settlement in the Sinai Peninsula. For the first time, Herzl mentioned to the committee members that there was indeed a British government proposal to establish a Jewish colony in East Africa under their auspices, and that this proposal would be presented at the Congress. At this point, tension arose between Herzl’s political leadership and some members of the Greater Actions Committee. Yechiel Tschlenow opposed the idea and saw no possibility of deviating from the Basel Program, while Oscar Marmorek demanded that the committee members read the proposal and express their opinion on it before the Congress.17

14 Herzl had not given up on the Land of Israel, as we see from his letter to the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs after the Sixth Zionist Congress. See Inyan ha-yehudim, 3: 221. 15 Heymann, The Uganda Controversy, 2:121-123. 16 Ibid., 2:6. 17 Ibid., 1:101-104; Moshe Madzini, Ha-mediniyut ha-tsiyonit me-reshitah ve-ad moto shel Herzl ( Jerusalem: Dfus Ha-Sefer, 1934), 259-262. Tschlenow (1863-1918) was a member of the

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At the opening session of the Sixth Congress (August 23-28, 1903), Leopold Greenberg read the letter he had received on August 14 from the British government:18 Mr. Chamberlain communicated to the Marquess of Lansdowne19 the letter which you addressed to him on 13th ultimo containing the form of an agreement which Dr. Herzl proposes should be entered into between His Majesty’s Government and the Jewish Colonial Trust Ltd. For the establishment of a Jewish settlement in East Africa.20 To Herzl, this letter was the most important achievement of the Zionist movement since its founding—but the audience at the Congress reacted with astonishment and anger. The letter was worded very cautiously and contained no concrete proposal that actually obligated the British government. By the summer of 1903, it was still unclear to the British government whether, and within what boundaries, they would offer the Zionist movement the opportunity to establish a Jewish colony under their auspices.21 However, it was an official letter from the British government to the Zionist movement, and it required the Congress to decide whether to explore the possibility of establishing a Jewish colony in East Africa by sending an investigative mission there, or to reject the idea outright. The Congress was deeply divided, to the point of a crisis that threatened to split the movement. The debate erupted because Zionism was forced to decide its path: Could the goals of Zionism be realized outside the land of Israel? Was Zionism a movement that advocated for the Jewish right to sovereignty, or a movement aspiring to realize the historical right of the Jews to the Land of Israel?22 The Zionist movement had to resolve: Was Zionism a movement of the Jewish people, or a movement of Jews aspiring to immigrate to the Land of Israel?

Greater Actions Committee and opposed the Uganda Plan when it was proposed at the Sixth Congress. 18 Leopold Greenberg (1861-1931) was a British Jewish journalist who served as Herzl’s liaison to the British government. 19 Joseph Chamberlain (1836-1914) was the British colonial secretary (1895-1903). Henry Charles Keith Petty-Fitzmaurice (1845-1927), the Marquess of Lansdowne, was the British foreign minister (1900-1905). 20 Heymann, The Uganda Controversy, 2:124-125; Die Welt, August 29, 1903, 1. 21 Leonard Stein, The Balfour Declaration ( Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1983), 29. 22 Almog, Tsiyonut ve-historiyah, chapter 4.

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At the Zionist Congress, a rift emerged between the supporters of the plan, the Yeasayers, who numbered 295 votes, and the Naysayers, who had 178 votes, while ninety-nine abstained.23 Following the Congress, Menachem Ussishkin published an open letter to the delegates, in which he sharply criticized the Zionist leadership and its head. Accepting the proposal, he said, was a “divorce decree from the land of Israel!”24 Ussishkin argued that the majority opinion on the land of Israel was unacceptable and vowed to do everything in his power to overturn the Congress’s decision: “But as for the main decision of the Congress, to send an expedition to Africa, I do not accept this decision upon myself. I oppose it with all my senses, and I will strive with all my might to disrupt it.” In his view, the Congress’s institutions were not authorized to decide on such a matter: “The majority of the Congress can decide on what work, what action, but not on what principle or ideal—and just as no majority in the world will convert me from the religion of Israel or the Torah of Israel, so a majority of 29525 votes in the Congress will not detach me from the Land of Israel.”26 Ussishkin was not present at the Sixth Congress, yet he led the opposition against the Uganda Plan. At a meeting of the representatives of Russian Zionists in Kharkov in November 1903, influenced by Ussishkin’s assertive stance, a decision was made to present Herzl with an ultimatum, demanding his complete withdrawal from the Uganda Plan.27 The decisions of the Kharkov conference were not officially published, but Ussishkin’s opponents among Russian Zionists disclosed them in the newspaper Ha-Tsfira to expose the undermining of the movement’s institutions and Herzl’s leadership in the Zionist Organization.28 From the published decisions, it appears that the Zionei Zion intended to send a delegation to Herzl in Vienna and present him with an ultimatum: “The outcome of the negotiations of the delegation with Dr. Herzl must be a final warning,

23 Stenographische Protokoll der Verhadlungen des VI. Zionisten Kongresses in Basel (Vienna: Erez Israel Press, 1903), 223-227, 236. 24 Open letter by Menachem Ussishkin to the representatives of the Sixth Congress, in Heymann, The Uganda Controversy, 2:140-141; see also Yossi Goldstein, Ussishkin: Biyografiyah, vol. 1 ( Jerusalem: Magness Press, 1999-2001), 168. 25 Ussishkin added sarcastically that the Hebrew numerology (gematriya) for 295 is equal to the word tzara, meaning “trouble.” 26 Heymann, The Uganda Controversy, 2:140-141. 27 Ha-Tsfira, February 1, 1904, 3; Vital, Zionism: The Formative Years, 479-494. But the Russian Zionists’ opinion of Herzl remained as previously: Michael Heymann, “Herzl ve-Tsiyonei Russia: mahloket ve-haskamah,” Ha-Tsiyonut 3 (1974): 56-99; Heymann, The Uganda Controversy, 2:187-188, 299-304. On Ussishkin’s aggressive stance toward Herzl, see Goldstein, Ussishkin, 1: 169-175. 28 “Nisayon mahapekhat ha-histadrut,” Ha-Tsfira, December 29, 1903, 3.

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beyond which there will be no change (ultimatum) on behalf of the Council of Delegates.” The document also suggests that Ussishkin and his faction intended to compel Herzl to abandon the Uganda Plan and commit to never bringing any other territorial plan before the Congress “except for Palestine and Syria.”29 The Zionei Zion emphasized the territorial component, asserting that Zionism meant solely the aspiration to immigrate to the land of Israel. In contrast, supporters of the Uganda Plan highlighted the dire situation of the Jewish people in the face of pogroms and the large wave of immigration to the United States. The Mizrachi faction, led by Rabbi Yitzhak Ya’akov Reines, expressed similar concerns about the dual threat facing Jews and Judaism due to pogroms in Russia and migration to America. Herzl received significant support from Reines’s camp. The Mizrachi movement identified with the political Zionists under the assumption that challenging Herzl’s leadership was equivalent to undermining the Congress’s authority. Rabbi Reines, a staunch supporter of Herzl, publicly and privately expressed his support during the entire controversy. In a letter to Herzl from late 1903, Reines framed the debate between supporters and opponents: Why deny it—our hearts are deeply troubled and pained by the news our esteemed director has informed us, that we are far from our hopes in the land of our forefathers. Whose eyes among us did not shed bitter tears, and whose spirit among us was not anguished?! Yet still, we agreed to the African proposal, since we attended to the needs of our people that is loved more than the land.30 Rabbi Reines did not relinquish the land of Israel as Zionism’s goal, but in light of the real dangers to Jewish existence, he determined that the well-being of the people should be prioritized over the land. He strongly opposed the challenge by the Zionei Zion to the authority of the Congress and Herzl’s leadership.31 As the head of Mizrachi, he issued an open letter to the delegates among Russian Zionists, demanding they immediately withdraw the ultimatum presented to

29 Heymann, The Uganda Controversy, 2:299-301. Herzl met with the representatives of the Kharkov committee in early January 1904, but he refused to accept their ultimatum. See Herzl, Kitvei Herzl, vol. 8 ( Jerusalem: Hassifria Haziyonit, 1961), 279-284. 30 Reines to Herzl, December 9, 1903, in Heymann, The Uganda Controversy, 2: 180. (author’s emphasis—Y. C.). 31 Reines to Herzl, January 4, 1904, in ibid., 210-211.

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Herzl.32 Rabbi Reines’s principal stance was that Zionism was meant to improve the condition of the Jewish people during a time of persecution and migration. Generally, he supported Zionism as a pragmatic movement based on rational foundations, not as a movement with a messianic or redemptive approach. This was the basis for his full cooperation with Herzl’s pragmatic political leadership.33 Rabbi Reines also expressed a very tolerant attitude towards the participation of all segments of the people within the Zionist movement: the religiously observant and the enlightened, Easterners and Westerners. Therefore, he preferred the political approach that considered the entire people: “Political Zionism is a general property, it has no tinge of this or that party, and it is pure from any such stamp, and Congressional Zionism should be the same [. . .] Congressional Zionism must be such that it can be comfortable, satisfactory, and acceptable to the entire Hebrew people.”34 The recognition of the existence of different factions and streams in modern Judaism was reflected in Reines’s tolerant approach, which sought to find the unifying national foundation among Jews to enable political action for the salvation of Jews and Judaism.35 Since this was his principal stance, it is understandable why he supported attempts to find a rapid–even if temporary–solution to the plight of Jews suffering from pogroms in Russia and their consequences. Another supporter of the Uganda Plan was Eliezer Ben-Yehuda, who had immigrated to the Land of Israel in 1881 and was active in Jerusalem. Ben-Yehuda’s position may seem surprising but reflects the support of some pioneers in the Zionist Jewish Yishuv in the land of Israel for Herzl’s political moves. This support, as Gur Elroy has showed, stemmed not from despair regarding the Land of Israel but from genuine concern for the fate of Eastern European Jews following the pogroms in Russia.36 In this context, Ben-Yehuda

32 Reines, “Divrei shalom ve-emet,” Ha-Tsfira, January 5, 1904, 3; Reines to Herzl, 4 Shevat 1904, Sinai, no. 2 (1938-1939): 244-246; Reines to Herzl, 12 Shevat 1904, ibid., 247. 33 See, for example, his statement in Gilui Da’at in 1900 ruling out the messianic stance toward Zionism: “The entire essence and foundation of this idea [Zionism] is nothing but the improvement of the conditions of our wretched brethren.” In Yitzhak Raphael and Shlomo Zalman Shragai, eds., Sefer ha-tsiyonut ha-datit: iyunim, ma’amarim, reshimot, te’udot ( Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook, 1977), 1:339. This statement clearly reveals his pragmatic view. 34 Reines, “Mi-mizrah,” Ha-Melitz, June 22, 1902, 1 (author’s emphasis—Y. C.). 35 Ibid. See Eliezer Don Yehiye, “Ideologiya u-mediniyut ba-tsiyonut ha-datit: haguto ha-zionit shel ha-rav Reines u-mediniyut ‘ha-mirahi’ be-hanhagato,” Ha-Tsiyonut 8 (1983): 139. 36 Gur Alroey, Mehapsei moledet: ha-histadrut ha-territorialit ha-yehudit u-ma’avakah ba-tenu’ah ha-tsiyonit 1905-1925 (Kiryat Sde Boker: Ben-Gurion University Press, 2011), 170-198, esp. 196-197.

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made the distinction between “the people”‘ and “the land,” between supporters and opponents of the plan: You call yourselves Zionei Zion, Palestinian Zionists, and you call us—Africans, Ugandans. Gentlemen, we are not at all ashamed of that name. But we are not Africans nor Ugandans, rather of the people. This is what we are! You favor the land, and we favor the people. To us, the main thing is the people. We say: if the people can be in the land, all the better, and if not, if there is any doubt about this possibility, we will now establish a people in any land, only let it belong to the people, to ward off the danger hovering over the people!37 In these words, Ben-Yehuda raised the grave concern he and other supporters of the Uganda Plan had for the very existence of the Jewish people in exile, given the persecutions in Russia. Ben-Yehuda argued that when the Jewish people are in danger, their well-being should be prioritized over the land: “Therefore, I said you are land-centric, you want specifically the land, and if not this land, then we die! But gentlemen, who gives you the right to decree death on the nation, if it cannot live in the specific place that you desire?”38 These piercing words, spoken in the context of the Uganda controversy, would later resonate in the context of the debate over the Partition Plan in 1937. Similarly, Ze’ev Yavetz, another leader of the Mizrachi, expressed deep concern for the fate of the Jewish people due to antisemitism and the pogroms that afflicted Jews in Europe. In his article “Hayei sha’ah ve-hayei olam” (Temporary life and eternal life) he supported finding a temporary solution to the growing plight of the Jewish people (temporary life) without relinquishing the principal goal of Zionism, which is the Land of Israel (eternal life). In his article, he presented a bleak forecast for the fate of the Jewish people in Europe, which, in his opinion, necessitated the Zionist leadership’s support for the Uganda Proposal:

37 Eliezer Ben-Yehuda, Ha-medinah ha-yehudit: ma’amrim shonim al davar hatza’at mizrah afrika (Warsaw: Medina, 1905). See also Ben-Yehuda’s statements in Hashkafah, October 18, 1904. Throughout the conflict, Ben-Yehuda published in his newspaper a series of articles titled “Ha-Medinah Ha-Yehudit,” in which he repeatedly justified his total support for the East Africa plan. 38 Hashkafah, June 1, 1904, 2. On the Yishuv’s support for the Uganda Plan, see Alroey, Mehapsei moledet, 170-198.

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Do you really believe that there is an escape for our Judaism that is today conquered and swallowed by a different and harsher culture, which devours it at every turn, leaving no remnant after a generation or two? [. . .] We cannot believe that in the lands of the Aryans there will be any more refuge or preservation for the spirit of our people. If our children are not slaughtered before their mothers’ eyes, if they are allowed to live, one of two things will happen: either they will grow up wild and will be part of an ignorant mob [. . .], or they will become very soft, with these locked gates opened before them, and become wealthy intellectuals, who will turn their backs on their religion and their homeland.39 This gloomy (some would say prophetic) forecast reflects the mindset of the Zionist leadership in 1903 following the Kishinev pogrom. Throughout the controversy over the Uganda Plan, it was clear that the feasibility of implementing the plan was quite limited, partly because the debate was not solely internal to Zionism. In England, there was no full agreement to allow Jewish settlement in their protectorate in East Africa. Proposals from the British Foreign Office were published in the British press during the Sixth Zionist Congress, and British settlers in East Africa vehemently opposed the idea of bringing Jews from Eastern Europe to the region. The English settlers press in Africa in 1903-1905 expressed strong opposition to the proposition that Jews would emigrate to East Africa. We find antisemitic derogatory terms like “Jewganda,” “Jewdrops,” “Jewganda Railway,” and “The Land of the Noses,” fearing that the British Government proposal to settle Jews in East Africa would materialize.40 In December 1903, following reports that the British Foreign Secretary had abandoned the plan, Herzl too believed that the East Africa plan had failed.41 It was then that the first political assassination attempt within the Zionist movement occurred. On the evening of Saturday, December 19, a twenty-two-year-old Jewish student of Russian origin, Haim Zelig Luban of Bern, Switzerland, entered a Hanukkah celebration of the Mevasseret Zion association in Paris and fired two shots at Max Nordau, shouting “death to Nordau the Ugandaist!” 39 Ze’ev Yavetz, “Hayei sha’ah ve-hayei olam,” Ha-Mizrah, 1, no. 5 (1903), 268. 40 On the reactions of the English colonialists in Africa, see Robert G. Weisbord, African Zion: The Attempt to Establish a Jewish Colony in the East Africa Protectorate 1903-1905 (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1968). 41 Stein, The Balfour Declaration, 30-31.

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The shots missed their target. Nordau and his companion Marmorek were unharmed, but one of the attendees was injured in the leg. The Jewish press reported the incident, with some blaming the extremism of certain factions within Zionei Zion, but this assassination attempt left no significant impact on the Zionist movement or the debate between Zionei Zion and the supporters of the Uganda Plan.42 Herzl did not attribute much importance to the failed assassination attempt. Still, the ideological conflict between the camps in Zionism remained tense. Zionei Zion continued to challenge Herzl’s leadership and his intention to send a delegation to examine the Uganda Plan, as decided by the Sixth Zionist Congress. In late January 1904, the British government nevertheless proposed a detailed plan for Jewish settlement in East Africa. Clement Hill, a British Foreign Office official, offered on behalf of the Colonial Office an area of thirteen thousand square kilometers in Gwas Ngishu for the establishment of a Jewish colony.43 Due to the strong opposition to the Uganda Plan ever since the Sixth Zionist Congress, and in an effort to reconcile the factions, Herzl called a meeting of the Greater Actions Committee on April 11, 1904, in Vienna.44 At this meeting, Herzl promoted the decision to send a delegation to examine the East Africa proposal in practice. But the committee also decided that only the Seventh Congress would determine whether to accept or reject the entire plan. Throughout the discussions and debates, Herzl repeatedly tried to convince the Zionei Zion that he had never abandoned the vision of settlement in the land of Israel, citing his diplomatic activities in Constantinople and Russia alongside his efforts in Great Britain even after the Sixth Congress.45 The compromise reached at the meeting of the Greater Actions Committee helped to mitigate the rivalry between the camps, but the debates also shed light on how the issue of the people and the land was handled in Zionism. The principal dispute regarding the goals of Zionism remained unresolved at the conference. For Zionei Zion, the goal was the Land of Israel, and therefore the Zionist movement was a movement of Jews aspiring to immigrate to the

42 “Hitnakshut ba-nefesh Nordau,” Ha-Tsfira, December 23, 1903, 2; Ha-Zman, December 22, 1903, 1-2. 43 Herzl, Inyan ha-yehudim, 3:262-265. Sir Clement Hill (1846-1913) was head of the Africa Desk of the British Foreign Affairs Office at the time of the Uganda Plan. Ibid., 338n107. 44 Goldstein described Ussishkin’s suspicion of Herzl at this meeting: Yossi Goldstein, “Ussishkin ve-parashat Uganda’: bein ideologiyah le-politikah,” Ha-Tsiyonut 20 (1996): 9-30; Goldstein, Ussishkin, 1:184-186. 45 Herzl, Kitvei Herzl, 8:289-294, 304-305. Herzl tried to convince his opponents that continuing the negotiations with Great Britain would strengthen the Zionist movement’s diplomatic ability to achieve its goals in the Land of Israel.

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Land of Israel. In contrast, Herzl and the political leadership saw Zionism as a national movement representing the entire Jewish people. The exchanges between Herzl and Ussishkin clearly illustrate this. A debate between Herzl and Ussishkin, which primarily revolved around the authority of the movement’s president and the powers of the Congress, encapsulated a different and opposing understanding of the essence of Zionism: Herzl: “Mr. Ussishkin, do you know what the Congress is? The Congress is the organized representation of the Jewish people.” Ussishkin: “No, of Zionism.” Herzl: “Mr. Ussishkin, we want the rise of Zionism, and we want Zionism to be the representation of the people. Why do we want this? Because we believe that to achieve the great goal, we need great power, and this great power will not be found in a sectarian association. This was your situation twenty years ago. You say: we were Zionists twenty and twenty-five years ago. You claim this against me, you always say this. Indeed, what do you prove by this? What could you do, as long as you did not have this formula, as long as you did not have political Zionism? You were in small groups, you gathered in small rooms and collected money. Your intentions were wonderful. Your idealism was beyond any shade of doubt. But you could not do anything, because you did not know how—it is through organizing the people, and the tool is the Congress. Therefore, you must accept its decision, even if you are brimming with anger over the resolutions.” Ussishkin: “In that case, can the greatest anti-Zionists join?” Herzl: “But Ussishkin, don’t you know? People come to the Congress as the greatest anti-Zionists and leave as Zionists.” Ussishkin: “I have also seen the opposite.”46 This exchange shows clearly that Herzl defined Zionism as a tool of the Jewish people, whereas Ussishkin defined Zionism as the aspiration for the Land of 46 Herzl, Kitvei Herzl, 8:313.

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Israel. According to Ussishkin’s perspective, Zionists are only those Jews who are interested in the Land of Israel as the solution to the Jewish Question. According to Herzl’s approach, only a commitment to the Jewish people allows for unifying the various and opposing perspectives within the Zionist movement. Herzl was accused of not taking a clear stance between territorialism and Zionist aspirations specific to the land of Israel. In response to this accusation, he clarified: “If there is something that can arouse these people to walk with me, it is the national principle,” meaning that Zionism should express the will of Jews who believe that Judaism is a nation aspiring for sovereignty. Herzl sought to unite the forces within the Zionist movement for the benefit of the entire Jewish people. In stark contrast to this view, Yechiel Tschlenow, a member of the Greater Actions Committee, stated that the unifying factor in Zionism was not “the people” but “the land.” As opposed to Herzl, he asserted the unifying factor for the Zionists: “This is Zion!”47 According to Zionei Zion, the aspiration to go to the Land of Israel to establish a state there is what united the different factions in Zionism. Herzl’s response to Tschlenow illustrates his awareness of the tension and complexity in the relationship between the people and the land. As a politically sensitive leader, he sought to mitigate the tension between these two elements to prevent a split in the movement: I will now explain to you the word Zion, Dr. Tschlenow [. . .]. In Zion, you cannot dwell, there you cannot settle a person, and it is not a land sold for the Jewish people. This name [Zionism] was adopted as a symbolic word for the unification of the Jewish people. In this context, the territorial element is also revealed, that is why this name has such great power to unite us.48 As evident from the above, Herzl distinguished between the ethnic element—the people—and the territorial element—the land. The people are thus more important than the land, but it seems that he still sought common ground between these two elements, as can be seen from his further remarks: No one can accuse me of betraying Zionism if I say: I am going to Uganda as a representative of the Jewish state. I have presented myself to you. I handed you my card: Herzl, a representative

47 Ibid., 315. 48 Ibid., 315-316 (author’s emphasis—Y. C.).

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of the Jewish state. Over time, I have learned a lot, met many Jews—sometimes it was a pleasure. But, gentlemen, I have also come to understand that the solution for us is only in the land of Israel. In the pamphlet “The Jewish State,” I wanted one land. I said: The Land of Israel or Argentina. Do not believe that this is opportunism, because even when I am engaged in politics and diplomacy, I am not an opportunist! I could have endeared myself to many had I said: “Not the Land of Israel, but another land”. [. . .] If I tell you that I have become a Zionist and remained a Zionist, and all my aspirations are directed towards the Land of Israel, you have reason to believe me.49 Herzl sought to balance between the poles of people and land, and did his utmost to maintain the unity of the movement and create a Zionist consensus. However, he also demanded that Zionei Zion maintain the unity of the movement by fully accepting the Congress’s decisions, which obligated the sending of a delegation to examine the settlement proposal in East Africa. At the conclusion of the Greater Actions Committee meeting, it seemed that Herzl had succeeded in diffusing the tension within the movement. However, after his death in the summer of that year (on July 3, 1904), the two central paradigms for achieving the goals of Zionism remained. According to the Western approach, Zionism was a modern national movement interested in finding a quick solution to the Jewish Question. Therefore, as the preferred solution of obtaining a charter for Jews in the Land of Israel was delayed, they sought interim alternatives. In contrast, Eastern Zionism, originating from Hibbat Zion, attributed less importance to diplomatic action, and its adherents worked to settle the Land of Israel.50 As the Seventh Zionist Congress approached, supporters of the Uganda Plan continued to persuade the delegates of the Zionist Congress to approve it. Yavetz, in his article “Eretz Yisrael o Eretz le-Yisrael” (Eretz Israel or a land for Israel), supported the view that the primary concern should be finding a land for the Jewish people, even outside the Land of Israel, to address the people’s needs during times of crisis: We are not free, not even for one hour, from the commandment of settling the Land of Israel, which stands before us as our ancient glory and our hope for the end of days. Yet, if all

49 Ibid., 316. 50 Vital, Zionism: The Formative Years, 479-494.

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commandments are deferred in a situation where there is a danger to the life of an individual, how much more so should all commandments, including the commandment of settling the Land of Israel, be deferred in a situation where there is danger to the life of an entire nation.51 In this article, Yavetz analyzed the reality that the Jewish people faced and presented an approach very similar to the pragmatic one of Rabbi Reines. Like Reines, he also expressed great concern about antisemitism and the physical and spiritual existence of the people. Therefore, he accepted the Uganda Plan, arguing that having an independent territory for Jews would bring spiritual benefits and strengthen the spirit of a people suffering from the hardships of exile. At the end of his article, Yavetz affirmed that the Jewish people indeed aspire to move to the Land of Israel, and God’s promise to return His people to their land would be fulfilled. However, he declared: “‘We do not rely on miracles,’52 and we proclaim loudly that our first duty to our people is to seek refuge for its physical and spiritual life, and until God returns to us the Land of Israel, we must seek a land for Israel.”53 The stance of Mizrachi leaders during the Uganda controversy may have seemed puzzling to the religious Zionist stream supporting the Land of Israel, especially when the question of partitioning the land arose in 1937. In practice, about two-thirds of the members of the Mizrachi faction at the Sixth Zionist Congress voted in favor of the Uganda Plan.54 Mizrachi leaders, under Rabbi Reines, acted from pragmatic and rational considerations for the benefit of the people, distancing themselves from the emotional aspect tied to messianic hopes related to the land. However, their identification with the political stance did not ultimately lead them to join the territorialist movement, while they remained committed to Zionism.55 However, at the Seventh Zionist Congress, the decision was finally made to reject the plan for settlement in East Africa. The decision was made on July 30, 1905, in a session presided over by Nordau as president of the Congress, and announced by Alexander Marmorek (1865–1923):

51 Ze’ev Yavetz, “Eretz Yisrael o eretz le-Yisrael,” Ha-Zman, July 6-7, 1905. 52 According to Jewish law, based on Deut. 6:16. 53 Ibid. (original emphasis). 54 Mordechai Eliav, “Siat ‘ha-mizrahi’ be-hatzba’ah al tokhnit Uganda be-congress ha-tsiyoni ha-shishi,” Ha-Tsiyonot 12 (1987): 85-98. 55 Reines, “Mi-mizrah Zion,” in Raphael and Shragai, Ha-tsiyonut ha-datit, 2:466-474, esp. 466.

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The Congress recall with satisfaction the recognition accorded by the British Government to the Zionist Organization in its desire to bring about a solution of the Jewish problem, and expresses a sincere hope that it may be accorded the future good offices of the British Government, where available, in any matter it may undertake in accordance with the Basel Program.56 The Congress’s decision put an end to the Uganda Plan but left room for continued cooperation with the most influential power of that era. Political Zionism did not end its role in the Zionist movement with Herzl’s death and the rejection of the Uganda Plan. Some leading Zionists—Israel Zangwill, Max Mandelstamm, Nachman Syrkin—left and established the territorialist movement, ITO, following the Seventh Congress in 1905. Yet most political Zionists who supported the Uganda Plan remained within the movement, hoping to moderate the debate between the factions.57 The formula found to mitigate the sense of loss and insult to political Zionism was a return to the principles of the Basel Program.58 Joseph Klausner, a staunch opponent of the Uganda Proposal, aptly described what transpired at the Seventh Congress in Ha-Shiloah. According to him, the victors of the Seventh Congress–Zionei Zion–were alarmed by their victory and brought the political Zionists back into leadership positions, just as the victors of the Sixth Congress, Herzl and the political Zionists, were alarmed by their victory and quickly sought to appease the Zionei Zion, the Naysayers.59 Compromise was found among those forces trying to balance between two elements: the well-being of the people and the aspiration to go to the Land of Israel. The renewed approval of the Basel Program 56 Stein, The Balfour Declaration, 32; Stenographisches Protokoll der Verhandungen des VII. Zionisten Kongresses und des Ausserordentlichen Kongresses in Basel (Berlin: Jüdischer Verlag, 1905), 131-136. Alexander Marmorek was a French physician and microbiologist. Born in Galicia, he was a brother to Zionist activist Oskar Marmorek (1863-1909), was also active in the Zionist movement and an associate of Herzl. 57 On the work of the territorialist movement and its conflict with Zionism, see Alroey, Mehapsei moledet, and Laura Almagor, Beyond Zion: The Jewish Territorial Movement (London and Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2022). Zangwill also did not rule out the concept of the Land of Israel in principle. In August 1903, on the eve of the Sixth Congress, he still spoke of the Land of Israel as the only possibility for Jewish settlement. See Israel Zangwill, Ha-derekh le-atzma’ut: ne’umim, ma’amarim u-mikhtavim (Tel Aviv: Hotza’ah Medinit, 1938), 57-66. Furthermore, after the Balfour Declaration, Zangwill returned to Zionism and was welcomed by the Revisionists. See: Benzion Netanyahu, Hameshet avot ha-tsiyonut (Tel Aviv: Miskal, 2003), 173-227; Zangwill, Ha-derekh, 331-357. 58 Mordechai Eliav, David Wolfson, ha-ish u-zmano: ha-tenu’ah ha-tsiyonit ba-shanim 1905-1914 ( Jerusalem, Tel Aviv: Hassifriya Haziyonit, 1976), 31-64. 59 Joseph Klausner, “Ha-congress ha-tsiyoni ha-shvi’i,” Ha-Shiloah 15 (1905): 513-526.

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as the supreme goal of Zionism was intended to express this stance. Zionism managed to navigate its internal conflicts after 1905 through democratic means and at the cost of losing the territorialists. However, the conflict over the people and the land was not definitively resolved and continued to occupy the Zionist movement during the British Mandate period.

People and Land during the British Mandate Period The Balfour Declaration and the British occupation of Palestine completely changed the political and diplomatic reality in which the Zionist movement operated after World War I. The land transitioned from Ottoman rule, which opposed Jewish sovereignty in the region, to British control, which supported the establishment of a national home for the Jewish people in that territory. The Balfour Declaration, followed by the League of Nations’ mandate, fulfilled Herzl’s goal of international recognition of the Jewish right to political sovereignty. However, the historical reality still did not allow for the swift establishment of a Jewish state. Zionist leaders realized that the process of establishing a Jewish state would take considerable time, and sought to increase Jewish immigration. The guiding principle of the Zionist leadership from that point on was to create a Jewish majority in the Land of Israel. This shift in strategy reflected a new phase in the Zionist movement. While the political and diplomatic efforts continued, the focus was now on practical steps to strengthen the Jewish presence in the land, preparing the groundwork for eventual statehood. The emphasis on immigration and settlement was seen as essential for establishing the demographic and infrastructural foundations of a future Jewish state. The British Mandate period thus marked a crucial transition from political advocacy to practical nation-building efforts in the Land of Israel. In the Yishuv, the centrality of the land was emphasized not only in politics and diplomatic policy but also in culture and ideology. In the realms of education and culture, many expressions can be found that place the territorial aspect at the center of Zionist existence. The molding of the youth according to the model of the sabra, the “new Jew” native of the land, in contrast to the diaspora Jew, was strengthened in the 1920s and 1930s.60 Zionist historiography placed the Land of Israel at the center of Jewish experience through the ages, and this

60 Almog, Ha-tsabar, 124-153.

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approach permeated the Yishuv educational system.61 However, against the backdrop of the rise of totalitarian regimes in Europe in the 1930s, voices were also heard among prominent intellectuals and educators warning against an excessive emphasis on the love of the land, which could lead to neglecting the responsibility towards the people.62 At the political extremes of the Zionist Yishuv, there were movements that emphatically emphasized only one aspect of Jewish nationalism–the people or the land. On the left were members of Brit Shalom and later Ha-Ihud, who emphasized the ethnic, cultural, and spiritual foundation, and therefore a Jewish majority was not essential in their eyes for the realization of Zionist objectives. Instead, they advocated for the establishment of a binational state.63 In contrast, on the right, the territorial foundation was emphasized at the expense of the ethnic component. Members of Brit Ha-Biryonim (Covenant of Thugs) sought to re-establish the Kingdom of Israel within the boundaries of the biblical promise. The radical secular right saw the territorial dimension as the sole component of Hebrew nationalism. The New Hebrews (the Canaanites) advocated for a complete separation between religion and nation—between Judaism and Hebrew identity. They sought to establish a secular Hebrew state that would expand the borders of the Land of Israel and control the entire Fertile Crescent. In their view, the Hebrew state should completely detach from the religious aspects of Judaism, create a “native” Hebrew nation based on territory, and turn its back on diaspora Jewry.64

61 Sitton, Hinuch be-ruah ha-moledet; Zvi Zohar, Eretz Yisrael be-hinukheinu ( Jerusalem: Reuven Mass, 1948). 62 Conforti, Zman avar, 223-252. See also Ben-Zion Dinur, Ktavim hadashim gam yeshenim, ed. Arielle Rein ( Jerusalem: Merkaz Dinur, 2009), 223-252; Kaufmann, Hurban ha-nefesh. 63 Members of Ha-Shomer Hatza’ir also supported the binational concept, but their position was different than that of Brit Shalom. See Aviva Halamish, “‘Ha-Shomer Ha-Tsa’ir’ ve-‘hashe’elah ha-aravit’: inyan shel ta’ut optit?” in Ha-yehudim ba-hoveh: kinus u-pizur, be-hokrah le-Yosef Gorny, ed. Eliezer Ben-Raphael et al. ( Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 2009), 243-260. On Brit Shalom’s position, see Sara Strassberg-Dayan, “Malkhut shamayim o malkhut Yisrael? Bein brit shalom le-brit ha-biryonim,” in Adi Gordon, Brit shalom ve ha-tsiyonut ha-du le’umit: ha-sheala ha-aravit keshela yehudit ( Jerusalem: Carmel, 2008),181-193; Yosef Heller, Mi-brit shalom’ le-‘ihud’: Yehudah Leib Magnes ve-ha-ma’avak le-medinah du-le’umit ( Jerusalem, Magnes Press, 2003); Gershom Scholem, Od davar: pirkei morashah u-tehiyah, ed. Avraham Shapira (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1989), 68-71. 64 On the positions of the New Hebrews see Ya’akov Shavit, The Hebrew Nation: A Study in Israeli Heresy and Fantasy (London: Cass, 1987). On Yonatan Ratosh’s radical Canaanite position during the Holocaust, see Liat Steier-Livni and Ya’akov Shavit, “Yonatan Ratosh: ha-kna’anim ve-yahsam la-Shoah 1943-1953,” in Shoah mi-merhak tavo—ishim ba-yishuv ha-Eretz Israeli ve-yahsam la-natzim ve-la-Shoah, 1933-1945, ed. Dina Porat and Aviva Halamish ( Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 2009), 85-99.

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Unlike these positions, which represented the fringes of Yishuv politics, the mainstream currents in Zionism sought to create a Jewish majority in the Land of Israel. In their eyes, Zionism was the national movement of the entire Jewish people, and therefore, they were compelled to balance between the needs of the Jewish people and the Land of Israel. The political issue that led to a renewed clash between the people and the land, similar to the Uganda Scheme controversy, was the Partition Plan, which came on the political agenda of the Zionist movement in 1937. The Partition controversy that erupted in the Yishuv was undoubtedly the most difficult debate Zionism had experienced since the Uganda Plan controversy. In April 1936, the Arab Revolt erupted in Palestine, leading to a new and violent stage of national conflict between Jews and Arabs. The British government, tired of repeated attempts to balance the Mandate with the realities in the land of Israel, began to explore new proposals to resolve the conflict between Jews and Arabs. To this end, the British Peel Commission was established on August 7, 1936, and sent to Palestine in January 1937. After seven months of intense work, the Commission proposed dividing the land into two states, Jewish and Arab, similar to the conclusions of the United Nations Special Committee on Palestine (UNSCOP) a decade later, in 1947. Zionist movement policymakers in the 1920s and 1930s raised various possibilities aimed at bridging the gap between the realities in Palestine and the conflict with the Arabs, and the vision of establishing the Jewish state that had been crystallizing since the Balfour Declaration. They proposed ideas such as cantonization, parity (equality), and a Jewish-Arab federation, but failed to implement them.65 The idea of partitioning the land began to gain momentum in the thirties as Arab opposition to Zionism intensified on one hand, and the British government ceased to believe in implementation of the Mandate on the other. The British Royal Commission eventually formulated the Partition Plan and presented its conclusions on July 8, 1937.66 Parallel to the work of the British Peel Commission, intense debates took place among the Zionist leadership regarding the Partition Plan. Chaim Weizmann, president of the Zionist Federation, David Ben-Gurion, head of

65 Yosef Heller, Ba-ma’avak la-medinah: ha-mediniyut ha-tsiyonit ba-shanim 1936-1948 ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 1996), 21-22; Shmuel Dotan, Pulmus ha-halukah bi-tekufat ha-mandat ( Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1979), 37-38. On Zionism’s various political plans, see Shmuel Dotan, “Hatsa’ot ve-tokhniyot shel ha-tenu’ah ha-tsiyonit li-zramehah ha-shonim le-pitaron she’elat Eretz Yisrael” (PhD diss., Tel Aviv University, 1973). 66 Palestine Royal Commission—Report, Presented by the Secretary of State for the Colonies to Parliament by Command of His Majesty, July 1937 (London: His Majesty’s Stationary Office, 1937).

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the Mapai party and chairman of the Jewish Agency, and Moshe Shertok (later Sharett), head of the agency’s political department, all welcomed the idea of partition. They viewed the plan as an extraordinary opportunity to establish a Jewish nation state. However, the proposal also provoked significant opposition among Zionist leaders in the Yishuv and around the world. The debate over this plan and the conflict over the Uganda Plan occurred in completely different historical contexts. Yet despite the clear differences between them, certain similarities allow for analogy and analytical examination. In both cases—the Uganda Plan and the Partition Plan—the issue of the people and the land was at the center of the debate, and in both, the attitude towards the Land of Israel from opponents of the plan deviated from the norms of rational and political discourse. The Land of Israel was perceived on both sides of the political barricade not just as a refuge or territory, but as the homeland of the Jewish people and even as an ontological entity carrying the hopes of generations. The struggle over the question of partition was torn between the desire to respond to the needs of the Jewish people in the late thirties and the aspiration to obtain a state in the entire Land of Israel. It crossed political camps and became a bitter dispute that threatened to split the movement again.67 However, the Partition controversy was shorter-lived than the Uganda Scheme controversy and did not lead to a split in the movement as had occurred in 1905.68 A detailed examination of the British Peel Commission report reveals that it addressed historical, religious, and cultural aspects of the history of the Land of Israel, from the days of King David and Solomon to the destruction of the Temple and the exile of the Jews from their land. The first part of the report describes the historical background of the Land of Israel, and was written with deep empathy towards the Zionist movement and its objectives. It clearly acknowledged the historical connection of the Jews to the Land of Israel, as well as the significant contribution of Judaism to Western culture.

67 In his speech to the Tenth Zionist Congress, Chaim Weizmann emphasized the need to preserve the unity of the Zionist camp during the polemic. Ha-congress ha-tsiyoni ha-esrim ve-ha-moshav ha-hamishi shel mo’etzet ha-sokhnut ha-yehudit, Zurich 3-21 August 1937: din ve-heshbon stenografi ( Jerusalem: Directors of the Zionist Federation and the Jewish Federation, 1937), 33; see also ibid., 15. 68 Heller, Ba-ma’avak la-medinah, 21.

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7. The history of Jewish Palestine, thus ended,69 had been enacted for the most part in country about the size of Wales: but it constitutes one of the great chapters in the story of mankind. By two primary achievements–the development of the first crude worship of Jehovah into a highly spiritual monotheism of this faith and of social and political ideals it inspired in immortal prose and poetry–the gift of Hebraism in ancient Palestine to the modern world must rank with the gifts of ancient Greece and Rome. Christians, moreover, cannot forget that Jesus was a Jew who lived on Jewish soil and founded His gospel on a basis of Jewish life and thought.70 In the chapter titled “The Exile,” the Peel Commission report described the persecutions of Jews in exile and the phenomenon of antisemitism in both the Christian and Muslim worlds.71 The persecution of Jews was portrayed as a criminal act that cannot be condoned. Alongside this depiction, the report detailed the significant contributions of Jews to Western countries, particularly in England. How fully Jews since then have shared in British life is common knowledge. Jewish Cabinet Ministers, financiers, industrialist, scientists, philosophers, authors—during the War a divisional commander, and after it a Chief Justice of England who became Viceroy of India, a Governor-General od a Dominion, and more than one Colonial Governor—it is evident that British world (and much the same could be said of France) the Jews had attained within the last half-century a pre-eminence out of all proportion to their numbers.72 The Peel Commission report emphasized that the Land of Israel has always been and remains the homeland of the Jewish people. The report noted that throughout their history in exile, Jews have maintained a spiritual and practical

69 The previous section (6) described the destruction of the Jewish kingdom under Herod, the Jewish revolts against the Romans (64-70 CE, 132-135 CE) and the exile of the Jews from their historic homeland. See: Palestine Royal Commission—Report, 4. 70 Palestine Royal Commission—Report, 4-5. 71 Ibid., 7-11. 72 Ibid., 10.

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connection to the Land of Israel. The authors of the report, in a distinctly Zionist tone, stated: While the Jews had thus been dispersed over the world, they had never forgotten Palestine. If Christians have become familiar through the Bible with the physiognomy of the country and its place-names and events that happened more than two thousand years ago, the link which binds the Jews to Palestine and its history is to them far closer and more intimate. Judaism and its ritual are rooted in those memories. Among countless illustrations it is enough to cite the fact that Jews, wherever they may be, still pray for the rain at the season it is needed in Palestine. And the same devotion to the Land of Israel, Eretz Yisrael, the same sense of exile from it, permeates Jewish secular thought. Some of the finest Hebrew poetry written in the diaspora has been inspired like the Psalms of the Captivity by the longing to return to Zion.73 Even the most distinct Zionist narrative could not better emphasize the necessity of the Land of Israel for solving the Jewish problem. These words were written in the first part of the Peel Commission report. The Peel Commission thus recognized the historical, religious, and cultural value of the Land of Israel as the homeland of the Jews. These statements reflected the Western historical consciousness that linked the history of the Jews with Western and Christian culture. This approach underpinned the recognition of the Jews’ right to the Land of Israel, as formulated in the Balfour Declaration and the Mandate document.74 The historical background opening the Commission’s report revealed empathy towards the idea of the Jews returning to their land. The Commission recognized the Jews’ right to establish a state in the Land of Israel but doubted Britain’s ability to fulfill the Mandate of the League of Nations. The Peel Commission concluded that it was impossible to reconcile the conflicting demands of the two peoples living in the land, Jews and Arabs. Therefore, it decided to recommend dividing the land between the two peoples and establishing two states, one for Jews and one for Arabs:

73 Palestine Royal Commission—Report, 11. 74 Ibid., 2-15.

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Manifestly the problem cannot be solved by giving either the Arabs or the Jews all they want. The answer to the question “Which of them in the end will govern Palestine?” must surely be “Neither.” We do not think that any fair-minded statesman would suppose, now that that the hope of harmony between the races has proved untenable, that Britain ought either to hand over to Arab rule 400,000 Jews, whose entry into Palestine has been for the most part facilitated by the British Government and approved by the League of Nations; or that, if the Jews should become a majority, a million or so Arabs should be handed over to their rule. But, while neither race can justly rule all Palestine, we see no reason why, if it were practicable, each race should not rule part of it.75 The debate over the Partition Plan, which had been discussed even before the Peel Commission’s recommendations in 1937, marked a dramatic turn in Zionist policy and ignited an intense controversy within the Zionist movement in both Palestine and the Jewish world at large. This controversy highlighted the differences between the two prominent factions within Zionism: the pragmatists, who prioritized the welfare of the Jewish people, and the maximalists, who prioritized the territorial integrity of the Land of Israel. Interestingly, this debate revisits the earlier contention between Zionist leaders Chaim Weizmann, David Ben-Gurion, and Menachem Ussishkin, who was Theodor Herzl’s main opponent during the Uganda Plan controversy. Ben-Gurion, a staunch Zionist with a strong connection to the Land of Israel, emphasized the historical right of the Jewish people to the land. However, during the debate on the Peel Commission’s partition proposal, his approach was more political and pragmatic. The intense discussions about the Peel Plan brought back memories of the Uganda controversy. The meeting of the Zionist Executive on April 12, 1937, became a battleground between the pragmatic Ben-Gurion and the maximalist Ussishkin. Ben-Gurion’s speech directly addressed Ussishkin’s arguments, emphasizing that Zionism, unlike past generations of diaspora Jews who hoped and prayed for redemption, was about actual sacrifice and loss of life: “Yesterday, Ussishkin eulogized here 102 people who fell in the last year. They are not the first, and I fear they will not be the last,”76 Ben-Gurion said. He added that Zionism had demanded sacrifices from its inception, and that “we

75 Ibid., 375. See also the outline of the Partition Plan for Palestine, ibid., 380-393. 76 Heller, Ba-ma’avak la-medinah, 173.

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must bear responsibility for this spilled blood. If any of us is not ready for the sacrifice those who fell had made . . . We must take care of future generations, for whom we are responsible, not the past ones.”77 In his pragmatic approach, David Ben-Gurion preferred the partition of the Land of Israel over a status quo that could significantly worsen the situation of the Jews. To achieve a Jewish state in the Land of Israel, Ben-Gurion argued, “we must do all that is possible, but only what is possible and no more.”78 He confronted Ussishkin’s maximalist position with the reality in the Land of Israel, emphasizing that Zionism was not in a position of strength and that the Jews were not giving up parts of the land, as they did not control it in the first place. Strong Arab opposition endangered the possibility of establishing any Jewish state because the support of the powers for the Jewish interest was weakening due to international relations: I understand that the Uganda affair was a significant experience in the life of Ussishkin. However, this matter was not the only reason, nor necessarily the main one, for his place in Zionist history. It was indeed a momentous time in his life, a crucial period. But it is dangerous to live in the past. We should not now bring the Uganda issue into this debate. We are currently facing an entirely different argument. Back then, it was an internal debate, the question being whether [we aspire] to the Land of Israel or another land. Now, we are facing a much greater calamity; we stand on an external front. They are about to take from us the opportunities to save the Zionism we had until now. This external front calls us, and we must recognize the dangers lurking for us. And I must remind both Ussishkin and other Zionists that we are facing many dangers, much more severe dangers.79 David Ben-Gurion expressed significant concern about the future, particularly due to the Arab threat and the international situation of the 1930s, which significantly narrowed the alignment of interests between Zionism, Britain,

77 Ibid. 78 Ibid. 79 Ibid., 174.

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and Western powers. In this challenging context, Ben-Gurion argued for the acceptance of the Partition Plan as a means to establish a Jewish state. He himself proposed a partition plan in February 1937. In a letter to the Central Committee of Mapai on July 1, 1937, Ben-Gurion addressed the opponents of partition within his movement, stating: “What we face is not just ‘the danger of partition’ but the establishment of a Jewish state, and not all of us can easily and retrospectively join those who call to save us from this ‘danger.’ ”80 While others feared relinquishing a significant portion of the land of Israel, Ben-Gurion saw a practical opportunity to establish a Jewish state. “When I hear that a royal commission of a great empire is about to propose the foundation of a Hebrew state in the Land of Israel . . . I am deeply moved to the core of my heart and soul.”81 David Ben-Gurion emphasized the importance of the Land of Israel in Zionist consciousness and stood firm on the historical right of the Jews to the land. Yet, he stated: “Had Herzl been offered a charter for the Sharon, or Samaria, or the Lower Galilee, or Moab, or Bashan, he would have accepted it as a great and precious gift from God, and would have planted a stake for a Jewish state in the Land of Israel—but the opportunity did not arise for him, nor for the Jewish people, and we had no charter for even a small part of the land.”82 He expressed his concern that Britain might abandon the mandate before a Jewish state could be established in the Land of Israel. Therefore, he saw the partition plan as a pragmatic solution that could save the entire Zionist project: “If we now have the possibility of establishing a Jewish state in one part of the Land of Israel—I see it as the greatest opportunity that has been presented to us since the destruction of our national independence in the land.”83 In contrast to Ben-Gurion’s pragmatic approach, which highlighted the dangers looming over Zionism and the Jewish people if the Zionist movement did not take initiative to promote the rapid establishment of a Jewish state, Ussishkin presented a maximalist, principled stance against the partition of the Land of Israel throughout the period of this dispute. In an April 1937 debate with Ben-Gurion in the Executive Committee meeting, he raised the following historical argument: The people of Israel have dreamed for two thousand years, prayed and believed not in a Jewish state but in a complete

80 David Ben-Gurion, Zikhronot, vol. 4 (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1971-1987), 257. 81 Ibid., 258. 82 Ibid. 83 Ibid., 265.

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ingathering of the exiles in its historical land. I will not enter into the great problem of the Kingdom of David, of which I am a devout follower, but for me, every part of the land is holy, and Jerusalem is the holiest of holies. When a Jew imagined the future of the nation throughout history and persecutions, he pictured it in entirely in the Land of Israel and with the entirety of the nation. [. . .] I am aware that for over two thousand years we have achieved almost nothing in the political sense, but the Israeli nation believed, and never in two thousand years will you find a single declaration or a single document in any form that [says that] we are allowed to relinquish any part of the land or the whole land—the complete hope.84 Ussishkin fundamentally opposed any possibility of partitioning the land for historical reasons: “We must tell the British world and Geneva, and first and foremost the Arab people, that we will not, today or tomorrow or ever, relinquish any part of our historical land.”85 He emphasized a maximalist, principled position that accepted no practical compromise: “This is my principled stance, that if such a proposal is brought before me, I do not enter into explanations and details. For me, it is impossible. The bones of our forefathers will not rest in their graves if we betray our complete ideal.”86 Ussishkin continued the debate with both principled and practical tactical explanations, such as the small area proposed for the Jews, twenty percent of the land, which would not allow for the defense of the Jewish population. This area, mostly in the coastal plain, would be vulnerable to military attacks from the mountainous area controlled by the Arabs. Additionally, the small size of the proposed Jewish state would not allow for the absorption of the expected Jewish immigration. The fundamental historical argument guided Ussishkin in the partition debate, as it had in the Uganda Plan debate: Gruenbaum87 said to me in a Zionist Executive meeting: “Do not make a tragedy of this matter [partition].” I know that the Sharon [area] is not Uganda, I replied; I know geography just like you. But I also know that it is much harder to distinguish 84 Heller, Ba-ma’avak la-medinah, 178. 85 Ibid. 86 Ibid., 179. 87 Yitzhak Gruenbaum (1879-1970), a Zionist leader, and later the first minister of the interior of the State of Israel.

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between sacred and sacred than between sacred and profane, as the distinction between sacred and profane is clear, and to differentiate between sacred and sacred requires sharper vision and greater sensitivity. Therefore, today’s danger is even greater.88 In Ussishkin’s comparison between the Uganda controversy and the partition debate, he feared that most Zionists failed to recognize that the Partition Plan posed an even greater danger than the Uganda controversy. All realized that the idea of settling in Africa was so absurd that it was relatively easy to reject, whereas now there was a danger that the partition would be accepted. Yet in exchange for the establishment of a tiny state (“What will this little ghetto live on? I know that even Monaco is a state”), the ancient Jewish vision of a return to Zion in its entirety would be lost. Faced with the minimalist partition plan, Ussishkin called on Zionists to choose the difficult path and not to be deterred even if their decisions led to continued struggle with the Arabs. To strengthen his argument, he relied on history and Jewish memory, on myth and legend, to outline the path toward the right political decision regarding the Land of Israel. From our history’s earliest days, we have a remarkable legend that might have been written as a symbol to guide our nation throughout its history. This legend recounts that when Moses, the greatest figure of the [ Jewish] world and perhaps the entire world, the creator and Lawgiver of the Israelite nation, was just a child, Pharaoh presented him with a choice: a spoon full of gold or a spoon full of fire. The child Moses, who would later become a giant among our people, chose the fire that burns and consumes rather than the gold that can buy everything. This has symbolized the path our nation has followed throughout its history. Now, a second Pharaoh presents us again with a spoon full of gold, alluring like a state [. . .], while the other spoon represents war, sacrifices, fire, unrest, restrictions, decrees, and tribulations, all in pursuit of our hope. People of Israel, you must choose the spoon of fire over the spoon of gold!89

88 Ibid., 182. 89 Ibid. Ussishkin thought that the Partition Plan was similar to the Uganda Plan, and so he again took upon himself the leadership role against partition. See Goldstein, Ussishkin, 2:176-185.

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As the Arab Revolt commenced in April 1936, and with the escalating international tensions in Europe during the late 1930s, the Zionist leadership’s anxiety deepened regarding the fate of European Jewry and the Zionist endeavor in the Land of Israel. Amidst this tense atmosphere, the Twentieth Zionist Congress was convened in Zurich in August 1937 to deliberate on the Partition Plan. This Congress reignited a level of internal dispute not seen in the Zionist movement since the Sixth Congress in 1903. The gathering began with a memorial for recently deceased Zionist figures, including Nahum Sokolow. Menachem Ussishkin, a fervent opponent of the Partition Plan, was chosen as Congress President. His dialogues with Dr. Chaim Weizmann during the Congress echoed the intense debates of the Sixth Zionist Congress. As president of the Zionist movement, Weizmann opened the Twentieth Zionist Congress amidst significant apprehension about the impending decision. He was acutely aware of the opposition to the partition idea among Zionists, especially regarding the Peel Commission’s proposal, which allocated only a small part of western Palestine to the Jewish state and excluded Jerusalem. Hence, he sought to distinguish between the commission’s specific proposal and the general principle of partitioning the land between Jews and Arabs. “I must make it clear right from the start that I am not referring to the proposal in the Blue Book. That proposal is unacceptable!”90 he stated. However, he highlighted the importance of pragmatic policymaking by the Zionist leadership at such a pivotal moment in Jewish history. Weizmann asked Congress members to consider the partition idea based on two criteria: “A. Can this principle serve as a foundation for Jewish life? [. . .]; B. Does this proposal offer a solution to the Jewish problem, which today—undeniably evident—poses a danger not just to us, but to the entire world?”91 According to these standards, Weizmann felt the Zionist Congress had to approve the principle of partition: “Our current duty is to respond based on these two tests. It’s possible to answer positively or negatively. I believe we can and indeed must respond positively.”92 Weizmann reiterated that he did not reject the religious or messianic vision regarding the Land of Israel, but at that time, the leadership’s duty was to achieve the possible goal. Accepting the principle of partition, he argued, did not contradict the generations-long vision of the Land of Israel:

90 Ha-congress ha-tsiyoni ha-esrim, 31. 91 Ibid., 33. 92 Ibid., 32 (original emphasis).

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I am not speaking as one of the Mizrachi members, but as a person with deep religious feelings, even if I do not observe the formal religious customs. I make a clear distinction between reality and the messianic destiny, which we all believe in as part of our identity, preserved and nurtured by national tradition and sanctified through the holy sufferings over thousands of years. Weizmann’s distinction between the Jewish vision of the end of days and the concrete historical reality was deliberate. A deep Zionist cultural belief intertwined in his speech with realistic political considerations regarding the Zionist movement’s possibilities in a grim, or in his words, “tragic,” historical context: “An unprecedented responsibility towards the next generation weighs heavily upon us. I told the Royal Commission that there are six million93 Jews waiting to immigrate.”94 After distinguishing between the end of days and the specific context of the 1937 land division, Weizmann turned to the religious faction in the Congress, saying: “To my religious friends, I say: know before whom and what you stand, for this is not a matter of party! Esteemed Congress! Never in the last two thousand years have we been given such a heavy responsibility as we have today [. . .] We can only do what is possible. And if such possibilities exist [. . .] then I say yes!”95 Weizmann, no less than Ussishkin, thus based his arguments in favor of the partition plan on history, values, myths, and Jewish memory. The members of Mizrachi and Hapoel Hamizrachi did not heed Weizmann’s words and almost unanimously opposed the Partition Plan, in stark contrast to Mizrachi’s support of the Uganda Plan during the Sixth Congress. Although not all religious Zionists opposed the idea of partition, the majority, as mentioned, completely rejected the plan.96 The chief rabbis of the Land of Israel hastened to publish their opposition to the idea of partition well before the Twentieth Congress.97 Weizmann called on the members of the Zionist Congress to authorize the Zionist Executive to negotiate with the British government on the partition plan, while Ussishkin, on the other hand, rejected this possibility

93 As we will see below, Weizmann mentioned this number based on the demography of Eastern European Jewry. In hindsight, it became a catastrophic prophecy. 94 Ibid. 95 Ibid., 33 (original emphasis). 96 Dotan, Pulmus ha-halukah, 172-176. 97 Ibid., 91. See also the Mizrachi position in Din ve-heshbon ha-merkaz ha-olami shel ha-mizrahi la-ve’idah ha-olamit ha-14 be-Zurich, 19-22 Av 5697 ( Jerusalem: World Mizrachi Center, 1937).

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and, following Weizmann’s speech, also addressed the religious Zionists with a direct message: Remember, my friend Weizmann, what happened thirty years ago in Basel. I do not compare Uganda to the Land of Israel. The Land of Israel is holy; but Jerusalem is the Holy of Holies. [. . .] Weizmann has appealed today to the ranks of Mizrachi; Herzl once turned to Mizrachi, too. He said then: “The Land of Israel is indeed holy, but in this situation, we are compelled to vote for Uganda,” and Mizrachi voted for Uganda. That vote is not a proud chapter in the history of Mizrachi. I too appeal to Mizrachi; but my appeal today is different from that of Weizmann. I say: in this Congress, correct your past error!98 Ussishkin’s words resonated well with the leaders of Mizrachi at the Twentieth Congress. Veterans of Mizrachi and its founders, such as Rabbi Meir Bar-Ilan (1880-1949) and Rabbi Yehuda Leib Maimon (Fishman) (1875-1962), were completely opposed to the idea of partition. Both held a messianic view that saw Zionism as the beginning of redemption, influenced by the philosophy of Rabbi Avraham Isaac Kook.99 Rabbi Bar-Ilan, the leader of Mizrachi at the Twentieth Congress, now presented a stance opposite to that of the Mizrachi leaders in 1903: On behalf of all of Mizrachi—and I assume that Hapoel Hamizrachi also shares my view—I take the liberty to declare that we do not agree with this fundamental idea. [. . .] Zionism is not for us a forty-year experience, but rather the expression of the Jewish people’s aspirations throughout thousands of years of history. This Zionism is not about fulfilling specific needs, whether spiritual or material. [. . .] For us, building the Land of Israel is not a response to spiritual or material distress, but an inner need of the Jewish soul. It is the aspiration to have our own land, our Land of Israel, which is our right just as every nation has its own land; and perhaps our right to the land even surpasses the right

98 Ha-congress ha-tsiyoni ha-esrim, 39. 99 Hava Eshkoli, “Manhigut tsiyonit datit bi-yemei ha-shoah: ha-rabanim Bar Ilan (Berlin) u-Maimon (Fishman),” in Porat and Halamish, Shoah mi-merhak tavo, esp. 139; Schwartz, Eretz ha-mamashut, 172-187, 224-226.

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of every nation to its own land. Our yearnings and aspirations for the Land of Israel and our work for the Land of Israel as a Jewish state—are not a response to troubles and sufferings, but a goal in itself, a goal to achieve our land as our state, the state of the Jews in the Land of Israel.100 This statement reveals the significant shift in the stance of the leaders of religious Zionism. While Rabbi Reines, the founder of the Mizrachi, saw Zionism as a pragmatic rescue movement whose sole purpose was to “improve the condition of our wretched brothers,”101 here Rabbi Bar-Ilan explicitly states that religious Zionism does not see the suffering of the Jewish people as a sufficient reason to give up on the integrity of the land. In the words of Bar-Ilan: In Zionism, there has been a deep crisis because people are looking for different interpretations of Zionist aspirations. Some talk about humanitarian goals and speak of the hungry Jews in Poland and the wretched Jews in other countries. [. . .] All this is absolutely incorrect. Zionism, in our view, is not a response just for hungry Jews. Nor do we claim our right on the grounds of moral integrity. The present world does not operate on this principle. The foundation of Zionism is that the Land of Israel is ours and not the Arabs’. And not because the Arabs have many territories and we have few. We demand all of the Land of Israel, because it is our land. The words of the prophet, “For Zion’s sake I will not keep silent, for Jerusalem’s sake I will not remain quiet,” are not just a prophetic expression: these words are deeply engraved in our hearts. We cannot rest and remain silent while our land is being torn apart and Jerusalem is not given to us.102 Rabbi Bar-Ilan also referred to the situation of Polish Jewry. The condition of the Jews of Eastern Europe, and especially Polish Jews, was also discussed at the meeting of the World Council of Po’alei Zion on the eve of the Zionist Congress in Zurich. Ben-Gurion then spoke about the outburst of joy among the Jews of Eastern Europe upon hearing the news of the Peel Commission’s Partition

100 Ha-congress ha-tsiyoni ha-esrim, 50 (author’s emphasis—Y. C.). 101 R aphael and Shragai, Ha-tsiyonut ha-datit, 1:339; Yitzhak Ya’akov Reines, “‘Mi-mizrah’ mikhtav revi’i,” Ha-Mizrah 1, no. 5 (1903): 271-296. 102 Ha-congress ha-tsiyoni ha-esrim, 52.

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Plan and the possibility of establishing a Jewish state in the Land of Israel.103 Ya’akov Helman noted in his remarks that in many districts in Poland, pogroms against Jews occurred almost every day, and therefore “it is hard to describe the excitement that seized the exhausted classes of the people” when the proposal for the establishment of a Jewish state was made known: “One must recognize the situation of the Jews in Poland to appreciate this,” said Helman, adding: “According to the official total read by the prime minister in the Seym, there were 348 pogroms in the Białystok district alone in one year, that is, almost one pogrom each day.”104 The challenging situation of Polish Jews in the 1930s intensified the debate at the Twentieth Zionist Congress about the relationship between the Jewish people and the Land of Israel. Ussishkin, who placed the land at the heart of Zionist ideology, criticized those who highlighted the suffering of Polish Jews every time the land issue was discussed: “But the argument reappears: Polish Jewry! They always point to Polish Jewry when we are at a crucial juncture.”105 He opposed using the plight of European Jews as leverage for the partition plan: “I advise you rationalists and poor Polish Jews—change your attitude! Do not turn the Land of Israel into a matter of trade.”106 Dr. Moshe Kleinbaum (later Sneh) from the General Zionists Union in Poland presented a contrasting view, emphasizing the importance of considering the plight of Jews in Europe, particularly Poland, in the partition debate. He stressed the urgency for Zionism to seize any achievable opportunity: “Ussishkin’s speech was full of messianism. While I respect the sanctity of the past, I also acknowledge our future vision. But there is a Jewish plight in the present and we cannot ignore current Jewish suffering. The desperation of the hungry, oppressed, and downtrodden Jews is as significant as our grand history. Their current plight is as sacred to us as our past.”107 Kleinbaum advocated for accepting Weizmann’s proposal. For him responding for the plight of Polish Jews was important more then struggle for the integrity of the Land of Israel. “A

103 Al darkhei mediniyuteinu: mo’atzah olamit shel ihud Poalei Zion (Z. S.) hitahdut (Zurich, 29 July–7 August 1937), din ve-heshbon male (Tel Aviv: Central Office of Ihud Poalei Zion, 1938). 104 Ibid., 102. 105 Ha-congress ha-tsiyoni ha-esrim, 39. 106 Ibid. 107 Ibid., 53. During the Twentieth Zionist Congress, Moshe Kleinbaum (later Sneh, 19091972), led the General Zionists in Poland and fought for the rights of Polish Jewry. See Eli Sha’altiel, Tamid ba-meri: Moshe Sneh, biografiyah 1909-1948, vol. 1 (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 2000).

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small Jewish state gives us the opportunity for expanded immigration and work for the next fifteen or twenty years.”108 Conversely, Yehoshua Heshel Farbstein (1870-1948), Mizrachi leader in Poland, criticized Kleinbaum’s approach. “Dr. Kleinbaum spoke of the poor Polish Jews. It is wrong to use the hardships in Poland to justify his stance on the Jewish state. The Polish Jews would vehemently object to such a rationale, perceiving it as an affront to their dignity if Zionism is based on pity.”109 Ben-Gurion’s speech at the Twentieth Zionist Congress was the longest and most comprehensive one at the Congress.110 He stated: “Zionism is not merely a settlement group, weighing and examining only economic and financial questions. [. . .] Zionism is a people’s movement, commited to educating the Jewish masses and the younger generation, organizing the collective strength of the people, managing its political struggle, mobilizing its creative capabilities, and building the Land.”111 For Ben-Gurion, Zionism was a people’s movement, and this highlights the similarity between his line of argument with his opponents and Herzl’s position in the debate with Ussishkin at the Greater Actions Committee meeting in April 1904. Both Herzl and later Ben-Gurion assumed the fundamental perception that Zionism is a national movement representing the Jewish people and committed to them. Since Ben-Gurion emphasized the territorial foundation of Zionism and saw himself as a Zionist of the Land of Israel, he created a distinction, similar to Weizmann, between the pragmatic stance in the present and the future spiritual vision. In his eyes, the rights to the Land of Israel belonged solely to the Jewish people and not to the Arabs. They had civil but not national rights: “They have resident rights, we have national rights.”112 He underscored the immediate interest of the Jewish people in establishing a state, even if only in a small part of the land, and therefore advocated accelerating political processes. Among other reasons for “speeding up the tempo,” Ben-Gurion cited: The distress of Israel is increasing. The mass pressure of the Jews and the pressure of countries wishing to rid themselves of these masses is intensifying. The Jewish question has never been as acute and severe as in these days. And outside of the Land of

108 Ibid. 109 Ibid., 82. Rabbi Reuven Yehudah Neufeld, secretary of the Rabbinic Council of Poland, also published the rabbis’ objection to the partition concept. See Ha-hed, 12 Elul 1937, 13. 110 Ha-congress ha-tsiyoni ha-esrim, 95-110. 111 Ibid., 99. 112 Ibid., 98-99, and see also 103-104.

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Israel, there is no hope and no chance. The world has closed against us. Ben-Gurion feared the growing power of the Arab world, which could thwart the establishment of a Jewish state. With the end of the British Mandate in Iraq and the uprising in Syria against the French Mandate, he believed that the connection between the Arabs in the Land of Israel and other Arabs across the Middle East could jeopardize the plan for establishing a Jewish state.113 Ben-Gurion also raised concerns about the impending danger to European Jewry in his speech at the Twentieth Zionist Congress in August 1937, stating explicitly: “The international situation is worsening, and we are facing difficult and dangerous international complications, if not the threat of a new world war. Only a blind or a fool can ignore the severe disasters associated with the sharpening of international relations.”114 He reiterated this bleak and precise forecast during his speech, warning that the status quo did not favor the Jews, and that they now needed a state more than ever.115 The dimension of time played a critical role in the context of the partition debate. Jewish historical consciousness and attempts to decipher the future were of prime concern to the Zionist leaders.116 They could not know what would transpire after September 1939, but the clouds of war looming over Europe and fear of the future preoccupied all Zionist leaders. In his testimony before the Royal Commission, Weizmann spoke of the dire situation of European Jews and made a chillingly prophetic remark: “Six million people are trapped in countries where they are unwanted, six million people for whom the world is divided into places where they cannot live and places they cannot enter.”117 Weizmann repeated this statement at the Twentieth Zionist Congress, stating that Zionism could not save everyone, but it was possible to save two million young Jews, “the remnant of the refugees,” in his words. Weizmann planned to do this through

113 Ben-Gurion insisted on this in his speech at the World Council of Po’alei Zion before the Twentieth Zionist Congress. See Al darkhei mediniyuteinu, 41-42. 114 Ha-congress ha-tsiyoni ha-esrim, 105-106. 115 Ibid., 107. 116 Anita Shapira, “Tfisat ha-zman be-pulmus ha-halukah,” in Iyunim be-tokhnit ha-halukah 1937-1947, ed. Yishayahu Friedman and Meir Avizohar (Kiryat Sde Boker: Ben-Gurion Institute, 1984), 21-39; Aviva Halamish, Be-merutz kaful neged ha-zman—mediniyut ha-aliyah ha-tsiyonit bi-shnot ha-sheloshim ( Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 2006), 435-440. 117 Chaim Weizmann, Am Yisrael ve-Eretz Yisrael: divrei eduto shel Dr. Chaim Weizmann bi-fnei ha-va’adah ha-malkhutit le-Eretz Yisrael ( Jerusalem: Head Office of the Zionist Federation, 1937), 6.

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the immigration of about one hundred thousand Jews each year, for a period of fifteen to twenty years. Ze’ev Jabotinsky was not present at the Twentieth Congress, after leaving the Zionist Organization in 1935 and establishing the New Zionist Organization (NZO). He completely rejected the partition plan and published his own plan to bring about one hundred thousand Jews per year to the Land of Israel. He spoke of a Ten-Year Plan and determined that a similar number of Jews should be settled in the Land of Israel, on both sides of the Jordan River: “Within 10 years, another million Jews should be settled west of the Jordan, thereby ensuring a large Jewish majority in this part of the Land of Israel. At the same time, half a million Jews should be brought to Transjordan.”118 Ben-Gurion spoke in similar terms when analyzing the strengths and weaknesses of the Peel Commission. He feared that without initiative from the Zionist movement, the Mandate might collapse without granting Jews the right to a state, even in a small part of the Land of Israel.119 The proposed partition, if accepted, would allow control over the rate of Jewish immigration to the land, in his view: “Such a Jewish state would allow, in the near future, say the next fifteen years, an immigration of one hundred thousand people per year.”120 We see a significant similarity in the visions of Weizmann, Jabotinsky, and Ben-Gurion regarding the future of the Land of Israel and the assessment that the Jewish state could absorb about two million Jews in a period of ten to fifteen years.121 These diverse Zionist leaders could not foresee what would happen during the war, but they were deeply concerned about the imminent danger to the Jewish people, and their estimation of the number of Jews urgently needing to be brought to the Land of Israel was similar. In the discussion and debate over the partition plan, pragmatic and rational arguments were presented from both sides of the divide, as both opponents and supporters sought the well-being of the people and the land. However, within this debate, the desperate cry of Eastern European Jews for a Jewish state that could alleviate their plight, even at the cost of the land’s integrity, was often heard. Aryeh Tartakower raised this issue with great urgency when he exclaimed:

118 Ze’ev Jabotinsky, “Ne’um ha-petihah ba-konvent ha-histadrut ha-Tsiyonit ha-hadashah Prague February 1938,” in Jabotinsky, Ktavim, vol. 5 ( Jerusalem: Eri Jabotinsky Publishing, 1948), 298-299. 119 Al darkhei mediniyuteinu, 64. 120 Ibid., 75. 121 Prior to the twentieth congress, representatives of the Labor camp mentioned the same number. See, for example, the speech by Golda Meir, who objected to partition, and by Pinchas Lubianker (later Lavon), a supporter. Ibid., 123-125.

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For us, coming from the lands of exile, it is somewhat difficult to adapt to the form of debate that has been conducted so far. [. . .] We see the distress of the millions in the lands of exile, choking under political, economic, and cultural pressures, with the threat of annihilation looming over them in the very near future unless their redemption comes in the land. Can we really close our ears to the cries of death from across Poland, Germany, Romania, and beyond, and shall we cover our ears to this death cry?122 Alongside the pragmatic arguments in the debate over the partition proposal at the Twentieth Zionist Congress, speakers from across the political spectrum also employed religious, historical, and messianic reasoning in relation to the Land of Israel. For example, Berl Katznelson, a representative of Mapai who opposed the partition, emphasized in his speech the importance of mystical feelings towards the Land of Israel and the Zionist vision of the future based on Jewish tradition: A living person has tomorrow as well as today—yet we are now asked to give up even our assets of tomorrow. A movement drawing from deep sources like ours cannot treat lightly matters considered sentimental, for these issues may be of crucial importance. What are the forces from which our movement draws? What is our love for the homeland? Did we cling to tangible values that were in our possession? Did we have lands that we knew and landscapes in which we lived? Our patriotism grew out of a book, it clung to verses, to historical names. We loved an abstract homeland, and this love was instilled in us over generations, and we carried it from place to place. This abstract patriotism became a tremendous dynamic force.123 Katznelson argued not to disregard emotional and sentimental arguments regarding the Land of Israel. He asserted that places like Hebron, Modi’in, and Jerusalem evoked the deepest feelings of Zionism, and they could not be relinquished: “If Jerusalem is also taken from the Jewish state, it psychologically, 122 Ibid., 130-131. Aryeh Tartakower (1897-1982) was a sociologist, historian, and Zionist political leader. He made this speech at the World Council of Poalei Zion prior to the Twentieth Zionist Congress. During the dramatic congress in Zurich in 1937, most of the streams of the Zionist movement held meetings there. 123 Ha-congress ha-tsiyoni ha-esrim, 74.

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politically, and culturally voids the Jewish state.”124 Removing Jerusalem from the Jewish state was seen by him as a threat to the Zionist enterprise: “A Jewish state, even a reduced one with Jerusalem, will be accepted by the Jewish people as a beginning, but a Jewish state without Jerusalem would be like a body decapitated. Jerusalem within the Jewish state is a great dynamic force, a magnet for people, resources, ideas, and cultural endeavors. Jerusalem outside the state is a danger of destruction to the Jewish state.”125 Although Katznelson sought to unify the opposing camps and reach a compromise, he demanded that even those supporting the partition plan should acknowledge and express the sense of loss and profound pain associated with giving up parts of the historical homeland.126 An ally of Berl Katznelson in opposing the partition plan was Yitzhak Tabenkin, leader of the United Kibbutz Movement, who saw it as a serious threat to the existence of Jews in the Land of Israel. After reading Franz Werfel’s book The Forty Days of Musa Dagh, depicting the Armenian massacre, he wrote in his diary: “The terrible fear from this book, Musa Dagh, accompanies me; and our state [that of the Peel Commission] [. . .] is a source of weakness, jealousy, an opportunity to annihilate us in a concentrated way.”127 Driven by concern for the survival of Jews in the Land of Israel, Tabenkin strongly opposed any concession of land.128 In the religious camp, as mentioned, there was significant opposition to the partition plan. Rabbi Maimon (Fishman), a member of the Zionist Executive, sought to correct “the sin of Mizrachi” from the Sixth Congress: “Ussishkin said that Mizrachi must repent—because it voted for the Uganda Proposal, and therefore it must now vote against the partition. [. . .] Indeed, we do not need atonement, and yet I am against the partition.”129 Rabbi Maimon added: Even if they give us all of the Land of Israel, without Jerusalem, I would not sign the agreement; without Jerusalem, all of the Land of Israel is of no value. If we have sinned so far, we do not need to add sin to crime. [. . .] And if Weizmann truly wants the Zionist Organization to remain whole and united, I say to

124 Ibid., 77. 125 Ibid. 126 For example, in his speech to the workers’ camp prior to the congress. See Al darkhei mediniyuteinu, 170-180, esp. 171-173. 127 Baruch Kanari, Tabenkin be-Eretz Yisrael (Ramat Efal: Yad Tabenkin, 2003), 431. 128 Eyal Kafkafi, “Ha-haluziyut ha-leumit shel Yitzhak Tabenkin,” Cathedra 48 (1988): 120-144. 129 Ha-congress ha-tsiyoni ha-esrim, 138.

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him: The completeness of the Organization depends on the completeness of the Land of Israel.130 Shlomo Zalman Shragai, a representative of Hapoel Hamizrachi, attributed a mystical significance to the Land of Israel: “Nothing in the world can weaken our faith in redemption, but we know that there are forces that can hinder the process of redemption. We are today participating in a battle of righteousness against evil, of freedom against bondage, and these are the higher worlds that compel us to say no.” Shragai dismissed the rational and instrumental arguments regarding the role of the land in Zionism: Just as we, the Jews, have always remained faithful to the Land of Israel, so the land has kept faith with us. The land did not yield its fruit to any of the many nations that tried to control it over the centuries. And just as in the judgment of Solomon, the true mother was recognized when the decree to cut the baby in half was issued, so now—when our land, our mother, is about to be divided—we must show that we are her true children.131 Shragai’s relationship with the Land of Israel as a mother was not accidental. The attribution of motherhood to the Land of Israel in Shragai’s perception, and most of the Mizrachi leaders, intensified from the late 1930s onwards. For him, Zionism was a redemptive and messianic process, connecting the people to the land until complete redemption132. In this regard, Shragai, like other leaders of religious Zionism, was deeply influenced by the teachings of Rabbi Kook. His formulation signifies the transition from the rational basis of the territorial foundation of early religious Zionism to the independent, ontological status attributed to the Land of Israel in religious Zionist thought after World War I, influenced by Rabbi Kook’s philosophy.133 Most of the religious Zionists strongly opposed the partition plan, though there were also moderate voices within it, such as Rabbi Yitzhak Unna, Rabbi Benjamin, and others, who did not view the integrity of the land as a precondition for the establishment of the Jewish state.134 During the partition controversy, Mizrachi and Hapoel Hamizrachi did not join the Revisionist camp, which had 130 Ibid., 139. 131 Ibid., 84. 132 Schwartz, Eretz ha-mamashut, 133-140; see also 128-159. 133 Ibid., esp. 70-81; see also 24-44, 62-81. 134 See, for example, Din ve-heshbon, 62-78.

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left the Zionist Organization to form the New Zionist Organization. Attempts to organize a unified front of partition opponents, led by senior figures from Mizrachi, Ussishkin, Berl Katznelson, and Yitzhak Tabenkin, were unsuccessful, as not everyone agreed to include Jabotinsky and the secessionists. The leaders of Mizrachi rejected the Revisionists’ approach, which they believed divided the Zionist movement and harmed its unity. The Mizrachi movement also officially published its opposition to such negotiations between individuals from religious Zionism and the Revisionists.135 However, as we observed, a significant shift took place in the attitudes of religious Zionism regarding the relationship between the people and the land in Zionism. The integrity of the land was henceforth presented as a fundamental goal that should not be compromised.136 At the Twentieth Zionist Congress, the question of whether the Congress would allow the Zionist Executive to negotiate the establishment of a Jewish state in part of the Land of Israel was brought to vote. The resolution was meant to be a matter of principle, not related to the specific partition plan proposed by the Peel Commission. Despite the widespread opposition I have described, Weizmann and Ben-Gurion succeeded in passing, by a large majority—three hundred in favor, 158 against—a resolution that did not reject the principle of partitioning the Land of Israel. The minority proposal was more radical, rejecting any partition. Ussishkin again played a central role in organizing the opposition, though he did not want to split the movement.137 The majority decision at the Congress granted the Zionist Executive the mandate to negotiate the establishment of a Jewish state in the Land of Israel, on condition that it would receive the Congress’s renewed approval.138 It appears that during the Yishuv period, the Zionist movement’s democratic mechanism successfully created a delicate balance between the people and the land.

135 Ibid., 13-14. Religious Zionism’s commitment to the Zionist institutions is evident from their mobilization to support them. See Elimelech Neufeld, ed., Al saf ha-congress: kovetz ma’amarim al ha-shekel ve-ha-behirot la-congress ha-tsiyoni ha-esrim ( Jerusalem: World Mizrahi Center, 1937). 136 See, for example, Meir Bar Ilan, ed., Kol ha-aretz: kovetz bi-she’elat halukat ha-aretz ( Jerusalem: Hug Sholelei Ha-Halukah, 1946). A decade later, the main leaders of religious Zionist still led the opposition to partition. 137 Yitzhak Gal-Nur, Ve-shavu banim li-gvulam: ha-hakhra’ot al medinah u-shtahim ba-tenu’ah ha-tsiyonit ( Jerusalem: Magnes, 1994), 235-270. On the decisions made, see there, 236-241; Yossi Katz, Medinah ba-derekh: ha-tokhniyot ha-tsiyoniyot la-halukat Eretz Yisrael u-le-hakamat medinah yehudit ( Jerusalem: Magnes, 2000). 138 Ben-Gurion, Zikhronot, 4:420. According to Gal-Nur, a definitive democratic resolution was passed, favoring pragmatic interests. This was achieved through the language of the majority’s proposal to negotiate with the British for establishing a state in a portion of the Land of Israel.

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Conclusion The relationship between the people and the land in Zionism reached a crisis when the issue became a subject of political resolution, as was the case with the Uganda controversy and later in the debate over the partition plan. The conflict over territorial borders was inextricably linked to the religious and messianic context attributed to the Land of Israel. This suggests that the territorial foundation–the homeland–was more than just a practical solution for the salvation of the Jewish people in Zionism. The Land of Israel was also linked to cultural and messianic imagery embedded in Jewish history and memory. Religious and messianic justifications for the land’s centrality in Zionism were raised by all streams, not just religious Zionists. In both controversies, Zionist leaders from both sides used religious motifs in relation to the Land of Israel. In this context, Ussishkin’s position stands out throughout the discussion, repeatedly bringing up the religious motif in a modern national context linked to the traditional image of the Promised Land for the chosen people. Herzl, Weizmann, Ben-Gurion, Katznelson, and others also referred to the emotional and religious aspect of the territorial component in Zionism.139 The religious aspect in the relationship between the people and the land in Zionism was not exclusive to the religious Zionist stream–which changed its position over time–but was present in the entire Zionist movement on these issues. It is impossible to characterize the internal disputes in Zionism solely in rational, secular and modernist terms; the cultural and ethnic Jewish foundations, which are premodern in origin, must also be understood. Examining the arguments raised during the controversy over the relationship between the people and the land in Zionism sheds light on its cultural nature. In addition, despite the complexity of the issues under debate, the fact that the Zionist Organization ultimately reached democratic resolutions, in both cases, demonstrates the ability of the central stream in Zionism to find a delicate balance between the ethnic and territorial dimensions and between rationalism and messianism. This balance also led to the political achievements of Zionism on the way to the establishment of the State of Israel. Political groups that exclusively held onto one component–either the people or the land—gradually lost their influence on the Zionist discourse or even withdrew from Zionism. This was the case with the territorialist movement during the Uganda controversy, and also during the British Mandate period. Factions emphasizing only 139 It is interesting to compare the examples given here with Anthony’s Smith’s analysis of the connection between modern nationalism and religion. See Smith, Chosen Peoples, 9-43.

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one aspect–Brit Shalom and Ha-Ihud on one side, and Brit Ha-Biryonim and the Canaanites on the other—failed to influence the decision-making process in the Zionist movement, even when their voice resonated well within the Zionist space. The third and last part of the book discusses the Zionist vision. Chapter Six will examine the vision of future as it was expressed in Zionist utopias. As shown in this chapter, Zionist utopian vision was deeply influenced by the premodern cultural foundations. Chapter Seven examines the place of the Hebrew Bible in the Zionist movement, exploring how the Zionist aspiration to educate and form the “new Jew” was related to the biblical narrative and the ancient model of Jewish sovereignty in the Land of Israel. The self-awareness of activists in the Jewish national movement from the late nineteenth century to the establishment of the State of Israel was based on the values, myths, cultural heritage, and historical memories of the Jewish people. Modern Jewish national solidarity was fundamentally based on premodern cultural values, which received a renewed national interpretation with the rise of Zionism.

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Chapter 6

The Zionist Utopia

This chapter examines the relationship between the writing of Zionist utopias and the formation of a national historical consciousness. The Zionist utopia reflected the wide range of Zionist thought that aspired to shape the new Jews as a modern nation. In this chapter, I will examine the range of utopian writing from the inception of national Jewish thought until the British mandate over Palestine. The utopian literature that was written in the early days of the Zionist movement reflected the various positions of the Zionist vision. The shared foundation of these utopian views was that all were based on the modern utopian model—in other words, they described a “realistic utopia” of a Jewish state in the Land of Israel.1 They aspired to imagine the ideal place for the Jews in the land of Israel, and described this place in modern, earthly terms—not just in terms of redemption and heavenly dominion. As we will show, even writers that upheld a national religious worldview integrated clearly modern elements in their writing. By contrast, secular writers often relied on religious myth, ancient Jewish culture, and the Bible. The messianic concept was also present within

1 See: Miriam Eliav-Feldon, Realistic Utopias: The Ideal Imaginary Societies of the Renaissance 1516-1630 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1982), 1-15; Miriam Eliav-Feldon, “‘If You Will It, It Is No Fairy Tale’: The First Jewish Utopias,” Jewish Journal of Sociology, 25, no. 2 (December 1983): 85-103.

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Zionist utopian writing, but it was presented in modern terms that were rational and realistic.2 The first part of the chapter addresses the utopian thought in early Jewish nationalism in the mid-nineteenth century. The second and main portion of this chapter examines the variations of Zionist utopian literature written mainly between the 1880s to the 1920s. Utopian writing during this period expressed the variety of utopian attitudes, including the views of Zionists from the political, cultural, religious, socialist, and revisionist factions. Below I intend to demonstrate that the Zionist utopia that developed in the modern historical context aimed to create borders of definition and national identity based on ancient Jewish memory. Therefore Zionism was not merely a political movement. Rather, it was also a cultural movement that offered a national alternative to modern Jewish identity. The third part of this chapter focuses on the utopian tendency of the leaders of the Zionist movement during the British Mandate period. Here, I focus on the mainstream of the Zionist leadership, especially the actions of Chaim Weizmann, Ze’ev Jabotinsky, and David Ben-Gurion. The Zionist consensus that emerged during the Yishuv period primarily aimed at the establishment of a Jewish majority in the Land of Israel and the creation of a democratic Jewish state. Peripheral secondary streams, which also had a clear utopian vision, will not be examined here.3 Scholars of the Zionist movement, such as Michael Brenner, Derek Penslar, Shlomo Avineri, Ya’akov Shavit and others, have examined the utopias of the Zionist leaders and activists.4 In Ha-mahar shel ha-etmol (Yesterday’s tomorrow), Rachel Elboim Dror collected, analyzed, and characterized the Zionist utopia from the 1880s to the 1920s as a literary genre. Yosef Gorny has written many

2 Arieh Saposnik, Zionism’s Redemptions: Images of the Past and Visions of the Future in Jewish Nationalism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2022), 1-21. 3 I refer, for example, to the vision of Brit Shalom and Ha-Ihud for the creation of a bi-national state, the maximalist Revisionist Zionist’s concept of Brit Ha-Biryonim to renew the Kingdom of Israel, and the New Hebrews’ idea of creating a Hebrew Greater State. For Brit Shalom, see Heller, Mi-brit shalom; Gordon, Brit shalom. Regarding radical utopia within right-wing circles, see Shavit, The Hebrew Nation; Yoni Avivi, “Abba Ahimeir ve-ha-maximalizm ha-revizionisti ba-tnu’ah ha-revizionistit,” (PhD diss., Bar Ilan University, 2008). 4 Brenner, In Search of Israel, 51-87; Penslar, Theodor Herzl, 163-200; Shlomo Avineri, “Ha-utopiyah ha-tsiyonit shel Herzl: ha-halom u-shivro,” Cathedra 40 (1986): 189-200; Shlomo Avineri, “Edmund Eisler’s Zionist Utopia,” Midstream 31, no. 2 (1985): 50-3; Lea Hadomi, “Looking Again at ‘Looking Ahead: Twentieth Century Happenings,” Modern Jewish Studies Annual 9 (1994): 76-85; Lea Hadomi, Bein tikva le-safek: sipur ha-utopia (Tel Aviv: HaKibbutz HaMeuchad, 1979); Shavit, The Hebrew Nation; Peretz Sandler, Hezyonei medinah: Yalkut ha-utopiyot ha-tsiyoniyot (Tel Aviv: Newman, 1944).

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studies of utopian thought among the Zionist leadership during the Yishuv period of the British Mandate in Palestine.5 Unlike these studies, the main objective of this chapter is to highlight the strong connection between the Zionist vision and premodern Jewish culture. Analyzing the utopian aspirations of movement activists and leaders allows us to reveil the system of values, symbols, myths, and the cultural basis that guided Zionism.

Early Jewish National Utopias The relationship between religion and nationalism in Zionism is intricate, and we cannot describe it as a straightforward linear progression. It would be more accurate to characterize these relations as a complex intertwining, challenging historians to trace the various pathways linking the past to the present. Rachel Elboim-Dror argued that the discussion of utopia, in general, and Zionist utopia, in particular, must include both utopian and messianic concepts within a unified framework. According to her, in some cases, “these concepts share continuity and innovation simultaneously.”6 In her view, the Zionist revolution, like the French and American revolutions, was not entirely disconnected from the preexisting religious world. Secular Zionism was infused with religious values, concepts, and myths when it sought happiness for humanity and the promised land. From this perspective, Zionism excelled compared to other modern revolutions in its complex relationship with religion: “As a Jewish messianic movement, Zionism rebelled against religious messianism, but it retained a deep connection to its religious roots.”7 In the writings of Moses Hess and Rabbi Yehudah Alkalai, representing different types of early Jewish nationalist thought—Enlightenment and Orthodox—we find a synthesis of utopian and messianic thought. Moshe Hess (1812-1875) was born in Bonn in the Rhein area of Germany and became a radical socialist philosopher during the 1830s and 40s. He grew up in an Orthodox Jewish home, then abandoned religion and became one of the first German socialists. However, his writing made ample use of theological motifs and expressed the desire for human emancipation. For example, in 5 Rachel Elboim Dror, Ha-mahar shel ha-etmol, vols. 1-2 ( Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1993); Yosef Gorny, Mediniyut ve-dimyon: tokhniyot federaliyot ba-mahshavah ha-medinit ha-tsiyonit, 19171948 ( Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1993); Gorny, Anshei kan ve-ʻakhshav. 6 Elboim-Dror, Ha-mahar shel ha-etmol, 35. 7 Ibid., 36.

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his first book The Holy History of Mankind (1837), he described the process of human progress in conceptual and even theological terms. As a student of Spinoza, Hess viewed Judaism not merely as a religion but rather as a nation, and he emphasized its political and national foundations in the Hebrew Bible.8 During the 1840s, Hess was close to Karl Marx and his colleagues. But after the Revolutions of 1848, Hess strengthened the nationalist foundations of his socialist approach. According to his theory, nationalism was not a barrier to progress, but rather a necessary stage on the way to human emancipation.9 His book Rome and Jerusalem gave clear expression to the utopian national view that called for the establishment of a Jewish state in Palestine. To Hess, Jews were a nation and not a mere religious community, as many Jews during the Emancipation believed. Therefore, to him the path to their liberation led beyond civil emancipation to national equal rights. Hess asserted that the Germans’ aversion and hatred for the Jews would not end through the Jews’ fervent attempts toward integration, nor through religious reform or conversion, but only through recognition of their national existence: No reform of the Jewish religion, however extreme, is radical enough for the educated German Jew. But the endeavors are vain. Even conversion itself does not relieve the Jew from the enormous pressure of German antisemitism. The German hates the Jewish religion less than the race; he objects less to the Jews’ peculiar beliefs than to their peculiar noses. Neither reform, nor conversion, nor emancipation throw open to the Jew the gates of social life.10 Thus Hess called for the establishment of a model Jewish state that would combine nationalism, socialism, and universal principles of the brotherhood of nations. In his opinion, denial of the national foundation of Jewish life did nothing to help social integration and emancipation. Rather, it encouraged marginalization and hatred of the Jews:

8 Moses Hess, The Holy History of Mankind and Other Writings, ed. Shlomo Avineri (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), ix–xxvii, esp. xviii, xxiv. 9 Shlomo Avineri, Moses Hess: Prophet of Communism and Zionism (New York: New York University Press, 1985); Moses Hess, The Revival of Israel: Rome and Jerusalem and the Last Nationalist Question, ed. Melvin I. Urofsky (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1995). 10 Hess, Rome and Jerusalem, 58-9.

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As long as the Jew endeavors to deny his nationality, while at the same time he is unable to deny his own individual existence, as long as he unwilling to acknowledge that he belongs to that unfortunate and persecuted people, his false position must daily become more intolerable. [. . .] We shall always remain strangers among the nations. They may tolerate us and even grant us emancipation, but they will never respect us as long as we place the principle ubi bene ibi partia (“Homeland is where it (life) is good”) above our own great national memories.11 Similarly to the view of Italian liberal nationalist Giuseppe Mazzini (1805-1872), Hess considered that the road to freedom and equality had to pass through national liberation. Hess asserted that the basic concepts of historical Judaism were the crucible for the human desire for progress, freedom, and utopian harmony. Therefore, a Jewish state would establish an equal, just society, on the basis of the biblical principles of justice, such as Shabbat, the sabbatical year, and caring for the stranger and the orphan. For Hess, the establishment of a socialist Jewish state would implement Judaism’s lofty ideals for all humanity: The Messianic era is the present age, which began to germinate with the teachings of Spinoza, and finally came into historical existence with the great French Revolution. With the French Revolution, there began the regeneration of those nations which had acquired their national historical religion only through the influence of Judaism.12 To Hess, the “Jewish problem” was part of a broader universal question. Solving it through the establishment of a Jewish state would represent a point of origin for the progress of all humankind.13 Socialist philosopher Moshe Hess, who held a positivist, modern utopian view, repeatedly emphasized the theological foundations of his nationalist Jewish doctrine. Religious and cultural values, symbols, and myths are visibly present in Rome and Jerusalem, as in the works of his contemporaries from the religious sphere, Alkalai and Rabbi Zvi Hirsch Kalischer. But Hess gave these religious principles a modern cultural interpretation, instead of the Orthodox

11 Ibid., 74. 12 Ibid., 138. 13 Ibid., 138-9.

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halachic interpretation. Hess addressed the question of the nature of Jewish ritual in the future, after the Jews returned to the Land of Israel and Jerusalem. But he avoided offering concrete suggestions for changes and reform of religious ritual, due to his open distaste for the Reform movement.14 Reading Rome and Jerusalem reveals that his political and theological interpretation lies within the framework of modern historical philosophy, in the context of its development in the nineteenth century. Rabbi Yehudah Alkalai (1798-1878) was born in Sarajevo and served for most of his life in the Serbian rabbinate. Alkalai was an Orthodox traditional rabbi, yet his thinking was deeply influenced by the rise of modern nationalism in Europe and by the growth of the nation-state in the Balkan states in the nineteenth century. In his Minhat Yehudah (1843), Alkalai set nationalist religious principles for the establishment of a Jewish state in the Land of Israel as part of the redemptive process. Like Rabbi Zvi Hirsch Kalischer, author of Drishat Zion (1862), Alkalai thought that the future redemption would be a historic process. In his view, redemption was not an extra-historical event that would change the known historical reality in a flash. Instead, the future redemption would be a gradual process, and it depended on the Jewish people’s actions: “Little by little, by making the holy primary and the profane secondary. Rabbi Hiyya said ( Jerusalem Talmud, Berachot 1), such will be Israel’s redemption: at first little by little, but as it continues, it will grow and grow.”15 Therefore, in his view, the Jews must view the Land of Israel as primary and life in the diaspora as secondary.16 In emphasizing the principle of Jewish fraternity, Alkalai’s thought is similar to the ideas of the first Jewish nationalists. “As our rabbis said, when the Israelites formed one unified group, they prepared themselves for redemption. This means they must improve their character qualities, and the main one required for redemption is the quality of love and fraternity.”17 Emphasizing the fundamental nature of fraternity broadened Alkalai’s national approach beyond the narrow aspect of religion. For him Judaism was not merely a community of faith, but also a people, and therefore Jewish fraternity mandated mutual responsibility of the entire Jewish people. For this reason, Alkalai praised Moses Montefiore and Adolphe Crémieux for their activity in

14 Ibid., 145. For his explicit reference to the Temple, see ibid., 144-6. 15 Yitzhak Werfel, ed., Kitvei harav Yehudah Alkalai, vol. 1 ( Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook, 1944), 213. 16 Ibid., 209. 17 Ibid., 203.

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the Damascus affair of 1840.18 Alkalai’s emphasis on the principle of national solidarity relied on the nationalist thinking of his time. Later, Smolenskin, and Ahad Ha’am would use similar terms, despite the differences in their attitudes toward religion and Halacha. Alkalai’s call for the Jews to settle the Land of Israel: “This is what is meant by the verse in Malachi, return to me and I will return to you. In other words, when Israel once again takes shelter in the shade of the Land of Israel, then the Divine Presence will rest among us.”19 From this one can conclude, as did Jacob Katz, that Alkalai’s approach was of a messianic religious nature.20 But as previously noted, we must consider the influence of modern nationalism on Alkalai’s viewpoint. We cannot attribute his concept of national fraternity and use of the Hebrew language to his religious approach alone.21 National unity was a cornerstone in Alkalai’s utopian worldview, and he viewed the Hebrew language as the key to national solidarity, as did the Zionist thinkers after him.22 Alkalai understood that the fact that the Jews were dispersed throughout numerous cultural spaces delayed the possibility of achieving national solidarity: “Our ancestors erred in forgetting our holy tongue to such an extent, and our people was transformed into seventy nations, and our language into seventy languages, in all the places where we were scattered.”23 In Alkalai’s time, the revival of Hebrew as the Jewish people’s spoken language seemed a distant vision. Still, he called for teaching the children, Hebrew, as part of the project of strengthening national fraternity: By nature, it seems impossible that our holy language might return to its former state. But as the prophet Joel said, “After that, I will pour out My spirit on all flesh; Your sons and daughters shall prophesy.”24 The [Hebrew] word for “prophesy” is related to the word “speech,” as in “language.” The prophet predicted that the sons and daughters would prophesy and be able to speak clearly in distinct, pleasant language. Thus we should not

18 Ibid., 195-6, 203-14. On this issue, Alkalai was influenced by his teacher, Rabbi Eliezer Papo (1786-1827), author of Pele Yo’etz. 19 Ibid., 209. 20 Jacob Katz, Le’umiyut yehudit, 236-84, 308-56. 21 Shimoni, The Zionist Ideology, 71-74, 408-409. 22 Arieh B. Saposnik, Becoming Hebrew: The Creation of a Jewish National Culture in Ottoman Palestine (Oxford New York: Oxford University Press, 2008), 65-92, 213-36; Chowers, The Political Philosophy of Zionism, 171-214. 23 Kitvei harav Yehudah Alkalai, 216. 24 Joel 3:1.

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be discouraged, but rather make powerful efforts to establish our language as the dominant one. May God extend his spirit over the teachers and students, boys and girls, so that they learn to speak clearly.25 The concept of national unity in Rabbi Alkalai’s vision was also expressed in his call to cancel the traditions that differentiated between Ashkenazi and Sephardi Jews, and formulate a uniform tradition for Eretz Yisrael.26 Alkalai emphasized the centrality of the foundational national elements: the land, the Hebrew language and national fraternity. As we have seen, Rabbi Alkalai and Moshe Hess did not write utopian literary, however their works clearly express utopian visions. Further, the messianic principle that was present in Alkalai’s religious doctrine and in Hess’s socialist doctrine reveals the existence of complex interrelationships between modern national Jewish utopianism and religious Jewish messianism. Most of the Zionist literary utopians were written during the classical Zionist period from the 1880s to the 1920s. While I do not intend to provide a full survey of Zionist utopias, below I will relate to several examples of utopian writing that express the various streams within the Zionist movement. As we shall see, the multitude of utopias indicate the connection between the Zionist vision and premodern Hebrew culture.

Utopian Literature in Classical Zionism In the last third of the nineteenth century, the process of Jewish assimilation into civilian life in Europe encountered the rise of political antisemitism, Jew hatred, and persecution. Antisemitism and immigration of Jews to the West prompted the Jewish intelligentsia to discuss the possibility of a national solution to the Jewish question. In Auto-Emancipation (1882), Yehuda Leib Pinsker suggested a political plan that was very similar to the Der Judenstaat (The Jewish State) by Theodor Herzl (1896). In parallel to these political plans that led to the establishment of the Zionist movement, we find wide utopian literature by Zionist activists. These utopias reflected the different variations within the Zionist vision: political, cultural, religious, socialist and revisionist.

25 Kitvei harav Yehudah Alkalai, 1:217. 26 Ibid., 218.

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The Political Model The most important utopia of this period was written by the leader of the Zionist movement, Theodor Herzl, who led a political line aspiring to establish a Jewish state with the consent of the European powers. Theodor Herzl originally conceived of his utopian work Altneuland in 1898, after returning from a visit to Palestine. At first, Herzl thought to call it Neues Zion (New Zion), and on August 30 of that year, he wrote in his diary: “Today while riding a rickety omnibus to Wering, the name for my Zionist novel formed in my mind: Alt-Neuland—Old-New Land, inspired by the name of the Prague synagogue, Altneuschul. It will become a famous name.”27 Despite the modern symbols in Altneuland, the title that Herzl chose for the book created a connection between the Jewish past and present. In this book, Herzl’s image of the Jewish past is reflected through the eyes of a bourgeois Jew in the Habsburg Empire in the late nineteenth century. Herzl’s knowledge of Jewish history was superficial. He relied on the impression created by the great German literary figures such as Heine and Goethe, and occasionally revealed a tendency toward over-idealization. Still, we must recognize the importance of Herzl’s turn to the Jewish past and his honest desire to strengthen his Jewish identity. Herzl was well-aware of the power of Jewish ethnic and religious heritage to rally the Jewish masses to the ranks of Zionism. His many references to Jewish religious tradition, symbols, values, and principles in Altneuland were not meant as mere lip service or an instrumental tactic. They truly reflected an honest longing for the return of the Jews to self-rule and liberty, as the Jewish people had known in its ancient past. To Herzl, old and new worked together. In Altneuland, Herzl outlines a highly modern Jewish society that aspires to purge reactionary and racist forces, and to this purpose, he integrates symbols of enlightened Jewish culture.28 For example, he describes the Passover Seder in Tiberias as a pluralistic, multi-cultural event that included a tolerant interreligious encounter.29 In addition, Herzl describes Jerusalem as a modern, bustling city that integrates religious symbols—alongside modern, secular life, the Temple is rebuilt and stands at the height of its glory, although in an unspecified location, and not on the site of the existing mosques on the Temple Mount.30 Herzl portrays Shabbat in Jerusalem as infusing the city with an atmosphere

27 Theodor Herzl, Inyan ha-yehudim, 2:139. 28 Theodor Herzl, Old New Land, 138-40, 151-4. 29 Ibid., 185-91. 30 Ibid., 251-4.

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of sanctity. Believers and secularists, Jews and non-Jews live there together in harmony.31 In Altneuland, faith and religion are part of the modernist vision of progress. In his book, Herzl reveals a warm attitude toward Jewish tradition and religion. For example, in the figure of the elderly Rabbi Shmuel, he expresses his fondness for nationalist rabbis. Herzl’s appreciation for Zionist rabbis intensified after he broke with Reform and Liberal rabbis in Germany and Austria, who objected strenuously to Zionism when it first appeared on the scene. In his struggle against these Westernized rabbis, whom he called Protestrabbiner (protest rabbis), he praised those who supported Zionism: “Men like Mohilever and Rülf, are noble of spirit and elevated among the people. In faithful spirit, they suffer the same persecutions as their wretched brothers, while living in the very midst of the people, where they are the most oppressed.”32 As is sometimes argued, Herzl was not an anti-religious, secular leader. He viewed religion as an important part of the national fabric of the Jewish state. He developed close ties of mutual esteem with Rabbi Yitzhak Ya’akov Reines, leader of the Mizrachi movement. But the image that arises from Altneuland is of a modern, Western society that utilizes and develops the achievements of science and contemporary social thought: For we stand on the shoulders of other civilized peoples. If a man joins us—if he accepts our institutions and assumes the duties of our commonwealth—he should be entitled to enjoy all our rights. We ought therefore to pay our debts. And that can be done in only one way—by the exercise of utmost tolerance. Our slogan must be, now and always—“Man, thou art my brother!”33 Herzl repeatedly emphasized the debt that Zionism owed toward modern, Western attempts to create the infrastructure of an ideal society. From this aspect, Herzl’s utopia was unmistakably modern.34 Yet Herzl was conscious of the tension between the Jewish past, present and future. As evidence, the tension between tradition and progress, religion and nationalism, became the first controversy that the Zionist movement faced when the “cultural polemic” began in 1898.35 Further, Altneuland was written in the context of a location (topos) with

31 Ibid., 247-50. 32 Herzl, Kitvei Herzl, vol. 7 ( Jerusalem: Hassifria Haziyonit, 1961), 98-103; citation from 103, referring to Rabbi Shmuel Mohilever (1824-1898) and Rabbi Isaac Rülf (1831-1902). 33 Herzl, Old New Land, 152. 34 Brenner, In Search of Israel, 53. 35 Ehud Luz, Makbilim nifgashim, 185-96.

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enormous historic, religious, and cultural weight—the Land of Israel. The land was not merely a territory for the solution of the Jewish question. Rather, it was perceived as “the Holy Land,” and the messianic myth associated with it was one of the most powerful forces of Zionism. Still, Herzl described a modern, rational vision for building the Jewish state: Our success in social experiment is due to another cause. We established our Society without inherited drawbacks. We did indeed bind ourselves to the past, as we were bound to do— there was the old soil, the ancient people; but we rejuvenated the institutions.36 Within the structural tension that permeated the Zionist movement from its inception, between old and new, tradition and progress, Herzl emphasized the new beyond the old. This preference stemmed from his rational, pragmatic approach as leader of the national movement—not from any principled objection to the position of religion and tradition in the Jewish state. As we have seen, many examples demonstrate his positive attitude toward Jewish tradition and religion. As mentioned, the composition of Altneuland was influenced by the socialist utopian writing of that time, particularly the works of Edward Bellamy and Theodor Hertzka.37 Herzl also demonstrated deep knowledge of the utopian social experiments that took place during the nineteenth century.38 But the comparison between Altneuland and general utopian literature does reveal differences. The very fact that the Zionist utopia was written by an active leader of a national movement distinguishes between Herzl’s work and those of the Western utopists.39 Indeed, it was only when Herzl’s success in diplomatic activity began to wane that he returned to writing his utopian book. When he realized there was no longer any hope of convincing the Ottoman sultan to agree to the idea of the charter, Herzl wrote: “If this indeed will be the decision, I can

36 Theodor Herzl, Old New Land, 78. 37 The most influential utopias at the time were: Edward Bellamy, Looking Backward, From 2000 to 1887 (Bedford: Applewood Books, 2000 [1888]); Theodor Hertzka, Freiland—Ein soziales Zukunftsblind (Lieipzig: n.p., 1890). On Hertzka, see: Robert S. Wistrich, The Jews of Vienna in the Age of Franz Joseph. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989), 426. William M. Johnston, The Austrian Mind: An Intellectual and Social History 1848-1938 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), 356-361. 38 Brenner, In Search of Israel, 51-65, 39 Shlomo Avineri, Herzl ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 2007), 144-72. Penslar, Theodor Herzl, 163-200.

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continue to write my novel Altneuland, for then our plans will truly be a mere vision and a fiction.”40 Among the various Zionist utopias written at that time, Altneuland was undoubtedly the most significant and influential. The political utopian trend appears also in Ein Zukuntsfbild (A vision for the future), which preceded Herzl’s Altneuland, by Menachem Edmond Eisler (1850-1942).41 This author was an educated Jewish merchant and writer from Hungary. He published this book anonymously in Vienna in 1885. In it, he described a Jewish constitutional monarchy in the Land of Israel. The growth of modern antisemitism along with the old Jew-hatred in Eastern Europe form the origin point for the story’s plot. At the beginning of this utopia, a pogrom takes place in a Jewish community, following which the Jews hold a mass funeral to bury their dead. When Eisler wrote the book in 1882, he was influenced by the pogroms in the Jewish communities in the Russian Pale of Settlement. Living in Hungary, Eisler experienced the political antisemitism of that country first-hand, such as the plan of antisemitic politician Győző Istóczy (1842-1915) to send the Jews to Palestine as part of the Berlin agreements. We find echoes of this plan in the book’s foreword:42 Did we not hint a thousand times over to these Jews that they must flee before it is too late? But the Jews are a stiff-necked people, and therefore they are expected to experience all the troubles that have poured down upon them. Might they deny it? Were they not warned by one of the delegates in the state council? He spoke and wrote in defamation of them, and still they refused to listen to his words. Similarly, other [antisemitic] followers who complained about the Jews made sure to denounce them daily in the newspapers. These denunciations were a clear indication, yet they did not heed or accept them. And indeed, what almost everyone had anticipated has come to pass.43

40 Theodor Herzl, Inyan ha-yehudim, 2:202. 41 Edmund Eisler, Ein Zukunftsbild (Vienna: Unknown Pub, 1885). A full Hebrew version appeared in Sandler, Peretz. Hezyonei medinah: yalkut utopiyot tsiyoniyot (Tel Aviv: M. Neumann, 1954). See also, Elboim-Dror, Ha-mahar shel ha-etmol, 1:9-35. 42 Istóczy formed an antisemitic party in 1884. On Istóczy’s “Zionist” speech see: Andrew Handler, An Early Blueprint for Zionism: Győző Istóczy’s Political Anti-Semitism (New York: Boulder, 1989), 42-51. See also: Sandler, Hezyonei medinah, 19-23. 43 Elboim-Dror, Ha-mahar shel ha-etmol, 2:10.

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Thus Eisler began by addressing antisemitism—the humiliations and daily attacks on the Jews in Europe. Similar to Pinsker and later on, Herzl, he also believed there was no hope for normal civil life for the Jews in Europe. He viewed antisemitism as a real danger to Jewish existence. In his book, he describes the pogrom and its impact on the conversation within the community as an inter-generational dialogue, between the grandfather, representing pure faith and the anticipation of the Messiah, and the grandson—Avner—who is no longer willing to wait for heavenly redemption, and calls for rebellion against the diaspora and its values: Grandfather!—calls the youth in a trembling voice—why did you restrain me and not permit me to punish him, that cruel savage? [. . .] You restrained me and prevented me from punishing the plunderer. Be advised that we youth are no longer willing to bear this humiliation, to which you surrender without complaint. You elderly may be angels of suffering and humility, and I have no desire to belittle your noble traits. But we, the young generation, are human beings. If they attempt to harm us, our veins and muscles tense and rebel, and I long to take revenge against our attackers. You may remain angels, but allow us to be human beings.44 Following the pogroms, Eisler anticipated the need to establish a Jewish army in Eretz Yisrael to protect its borders. In this utopia, the Jewish army plays an active role, as opposed to most of the other Zionist utopias, which make almost no mention of enemies or a fighting army. Eisler’s fictional political system is a modern Jewish kingdom with symbols from the ancient biblical state. Avner, the protagonist of the story, represents the archetypal “new Jew,” modern and revolutionary, but he also has elements from traditional Judaism and the “old Jew.”45 The similarity of Ein Zukuntsfbild to Herzl’s vision is in the author’s basic political position. Like Herzl, Eisler conditioned the immigration of the Jews from Europe to Palestine on the agreement and support of the European powers. The rise of modern antisemitism and the demand to banish the Jews from their countries of origin created a situation that obligated the Jews to establish their own state. As a result, after negotiation with the European powers and with their pressure on the Ottoman Empire, the Jews received the opportunity to

44 Ibid., 2:12. 45 Sandler, Hezyonei medinah, 34-7.

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settle in Palestine.46 In the story, the departure from Europe to the Land of Israel was made peacefully.47 Despite the many religious symbols scattered throughout Eisler’s utopia, his “state of Judah” was modern and secular. Symbols taken from Jewish tradition included division into tribes, a monarchy modeled on the kingdoms of David and Solomon, and the prohibition against charging interest. But it is clear from the constitution that the state is secular. On one hand, Eisler’s utopia represents the ancient hope for restoration of a Jewish kingdom, while on the other, it forbids expression of religion in the civic, public space. The corpus of laws of the kingdom is blatantly secular, for example: “§ 34: The king represents the religious and secular authority. § 450: It is prohibited to hold religious ceremonies in public. § 451: Religion belongs in the synagogue and the home. § 690: The institute of marriage is civic and secular.”48 The state described accepts the principle of religious tolerance and grants equal rights to all of its citizens. The state language is Hebrew. Military service is obligatory for all citizens. As in Thomas More’s Utopia, these laws intend to transform the country into the ideal state: “The Land of Judah became increasingly powerful under Avner’s rule and was filled with hope; God extended his blessing to the peaceful and serene work, and the entire land rejoiced and was filled with gladness.”49 The relationship between the Jewish past and utopian present appears throughout the length of the work. The author describes the reconstruction of the Temple, with modern adaptations: sacrificial worship is exchanged for “marble prayer stands, which the high priests will use for reading the Torah before the nation of believers.50 This modern interpretation of tradition describes the new Jewish kingdom as a utopian place that is entirely good in nature. In addition to this trend, we may add the utopian political satire of Jacques Bahar, L’antigoyisme à Sion (Anti-goyism in Zion). This story has a completely different character, as it focuses on an imaginary event that takes place in the Jewish state of 1997, on the centennial anniversary of the First Zionist Congress. Bahar was born in 1858 in Marseilles, was educated at universities in France and Germany, and belonged to leftist French circles, as his friend the poet Bernard Lazare (1865-1903).51 Bahar published his utopia in French in 1898. It was immediately translated into German and published in the official Zionist

46 Ibid., 53-6. 47 Ibid., 57-68. 48 Ibid., 64-8. 49 Ibid., 75. 50 Ibid., 92. 51 Elboim-Dror, Ha-mahar shel ha-etmol, 1:64-6.

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journal Die Welt.52 This utopia was written as a parody of the Dreyfus affair, positing a futuristic mirror image of the Dreyfus case that is tried in the Jewish state. In the Dreyfus case, a Jewish officer was accused by French antisemites of betraying his homeland. Bahar’s story relates the opposite situation—instead of a French Jew accused of betraying France, a Jew in Palestine is tried for having anti-gentile sentiments. Beyond its scathing criticism of contemporary French society, it was also intended to serve as a warning for Zionism. Just as racism raised its ugly head in France in the form of antisemitism, the same type of sentiment was likely to develop in the Jewish state. Eventually, racist and anti-gentile political forces were likely to arise in Eretz Yisrael, just as antisemitic entities were active in France in the late nineteenth century. In France, antisemitic journalist and author Édouard Adolphe Drumont had spearheaded the persecutions of Alfred Dreyfus. In Bahar’s utopia, Drumont’s fictional parallel is a Jew named Yitzhak Natanel Fremont “the Gentile Hater.” Just as Drumont acted against Dreyfus, the fictional Fremont mobilizes journalists and public opinion against the gentiles. Through this story, Bahar describes the tolerance of the ideal modern Jewish state: “It is not surprising that in their own country, the Jews have annulled all differences of religion, race, and nationality. They uphold one law for the foreigner and the citizen. Even the Bedouins have been given civil rights.”53 His utopian state expects individuals to be educated and useful to society, and therefore the state emphasizes education. Strong ties develop between Jews, Christians, and Muslims, and intermarriage is permitted. The gentiles circumcise their sons as a gesture of affection for the Jews in the country.54 Due to the warm relations between Jews and gentiles, the citizens of the utopian Jewish state reject Fremont and his racist, anti-gentile supporters. Just as Drumont published La France juive ( Jewish France) (1886) to incite hatred against French Jewry, his fictional grandson Fremont publishes a book entitled Gentile Judea to incite hatred against the Christians. In the story, Fremont is put on trial in “the Sanhedrin,” the Jerusalem court, for incitement against the Baron of Heiligstaten and the minister of the navy, San Torpedo. Fremont accuses them of “suspicious” friendship between a Jew and a gentile, which he calls “unnatural and in contradiction to my historical and

52 L’antigoyisme à Sion, translated into German and published in the Zionist journal Die Welt 2 (1898): 13-15, 17-18. 53 Elboim-Dror, Ha-mahar shel ha-etmol, 2:39. 54 Ibid., 2:40.

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sociological opinions.”55 In this parodic reversal of the Dreyfus affair, Fremont and his supporters release their unbridled hatred of Christians as an expression of their Judaism. Citing the principles of freedom and liberty that Herzl’s First Zionist Congress represented, the Jerusalem court convicts and sentences Fremont.56 Like Eisler’s work, this satirical utopia also incorporates Jewish religious symbols and biblical myths, and they appear as part of the modern, tolerant Jewish state that objects to assaults on human rights and expressions of hatred against the other and the weak.

The Cultural Model Just as representatives of the political approach in Zionism wrote utopias, supporters of the cultural stream of Zionism also wrote works of this genre. The leader of the cultural stream, Ahad Ha’am, did not write a utopian literary work, but he had a well-defined utopian vision. His ideal was based on the revival of Hebrew literature and language in Eastern Europe and the evolutionary nationalist theory that he developed. The utopian vision of the future held by the cultural stream of Zionism was expressed in a utopia published by Elchanan Leib Lewinsky, entitled Masa le-Eretz Yisrael bi-shnat t”t ( Journey to the land of Israel in the year 2040) and first published in the literary volume Pardes in 1892.57 This utopia allotted a prominent position to the formation of modern Hebrew culture and education. The book reflected the energetic activity of members of the Bnei Moshe Association, who were active in the 1890s—but it also reflected a broader cultural worldview of early Zionism and Hibbat Zion. Supporters of this approach emphasized the centrality of Hebrew as the national language of the Jewish people. They highlighted Jewish unity as the main principle in the definition of the modern Jew, and they emphasized the centrality of the Land of Israel in the life of the Jewish people. These intellectual Zionists struggled with two disparate trends. The first defined Judaism as a community of faith with an integrated universalist vision. This trend existed within the Reform

55 Ibid., 2:45. Accusations of Jewish economic conspiracy against France found considerable expression in France in the 1890s, in the Dreyfus affair and the Panama scandal. See Hannah Arendt, Antisemitism: Part One of the Origins of Totalitarianism (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1968), 95-120. 56 Elboim-Dror, Ha-mahar shel ha-etmol, 2:49-51. 57 Elchanan Leib Lewinsky, Masa le Eretz Israel bi-shnat t’t (Berlin: Klal, 1922). The citations below come from this version. First published in Yehoshua Hone Ravnitski, ed., Pardes (Odessa: Aba Duvna, 1892), 128-165.

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movement and among liberal, secular, and socialist Jews. The second was traditional Orthodoxy, which mostly defined Judaism as a religion and belief, not as a nation with rights to self-rule. Against these two trends, the nationalist intellectuals posited the national alternative as shared ground for a modern Jewish identity of the Jewish people. This trend was expressed in the thought of individuals such as Peretz Smolenskin, Ahad Ha’am, Yehoshua Hone Ravnitzki, and Chaim Nachman Bialik, who viewed Hebrew education, Hebrew language, and development of Hebrew culture as the fundamental principle of the Zionist project. We thus find in Lewinsky’s book a detailed description of the plan for Hebrew education in schools: I met the head teacher at the school, who is also the community rabbi. At his request and that of Mr. Nachshon, the next day I went with them to visit the school. [. . .] Some one hundred boys and ninety girls study there. The program of study is as follows: Torah—Chumash and abbreviated Rashi, Prophets and Writings in full, grammar, composition, one foreign language, mathematics up to algebra, basic principles of measurement, basic understanding of Talmud, Jewish history, history of the Land of Israel, basic knowledge of plants and agriculture. The students will attend this school for four years, and some will continue to the high schools in the towns of the Galilee. I tested the boys and girls and was surprised at their level of knowledge in grammar and language analysis.58 As we see, the curriculum that Lewinsky described is similar to the position of Bnei Moshe, who aspired to integrate traditional Jewish studies with general secular studies and study of Eretz Yisrael. Bnei Moshe founded a school in Jaffa in 1892, around the time of the composition of Lewinsky’s utopia.59 Hebrew education at all levels, from pre-school to university, was the top priority for cultural Zionism, aiming “to train the minds” for the creation of the Jewish state in the distant future. Lewinsky’s fictional journey throughout the Land of Israel reveals a Jewish state that implemented the Hebrew cultural revival as envisioned by cultural Zionism. The textual references to the Hebrew language, descriptions of the characters, names of villages and other locations, mentions of Hebrew

58 Lewinsky, Masa le Eretz Yisrael bi-shnat t’t, 45. 59 Yosef Salmon, Religion and Zionism: First Encounters ( Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2002), 220-3.

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publishing and journalism, description of the establishment of institutions of higher education and Torah study in Jerusalem, and prolific examples of Bible stories—all reflected the complete cultural Zionist vision. Therefore, in his scathing critique of Herzl’s Altneuland, Ahad Ha’am praised Lewinsky’s utopia as an apt expression of the true goals of Zionism.60 Another Zionist utopia that was deeply influenced by Ahad Ha’am’s ideas was Yerushalayim ha-bnuya ( Jerusalem rebuilt) by Boris Schatz, founder of the Bezalel Academy of Arts and Design, written in 1918.61 This is a broad-ranging utopian work that describes a futuristic society in Jerusalem, where millions of residents live in harmony and social equality. The story describes how Bezalel eventually becomes the central force in the life of the Jewish people in Palestine. In this utopia, Schatz describes life in Jerusalem in a range of fields—education, employment, transportation, food, religion, government, health, and romantic life. As in most utopias, the narrator is a “guest” who is invited to visit the utopian society. He is guided by a “host” who describes the inhabitants’ life of contentment. In this novel, Schatz himself is the guest who awakens from a century-long sleep into the year 2018. The host is Bezalel ben Uri, the builder of the biblical Tabernacle.62 At the beginning of the story, Schatz writes that the Temple is standing on the Temple Mount, while the Mosque of Omar was moved from the mount peacefully and with the agreement of the Arabs. In this modern Temple, the sacrifices were not renewed as in ancient times, but nevertheless, the divine spirit occupies it.63 In general, the concept of sanctity is present in many instances throughout Schatz’s writing, as well as in his artistic creations. For example, on the twentieth anniversary of the founded of the Bezalel Academy, Schatz wrote: “For me, art was a temple, and the artists were its priests. I dreamed that I would be the High Priest who served in sanctity before the holy art.”64

60 Ahad Ha’am, Kol kitvei, 322. On the Altneuland controversy, see: Yossi Goldstein, Ahad Ha’am ve-Herzl. 61 Boris Schatz, Yerushlaim ha-bnuyah: halom be-akitz ( Jerusalem: Bezalel, 1924). 62 Schatz, Yerushlaim ha-bnuyah, 8. On Ze’ev Raban’s painting on the book cover, see Nurit Shilo Cohen (ed.), Bezalel: 1906—1929 ( Jerusalem: Israel Museum, 1983), 315. See also Dalia Manor, “Biblical Zionism in Bezalel Art,” Israel Studies 6, no. 1 (2001): 55-75, esp. 58-62. 63 Schatz, Yerushlaim ha-bnuyah, 10. 64 The religious and the sacred dimension is evident in many of Schatz’s works. See, for example, Boris Schatz, Thirty-One Oil Paintings ( Jerusalem: Dfus Eretz Yisrael, 1929), 10. For the centrality of the sacred dimension in modern nationalism, see Smith, Chosen Peoples, 9-65. Smith stresses that: “it is not enough to see nationalism as a secular political ideology like liberalism and socialism, rather as a ‘sacred communion’” (18-19). See also Aviel Roshwald, The Endurance of Nationalism, 50-1.

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Another source of influence evident in Schatz’s book is the collective, socialist view of the creation of the Jewish state. Schatz gave a detailed description of an equal society as a kind of socialist utopia in the Land of Israel.65 The education system would provide equal, free education for all citizens: “All the residents of the Land of Israel, boys from age three to age eighteen and girls up to age sixteen, will study and earn an education at government expense.”66 The society takes full responsibility for raising the children, and supplies clothing, food, lodgings, and equal education for all children, by removing them from the responsibility of their parents and family.67 In Schatz’s vision, Judaism had “returned from Exile” to its land of origin, and thus it changed it severe character and became a “natural religion” rooted in the ground of the Land of Israel. Its symbols remained as in the past, but they were adapted and modified for the modern age. Schatz imagined the breakdown of barriers between religion and life, Judaism and universal values. After returning to their homeland, the Jewish people abandoned the barriers of Halacha that were put in place in the diaspora, and returned the religious commandments to their original state, in order to create natural life: “With the revival of our people, our Sanhedrin renewed pure faith. Like our ancient Sages, the Sanhedrin understood the needs of the times, and declared that the Torah was given to Israel ‘to live by it and not to die by it.’”68 National redemption and the return to the Land of Israel thus represented a tikkun or repair of Jewish life in general and religious life in particular: “Our Sanhedrin liberated the Torah from its Exile, removed the shell that is not needed in our time, and gave us the pure Torah.”69 Schatz described the national leadership as an elite of “high priests” or “prophets” who were focused only on the benefit of the people, as in the terminology of Ahad Ha’am and Bnei Moshe.70 Society was equal, and organized into economic guilds under one community managed by the Sanhedrin and the president. The state was Jewish, enlightened, and upheld the principle of equality for all, including non-Jews.71 We thus find that the general structure of Jerusalem Rebuilt recalls the cultural approach of Ahad Ha’am and his disciples—including

65 Schatz, Yerushalayim ha-bnuyah, 11. 66 Ibid., 31. 67 Ibid., 32. 68 Loc. cit. 69 Ibid., 33. 70 Ibid., 66-7. On the relationship between Ahad Ha’am and Bnei Moshe, see Yosef Salmon, Do Not Provoke Providence, 213-26. 71 Schatz, Yerushalayim ha-bnuyah, 106.

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emphasis on the Hebrew language, intensive focus on education, Hebrew journalism, and the deep connection with the Bible and its symbols.72

The Religious Model Writers in the utopian genre also include religious Zionist, such as Henry Pereira Mendes, Ze’ev Yavetz, and Rabbi Avraham Yitzhak Hacohen Kook. The latter did not write a utopia, but his doctrine was expressly focused on visions for the future.73 At its outset, the principles of religious Zionism under Rabbi Reines were very close to Herzl’s political views. In other words, its main goal was to find a national solution to the Jewish people’s problems, from the persecutions of antisemitism and pogroms on one hand, to the threat of assimilation posed by mass emigration to the United States on the other. The Mizrachi movement aspired to avoid conflicts on the issues of religion and culture. Rabbi Reines outlined this position to moderate any needless friction with the Zionist movement, because he believed it had many advantages that could save the Jewish people. But did religious Zionism also have a clear view of the future character of the Jewish state? We may gain a glimpse into the religious Zionist vision by examining the utopian literature written by religious Zionist leaders. One unique and interesting work was written by Henry (Hayim) Pereira Mendes (1852-1937), rabbi of the Sephardic Portuguese community She’erith Israel in New York and a leader of American Zionism. Pereira Mendes was a religious Zionist and represented Mizrachi at the Zionist Congresses. His broad education in both Torah and academic subjects and his deep acquaintance with Western culture comes to the fore in his book Looking Ahead: Twentieth Century Happenings.74 Pereira Mendes’s book is not a utopia in the usual sense of the term, but rather a futuristic description of historical events in the twentieth century, written from the viewpoint of the author in 1899. Aside from the description of international relations, the book’s Zionist utopian context is located in its description of the establishment of a Jewish state in the Land of Israel. This speculative history of the twentieth century describes events that enable the return of the Jews to their historical homeland, as part of the overall solution

72 For example: ibid., 94, 109. Yet, Schatz was also influenced by Herzl’s Altneuland. 73 Elboim-Dror, Ha-mahar shel etmol, vol. 1. As the epigraph of this book, Elboim-Dror quotes Rabbi Kook—“Great dreams are the foundation of the world”—as a motto for all Zionist utopias. 74 Henry Pereira Mendes, Looking Ahead: Twentieth Century Happenings (London: F. Tennyso Neely, 1899).

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for the suffering and conflicts experienced by all of humanity. Pereira Mendes astutely predicted the most disastrous events of the twentieth century, including the rapid development of technology leading to dreadful wars and the creation of weapons of mass destruction.75 Although his description of the world wars did not exactly mirror the real events, still, he did predict a horrific world war.76 Further, he predicted that as a result of the conflicts he described, significant changes would take place in the political map of Europe, which would lead to political change in the rest of the world.77 In Looking Ahead, he writes of the fall of the Ottoman Empire and the new regional division of the territories of the Middle East, and the placement of the status of Palestine on the global agenda.78 In Pereira Mendes’s description, as a result of the fall of the Ottoman Empire, the war took on a religious character. The Muslims called for a holy war or Jihad, and a struggle between the Muslims and the Christian world began.79 As a result of the horrific events nations understood the need to prevent all-out war, and thus they abandoned armed conflict and preferred dialogue between nations and religions.80 For this purpose, a world council gathered in Jerusalem and decided to give control over Palestine to the Jews. Based on this decision leaders of the Zionist movement began fervent action to establish a Jewish state in the Land of Israel.81 The imaginary historical process that Pereira Mendes described is of religious, messianic, and enlightened character. The Jewish government that he describes is a democratic, modern system that reflects a realization of the vision of redemption. The Jews immigrated to the Land of Israel and began to rebuild it. But the diaspora was not liquidated, and communities abroad continued to fulfill their universal destiny.82 Pereira Mendes’s utopian history integrated the biblical vision of the end of days with enlightenment, progress, education, and modernism. In his view, Zionism represented a clear manifestation of national and universal redemption. It was built upon the visions of Israel’s prophets, encapsulated in the words of the prophet Micah (6:8): “To do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God.” Zionism was destined to establish an

75 Ibid., 22-3. 76 Ibid., 21-47. 77 Ibid., 48-65. 78 Ibid., 72-5. 79 Ibid., 174-91. 80 Ibid., 209-30. 81 Ibid., 302-7. 82 Ibid., 373.

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exemplary state that would create an ideal model of governance, a model society founded on equality, and a system of enlightened education. His vision of a Jewish state was destined to be a sort of utopia for tikkun olam, or repairing the world.83 Pereira Mendes even advocated for the separation of religion and state, so that both could operate independently in their respective domains, working together to create an exemplary society.84 We find another religious vision in the utopia “Hadash Male Yashan” (New full of old), which was written by Ze’ev Yavetz (1847-1924) but never published. Yavetz, an educator and religious Zionist leader, wrote a religious socialist utopia that described the development of the Jewish community in the Land of Israel as a communal socialist economy, which he called Eruv (Boundary).85 According to the story, the Eruv succeeded in the Land of Israel after a group of observant Jews called Yizra’el planned it while abroad: “One thousand valiant youths, including laborers, took possession of a very expansive and prosperous heritage, which today is called Yizra’el. They chose this estate as it was far from any other settlement, so that they could establish a settlement which would be follow the guidelines of Torah culture in all its characteristics.”86 Yavetz’s socialist utopia was based on the foundational pillars of religion and tradition. In his story, Yavetz made no mention of socialist thinkers or secular socialist literature. Instead, he repeatedly emphasized that the socialist program was not formulated by the “wise men of the gentiles,” but rather by biblical Judaism. For him, the laws of the Torah, Shabbat, the sabbatical and jubilee years, prohibition against collecting interest were the original concepts of socialist methodology.87 Beyond the issue of managing the communal economy of the Eruv, this utopia proposes no comprehensive plan for the issue of the religious character of Jewish state. Yavetz’s utopia did not address the position of religion in society, although it does clearly state that the society is managed by Torah-observant

83 Henry Pereira Mendes, “Zionism,” North American Review 167, no. 501 (August 1898): 200-210. 84 “Church and State will be separate, each supreme in its own domain, and both working for the same ends,” ibid., 203. On Pereira Mendes’s work to create a modern orthodoxy that combines Western and secular education, see Eugene Markovitz, “Henry Pereira Mendes: Architect of the Union of Orthodox Jewish Congregations of America,” Jewish Historical Review 55, no. 2 (March 1966): 364-384. 85 Asaf Yedidya, “Hadash male yashan: ha-utopia ha-genuzah shel Ze’ev Yavetz,” Cathedra 148 (2013): 71-108. See also Asaf Yedidya, Le-gadel tarbut ivriyah: hayav u-mishnato shel Ze’ev Yavetz ( Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 2016), 120-49. 86 Ze’ev Yavetz, “Hadash male yashan,” ed. Asaf Yedidya, in Hanoch Dagan and Benjamin Porat, ed., Mevakshei tzedek: bein hevra le-kalkala ba-mekorot ha-yehudi’im ( Jerusalem: The Israeli Democratic Institute, 2016), 232-48. All quotations below are from this edition. 87 Yavetz, Hadash male yashan, 238-9.

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individuals.88 The title New Full of Old expressed the author’s religious approach, viewing Jewish nationalism as an ancient historical process and the realization of an age-old vision—not merely the result of modern developments. Still, Yavetz’s utopia is full of new socialist ideas that had no basis in Jewish tradition. The “guest” challenges Aminadav, the utopian representative: “I see that while you observe the laws of the Torah in detail, you have imitated the other nations in the laws governing the needs of the general public.”89 Yavetz’s apologetic position that Judaism is the forerunner of the socialist ideal is not unique to him. As we have seen, Moshe Hess and socialist Zionists who followed him emphasized the socialist foundations present in the Bible. But unlike them, Yavetz emphasized the religious and halachic context of socialism, not just the cultural or spiritual one. Yavetz’s religious utopia emphasized the connection between ancient Judaism and modern socialism. But while the author was careful not to ascribe his own ideas to the “new” socialism, here we find that his utopia has a modernist tone that is quite far from the world of Jewish tradition. Yavetz went farther than other Zionist utopian authors in his acceptance of the socialist principles of economic equality. For example, Lewinsky addressed socialist principles in the Bible, but unlike Yavetz, he interpreted them as laws that balance between individual initiative and the values of equality and mutual responsibility.90 By contrast, Yavetz completely negated the principle of private ownership, and described his ideal society as a completely communal economy.91 In order to justify his socialist stance, Yavetz deviated from the traditional halachic conversation, and used terms such as “the spirit of the Torah” and “the spirit of Judaism” to mean economic equality.92 For example, he wrote that Shabbat was intended to restore unity and equality between disparate parts of the people—rich and poor, scholars and laymen: “[On Shabbat), the knowledge of all and the rights of all are equal, with no individual bearing any advantage over his fellow.”93 In his view, Shabbat expressed the foremost socialist principle of equality. Annulment of private ownership would lead to the disappearance of most societal and ethical injustices. Economic equality would restrain jealousy 88 Yavetz addressed the question of religion and nationalism elsewhere as well. See Yedidya, Le-gadel tarbut ivriyah, 134-42. 89 Yavetz, Hadash male yashan, 232. 90 Lewinsky, Masa le Eretz Israel, 48-9. Lewinsky rejected the communist ideas proposed by Edward Bllamey. On Herzl’s intermediate position between free market and social planning, see: Herzl, Old New Land, 83-94, esp. 85-6. 91 Yavetz, Hadash Male Yashan, 235-6. 92 Ibid., 240. 93 Ibid., 242.

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and lead to a solution for conflicts between groups and peoples. He writes: “In the end, greed is the mother of all sin and the father of all impurity, pride, the advantage of one individual over another and the dominance of one person over his fellow for evil purpose. Once this monstrosity was uprooted from the Land, the words of the sage were fulfilled for all, from young to old—‘By your name they shall call you to return to your previous position, and in your place, they shall seat you, no person may touch that which is prepared for another, and one nation does not overlap with another.’ ”94 As we have seen, as a leader of Mizrachi and the religious Zionism, Yavetz described a socialist, communal utopia in the Land of Israel based on observance of Torah and the pillars of the Jewish religion.95

The Socialist Model Socialist Zionism was the stream that was most strongly identified with the concept of utopia within Zionism. The establishment of utopian socialist communes around the world was usually identified with socialist revolutionism. It was thus understandable that socialist Zionism defined itself as aspiring to the creation of a utopian society. In 1898, Nachman Syrkin (1868-1924) published She’lat ha-Yehudim u-Medinat ha-Yehudim ha-Sotzialistit (The Jewish question and the socialist Jewish State). To Syrkin, the only power among the Jews which was truly able to realize the Zionist goals was the Jewish worker force. Without the active involvement of the Jewish proletariat, a Jewish state would not be established. Therefore his vision, as opposed to Herzl’s, was of a socialist Jewish state: Because the Jews are forced to find a homeland and establish a state, they have the opportunity to be the first to realize the socialist vision. This is the tragic element of their historic fate, but it is also a unique historic mission. What is generally the vision of a few will become a great national movement among the Jews; what is utopian in other contexts is necessity for the Jews.96

94 Ibid., 246. See Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Yoma 38a-b. 95 Yavetz, Hadash male yashan, 247-8. 96 Quoted in Shimoni, The Zionist Ideology, 176 (author’s emphasis—Y. C.); see also 170-177; Kitvei Nachman Syrkin, ed. B. Katznelson and Y. Kaufmann (Tel Aviv: Davar, 1939), 50, 59.

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Syrkin viewed the creation of a socialist Jewish state as a necessary process, similar to Marxist terminology. In his view, “utopia” is a negative concept detached from reality. In contrast to Syrkin, Aaron David Gordon (1856-1922) was the prophet of the socialist Zionist utopia. Gordon’s philosophy did not focus on politics and the state as a primary goal. Rather, Gordon rejected the Marxist position, which distanced religion from the socialist vision. To him, the return to the homeland, nature, and working the land went beyond personal and national repair or redemption—it was also tikkun olam, redemption of the entire world. The modern age led to alienation of the individual from himself, nature, and divinity. Thus when returning to their land, the Jewish people must repair their qualities—by establishing a Jewish state as well as returning to their birthplace, working the land, and organic national creativity. For Gordon, Zionism should express a much deeper utopia than mere technical creation of a nation-state: The content of the idea is clear—the revival of the Jewish people in the Land of Israel. What needs clarification is the form of the idea—in what form do we outline this revival? [. . .] First and foremost, it must be clear that our national revival, which, like and more than any revival, is in the act of creation, is not societal renewal. It is not limited to the organization of society or the spirit of society. Its scope is far greater, its conception is much deeper. It begins with the source of all life, nature and cosmic existence.97 Gordon thought that the ultimate goal of national redemption was not the creation of a Jewish state—rather, the individual, the Jewish people, humanity, and the cosmos all aspired to organic unity. This unity was derived from love and not the result of institutional coercion. Thus the ideal was to create social frameworks that would enable the achievement of this unity.98 To Gordon, a political solution to the Jewish question was not enough, even if it meant a socialist Jewish state. He considered a political solution to be merely technical and not sufficient to bring the desired redemption. This led to his positive attitude toward religion and the relationship between the Jewish religion and nationalism. Gordon’s

97 Aaron David Gordon, Mivhar ktavim, ed. Eliezer Schweid ( Jerusalem: Hassifriya Haziyonit, 1982), 228. 98 Ibid., 230; see also 230-61.

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approach had a strong influence on the kibbutz movement from the 1920s on. He also had a direct impact on the philosopher Martin Buber, who considered himself as Gordon’s disciple in this context.99 Buber believed that communal settlement project in the Land of Israel represented a chapter in the fulfillment of the utopian socialist ideal.100 In his book Paths in Utopia, Buber surveyed the development of utopian socialist thought from the French Revolution onward. He viewed himself as part of this stream, which was contemptuously rejected by Marx and Engels as an anti-realistic, “utopist” theory, as opposed to their “scientific” theory. Reviewing the theories of utopian socialists Henri de San Simon, Charles Fourier, Robert Owen, Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, Peter Kropotkin, and Gustav Landauer, Buber saw this school as aiming toward the creation of a proper, egalitarian social order as well as creating harmony between humanity, nature, and the cosmos, in light of the crisis of modernity.101 Buber desired to create a society comprised of small communities that would enable the creation of an organic connection between human beings and these communities.102 We may thus understand why Buber viewed the kibbutzim in Palestine as an opportunity to realize the utopian socialist vision.103 From his viewpoint, the establishment of small socialist groups (hevruta), and not the state institutions, should be the main motivating force on the path to the Zionist utopia.104 Buber outlined his utopian program in his articles and talks, titled “On the Hevruta.” In contrast to the utopias that aspired to create a planned, rational social order that would constitute “the good place,” Buber highlighted the need to return to interpersonal harmony that existed in pre-industrial societies. In his view, this human fraternity enabled the penetration of religious, eschatological, and messianic elements, possible only when the individual interacted fully and communally with other people whom he knew personally and with whom he shared his world. Such interactions were possible only through the creation of small communes, not through large, technocratic social institutions.

99 On Gordon’s and Buber’s approaches, see Shalom Ratzabi, Anarkhistim be-Zion: bein Martin Buber le-Aaron David Gordon (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 2001). See also: Ehud Fuehrer, Adam hadash be-tzurat Yehudi: iyun be-haguto shel A. D. Gordon (Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan University Press, 2019). Eilon Shamir, Be-shvil ha-hayim: torat nokhehut shel Aaron David Gordon (Tel Aviv: Hakibutz Hameuchad, 2018). 100 Martin Buber, Netivot be-utopiyah, ed. Avraham Shapira (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1983), 11. 101 Ibid., 22-38. 102 Ibid., 62-3. 103 Ibid., 148. 104 Ibid., 155-6.

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This socialist utopia could not exist in a broad state framework, as in it, economic equality was mechanical and institutional, and not based on organic social relationships.105 Therefore, the true Hevruta was possible only in a small group that enabled organic unity among individuals, nature, and God.106 Buber’s utopia was intended to correct the flaws of modern industrial society that created a mass alienated society that would crush the individual. Buber called for a return to the hevurah or small group: Not the large inconceivable collective, in which individuals are connected to each other without knowing each other, nor is it a hevurah, in which the selfishness of the whole replaces the selfishness of the individual, until the “we” expressed by each member becomes the “self ” without human ethics.107 Gordon’s and Buber’s utopian socialism placed the individual at the center of society, instead of the opposite. The connection between human being, society, nature, and God stemmed from organic development and love, not from bureaucratic, institutional coercion.108

The Militaristic Model The emergence of the militaristic utopia in Zionism was primarily characteristic of the attempts to change the confrontation and conflict with the Arabs during the 1920s and 1930s. However, the roots of this forceful approach can be traced back to the writings of Micha Josef Berdichevsky and the vision of Max Nordau. The poem “The Song of the Biryonim (Thugs)” by the poet Ya’akov Cahan, which included the lines “In blood and fire, Judah fell, in blood and fire, Judah shall rise,” was published in 1903 in the wake of the Kishinev pogrom. It expressed the longing for Jewish strength and gained widespread recognition following its adoption by the Bar Giora and Hashomer organizations. In the late 1920s, it became an anthem for the Revisionist camp Brit Ha-Biryonim.109

105 Ibid., 159. 106 Ibid., 167-69. 107 Ibid., 251. 108 Ratzabi, Anarkhistim, 9-31. 109 Ya’akov Cahan, Kitvei Ya’akov Cahan: shirim (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1960), 86-87.

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Contrary to most Zionist utopias, which did not envision the Jewish state in a military or warlike context, a militaristic approach began to take shape among Zionist leaders after World War I. Ze’ev Jabotinsky, a prominent figure in the Zionist movement and one of the founders of Jewish self-defense units, played a pivotal role in advocating for the establishment of a Jewish army and the creation of an “Iron Wall” in response to Arab resistance. Jabotinsky firmly believed that Arabs would never willingly accept Jewish immigration. He stated, “The Arabs will never consent to Jewish immigration. I do not know a single instance in history where any land has agreed to accept a settlement of foreigners through the goodwill of the native residents.”110 When Jabotinsky introduced the concept of the Iron Wall, he emphasized that without a significant military force, Zionism would be incapable of addressing the inevitable conflict with the Arab population in the land of Israel. According to him, only the presence of a strong, unyielding army would pave the way for the realization of the Zionist project in the eyes of the local population. It is inconceivable to entertain the possibility of a voluntary agreement with the Arabs of the Land of Israel. As long as the Arabs retain a glimmer of hope to rid themselves of us, they will not sell that hope for any sweet words or for any slice of bread and butter, and precisely because of that, we must not regard them as a mob, but rather as a living people. A living people will only agree to significant and far-reaching concessions when they have no other choice, when there is not a crack left in the Iron Wall.111 In the 1920s, Ze’ev Jabotinsky, known for founding the Revisionist movement, establishing the youth movement Betar, and formulating the concept of the Iron Wall, also penned the novel Samson.112 The book was not a utopian

110 Ze’ev Jabotinsky at the meeting of the Zionist Executive Committee, June 11, 1921, in Haprotokolim shel ha-va’ad ha-po’el ha-tsiyoni 1919-1921, ed. Gedaliyah Yogev and Yehoshua Freundlich (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University and HaKibbutz HaMeuchad, 1985), 289. 111 Ze’ev Jabotinsky, Ha-derekh el ha-revizionism ha-tsiyoni (1923-1924): kovetz ma’amarim be“Razsvet,” ed. Yosef Nedavah (Tel Aviv: Machon Jabotinsky, 1984), 159. Below: Ha-derekh el ha-revizionism. 112 Ze’ev Jabotinsky, Shimshon ( Jerusalem: Keter, 2007). See also Rafi Zirkin-Sadan, “Imperiyah, leumiyut, ve-yehsei mizrah u-ma’arav ba-roman “Shimshon” me’et Vladimir (Ze’ev) Jabotinsky,” Teoriyah u-bikoret 48 (Summer 2017): 81-104; Svetlana Netkovitch, Bein ananei zohar: yetzirato shel Vladimir (Ze’ev) Jabotinsky be-heksher ha-hevrati ( Jerusalem: Magnes, 2015), 178-200.

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novel, nor was it a biblical novel such as Abraham Mapu’s Ahavat Zion. On the contrary, in Samson Jabotinsky adopted a modern and secular style. He knowingly employed biblical mythology to point towards the proper path for the Jewish return to history. The exploration of Samson sheds light on Jabotinsky’s pessimistic outlook on the future. The deliberate use of an ancient myth aimed to steer the Zionist movement in the direction of establishing a nation-state.113 However, Jabotinsky’s vision of the future encompassed more than just military foundations. According to Dan Miron, Jabotinsky’s legacy, inspired by the novel’s protagonist, included three key elements: King, symbolizing the establishment of a Jewish state; Iron, representing the creation of a Jewish army and economic strength; and Laughter, embodying the liberal facet of Jabotinsky’s thinking, which viewed human playfulness as an expression of the human spirit.114 In Samson, the central character is strong and muscular, physically powerful, direct, and non-intellectual. Jabotinsky chose a somewhat unconventional biblical figure to symbolize the transition from myth to history. Samson, the biblical hero, stands out as the least “Jewish” character in the Bible. He is known for his incredible physical strength and primal instincts, living during the time of the Judges when Israel was divided, and there was no central monarchy. The modern and secular language used in the novel clearly draws parallels to the reality of the Yishuv under the British Mandate in Palestine. The Philistines whom Samson battles represent the British, the dominant power of the time. Samson’s relationship with them alternates between love and hatred. In the story, the indigenous peoples of the land play a secondary role in the background as the conflict unfolds between the tribes of Israel and the Philistines. With wisdom and leadership, Samson unites the Israelite tribes in the war against the Philistines. Despite the enmity between Israel and the Philistines, Samson admires their political organization and strives to imitate it, seeing them as exemplifying “peoples that form states.”115 As in the biblical narrative, in the novel, Samson is portrayed as a tragic mythological figure who falls in his struggle with the Philistines, and he does not establish a kingdom. However, Jabotinsky described him as paving the way for the establishment of a Jewish state. The military vision occupies a central

113 Netkovitch, Bein ananei zohar, 302. Dan Miron, Ha-gavish ha-memaked: prakim al Ze’ev Jabotinsky ha-mesaper ve-ha-meshorer ( Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 2011), 27-28. 114 Jabotinsky, Shimshon, 302. Meron, Ha-gavish ha-memaked, 9-69, esp. 41. On the principle of liberalism, see Rafaela Bilsky Ben-Hur, Kol yahid hu melekh: ha-mahshavah ha-hevratit ve-ha-medinit shel Ze’ev Jabotinsky (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1998), 26-76. 115 Jabotinsky, Shimshon, 189.

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place in Jabotinsky’s thinking, and he purposely chose the character of Samson from the gallery of Israelite figures in the Bible. In the battle for survival between the Jews and the native inhabitants of the land, the Jews have no choice but to fight their enemies. To do so, they need to establish an organized military force with hierarchy and coordinated authority to create an unbeatable military power. Samson was deeply impressed by the military order that he witnessed in the battle against the Philistines: “This image of one single and unique willpower, coordinating the limbs of thousands, amazed him.”116 The organized military framework forms the basis for asserting control over the land in the face of their enemies. However, we also witness the complexity of Jabotinsky’s vision in his positive regard for the democratic liberalism of England, which he admired. For example, in the constitution proposal he drafted for the Land of Israel, he incorporated distinct liberal principles.117 Furthermore, in Samson, Jabotinsky addressed not only the revolutionary “Jewish strength” but also the wisdom of the historical “Jewish spirit.” While Samson represents physical strength, he acknowledges that the Jewish spirit is authentically expressed by those who preserve Jewish memory, prayer, and the yearning for spiritual victory. The Levites and the tribe of Judah are described as “the bush that is not consumed, the ladder placed on the ground that reaches up to the heavens.”118 Jabotinsky also recognized the limitations of Samson’s strength as the hero of the novel.119 In contrast to Jabotinsky’s nuanced view of Jewish strength and the need for an organized army, within the Revisionist Zionist camp, the aspiration for militarism was expressed even more explicitly. For instance, Abba Ahimeir, one of the leaders of the Brit Ha-Biryonim, reflected this sentiment when he wrote: Even if we acquire all the land, even if all its wealth becomes ours and thousands of Jews live here, as long as Jewish settlement does not serve as obligatory military service, all this wealth is meaningless. With the establishment of the battalion, the declaration will also be fulfilled. The path of the Jewish Messiah, like

116 Ibid., 187-189. 117 See the discussion later in this chapter. Gorny, Mediniyut ve-dimyon, 71-79. 118 Jabotinsky, Shimshon, 242. Compare Ex. 3:1-7. 119 Ibid., 243.

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that of any national messiah, passes over a bridge of iron, not of paper.120 The shift towards militaristic values was not unique to the Revisionist camp, especially during the tensions of the Great Arab Revolt in the 1930s.121 However, the militaristic utopian vision was primarily nurtured within the maximalist faction of the Revisionist movement. We have observed that the various Zionist utopian visions represented the ideologies of different Zionist factions, including political Zionism, cultural Zionism, religious Zionism, socialist Zionism, and Revisionist Zionism. These literary utopias were mostly authored before the end of World War I and continued to influence the Jewish Yishuv in the Land of Israel until the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948.

Utopia and Zionist Policy during the Mandate Era Following World War I, the literary genre of utopia saw a decline within the Zionist movement. The aftermath of the Great War had a sobering effect even on the once-optimistic vision of the Enlightenment.122 In contrast, Zionist leaders turned their attention to practical planning and the development of blueprints for establishing a Jewish national center in the Land of Israel. This Zionist vision emerged as a response to the reality of a predominantly Arab population in the land and the authority of the British Mandate. I will now explore the policies and plans of three central leaders during this period of the Yishuv: Chaim Weizmann, Ze’ev Jabotinsky, and David Ben-Gurion. The crisis within the Zionist movement following Herzl’s death in 1904 resulted in a schism, leading to the departure of the territorialists in 1905. This period also brought about the realization that the establishment of a Jewish state in Palestine was not an achievable goal in the near future. Consequently, cultural Zionist endeavors gained prominence. Concurrently, Zionist legal initiatives

120 Abba Ahimeir, “Gesher ha-barzel,” in Ha-tsiyonut ha-mahapekhanit (Tel Aviv: Ha-Va’ad Le-Hotza’at Kitvei Ahimeir, 1966), 17. 121 Anita Shapira, Land and Power: the Zionist Resort to Force, 1881-1948 (New York: Oxford University Press). 122 Krishan Kumar, Utopia and Anti-Utopia in Modern Times (Oxford: Blackwell, 1987), 224; Gregory Claeys, “The Origins of Dystopia: Wells, Huxley and Orwell,” in The Cambridge Companion to Utopian Literature, ed. Gregory Claeys (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 107-131.

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aimed at safeguarding the rights of Jews as a national minority in the diaspora gained momentum.123 Zionist leaders advocated for what could be termed “Zionist Autonomy.” For instance, young leaders within the Po’alei Zion movement, such as David Ben-Gurion and Yitzhak Ben-Zvi, believed in pursuing autonomy solutions within the framework of the Ottoman Empire.124 Ze’ev Jabotinsky, who played a role in formulating the Helsingfors Program in 1906, focused on defending the rights of Jews as a national minority in Eastern Europe. In addition, during World War I, Jabotinsky did not envision the immediate establishment of a Jewish state in the Land of Israel.125 Until the war’s conclusion, the realization of an independent Jewish state remained a distant prospect in the eyes of future Zionist leaders. Weizmann, Jabotinsky, and Ben-Gurion were acutely aware of the challenges Zionism faced in achieving its goals in the Land of Israel, more so than the movement’s founding leaders. They shifted focus from crafting literary utopias to devising more pragmatic plans. These plans aimed to enable the establishment of a Jewish national entity in the Land of Israel, in face of the challenges from the Arab majority, and embodied a clear sense of utopian realism. Jabotinsky and Ben-Gurion drafted constitutions to promote coexistence between Jews and Arabs in Palestine. Similarly, Weizmann developed a comprehensive plan that justified the moral grounds for the immigration of millions of Jews to the Land of Israel, asserting that it would not adversely affect the Arab residents. Despite their known political differences, these three figures shared many commonalities in their future vision and the democratic ethos of the nascent Jewish state.126 The future of the Land of Israel, in Weizmann’s view, was intimately linked to British control in the Middle East. Weizmann believed that the British Mandate would lead to the prosperity of the Land of Israel for the benefit of

123 Alex Bein, ed., Sefer Motzkin: ktavim u-neumim nivharim, biografiyah ve-divrei ha’arakhah ( Jerusalem: The Zionist Executive, 1939); Ze’ev Jabotinsky, Ktavim vol. 1 ( Jerusalem: Eri Jabotinsky Publishing, 1947-1959), 25-35. 124 Ben-Gurion, Zikhronot, 1:70. Shumsky, Beyond the Nation State. 125 W hile serving as an officer in the British Army, Jabotinsky wrote a booklet “The Jewish Nation” in English, which is preserved in the Jabotinsky Archives ( JA). In it, he detailed his Zionist vision. He wrote that Zionism at this stage does not aspire to establish a Jewish state because the idea is still nascent and not yet mature. The goal of Zionism, he wrote, is to settle in the Land of Israel. See JA, A1 3/6, 98-102; Gorny, Mediniyut ve-dimyon, 13-17; Yitzhak Conforti, “Between Ethnic and Civic: The Realistic Utopia of Zionism,” Israel Affairs, 17, no. 4 (October 2011), 547-566. 126 Heller, Ba-ma’avak la-medinah, 44; Heller, “Ben-Gurion, Weizmann, u-Jabotinsky al ha-she’elah ha-aravit,” in Idan ha-tsiyonut, ed. Anita Shapira, et al. ( Jerusalem: Merkaz Zalman Shazar, 2000), 203-240.

The Zionist Utopia

all its inhabitants—Jews and Arabs alike. In his eyes, British rule was a definite interest of both Jews and Arabs. The Arab opposition to Zionism, in his opinion, stemmed from a misunderstanding of the goals of Zionism and from unfounded fears on the part of the Arab leadership: “They very well knew, as they admitted, that there was sufficient land in Palestine for vast population yet to come.”127 The moderate Arab leadership, like that of Prince Faisal [bin Hussein bin Ali al-Hashemi], recognized the possibility of absorbing even five million Jews in the Land of Israel without harming the Arabs residing in the land and the places sacred to Islam.128 In the early 1920s, Weizmann believed that the Land of Israel could be like the Switzerland of the Middle East, where Muslim and Christian Arabs could live in peace with Jews in a state with a Jewish majority.129 In a report he delivered to the Zionist leadership on October 24, 1921, Weizmann recounted that he had met with Riad Bey, minister of propaganda for Emir Faisal, and said to him: “Palestine was not part of an Arab Empire but a land in which Jews and Arabs could live in peaceful relations in the same way as the three nationalities in Switzerland.”130 In the early 1920s, Weizmann thus tended to analyze the relations between Jews and Arabs in the Middle East with great optimism. He believed then that there were significant reasons for the weakening of Arab opposition to Zionism, including economic interests, fear of pan-Islamic tendencies, and the aspiration to create an Arab confederation in the Middle East. Moreover, Weizmann thought that the good neighborly relations between Arabs and Jews in the Land of Israel indicated cooperation and mutual respect between the parties.131 Towards the end of the 1920s, as Palestinian Arab nationalism strengthened, and the conflict and violence between Jews and Arabs intensified, Weizmann became more pessimistic in his attitude towards the Arabs. The fact that there was still an Arab majority in the Land of Israel and the British government was gradually retreating from the Balfour Declaration undermined Weizmann’s optimism. The aspiration to achieve a Jewish majority in the Land of Israel was shared by Weizmann, Jabotinsky, and Ben-Gurion, as well as by the mainstream Zionist leadership after World War I. This aspiration was based on the Balfour Declaration (November 1917), the League of Nation meeting at San Remo

127 Chaim Weizmann, The Letters and Papers of Chaim Weizmann, ed. Barnet Litvinoff et al. ( Jerusalem: Israel Universities Press, 1968-1984), 1:201. 128 Ibid., 218-220. 129 Gorny, Mediniyut ve-dimyon. 130 Weizmann, Letters, 1:334. 131 Ibid., 366-369.

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(April 1920), and the League of Nations Mandate for Palestine ( July 1922), which recognized the Jewish people’s historical connection to Palestine and the Jewish people’s right to sovereignty in the Land of Israel.132 In Weizmann’s view, this international recognition was proof that the Jews were not a “colonialist” foreign element in Palestine but rather had the right to see the Land of Israel as their national home. “The case of Jews returning to Eretz Israel is absolutely different from that, say, of aliens wishing to settle in the USA; we enter Palestine by right and not on sufferance.”133 Nevertheless, Weizmann believed that a Jewish majority in the Land of Israel would not infringe on the rights of the Arabs. He stated: “Palestine was to be a Jewish State in which the Arabs would enjoy fullest civil and cultural rights.”134 Weizmann’s optimism in the 1920s century gave way to a more pessimistic and realistic approach in the early 1930s. At that time, Weizmann concluded that the Arabs were not at all interested in Jewish immigration to Palestine, even if it were to be carried out in the fairest and most considerate manner.135 Weizmann, the most moderate of the three leaders, emphatically rejected the idea proposed by his colleagues in Brit Shalom of establishing a bi-national state in the Palestine. Although he was heavily influenced by Ahad Ha’am’s caution and moderation towards the Arabs,136 Weizmann believed that any deviation from the principle of a Jewish majority in Palestine would constitute a betrayal of Zionist ideals and the future of the Jewish people. The idea of a bi-national state stood in stark contrast to the promise of the Balfour Declaration, which aimed to establish a national home for the Jewish people in Palestine.137 The escalation of the Arab-Jewish conflict in the 1930s led Weizmann to the realization that appeasing the Arab side would be extremely difficult, perhaps even impossible. Despite this, throughout the 1930s, he continued to propose various solutions for the conflict, ranging from a federative constitutional system to fervent support for the territorial partition of the land as suggested by the Peel Commission in 1937.138 During World War II, the Zionist leadership focused on formulating its stance regarding the future of Palestine after the war. The belief that there would be a 132 For the text of the League of Nations Mandate for Palestine, see Yale Law School, accessed May 14, 2024, https://avalon.law.yale.edu/20th_century/palmanda.asp. 133 Weizmann, Letters, 14:206. 134 Ibid. 135 Ibid., 208. 136 Shmuel Tolkovsky, Yoman tsiyoni medini: London 1915-1919, likrat hatzharat Balfour u-ve-ikvoteihah ( Jerusalem: Jewish Agency for Israel, 1981), 219-220, 228-236. 137 Weizmann, Letters, 19:211. 138 Gorny, Ha-she’elah ha-aravit, 320-322.

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change in the international attitude towards Jews at the end of the war, similar to what happened after World War I, led to the preparation of several action plans by the Zionist executive. Weizmann sought an alternative to the 1939 White Paper policy, which harmed Zionist interests.139 In his view, Britain’s new policy impacted two vital elements of establishing the Jewish national home in Palestine: immigration and territory. The restrictions on Jewish immigration and the prevention of land purchases hindered the possibility of establishing a national home for Jews in Palestine.140 Weizmann clarified his vision in a programmatic article titled “Palestine’s Role in the Solution of the Jewish Problem,” published in the prestigious American journal Foreign Affairs in January 1942. In this article, he extensively detailed how the land could absorb millions of Jews, contrary to the restrictive policies of the White Paper. Weizmann linked the dire situation of European Jews during the war with the immediate need for the establishment of a Jewish state in Palestine. He appealed to the Western powers to initiate a settlement that would solve the Jewish problem through Palestine. Additionally, he argued that the powers must clarify to the Arabs that the Jews would be allowed mass immigration to Palestine and would be establishing a state there: It is essential to obtain such settlement in Palestine as will help to solve the Jewish problem—one of the most disturbing problems in the world. The Arabs must, therefore, be clearly told that the Jews will be encouraged to settle in Palestine, and will control their own immigration [. . .]. In that state there will be complete civil and political equality of rights for all citizens, without distinction of race or religion, and in addition the Arabs will enjoy full autonomy in their own internal affairs.141 From the time of the Balfour Declaration and indeed until the establishment of the State of Israel, Weizmann focused on the Zionist interest to establish a Jewish nation-state in Palestine, where Jews would be the majority. To achieve this goal, as seen in the context of the 1937 Peel Commission, he was willing to support a far-reaching proposal for the partition of the land. In his pragmatic political approach, he aimed to realize the Zionist vision, taking it as a given that 139 Ronald W. Zweig, Britain and Palestine during the Second World War (London: Boydell Press, 1986), 89-115. 140 Weizmann, Letters, 19:24-27, 34-35. 141 Chaim Weizmann, “Palestine’s Role in the Solution of the Jewish Problem,” Foreign Affairs 20, no. 2 (1942): 324-338; cited from 337.

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the Jewish state, as a nation-state, would maintain full equality of civil rights for all its residents. During World War I, Ze’ev Jabotinsky formulated a clear stance regarding the future of the Jews in the Land of Israel, taking the Arab majority in the land very seriously. In his unpublished booklet “The Jewish Nation,” he addressed the issue of equal civil and national rights for both the Jewish people and the Arabs in Palestine.142 However, he insisted that in the post-war peace agreements, Palestine should be recognized as the national home of the Jewish people, granting Jews control over Jewish immigration to Palestine. According to Jabotinsky, the entire Zionist demand was to settle in the Land of Israel all Jews who wished to do so: “Our only claim is colonization, a fair, free and full chance for colonization.”143 In December 1922, as a member of the Zionist Executive, Ze’ev Jabotinsky composed a plan for establishing Jewish autonomy in Palestine within a federal framework. Jabotinsky did not believe that the Arabs would accept his plan, yet he thought that Zionism needed to outline a political regime for the land.144 The plan he proposed was based on the principle of equality, meaning an equal division of ministerial positions in the government between Arabs and Jews, proportional representation in the parliament to fairly represent all citizens, and voting by districts similar to American federalism, adapted to the conditions of Palestine. Under Jabotinsky’s constitutional system, full autonomy would also be granted to Jews, Christians, and Muslims, similar to the division in the Ottoman millet system. In any Cabinet, at least half of the Ministers shall be appointed with the consent of the Jewish Agency [. . .]. Should there be a Parliament it shall consist of a Chamber and a Senate. The Chamber shall be elected by all citizens of both sexes who can read and write in any language [. . .]. The Senate shall be constituted on the American (federal) basis adjusted to Palestinian conditions [. . .]. The three Communities—the Yishuv, the Moslems and Christians—shall be constituted upon a fully developed millet system of inner self-government with rights of self-taxation.145 142 Jabotinsky, The Jewish Nation, 122. See JA, A1 3/6. 143 Ibid., 73-74. 144 Shilo Hetis-Rolf, “Tokhnit ha-parity shel Jabotinsky mi-shnat 1922,” Zion 36 (1972): 222-226. 145 Central Zionist Archivers, S25/2073.

The Zionist Utopia

Jabotinsky’s plan also received support from Weizmann, then president of the Zionist Organization, but it did not last long. In 1923, Jabotinsky resigned from the Zionist Executive and thereafter adopted an oppositional stance to Weizmann’s policies, and his plan was not revisited.146 During the 1920s, Jabotinsky developed his Iron Wall doctrine, based on the assumption that the Arabs would not willingly cooperate with the Zionist movement. Therefore, he argued that the path to independence required establishing a strong Jewish army that could withstand Arab threats.147 Despite his clear militant stance, Jabotinsky emphasized in his writings that the future Jewish state would grant civil and national rights to its entire population. He noted that just as he had demanded national rights for the Jewish minority in the Helsingfors Program (1906), he was prepared to guarantee rights for Arab national minorities in the Jewish state.148 This principled position distinguished Jabotinsky’s Revisionism from the Brit Ha-Biryonim that emerged within the Revisionist camp under the leadership of Abba Ahimeir, Uri Zvi Greenberg, and Yehoshua Heshel Yeivin. Jabotinsky never ignored the civil rights of minorities.149 In 1940, the year of his death during a visit to the USA, Ze’ev Jabotinsky published his last book, The Jewish War Front, in London. In it, we find a nationalistic, activist approach with liberal elements regarding the Arab population in Palestine. The constitution he proposed included distinct civic and liberal components, on the condition that the Arabs accept the state as a Jewish nation-state. Below are some of the clauses that Jabotinsky proposed in this constitution: 1. Civic Equality 1.1  Providing nothing be done to hinder any foreign Jew from repatriating, and, by doing so, automatically becoming a Palestinian citizen, the principle of equal rights for all citizens of any race, creed, language or class will be enacted without limitation throughout all sectors of the country’s public life. 1.2 In every Cabinet where the Prime Minister is a Jew, the vice-premiership shall be offered to an Arab, and vice versa. 1.3  Proportional sharing by Jews and Arabs both in the charges and the benefits of the state . . .

146 Gorny, Mediniyut ve-dimyon, 21-24. 147 Jabotinsky, Ha-derekh el ha-revizionism, 106-112, 115-119. 148 Ibid., 106. 149 Avivi, “Abba Ahimeir ve-ha-maximalizm ha-revizionisti ba-tnu’ah ha-revizionistit,” 115-146.

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2. Languages 2.1  The Hebrew and the Arabic languages shall enjoy equal rights and equal legal validity . . . 3. Cultural Autonomy 3.1  The Jewish and the Arabs ethno-communities shall be recognized as autonomous public bodies of equal status before the law . . . 3.2  Each ethno-community shall elect its National Diet with the right to issue ordinance and levy taxes within the limits of its autonomy . . . 4. The Holy Places 4.1  The relevant areas within the Old City of Jerusalem, to be delimited under the authority of the League of Nations, shall enjoy the same measure of extra-territoriality as that universally recognized in the case of embassies . . . 5. Land 5.1  A Palestine Land Court shall be formed including, among other members, judges and agricultural experts belonging to both ethno-communities . . .150 The constitution proposed by Jabotinsky for the Jewish state included far-reaching civic elements. While Jabotinsky aspired to achieve a Jewish majority in Palestine on both its banks, his vision for a Jewish nation-state was liberal, secular, and highly civic. His principal approach in all his political plans, from before World War I until his final days in 1940, remained unchanged. His national approach was activist and militant, yet he consistently supported national rights and civil equality. During World War I, the Ottoman government exiled David Ben-Gurion and Yitzhak Ben-Zvi from the Land of Israel, and they fled to the United States. While in New York, Ben-Gurion observed the developments of the Great War and formed his stance on the actions the Zionist movement should take in light of the events. In his article “Towards the Future,” written in the spring of 1915, he pointed out the dangers to the existence of the Jewish people but also the opportunities that would arise at the end of the war for realizing the Zionist demand:

150 Vladimir Jabotinsky, The Jewish War Front (London: Allen and Unwin, 1940), 216-220.

The Zionist Utopia

And how clear, how simple it is after this war, that the solution to the problem of a people lacking a homeland should rightfully and necessarily be—a homeland in its historic land. The upcoming peace conference must recognize the Hebrew people’s right to establish a homeland in the Land of Israel. This is the central question of our lives, this is the great historic destiny that this decisive moment imposes upon us.151 Ben-Gurion argued that Zionism has the duty to plan for the future, for the post-war era, in order to gain international consensus for recognizing the Land of Israel as the homeland of the Jewish people. However, he also maintained that action should be taken simultaneously in two ways: one diplomatic and the other practical—the continuation of settlement and land cultivation: “The conquest of a land for such a purpose does not come through the guarantee of political rights and diplomatic assurances, but through prolonged settlement work, rooting and integrating into the land [. . .] to the extent of being a large and decisive majority in Palestine.”152 Ben-Gurion expressed this recognition and the aspiration to plan for the future clearly at the end of his article: The Land of Israel—like the whole world—stands on the brink of a new era. The Hebrew people, seeking their restoration in their historical homeland, must now claim their rights. We do not ask that the land be given to us now—a land is not received but conquered. We will conquer the land by building it. And we have already established the foundation. Our demand now is that the upcoming peace congress recognizes our right to build the land [. . .] give us the legal guarantees and freedom of action necessary to complete the building to the last detail.”153 Ben-Gurion viewed the events of World War I with a sharp eye and a very realistic approach. He took it for granted that the world’s political and diplomatic order was bound to change and saw this as an opportunity to advance the goals of Zionism. However, he also believed that the Jewish state would not be established solely through diplomatic agreements and called for preparations

151 David Ben-Gurion, Mi-ma’amad le-am (Tel Aviv: Ayanot, 1955). 152 Ibid., 15. 153 Ibid., 22.

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to strengthen Jewish settlement in Palestine. In his September 1915 article “Granting the Land,” he stated that the creation of a homeland is not dependent on political decisions alone: “A homeland is a historical creation and a collective endeavor of a people, the fruit of its physical, spiritual, and moral work over generations.”154 When the Balfour Declaration was issued in November 1917, Ben-Gurion returned to the formula he had coined in 1915. A state for the Jews would be the result of international recognition combined with constructive settlement efforts. The mere recognition by Britain of the Jewish people’s right to establish a national home in the Land of Israel was seen by him as a miracle: “The great wonder has risen and come to be. The greatest of powers whose army is approaching the gates of Jerusalem, has officially declared ‘the establishment of a national home for the Jewish people in Palestine.’ ”155 At the same time, Ben-Gurion reiterated that the Land of Israel does not become the homeland of the Jewish people solely by virtue of this declaration: “A land is acquired by a people only through the toil of work and creation, efforts of building and settlement.”156 With the changing political reality in the Middle East from the Balfour Declaration onwards, Ben-Gurion integrated his Zionist position of constructive, patient building of the land with his revolutionary approach. Following in the footsteps of Berdichevsky and Lenin, he believed in historical revolutionism: he saw certain historical moments as pioneering leaps in time. History does not develop slowly in a harmonious and linear fashion; there are moments of far-reaching and revolutionary historical “leaps.” This is how Ben-Gurion also viewed the Balfour Declaration: “The path has leaped forward for us. A long and difficult path that we were prepared to traverse slowly, through endless hardships and obstacles, has been shortened and straightened as if by a miracle, and we stand on the threshold of realization.”157 For Ben-Gurion, the Balfour Declaration and the end of World War I were unique historical moments that needed to be swiftly capitalized on to establish the Jewish state: “In the next twenty years, we must create a Jewish majority in Palestine. This is the essence of the new historical situation.”158 Exploiting these unique historical leaps and continuing purposeful settlement work were, in Ben-Gurion’s eyes, the means to achieve Zionist goals. However, in the 1920s, it seemed that the historical leap he spoke of had slowed somewhat, and the 154 Ibid., 23. 155 Ibid., 38. 156 Ibid., 39. 157 David Ben-Gurion, “Hagshamat ha-tsiyonut,” in Mi-ma’amad le-am, 39-40. 158 Ibid.

The Zionist Utopia

pace of realizing the national home did not meet the expectations set by the Balfour Declaration. The rise of Palestinian nationalism and its manifestation in the 1929 riots led the Zionist leadership to rethink the way in which Zionism’s goals would be realized. Ben-Gurion worked on drafting a constitution for the Land of Israel, taking into account the Arab population and the British government. The plan sparked sharp debate within the socialist camp.159 Some critics argued that it effectively rewarded the rioters by proposing a new regime in the Land of Israel. However, Ben-Gurion, concerned about losing British support for the Zionist project, argued that it was necessary to promote a Zionist proposal that would demonstrate to Britain how the Zionist vision could be maintained despite the existence of an Arab majority in Palestine. In his article in Ha-Po’el Ha-Tza’ir in November 1930, Ben-Gurion stated: “The riots have reopened the Zionist debate in the court of world public opinion. The matter that was affirmed in 1917 with the Balfour Declaration, validated in 1920 at San Remo, and ratified in 1922 by the League of Nations mandate, has been raised for debate following the riots.”160 Therefore, Zionism was obliged to prepare and provide a genuine answer to world public opinion and justify its demand for the establishment of a Jewish state in Palestine. Internally, Ben-Gurion argued, there was no moral imperative to justify the Zionist demand for a state in Palestine, but in terms of international recognition of the establishment of a Jewish national home there, it was very important to explain this due to the changed circumstances: We cannot tell the world—ignore the claims of seven hundred thousand Arabs, because we should not reward the rioters. We must give an answer to the “Arab question.” Without a plan for an agreement with the Arab people, I fear we cannot seriously address even England. Of course, we can talk to the Mandate government about minor issues, about trivial matters. But to seriously discuss the one matter now on the agenda—the fate of Zionism—is impossible without a well-thought-out plan for resolving the Arab problem, in the form of a Jewish-Arab agreement. [. . .]

159 Gorny, Mediniyut ve-dimyon, 141-159. 160 David Ben-Gurion, “Ha-mediniyut ha-tsiyonit me-ahar ha-me’oraot,” Ha-Po’el Ha-Tza’ir 24, no. 7 (November 28, 1930), 5.

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We must approach the Arab people, not with deceit and denial, not by hiding our Zionist aspirations, but with words of truth and peace. We will say clearly: whatever happens—we will not move from here.161 From his next words, it is evident that Ben-Gurion understood the conflict with the Arabs as a national conflict, not merely an economic one as most labor leaders thought in the 1920s: If we truly and sincerely want to find a way to an agreement [. . .] we must find a way that, without compromising the rights of the Jewish people and its vital interests in the land, will fully satisfy the justified demands of the Arabs, including their political claims. For the success of Jewish-Arab cooperation, a political agreement between us and the Arabs is needed, and significant and fundamental changes in the existing regime in the Land are necessary.162 Ben-Gurion recognized the need to secure the international recognition granted since the Balfour Declaration for the Jewish people’s right to sovereignty in Palestine. Ben-Gurion’s proposed constitution for the regime in Palestine included a genuine attempt to address “the justified demands of the Arabs,” yet in his view, the right of the Jewish people to Palestine took precedence over the rights of the Arabs. Moreover, according to Ben-Gurion, the Jewish people’s right to the Land of Israel was not contingent on international recognition. Ben-Gurion wrote in the proposed constitution: A. The Land of Israel is destined for the Jewish people and the Arabs residing within it. B. The right of the Jewish people is not conditional on external agreement and is not dependent on foreign will. It derives from the inseparable connection of the Jewish people with its historical homeland, from their right to self-determination and national sovereignty equal to all other peoples, from their status in the diaspora as a minority without a territorial base and dependent

161 Ha-Po’el Ha-Tz’air, 24, 8 (December 5, 1930), 8. 162 Ibid.

The Zionist Utopia

on the will of others, from the immigration needs of millions of Jews, from the material condition of the land that is sparsely populated, from the possibilities of settlement and cultivation of its land and its unused natural resources, and from the work of Jewish settlement in the land over the last generations—all these have led to recognition under international law of the Jewish people’s right to re-establish its national home in the Land of Israel.163 In the opening paragraphs of the proposed constitution, Ben-Gurion sought to anchor in great detail the natural right of the Jewish people to the Land of Israel. He did not propose national rights equality for Jews and Arabs, but later in the constitution, there is detailed consideration of the claims of the Arab side. C. Full civil rights are granted to all residents of the land, without distinction, whether as individuals, as collectives, or as a complete settlement group. The possibility of free development of all citizens of the Land of Israel must be guaranteed and unaffected by the Jewish national home. However, the current residents of the land alone do not have exclusive rights to the land. D. The interests of the Jewish people (“the national home”) and the interests of the residents must not harm each other, and it is the duty of the Mandate government in Palestine to protect both to the maximum extent. [. . .] J. It is necessary to establish fair relations between Jews and Arabs, which are not dependent on majority or minority status. The regime in the land must at all times ensure both Jews and Arabs the possibility of uninterrupted development and full national sovereignty, in a manner that no Arab rule over Jews or Jewish rule over Arabs will ever be established in the land.164 In his plan, Ben-Gurion addressed three developmental stages of the Jewish National Home from the Mandate period to the establishment of an

163 David Ben-Gurion, “Hanahot li-kvi’at mishtar mamlakhti be-Eretz Israel,” in Anahnu u-shkeneinu (Tel Aviv: Davar, 1931), 188. 164 Ibid., 188-189.

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independent state for Jews. The first stage is the foundational stage, where Arabs still constituted the majority in the Land of Israel. The second stage, “the stronghold,” is when the Jewish population would reach “forty or fifty percent” of the population, which he estimated would occur “within the next five or ten years.” The final stage would be: “When we will not be fewer in number than the non-Jewish population, and the Jewish national home will be established on its foundation.”165 In this proposed constitution by Ben-Gurion, full rights would be granted to both nations at every stage of the development of the Jewish National Home, and in the final stage, upon the end of the British Mandate, a Jewish-Arab federation would be established. This federal state would have joint governing institutions: The Federal Council, which shall be composed of two houses: (a) the House of Nations, in which Jews and Arabs participate in equal number; (b) the House of Residents, in which representatives of the cantons participate proportionally to their population. [. . .] Hebrew and Arabic [languages] shall be absolutely equal in all their rights throughout the Land of Israel and in all its institutions: federal, cantonal, and municipal.166 In the 1930s, Ben-Gurion abandoned the idea of a federation but continued to support various concepts for establishing an egalitarian regime between Jews and Arabs, fearing that the British might withdraw from the Mandate over Palestine and revoke their support for the Zionist project.167 In 1937, following the outbreak of the Great Arab Revolt, Ben-Gurion enthusiastically supported the Peel Commission’s Partition Plan, seeing it as an opportunity to establish a Jewish state, even if in a small part of Palestine.168 During World War II, Ben-Gurion worked in the United States. Contrary to Weizmann, he believed that the international balance of power would shift due to the war and that the United States would emerge as a leading global power.169 Ben-Gurion initiated the Biltmore Program as the first official expression of Zionism’s demand for the establishment of a Jewish Commonwealth in Palestine. The political program adopted at the Biltmore Conference (May 9-11,

165 Ibid., 189. 166 Ibid., 196. 167 Heller, Ba-ma’avak la-medinah, 164-167. 168 Ibid., 228-229. 169 David Ben-Gurion, Biltmore tokhnit medinit: zikhronot min ha-izavon June 1941–September 1942, ed. Ariel Feldstein et al. (Kiryat Sde Boker: Ben Gurion University Press, 2012), 434.

The Zionist Utopia

1942) did not detail the full range of issues concerning the Land of Israel.170 Its main points were: A. To open the gates of the Land of Israel to Jewish immigration. B. To transfer control of this immigration to the Jewish Agency and to grant it the full authority necessary for the development and building of the land, including the development of all barren, uninhabited lands. C. To establish the Land of Israel as a Jewish Commonwealth, integrated into the new global democratic structure.171 In his speech at the Biltmore Conference, Ben-Gurion addressed the conflict with the Arabs and assumed that they would continue to resist Jewish immigration to Palestine: Can we expect the Arabs to agree to Jewish immigration? The worst deception is self-deception. We must acknowledge the facts. If Jewish immigration depends on Arab consent, it is doubtful there will be Jewish immigration. There is a vital, both political and moral, need to clarify our position on the question that determines our future without any ambiguity. Immigration to the land does not need any agreement. We are returning to our homeland by our own right. History, international law, and the decree of life of our people—all three dictate the Land of Israel as the homeland for the Jewish people.172 Ben-Gurion’s order of priorities was absolutely clear: the rights of Jews to Palestine take precedence over the rights of the Arabs. However, he understood that the state of the Jews could only be established as a state with fair democratic characteristics, as he stated in his speech: “Full equality will be ensured for all residents of the Land of Israel, civic, religious, political equality; self-governance for every village and city in all their local affairs; autonomy for all communities,

170 Ibid., 435-443. 171 Heller, Ba-ma’avak la-medinah, 336. 172 Ben-Gurion, Biltmore, 437.

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both Jewish and Arab, in managing their internal affairs: education, religion, and the like.”173 Ben-Gurion saw the establishment of the Jewish state after the war as part of a process of world rectification, correcting a historical injustice done to the Jewish people and establishing a just world order: The defeat of Hitler must not be the end, but the beginning of world rectification and the redemption of Israel. The enterprise we have established in the land has a double blessing: it paves the way for a reformed and renewed human society, and it serves as a foundation for the revival of our statehood [tekumah mamlakhtit]. The State of Israel will be established based on this message, and the State of Israel will be established if it is a state of justice.174 The political program formulated at the Biltmore Conference was ratified in November 1942 at a meeting of the Jewish Agency executive in Jerusalem. Later, on March 13, 1945, Ben-Gurion added these clauses to complete the program: A. The Jewish state shall be founded on full equality of rights for all its inhabitants—without discrimination based on religion or race, in the national, civic, religious, and national aspects, without domination or subjugation. All communities will enjoy full autonomy in managing their religious, educational, cultural, and social institutions. Arabic language and Arab schools will enjoy all state rights, and self-governing municipal administrations will be established in all cities and villages. The state will endeavor to equalize the standard of living for all the inhabitants of Palestine. B. The Jewish people will strive for cooperation with the Arabs of the Land of Israel for the maximal development of the land for the benefit of all its inhabitants and for a friendship treaty

173 Ibid., 439. See also the article published in the New York Times on his speech, ibid., 443. 174 Ibid., 441.

The Zionist Utopia

between the Jewish state and the Arab peoples in the neighboring countries, based on reciprocal action and mutual assistance for the advancement and peace of all countries in the Middle East.175 The wording of these statements closely resembles that of the Declaration of Independence of the State of Israel as a Jewish and democratic state, combining principles of ethnic nationalism and civic nationalism. Beyond the many struggles Ben-Gurion led on the national, political, and personal fronts, he, like Jabotinsky and Weizmann, was driven by a utopian impulse to establish a model Jewish state. He also persisted in his attempts to foresee the future beyond current historical events, in order to advance moves that would help realize the Zionist vision on the path to establishing the State of Israel.176 The political plans discussed above by Zionist leaders Weizmann, Jabotinsky and Ben Gurion, reflected only a fraction of the utopian tendency of the Zionist leadership. They did not articulate a proper utopian literature, as we saw at the early stage of Zionism. Yet, the utopian tendency in the political context during the Yishuv period was significant in the quest to create a just society in the future Jewish State.177

Conclusion The modern Zionist utopias mirror the days of the Jewish national movement. Across all branches of the Zionist movement, utopian literature was utilized to realize the objectives of Zionism. Despite the differences between the utopias we have discussed, a similarity stands out: the aspiration to give them modern and realistic content. Like the utopias written in the West from the early modern era, the Zionist utopias were characterized by a modern and rational trend, addressing the establishment of an exemplary Jewish society in the Land of Israel in realistic terms. Furthermore, any discussion of Zionist utopian thought

175 Heller, Ba-ma’avak la-medinah, 376-381; citation from 377. 176 Yosef Gorny, “The ‘Utopian Leap’ in David Ben-Gurion’s Social Thought, 1920-1958,” in Israel: The First Decade of Independence, ed. I. Troen and N. Lucas (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995), 125-142. 177 In the context of political plans to create a just society, see the use of the term “realistic utopia” by John Rawls in his The Law of Peoples (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002), 3-128, esp. 6, 11-23. And in the Zionist context, see: Yosef Gorny, “Thoughts on Zionism as a Utopian Ideology,” Modern Judaism 18, no. 3 (1998): 241-251.

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must account for the many references to memory, history, and premodern Jewish culture. The Zionist vision, as expressed in utopian thought, was deeply connected to the Jewish past. The reliance on historical memories enabled Zionist thinkers to imagine a future sovereignty in the Land of Israel. The authors of Zionist utopias drew symbols, values, and myths from Jewish tradition. Premodern Jewish culture, and the Bible narrative, provided a common foundation for all streams within the movement, despite differences and disputes between them. The various Zionist utopias were written to outline the shape of the Jewish future in the Land of Israel, yet they also significantly contributed to shaping national historical consciousness.

Chapter 7

The Hebrew Bible as a National Model

Preface: Nationalism and Religion From its inception, Jewish national thought viewed the Bible as a deeply inspirational source for the education and formation of the “new Jew.” Zionist thinkers viewed the Bible as a foundational document and guide for Jewish nationalism. The two main pillars of Zionism reflected in the Hebrew Bible—the Hebrew language and the Land of Israel. For this reason, Zionism adopted the Bible a prominent source of inspiration to recreate a modern Jewish state. The immense influence of the Hebrew Bible on Western nationalism led scholars to address the question of the relationship between religion and nationalism.1 Modernist scholars such as Ernest Gellner, Eric Hobsbawm, Benedict Anderson, and John Breuilly, highlighted the secular and political aspects of nationalism.2 Nationalism therefore perceived as replacement for religion. This position was challenged by ethno-symbolic scholars such as Anthony Smith, who argued that modernists “relegate religion and the sacred to the premodern 1 Kohn, The Idea of Nationalism; Liah Greenfeld, Nationalism: Five Roads to Modernity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992), 75-76. 2 Gellner, Nations and Nationalism; Hobsbawm and Rangereds, The Invention of Tradition; Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism; Breuilly, Nationalism and the State. See also Lawrence, “Nationalism and Historical Writing.”

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past, and [. . .] pronounce the sacred objects, cults, and rites of faith communities obsolete, if not irrelevant.”3 Adrian Hastings rejected the modernist claim more bluntly, arguing that nationalism is not a modern construct at all. For Hastings, England was the first nation-state in the Christian world, and has served as a model for other western nations since the medieval period.4 Aviel Roshwald and Steven Grosby both referred to the Hebrew Bible as the first expression of nationalism.5 They saw the Hebrew Bible as a primordial starting point for nationalism in general and Zionism in particular. In the case of Jewish nationalism and Zionism, several studies have addressed the question of the relationship of modern Israeli society to the Bible. Some scholars have tried to decipher the declining value of the Bible in contemporary Israeli society—prominent examples include Uriel Simon, Anita Shapira and Yair Zakovitz.6 The most comprehensive study on the position of the Bible in modern Jewish history is Ya’akov Shavit and Mordechai Eran’s The Hebrew Bible Reborn. According to the authors, “the Biblical revolution, namely the profound change in the status of the Bible in Jewish society, appeared with the emergence of the Haskalah ( Jewish Enlightenment) movement at the end of eighteenth century.”7 In the following chapter, I do not attempt to propose a general model for understanding the relationship between religion and nationalism. My goal is to show how the ancient Biblical text became a foundational text for Zionism, within the context of Jewish modern nationalism, and the creation of Jewish nation-state. I argue that Jewish nationalism cannot be understood as a simple

3 Smith, Chosen Peoples, 21. 4 Hastings, The Construction of Nationhood, 4: “Religion is an integral element of many cultures, most ethnicities and some states.” 5 Roshwald, The Endurance of Nationalism; Grosby, Biblical Ideas of Nationality. See also Azar Gat, Nations, 89-91. See also: J. Christopher Soper and Joel S. Fetzer, Religion and Nationalism in Global Perspective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 1-31. 6 Uriel Simon, Ma’amad ha-mikra ba-hevra ha-yisraelit: mi-midrash leumi le-pshat kiyumi ( Jerusalem: A. Hess, 1999); Uriel Simon, Bakesh shalom ve-rodfe’hu (Tel Aviv: Yediot Ahronoth, 2002), 21-44; Anita Shapira, Ha-tanakh ve-ha-zehut ha-yisraelit ( Jerusalem: Magnes, 2006). Shapira has also contributed to this topic in her article “The Bible and Israeli Identity,” AJS Review 28, no. 1 (2004): 11-41. See also Yair Zakovitch, “Sof ha-mea shel ha-tanakh,” in Ha-agalah ha-mle’ah: me’ah ve-esrim shnot tarbut Yisrael, ed. Israel Bartal ( Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2002), 110-121. 7 Ya’akov Shavit and Mordechai Eran, The Hebrew Bible Reborn: From Holy Scripture to the Book of Books: A History of Biblical Culture and Battles over the Bible in Modern Judaism (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2007), 18-22. Another recent attempt to understand the place of the Bible in nationalism in a broad framework is Ofri Ilany and Avner Ben-Amos, eds., Goy kadosh: tanakh ve-leumiyut ba-idan ha-moderni ( Jerusalem: Carmel, 2021), 9-26.

The Hebrew Bible as a National Model

substitute for religion, rather it imbedded integrated dimensions of premodern traditions, values, symbols and myths, together with the modern ideas of nationalism and nation state.8

Early Expressions of Nationalism and the Hebrew Bible In European countries such as England and the Netherlands the Hebrew Bible served as a model for shaping these states and their national identities in the early modern period.9 The influence of the Hebrew Bible was also evident in the in North America and the American Revolution.10 Leading European political thinkers in the seventeenth century viewed the ancient Hebrew text as a historical case that could be applied to their nation-states.11 In parallel to the development of the early nation-state, intellectuals began to change their approach to the biblical text.12 A highly important work in this context was Tracatatus Teologico-Politicus (Theological-Political Treatise) (1670) by Baruch Spinoza (1632-1677). Spinoza lay the foundation for a natural, humanistic reading of the Hebrew Bible.13 Spinoza’s work contributed to the critical

8 In the context of the cultural approach adopted in this book, it is worth mentioning here the words of Clifford Geertz in his The Interpretation of Cultures (New York: Basic Books, 1973), 89: “The culture concept to which I adhere has neither multiple referents nor, so far as I can see, any unusual ambiguity: it denotes an historically transmitted pattern of meanings embodied in symbols, a system of inherited conceptions expressed in symbolic forms by means of which men communicate, perpetuate, and develop their knowledge about and attitudes toward life.” 9 Eric Nelson, The Hebrew Republic: Jewish Sources and the Transformation of European Political Thought (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010), 1-22. Steven Grosby, “Hebraism: The Third Culture,” in, Judaic Sources and Western Thought, ed. Jonathan A. Jacobs (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 73-96. 10 See for example: Roshwald, The Endurance of Nationalism, 175-180. Daniel T. Rodgers, As a City on the Hill: The Story of America’s Most Famous Lay Sermon (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2018), 44-57, 264-279; Michael Walzer, Exodus and Revolution (New York: Basic Books, 1985). 11 This approach was evident in the work of political philosophers such as Thomas Hobbes, John Locke, John Selden, and Baruch Spinoza. See: Nelson, The Hebrew Republic, 88-137, esp. 92-94. 12 In modern times, many viewed the Bible as a human work that should be understood in historical context, instead of a sacred text. See James L. Kugel, The Bible as It Was (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997); James L. Kugel, How to Read the Bible: A Guide to Scripture, Then and Now (New York: Free Press, 2007). 13 Alan T. Levenson, The Making of the Modern Jewish Bible: How Scholars in Germany, Israel, and America Transformed an Ancient Text (Lanham, Maryland: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2011), 13-16; Jonathan Sheehan, The Enlightenment Bible: Translation, Scholarship, Culture (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2007), 44; Steven Nadler, Spinoza—A Life, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018).

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study of the Bible as it developed in modern times. But more importantly in the case of Jewish nationalism, it was essentially a political argument against theocracy and in favor of a modern nation-state.14 For this reason, in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, Spinoza’s enterprise captured the imagination of many Jewish nationalists, from Moses Hess to David Ben Gurion.15 As Israel’s prime minister, Ben Gurion expressed his pride that Spinoza had “predicted” the reestablishment of the Jewish state in modern times.16 During the eighteenth and the nineteenth centuries, the Jewish Enlightenment movement (Haskalah) developed and spread in Jewish communities around Europe and North Africa.17 The Hebrew language and the Hebrew Bible were at the center of the activities of the Berlin Jewish maskilim.18 The Jewish Enlightenment movement viewed the Bible as a powerful tool for promoting values of secular knowledge, along with preserving Jewish heritage.19 Early Zionist thinkers mainly in Eastern Europe continued to uphold these basic ideas of secular knowledge and reason, and adopted a historical attitude to the Bible.20

Zionist Thinkers and the Bible Early Zionist intellectuals and leaders highlighted the importance of the Bible as a historical national text, with most emphasizing the centrality of the Bible in

14 Nadler, Spinoza—A Life, 332. 15 Hess, Rome and Jerusalem; Moses Hess, The Holy History of Mankind, ed. Shlomo Avienri (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 32-34, 136-139; Nahum Sokolow, Baruch Spinoza u-zmano: midrash be-filosofiya u-ve-korot ha-itim (Paris: Voltaire, 1929); Ya’akov Klatzkin, Baruch Spinoza: hayav, sefarav, shitato (Tel Aviv: Masada, 1954), 13-40. See Levenson, The Making of the Modern Jewish Bible, 4-5, 9-25, 103-132. 16 Daniel B. Schwartz, The First Modern Jew: Spinoza and the History of an Image (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2012), 149. See also, 113-153, esp. 147-153. 17 Shmuel Feiner, The Jewish Enlightenment (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 68-84. 18 Shmuel Feiner, Moses Mendelssohn: Sage of Modernity (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010), 180-186. 19 Feiner, Moses Mendelssohn, 165-67. The Zionist education continued the Jewish Enlightenment approach, see: Jacobus Schoneveld, The Bible in Israeli Education: A Study of Approaches to the Hebrew Bible in Israeli Educational Literature (Amsterdam: Van Gorcum, 1976), 7-11; Tali Tadmor Shimony, “Teaching the Bible as a Common Culture,” Jewish History 21 (2007): 159-178. 20 Shmuel Feiner, Milhemet tarbut: ha-haskalah ha-yehudit ba-meah ha-19 ( Jerusalem: Carmel, 2010), 76-94, 298-335.

The Hebrew Bible as a National Model

forming the “new Jew.”21 As we will see, the formation of the Zionist consciousness in the education system in the Jewish Yishuv in Palestine was fundamentally connected to the Bible stories in its traditional form. Allan Arkush emphasized the view of some prominent secular Zionist thinkers who embraced the study of biblical criticism at the turn of the twentieth century.22 The perspective presented here explores the influence of the Zionist thought on the Hebrew culture and education as it developed in the pre-state period in the Land of Israel. One example of an early Zionist thinker who made the connection between Zionism and the Bible was Moshe Leib Lilienblum (1843-1910). He wrote extensively on the Bible and early Jewish history, demonstrating his deep knowledge of the Bible and his interest in Bible research. After becoming a Zionist intellectual and one of the leaders of Hibbat Zion movement, Lilienblum adopted a relatively conservative position regarding the tension between religion and nationalism. He saw the Bible as a national work that development within several historical contexts of the Jewish people.23 Lilienblum emphatically rejected the documentary hypothesis and the assumption that the Bible was written during the Babylonian Exile or the time of Ezra. He thought that the biblical text, even if written later than the period it described, expressed an ancient oral tradition that faithfully documented the life of the ancient Israelites. As a nationalist scholar, Lilienblum thought that students of the Bible must study the text carefully and use logic to explain the textual contradictions. But he also fiercely opposed negating the historical value of the biblical text, and the trend to “deny the existence of the forefathers.”24 His national approach is evident from the way he understood the biblical text as a realistic story of an ancient people. As Lilienblum asserted: We should trust in historical faith and consider the Exodus [from Egypt] to be a historical act that actually took place in some way. This is the case for our other memories as well. The critics may post-date the time of writing for whichever memories they so desire, but we cannot deny that the national legends, which were

21 For the concept of the “new Jew” see: Conforti, ‘“The New Jew’ in the Zionist Movement.” 22 Allan Arkush, “Biblical Criticism and Cultural Zionism Prior to the First World War,” Jewish History 21 (2007): 121-158. On the relations between modern Jewish scholars and biblical criticism. See also Shavit and Eran, The Hebrew Bible Reborn, 85-155. 23 Moshe Leib Lilienblum, “Le toldot hitpatchut ha-de’ot ve-ha-minhagim be-yisrael bi-yemei kedem,” Pardes 3 (1897): 46-60. 24 See Moshe Leib Lilienblum, “Reshit toldot Yisrael,” Ha-Shiloah 1 (1897): 166-177, 364-371; cited from 167.

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passed down from one generation to another before writing spread among the people, have historical value.25 Due to his national view Lilienblum supported the value of the Bible as a record of the early history of the Jewish people. This approach became integrated into Zionist education in the Jewish Yishuv in the Land of Israel. Unlike Lilienblum, some early Zionist thinkers adopted a tone of contempt in their attitude toward religion and the cultural value of the Bible. For example, Yosef Haim Brenner’s position on the Bible. Brenner, a leading Zionist writer, cast doubt on the Bible’s importance to Zionism. In an article published in Hapo’el Hatza’ir (November 1910), Brenner stated: “For myself, the Old Testament does not have the same value that all proclaim as the ‘sacred writings,’ ‘the Book of books,’ ‘the Eternal Book’ and so on. I was long ago released from the hypnosis of the twenty-four books of the Bible.”26 His article provoked furious reactions within the Yishuv in Palestine and among Zionist leaders in Europe. His use of phrases such as the “Old Testament” (Ha-brit ha-yeshana) towards the Hebrew Bible, his criticism of the accepted term that prevailed in the Yishuv, “the Book of books,” and other critical statements on the Bible inflamed the controversy.27 Yet, despite Brenner’s senior status in the Yishuv, his position on the importance of the Bible to Zionist education was in the minority.28 In fact, most Zionist intellectuals and educators at the time—secularists as well as traditionalists—granted the Bible an essential role in the national education and consciousness. Ahad Ha’am expressed his opinion in a series of articles during a Yishuv debate on the question of how to teach the Bible in schools. Ahad Ha’am asserted that the Bible was made sacred by the Jewish people during Jewish history. Even if the stories of its protagonists were the products of imagination and not proven historical reality, their presence within the nation’s imagination for thousands of years transformed them into “historical truth.” For example, in “Moses,” a seminal article published in 1914, Ahad Ha’am clarified the distinction between the real figure of Moses and his historical image.

25 Ibid. 26 Nurit Guvrin, “Me’ora Brenner”: ha-ma’avak al hofesh ha-bitui (1910-1913) ( Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1985), Appendix 1,136 (Hapo’el Hatza’ir, 22 Heshvan 1910). 27 Guvrin, Meora Brenner, 145-148. See Anita Shapira, Brenner: sipur hayim (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 2008), 192-207. Brenner wrote his article in response to reports in Jewish publications on the phenomenon of conversion and intermarriage among Russian Jewry, See Shmuel Schneider, Olam ha-masoret ha-yehudit be-kitvei Yosef Haim Brenner (Tel Aviv: Reshafim, 1994), 55-73. 28 Shavit and Eran, The Hebrew Bible Reborn, 43.

The Hebrew Bible as a National Model

The importance of Moses lies in his historical-cultural image throughout Jewish history. In his words: “Moses of our own, whose image has been enshrined in hearts of the Jewish people for centuries, and who has never ceased to influence our national life from the earliest time to the present day.”29 Ahad Ha’am thus formed a national approach toward the Bible and its values and symbols. In his view, the Bible enabled modern Jews to identify with their national past even if they did not accept its religious significance. Hence Ahad Ha’am saw the need to preserve the literal biblical text as a national asset. Ahad Ha’am’s approach had a major impact on the Jewish Yishuv education in Palestine. We therefore learn that Zionist thinkers assumed that while the biblical text was not necessarily divine in origin, it did describe the true history of the ancient people of Israel.

The Hebrew Bible and Zionist Education The Bible in its traditional form became the founding text of Zionist education in Palestine. The Bible enabled Zionism to overcome ideological differences between the secular, traditional, and religious groups in the Yishuv, creating a common ground based on a vital connection to the land, the Hebrew language, and national fraternity. I will demonstrate my argument by discussing prominent thinkers and educators who influenced Bible instruction in the different streams of Zionist education in the Yishuv.30 There were differences between the secular mode of Bible study in the Labor stream, the more traditional General stream, and the religious Mizrachi stream. Still, all educational streams emphasized the importance of teaching the Bible as the “Book of books” that laid the foundation for educating the Zionist “new Jews.” Ben Zion Mossinson (1878-1942), a scholar, Zionist leader, and teacher at the Herzliya Gymnasium, called for teaching the Bible using secular methods that fit the national worldview: In the Bible we find the remainder of the original national literature of the Jewish people, who lived in freedom in the Land of Israel during the First and Second Temple periods. Thus the

29 Ahad Ha’am, Kol kitvei, 342. 30 The Zionist educational streams were formed after the First World War. See Conforti, Zman Avar, 216-222; Rachel Elboim Dror, Ha-chinuch ha-ivri be-Eretz Israel, vols. 1-2 ( Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1986-1990), 1:281-282, 2:15-93.

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“Book of Books” reflects the free will of the Jewish people much more than in anything the people have created after that time. Herein lies the value of the Bible. This book is the only mirror that reflects our glorious past. For this poor and lowly people, wanderers without land or language, repressed and persecuted by their neighbors—it is the sole source of inspiration for a different life, a life of freedom and honor.31 Mossinson thought to create an anthology of Bible stories that would emphasize the role of the Prophets. Mossinson’s secular approach was expressed in the curriculum of Gymnasia Herzliya, and it became the target of criticism from religious circles as well as from many educators in the cultural Zionist camp in Palestine.32 The Gymnasia curricula emphasized secular national aspects of the Bible, yet it placed the Bible at the foundation of national education.33 Mossinson was not afraid to mix biblical criticism with Bible teaching in schools, and this provoked controversy among many educators in the Yishuv.34 Mossinson’s approach to teaching the Bible met with criticism from Ahad Ha’am and other educators such as Zalman Epstein (1860-1936), who strongly objected to the Gymnasium’s secular attitude toward religion in general. For Epstein, as an intellectual from the cultural camp, the relationship between religion and nationalism in the Zionist education should develop in a moderate direction, not as a revolutionary path. Epstein concluded with a tone of sorrow: “At the Hebrew Gymnasium in Jaffa, the studies of Jewish religion was completely removed from the curriculum.”35 Haim Aryeh Zuta (1868-1939) was one of the most senior and influential teachers on biblical instruction and on Bible curricula during the Yishuv period. He thought that the Bible was the most important source for defining Zionist values. In his view, the Bible was the source of Zionism and Jewish values: “There is no more valuable book for Jewish nationalist religious education than

31 Ben Zion Mossinson, “Ha-tanakh be-veit ha-sefer,” Ha-Hinuch, vol. 1 (1910), 23-32, 110-119; citation from 24-25. 32 Programa le’khol shnot ha-limud: ha-gimnasia ha-ivrit be-yafo ( Jerusalem: Agudat Ha-Gimnasia, 1907), 38-44. 33 Schoneveld, The Bible in Israeli Education, 24-38. 34 Baruch Ben-Yehuda, Sipura shel ha-gimnasia herzliya (Tel Aviv: Herzliya Gymnasium, 1970), 95-114. 35 Zalman Epstein, “Ha-gimnasia ha-ivrit be-yafo,” in Shapira, Ha-tanakh ve-ha-zehut ha-yisraelit, 57-67; citation from 62. For Ahad Ha’am’s criticism of Bible teaching at the Herzliya Gymnasium, see: ibid., 69-80.

The Hebrew Bible as a National Model

this eternal Book.”36 According to Zuta, Bible education could help connect the “new Jew” with the “old Jew,” tradition and progress, Jewish sources, and modern nationalism. In the curriculum that he formulated in 1929, he wrote, “For us, teaching the Bible, in all schools and for all parties, is a central focus from which the other nationalist subjects branch out: homeland, Jewish history from its inception, Hebrew language, piyyut [liturgical poetry], ethics, and tradition.”37 For him, beyond serving as a primer for religious faith, the Bible was supremely relevant to the present: “For us, sanctity is not only the main principle, but the stories of our lives, our history, the simple and pure customs of our forefathers, in our land where we are now settled.”38 Zuta outlined a moderately traditional view that had a strong influence on the entire Yishuv education system. Pinchas Schiffman (1873-1945), an influential Yishuv educator and literary scholar, represents the middle ground between religious and general education in the Yishuv period. As a teacher in the Mizrachi stream he achieved a harmonious integration between traditional, yeshiva-style education and the Enlightenment, nationalist style.39 Schiffman published articles in Ahad Ha’am’s Ha-Shiloah and books on education and pedagogy. He taught at Lida Yeshiva, founded by Rabbi Reines, and after immigrating to Palestine, he became a teacher at the religious Tachkemoni School and at Talpiyot Teachers’ College. His activity within religious Zionist circles did not prevent him from participating in cultural Zionism and becoming a follower of Ahad Ha’am and Bialik. His approach to Bible instruction demonstrated an impressive integration of the religious aspect and the Enlightenment. In his article “On the Question of Bible Teaching in Elementary School,” he addressed the question of how the secular school can teach Bible. In his words: “Can a secular teacher teach Bible to his students?”40 he acknowledged the difficulties and yet, Schiffman stated, “Although our beliefs today vary from the beliefs of our ancestors in many areas. Still, their creation was eternal. Consciously or not, it lives within us, and we must continue to weave our creative national-historic texture.”41 Thus, in his writings we find comprehensive treatment of Enlightenment ideas, but he emphasized that the teacher should not ignore the religious aspect of the Biblical text. For him teaching Torah laws was not religious propaganda,

36 Haim Aryeh Zuta, “Ha-melamed ve-ha-moreh,” Ha-Shiloah 21 (1914): 107. 37 Haim Aryeh Zuta, Nisayon shel tokhnit meforetet le-limudei ha-tanakh be-veit ha-sefer ha-amami ( Jerusalem: Histadrut Ha-Morim Ha-Ivriyim Be-Eretz Yisrael, 1929), 6-7. 38 Ibid., 7. 39 Shabbtai Don Yehiyeh, “Ish Yakar,” Ha-Tzofeh (May 11, 1945). 40 Pinchas Schiffman, Tarbut ve-hinukh (Tel Aviv: Shtibel, 1934), 58-79. 41 Ibid., 79.

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but rather a pedagogic and educational requirement.42 In Schiffman’s view, Bible instruction had educational value from a national, cultural, and historic standpoint: We must not blur or reject the religious character of the Bible, because this would be a forgery of the truth. To the creators of the Bible, religion was the foundation of life, their worldview. These works have operated in this way for many generations. [. . .] Thus it is absolute historical truth. We must accept the Bible as it came from its creators, and as it was accepted and has existed for two thousand years.43 From this we learn that Schiffman’s position was close to Ahad Ha’am’s and Bialik’s approach, although as said, he was one of the most senior teachers in the religious education of the Mizrachi stream. Shelomo Dov Goitein (1900-1985), the educator, historian, and prolific scholar, was also one of the most prominent teachers during the Yishuv period. In the 1930s, Goitein taught at the Reali secular School in Haifa, which was identified with the Labor camp.44 In his article “The Theoretical Foundations of Bible Teaching in Hebrew Schools” (1939), he addressed the question of how to teach the Bible in secular schools. He expressed a positive attitude toward the religious component of Bible teaching. Goitein asserted that the Bible contained all necessary aspects for national education, but that educators should not ignore the religious aspects which formed the main body of the text.45 Goitein described and criticized the shift that took place in Bible teaching during the Yishuv period. This change led to an emphasis on teaching the Prophets and the Writings, and preference for the national stories over the Jewish Law in the five books of Moses.46 Goitein argued that during the Yishuv period, the Bible was accepted among all educational streams as a major subject in the curriculum because it contained strong national symbols; it represented

42 Ibid., 65-66. 43 Ibid., 78. 44 On Goitein as a Bible teacher, see Schoneveld, The Bible in Israeli Education, 50-57. 45 Shelomo Dov Goitein, “Al ha-yesodot ha-iyuni’im shel hora’at ha-tanakh be-veit ha-sefer ha-ivri,” in Al ha-hinukh ha-tikhoni ha-ivri be-Eretz Yisrael, ed. Y. H. Roth ( Jerusalem: R. Mass, 1939), 41. 46 On the teaching of the biblical books of the Prophets in Zionist education, see: Tamar Lammfromm, “Hazon ha-nevi’im be-ma’arekhet ha-hinukh be-yisrael: mi-nekhes le-netel,” in Ilany and Ben-Amos, Goy kadosh, 168-191.

The Hebrew Bible as a National Model

national literature; it returned the people to their homeland; it was a primer for teaching the early history of the nation; and it was a universal work of literature. For Goitein, there was no need or reason to avoid the religious component at the foundation of the biblical text. In his view, most of the Bible teachers in Palestine were not hostile toward religion. His message to educators was: “The teacher must know that Bible teaching which ignores or degrades the foundations of religion is distorting and destructive. [. . .] The words of the prophets are an integral part of the sacred texts. The Five Books of Moses and the Psalms have played an even more important role within the Jewish people and the nations of the world.”47 In other words, Goitein ruled out the overemphasis on the non-religious foundations of the Bible in national education. He repeatedly emphasized the importance of the religious aspect in inspiring the students to love the Bible.48 The political split between the various streams of education during the Yishuv period disturbed many of the Zionist educators. This led to the founding of the Jewish National Fund ( JNF) Teacher’s Council, which aimed to serve as a common Zionist ground for all. This organization operated in the Land of Israel of Israel, under the leadership of prominent figures in the Yishuv. The JNF Teacher’s Council viewed the Bible as a valuable tool for educating the youth.49 As one teacher wrote, Bible teaching was intended “to inspire the Hebrew-Zionist personality [. . .] to fight for justice and honesty and for the renewal of the nation. For us the Bible is the proven and trusted tool to educate the Zionist, our true citizen. The Bible is the purest reflection of Jewish life in the return to its land.”50 Ben Zion Dinaburg (Dinur, 1884-1973) was a teacher and director of the Jerusalem Teachers’ Seminary, a leading historian at the Hebrew University. Eventually, Dinur became a Knesset member for Mapai and served as Israel’s Minister of Education (1951-1955). Dinur began to teach history and Bible soon after his arrival to Palestine.51 He was particularly fond of using the Bible as a valuable source of inspiration for his young students.52 Dinur combined the religious world of his youth with Zionist ideology and the secular worldview of the Enlightenment. Like Bialik, with whom he had had 47 Ibid., 66. 48 Ibid., 81. 49 Sitton, Hinuch be-ruah ha-moledet, 86-90. 50 Aaron Orinowsky, “Ma’hu hinukh tsiyoni,” Shorashim 1 (1936): 12-13. Zvi Zohar expresses a similar attitude in Eretz Yisrael be-hinukhenu ( Jerusalem: Keren Kayemet, 1940), 123-25. 51 Arielle Rein, ed. Ben Zion Dinur ktavim: hadashim ve-gam yeshanim, 157. 52 Aside from his work as an historian and a Bible teacher, he was an active Bible scholar and published several studies on the Bible. See Ben Zion Dinur, Ktavim histori’im, vol. 3, Ba-mikra u’be-dorotav ( Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1977).

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a close relationship in Odessa after the First World War, Dinur also gave the religious element, and its emphasis on personal commitment, a central position in his national doctrine. While Bialik transferred the element of sanctity to the realm of nationalism, Dinur drew his concept of national obligation from the traditional Jewish ideal of learning Torah.53 Dinur placed great importance on the in-depth study of the canonical Jewish texts—the Bible and the Talmud.54 In 1947, Dinur asserted: “Torah means compelling awareness, principles for life, worldview, and human character. The Bible has built the Jewish people and formed human character.”55 Dinur followed Bialik, who viewed teaching the Bible as a fundamental principle of Jewish nationalism. This view of Bible teaching does not identify with the Orthodox approach. Rather, it emphasizes traditional values and their importance in forming the character of the “new Jew.” The diverse approaches within Zionism and the controversy surrounding the understanding of the biblical text—as divine or human in origin—should not obscure the fact that the Bible served as a fundamental and unifying text within the Zionist movement. In the Jewish Yishuv in the Land of Israel, the stories of the Bible were given concrete national meaning. The common use of the biblical term olim (those who go up to the land of Israel) to refer to Jewish immigrants to Palestine is only one example. In creating new Hebrew literature and poetry, Zionist culture adopted and integrated the stories of the Exodus from Egypt and the desert generation,56 the conquest of the land, the settlement, the monarchy, the return to Zion (Shivat Zion), the building of the walls of Jerusalem in the days of Nehemiah, the Maccabean, and many other narratives of the ancient Israelites.57 The traditional Jewish holidays were given a new national meaning, especially Passover, Shavuot, and Hanukkah.58 Uriel Simon has called the Zionist use of the Bible “national midrash,” while Charles Liebman and Eliezer Don-Yehiya termed it “civil religion.”59 Either way, the fact

53 Ben Zion Dinur, Bi-yemei milhama u-mahapekha: zikhronot u-reshumot mi-derekh hayim (19141921) ( Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1960), 442-477. 54 Rein, Historyion be-binuy umah, 52-53, 111-112. 55 Ben Zion Dinur, “Hakhsharat morim le-batei ha-sefer ha-ivri’im ba-golah ve-darkheihah,” in Ha-hinukh ha-ivri bi-tfutzot ha-golah ( Jerusalem: The Hebrew University, 1948), 61-62. 56 Walzer, Exodus and Revolution, 11. Walzer pointed out that the Western national revolutions— including Zionism—adopted the narrative of Exodus. Namely: “Egypt, the wilderness, the promised land.” 57 David C. Jacobson, Does David Still Play Before You? Israeli Poetry and the Bible (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1996), 17-38. 58 Yitzhak Conforti, “Zionist Awareness of the Jewish Past: Inventing Tradition or Renewing the Ethnic Past?” Studies in Ethnicity and Nationalism 12, no. 1 (2012): 155-171. 59 Charles S. Liebman and Eliezer Don-Yehiya, Civil Religion in Israel: Traditional Judaism and Political Culture in the Jewish State (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), 30-40.

The Hebrew Bible as a National Model

that the Bible stories was used so frequently at the peak of the Zionist era shows its centrality in national consciousness during the British Mandate in Palestine and the first decades of the State of Israel. Bialik’s words truly reflect the attitude to the Bible of the Zionist movement at that time: “The Jewish people and Bible constantly continued to enrich each other and were enriched by each other.”60 David Ben Gurion, the first prime minister of Israel, adopted national and universalist values from the Bible. But during the early years of the state, his main interest in the Bible was focused on concrete historical issues, such as conquering the land, settlement, the kingdoms of David and Solomon, and the return to Zion during the reigns of Cyrus and Darius. These became the main subjects of discussion in the Bible study group he hosted in the prime minister’s residence.61 Despite Ben Gurion’s secular approach, he did not challenge the historical truth of the Bible. On the contrary, he thought that the Bible was a faithful reflection of the story of ancient Israel.62 This approach was also characteristic of Zionist biblical scholar Yehezkel Kaufmann, who stated: The Jewish faith is a national creation, and it is imprinted in a national form—this is a historic fact to which all admit. The Jewish faith was created in the garb of national culture. It was part of Jewish history, rooted in its national land, and attached to its historic fate. Its expressions and symbols are Israel-national.63 Kaufmann interpreted the Book of Joshua as a realistic historical book that correctly describes the conquest of the land and the settlement.64 As we have seen, during the Yishuv period in Palestine, the Hebrew Bible became the manual for the practical life of Zionist movement activists, as well as a vital source for national inspiration.

Simon, Ma’amad ha-mikra ba-hevra ha-yisraelit. 60 Bialik, The Hebrew Book, 29. 61 Anita Shapira, “Ben-Gurion ve-ha-tanakh: yetzirato shel narativ histori?” in Bartal, Ha-agalah ha-mle’ah: me’ah ve-esrim shnot tarbut yisrael, 120-146. 62 Shavit and Eran, The Hebrew Bible Reborn, 455-56. 63 Yehezkel Kaufmann, Mi-kivshonah shel ha-yetzirah ha-mikra’it (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1966), 34. 64 Yehezkel Kaufmann, The Biblical Account of the Conquest of Palestine, trans. M. Dagut ( Jerusalem: Magnes, 1953).

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On the Verge of Statehood Finally, I would like to highlight the connection between the Bible and the founding document of the State of Israel—the Declaration of Independence. The process of articulating the Declaration of Independence of the State of Israel spanned several months before the declaration of independence on May 14, 1948. As Yoram Shahar has shown in his extensive research on the creation of the declaration, various drafts of the Declaration of Independence began to emerge as early as January 1948 in the political department of the Jewish Agency and in the legal secretariat operating in the Jewish Agency buildings in Jerusalem.65 Various individuals, including legal professionals, experts in international law, and politicians from within and outside the Yishuv, were involved in crafting the Declaration of Independence. The different drafts of the Declaration throughout this period, especially in April and May 1948, were influenced by the personal orientation of the drafters, whether it was the professional orientation of lawyers with Anglo-Saxon or German backgrounds or a political orientation. The authors of these drafts were influenced by international documents such as the American Declaration of Independence, declarations of independence of various other countries, and the United Nations Charter, and relied on UN Resolution 181 (November 29, 1947), which established the creation of a Jewish state. The national thought since the early modern era was profoundly influenced by the Hebrew Bible. The Declaration of Independence expressed not only the political justification for the existence of the state but also the unique historical narrative of the Jewish people and their connection to the Land of Israel. In this context, I will briefly discuss David Ben-Gurion’s contribution to the final wording of the Declaration of Independence. Ben-Gurion made numerous stylistic changes to the drafts preceding the declaration. Among other things, he formulated the opening paragraph:66 “The Land of Israel was the birthplace of the Jewish people. Here their spiritual, religious and political identity was shaped. Here they first attained to statehood, created cultural values of national and universal significance and gave to the world the eternal Book of Books.” I wish to highlight three elements in this paragraph. Firstly, Ben-Gurion emphasized the Jewish connection to the Land of Israel as the homeland of the

65 Yoram Shahar, Kavod, herut ve-amal yesharim: sipur hiburah shel hakhrazat ha-atzma’ut (Tel Aviv: Ben Gurion University Press and Tel Aviv University Press, 2021), 23-27. 66 Ibid., 190.

The Hebrew Bible as a National Model

Jewish people. Secondly, he stated that the Jewish people once had a kingdom in ancient times in the Land of Israel. Thirdly, the Jewish people gave humanity the gift of the “eternal Book of Books,” the Hebrew Bible. These three elements correspond with the historical right upon which Ben-Gurion based the right of return of the Jews to their land. Firstly, a right anchored in the ancient Jewish story in the Bible. Secondly, the principle of statehood (mamlakhtiyut) was a central foundation in Ben-Gurion’s political thought from the 1930s; this concept was one of Ben-Gurion’s most significant contributions to shaping Israeli democracy for future generations.67 Thirdly, the reference to the Jewish people’s contribution to humanity corresponds with Western political thought from the beginnings of national thought in the seventeenth century up to the twentieth century.68 That is, the Bible served for Ben-Gurion not only as an essential text for youth education but also as a proof text for the renewal of the Jewish state in the Land of Israel. In addition to this, the Bible served as the model for Jewish political sovereignty, as well as the moral aspect, both national and universal, that the Jewish state aspired to be a part of the family of nations. Ben-Gurion formulated the tenth article of the Declaration of Independence: “This right is the natural right of the Jewish people to be masters of their own fate, like all other nations, in their own sovereign state.” Based on the previous formulation suggested by Shertok, the democratic principles of Israel are founded not only on Western political tradition but also on Jewish heritage and the Bible: The State of Israel [. . .] will foster the development of the country for the benefit of all its inhabitants; it will be based on freedom, justice and peace as envisaged by the prophets of Israel; it will ensure complete equality of social and political rights to all its inhabitants irrespective of religion, race or sex; it will guarantee freedom of religion, conscience, language, education and culture.69

67 Nir Keidar, Mamlakhtiyut: ha-tfisah ha-ezrahit shel David Ben-Gurion (Be’er Sheva and Jerusalem, Yad Ben-Zvi, 2009). 68 Neil Rogachevsky and Dov Zigler, Israel’s Declaration of Independence: The History and Political Theory of the Nation’s Founding Moment (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2023), 195-232. See, for example, how the Palestine Royal Commission characterized the Jews’ contribution to the world as justification for their right to a state in the Land of Israel: “The gift of Hebraism in ancient Palestine to modern world must rank with the gifts of ancient Greece and Rome” (Palestine Royal Commission—Report, 4). 69 Minhelet ha-am: protokolim, April 18–May 13, 1948, Jerusalem: State Archives, 120-122. (author’s emphasis—Y. C.).

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Ben-Gurion and the provisional leadership were drafting of the Declaration of Independence during the challenging times of the War of Independence, amid the Arab siege of Jerusalem and the fall of Gush Etzion. Despite the difficulties, they intended this document to serve as the foundation for Israel’s future constitution. The explicit incorporation of the Bible in the opening paragraph and its subtle presence throughout the declaration served a dual purpose. It not only justified the natural and historical right to the Land of Israel, but also expressed the aspiration for the State of Israel to embody universal principles of “peace, justice, and equality.”70 Ben-Gurion explicitly referred to the Bible in the opening paragraph of the Declaration of Independence, partly as a result of debates within the Moetzet ha’Am (People’s Council). The discussions involved secular-socialist member Aaron Zisling who opposed any reference to God in the declaration, and the religious faction, represented by Moshe Shapira and Rabbi Yehuda Leib Maimon (Fishman), who explicitly wanted to include God’s name, as in the American Declaration of Independence. As we know, the compromise reached in the drafts was encapsulated in the concluding phrase, “with trust in the Rock of Israel (Tzur Yisrael).” During the discussion held on the eve of the declaration, on May 13, 1948, Bechor-Shalom Sheetrit—the only Sephardic representative in Minhelet ha’Am (the proto-cabinet), who viewed the Bible as a clear testament to Israel’s tradition—criticized the fact that the Bible was not explicitly mentioned in the latest draft presented by Moshe Shertok at that time: “The declaration begins from the time the people were exiled from their land. Before that, there was something—a people upholding religion and tradition. It’s impossible for us not to mention our Book of Books. Apostasy among the Jews began not so long ago.”71 When Ben-Gurion, after the meeting on May 13, formulated the opening paragraph and mentioned the Bible as the “eternal Book of Books,” he was expressing a consensus within the Yishuv. This consensus bridged those who saw the Bible as a divine religious book and those who viewed it as a human document that described the ancient past of the Jewish people and embodied eternal national and universal values.

70 Rogachevsky and Zigler, Israel’s Declaration of Independence, 195-201. 71 Minhelet ha-am: protokolim, 126 (author’s emphasis—Y. C.). Bechor Shalom Sheetrit (18951967) was born in Tiberias and had a traditional education. He served as a minister in the State of Israel’s governments for eighteen years, from independence in 1948 until shortly before his death in 1967.

The Hebrew Bible as a National Model

Conclusion This chapter offers another example of the importance of the cultural approach in studying Jewish nationalism. Unlike the modernist approach, which either overlooks the contribution of cultural elements or, at best, views them as instrumental political manipulation, labeled as “invented traditions” or “imagined communities,” the cultural approach highlighted here demonstrates that recognizing the centrality of premodern cultural elements, such as the Hebrew Bible, allows for a broader and more nuanced understanding of the modern Zionist consciousness. Of the premodern cultural sources that shaped modern Jewish nationalism, the Hebrew Bible stands out as the most prominent work. Zionism viewed the Bible as a foundational text because it contained two fundamental pillars that the movement lacked: language and place. Zionism also focused on Bible stories as a unifying historical element, glorifying the biblical period as the “golden age” of Judaism. Further, the Zionists used the Bible as a guide to educate the youth as “new Jews.” As we have seen, beginning in the early modern era, the Hebrew Bible served as a model for modern nationalism in the West. Prominent leaders and political philosophers in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries referred to the Hebrew Bible as a model to shape the early modern nation-states. In the Jewish Enlightenment movement in Central and Eastern Europe, the Bible was given a central place in modern Jewish education and culture. Unlike their view of the Talmud, the maskilim valued the Bible as a tool for preserving Jewish tradition on the one hand and promoting modern values on the other. This trend continued even more strongly with the rise of Jewish nationalism at the end of the nineteenth century. During the Yishuv period in the Land of Israel, the Bible served as a common ground for all streams of Hebrew education. In spite of internal conflicts and diverse understandings of the text, the Zionist leaders and intellectuals granted the Bible national sanctity, whether they viewed it as a divine or human creation. As shown, during the process of establishing a modern Jewish nation-state David Ben Gurion derived both national and universal principles from the Bible. The consensus in the Yishuv regarding the significance of the Bible in Zionism is reflected in Israel’s Declaration of Independence.

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Epilogue

I began this book by distinguishing between different approaches in nationalism research: the modernist position versus the cultural perspective. The modernist approach emphasizes the need to understand national movements and nation-states in a modern context, viewing them as new phenomena, not rooted in premodern history. Therefore, an in-depth analysis of politics, economics, and the secular planning of the nation-state is key to decoding nationalism as a historical phenomenon. Proponents of this view suggest that history and cultural traditions are merely backdrops in shaping modern national identities. Scholars like Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger introduced the concept of “invention of tradition” to explain how national movements forged the identities of modern national communities. National movements, they argue, created new traditions to mold collective consciousness to suit the agenda of political and economic elites. Benedict Anderson’s influential work Imagined Communities also portrayed the cultural aspect of modern nationalism as a tool wielded by political and economic powers. The considerable impact of these theories on recent decades of nationalism studies has led scholars to argue that Jewish nationalism too invented a nation and crafted an imagined community, nonexistent before the modern era. The central argument of this book proves the opposite. The Jewish community and Jewish tradition, very real and not imagined, existed long before

Epilogue

the modern era. Contrary to the modernist position, which gives little weight to the historical past of the national community, this book demonstrates the importance and centrality of premodern cultural elements in the context of the Zionist movement. The case studies discussed earlier showed that the cultural component in Jewish nationalism was a fundamental, primary, and no less significant element than the political and economic aspects in the context of Zionism. The uniqueness of Jewish nationalism lies in the fact that Zionism emerged as a diaspora nationalism. Zionism represents a continuation of an ethnic Jewish community that sustained its distinctiveness throughout centuries in the diaspora. A shared ethnic Jewish culture was crucial for the Jewish national movement’s success, which initially lacked a territorial aspect. The Zionist movement’s ability to rally Jews from around the world stemmed from their identification with their ethnic and cultural history. The formation of a Jewish national identity could not have been accomplished through a “top-down” invention of tradition without a “bottom-up” identification rooted in an existing traditional cultural consciousness. Therefore, the cultural approach to studying nationalism is particularly suited to exploring Zionism. As demonstrated, this approach enables a deeper understanding of the internal elements and the subjective world of Jewish nationalism’s activists and leaders. Examining the Zionists’ perception of their world helps uncover the values, symbols, myths, and historical memories that underpinned the Zionist movement. In this respect, I have highlighted the influence of the ethno-symbolism approach and cultural studies on the structure and conclusions of this research.1 The long Jewish cultural tradition has laid a strong foundation for shaping the modern Jewish national consciousness. It is for good reason that Zionism, in both its religious and secular forms, embraced the Bible as the pivotal text for rejuvenating Jewish nationalism.2 The debate over the Uganda Plan, detailed in the fifth chapter, shows how the emotional connection to the Land of Israel transcended mere political and rational considerations, highlighting the significance of ancient myths in Zionism. The national use of premodern Jewish tradition can indeed be seen as an invention of tradition, a tool that reshaped the original meaning of Jewish traditions. Examples include the modernist reinterpretation

1 Smith, Ethno-Symbolism, 13-40. This approach is influenced by the study of culture in general. See Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures. 2 See above, chapter 7.

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of Jewish holidays by Zionism, such as Passover, Shavuot, Hanukkah, and Tu Bi-Shevat.3 However, the distinction between invented traditions and authentic ones is artificial. In every historical period in Jewish history, from ancient times to the modern era, the interpretation of ancient cultural sources has evolved. This renewed interpretation of the past is not unique to Zionism at all. Even scholars of the Mishnah and Talmud created new interpretations of traditions from the Jewish past. The various case studies examined in this book demonstrate how the renewed national interpretation of the Jewish past was made through complete identification with historical Judaism, as interpreted by the different streams of Zionism. This book does not cover all the topics demonstrating the connection between historical Jewish past and Zionism.4 Here I have focused on three main areas: history—the creation of national historical consciousness in early Zionism; politics—the relationship between Jewish culture and Zionist politics; and vision—the Zionist utopia and vision for the future, with the Bible as a model for modern national life in the Land of Israel. Throughout the discussion of each topic, we see the centrality of the cultural element in the Zionist movement. The process of building a nation began with a Hebrew renaissance, reviving ancient Hebrew culture. The national interpretation of Jewish history emerged in response to the crisis of Jewish identity in the age of Emancipation and Enlightenment.5 This process accelerated into a national movement due to antisemitism in Western Europe and the persecution of Jews in Eastern countries. The Jewish national movement, from its early days before evolving into a political entity, proposed a national alternative for modern Jewish identity. Key concepts such as “the spirit of the nation,” “spirit of the Torah,” and “fraternity,” highlighted in Peretz Smolenskin’s writings in the 1870s, aimed to define Jews as a cultural nation. Smolenskin believed that the Jewish people’s spiritual essence was not just tied to religious faith or Torah laws, but also to the principle of national brotherhood and the individual Jew’s commitment to the entire Jewish people. The ideas of collective fraternity and belief in political redemption were central in his definition of a Jew. These notions were further sharpened by Ahad Ha’am in the 1880s and 1890s, who also emphasized love for the Jewish people as a core element of his ideology. 3 Conforti, “Zionist Awareness of the Jewish Past: Inventing Tradition or Renewing the Ethnic Past?” 4 Further research is need on the relationship between Zionism and the Bible, for example. 5 Yerushalmi, Zakhor, 77-103. Amos Funkstein, Tadmit ve-toda’ah historit be-yehadut u-vi-svivatah ha-tarbutit (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1991), 13-30, 279-297.

Epilogue

This national philosophy in early Zionism did not disregard the religious aspects of Jewish history, but predominantly viewed Jews as a historical people. Religion was recognized by these nationalist thinkers as a significant component of Jewish culture, yet not the exclusive factor defining Jewish identity. Their intention was to introduce a national alternative to Jewish identity, in contrast to the Orthodox view on one side and the universalist Reform perspective on the other. This is why the early Zionist thinkers highly regarded the teachings of moderate Jewish Enlightenment scholars, such as Rabbi Nachman Krochmal, Shlomo Yehuda Rapoport, and Samuel David Luzzatto. These figures were seen as presenting an alternative to the predominantly universalist ideas of most German Jewish Enlightenment scholars of the nineteenth century. The traditional approach of these moderate Enlightenment scholars earned them significant respect in the Zionist pantheon, portraying them as exemplary figures worthy of esteem and study. The ethno-cultural stream within Zionism viewed the movement as an evolutionary development from a traditional to a national era. They founded modern Jewish identity on principles of historical unity, national fraternity, and aspirations for political redemption. For them, the Hebrew language was a vital component for national revival, perceived as a tool carrying the Jewish national spirit through its historical evolution. The ideological emphasis on using Hebrew for studying Jewish history, literature, and journalism endowed Zionists with a connection to authentic Judaism. For example, Bialik emphasized the centrality of the Hebrew language to the national unity of the Jewish people, as well as the sacred foundations and national responsibility towards the historical Jewish spiritual treasures. The transformation of traditional terms into modern national concepts, as accomplished by Smolenskin, Ahad Ha’am, Bialik, and others, indicates that a Jewish modern national identity was based on premodern tradition. The deep emotional connection that Zionists felt towards the Jewish past was no less strong or binding than the religious or traditional connection to Judaism. One of the defining factors of any nationalist movement with ethnic and cultural characteristics is the conflict arising within the movement due to a renewed interpretation of the past. We saw above that the dispute between East and West within the Zionist movement essentially sparked the struggle over the desirable character and nature of the Jewish state. The conflict that arose from Ahad Ha’am’s sharp critique of Herzl’s Altneuland proved the opening salvo in an internal Zionist struggle over what Zionism aspires to achieve: whether to create a nation-state like all other nations or to establish a truly Jewish state, as Ahad Ha’am argued.

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According to Ahad Ha’am, Herzl aimed to establish a purely Western state, a “new society” not based at all on Hebrew culture. He envisioned a universalist, civic state designed to solve the social problems of Western Jews, whose sole desire was to live within European culture and emulate it. Nordau, as we recall, attacked Ahad Ha’am, claiming he represented “Asian barbarism,” which was contrary to Western culture, progress, and enlightenment. The debate between the two encompassed the entire Zionist movement, both Eastern and Western Zionism. This initial conflict over whether Zionism aspired to create a civic state or an ethnic state represented seemingly different and opposing positions. Yet the Zionist vision, as established during the Yishuv period and as expressed in the Declaration of Independence of the State of Israel, clearly combined Eastern and Western elements.6 In contemporary Israeli society, the phrase “a Jewish and democratic state” is commonly used to describe these two trends. Although this exact phrase does not explicitly appear in the Declaration of Independence, the document certainly integrates the state’s Jewish ethnic identity with its civic, democratic, and Western character.7 Another issue we have discussed in this book is the fundamental conflict between “the people” and “the land” in Zionism. For the Zionist movement, the Land of Israel was one of the components of the Jewish people’s cultural identity, yet the question of the land’s centrality in the Zionist priorities has been and remains a subject of political debate. When the Uganda Plan was discussed from the Sixth Zionist Congress to the Seventh, the question arose whether Zionism was a movement of the people or a movement based on land. All sides in the dispute based their arguments on ethnic-cultural values, whether they were concerned about the fate of the Jewish people as a result of the pogroms in Russia, or feared that Zionism was abandoning the idea of redemption in the Land of Israel. A similarly intense controversy arose in the 1930s when the Peel Commission’s partition plan was presented to the Zionist movement. A review of the protocols of the Zionist Congress discussions and the internal debates among the various Zionist factions clearly shows how ancient Jewish religious, traditional, symbolic, and mythical motifs deeply penetrated the discussions of the Twentieth Zionist Congress, affecting all streams and parties in Zionism. Despite the controversy, it is noteworthy that the Zionist movement managed these challenging

6 See Shahar, Kavod, herut, esp. 188-200. Rogachevsky and Zigler, Israel’s Declaration of Independence, 195-232. 7 The term “democratic state” appears in several previous versions. See Shahar, Kavod, herut, 92, 115, 119; Conforti, “Between Ethnic and Civic.”

Epilogue

disputes in a democratic way. Thanks to this, Zionism achieved its goal in 1948, establishing a Jewish state in the Land of Israel. In the final part of this book, I examined the Zionist vision both in terms of its futuristic outlook as reflected in literature and utopian thought, and in relation to the modern Jewish consciousness that saw the Bible as a model for modern national life. The discussion on Zionist utopia teaches about the connection between Zionist utopian literature and premodern Jewish traditions. The search for a utopian society is ancient, but in the modern era, particularly since the early modern period, utopia has taken on a more “realistic” societal character.8 Zionist utopian literature expressed the diversity within the movement, including political, cultural, religious, socialist, and revisionist Zionism. The authors of the utopias reviewed expressed a deep connection to Jewish values, symbols, traditions, and premodern myths. The emphasis on religious motifs in Zionist utopias was not unique to religious writers. On the contrary, traditional terms such as the Temple, sacrifices, Sabbath, sabbatical, jubilee, Jerusalem, and more were prominently and surprisingly present in the utopian writing of secular nationalist thinkers. Another common feature of these utopias was the presence of modern thought in this literature, which transformed the Zionist utopia from an abstract idea into a realistic social ideal. The Zionist utopia, in its various forms, was heavily influenced by modern national thought as well as contemporary Western utopian literature. As we have seen, Zionist utopian thought was closely linked to Zionist social and political activities during the British Mandate period in Palestine. This is particularly evident among the socialist camp in Palestine and in attempts to realize utopian ideas within the kibbutz movement. Moreover, the plans for drafting a constitution for the Land of Israel, as formulated by the leadership of the Yishuv, also reflected utopian thinking that aspired to establish a model Jewish state. The Hebrew Bible has been pivotal in shaping national Jewish life in the Land of Israel. The Bible gave Zionism a sense of place, language, and a realistic aspiration for sovereignty, hence becoming a unifying denominator across the Zionist movement, encompassing traditionalists and secularists, Easterners and Westerners alike. The identification with Zionism cut across Ashkenazi and Sephardi Jewish communities, demonstrating the Bible’s broad appeal. Despite debates over its interpretation—whether as a historical human document or a

8 Gregory Claeys, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Utopian Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), xi–xiii; Gregory Claeys, Searching for Utopia: The History of an Idea (London and New York: Thames & Hudson, 2011).

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divine religious text—the Bible was revered with national sanctity during the Yishuv period. It dominated educational curricula before the establishment of the State of Israel, guiding Jewish life in the Land of Israel and influencing the formation of the “new Jew.” The establishment of the Jewish state in the Land of Israel was not a mere coincidence but a significant cultural link between the Jewish past and Zionism. The relationship between the Jewish people and the Land of Israel is deeply rooted in both religion and culture. This enduring bond has continually stirred intense emotions and hopes for national redemption throughout the history of the Zionist movement. To summarize, the cultural sources of Zionism, as explored in this book, highlight the clear connection between Zionism as a modern national movement and the traditional, cultural Jewish past. Values, symbols, myths, historical memories, and ancient Jewish traditions have profoundly shaped the Zionist movement, influencing Jewish historical consciousness, Zionist politics, and its vision for the future. The establishment of Israel as a modern, democratic nation-state amid the challenging and tragic circumstances of the twentieth century relied on two anchors of consciousness: one, the common will to continue the legacy of the Jewish past; and two, the hope for political redemption in the Land of Israel. Israel’s existence today, facing the new challenges presented to the Jewish people in the twenty-first century, also depends on these two elements—common will and hope.

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Index

A  Abaye, 124 Abraham, 104 Adler, Cyrus, 69–70 Africa, 22, 133, 189–92, 196–97, 200–201, 213, 282 Aggadah, 56, 118, 130 Ahad Ha’am (Asher Ginsberg), 10, 19–20, 31, 38–39, 49–50, 61–98, 100–13,119–20, 122–23, 125–28, 130, 135, 137, 144–66, 169–70, 173–74,177, 179–82, 237, 246–49, 264, 284–88, 298–300 Ahavat eretz moledet (Love of the homeland), 36–38 Ahavat Zion, 259 Ahiassaf, 62, 85 Ahimeir, Abba, 260, 267 Aliyah, 187 Alkalai, Yehudah, Rabbi, 21, 233, 235–38 Alliance Israélite Universelle, 39, 45 Almog, Shmuel, 15, 177 Altneuland, 20, 22, 109, 144–46, 153–64, 166–67, 170, 172–81, 239–42, 248, 299 Altneuschul, 239 America, 12, 39, 55, 69–70, 141–42, 156, 188, 193, 281 Anderson, Benedict, 5, 21n45, 279, 296 Arendt, Hanna, 144 Argentina, 189, 200 Arkush, Allan, 283 Armstrong, John, 6, 8 Ashkenaz, 67, 85, 91 Ashkenazi, 154, 163, 174, 238, 301 Asia, 143, 162 Attia, Ali Mohamed Abd El-Rahman, 59n78 Auerbuch, Zvi (Alexander Cheshin), 124 Autoemancipation, 142 Austria, 240 Avineri, Shlomo, 15, 232 B  Babylon, 67, 186 Baer, Yitzhak, 12, 65, 95 Bahar, Jacques, 244–45

Balfour declaration, 125, 203, 205, 208, 263–65, 270–72 Balkan states, 236 Balkans, 36 Bar Giora, 257 Bar-Ilan, Rabbi Meir, 216–17 Baron, Salo W., 11, 95, 96n96 Bartal, Israel, 15, 30 Basel, 142, 150, 165, 188–90, 202, 216 Basnage, Jacques, 94 Bedouins, 245 Beit Israel, 168 Belarus, 32 Belfer, Ella, 15 Bellamy, Edward, 172, 241 Ben Aminadav, Nachshon, 171, 253 Ben Avigdor, 64n6 Ben Israel, Manasseh, 168 Ben Zakkai, Yohanan, 81 Ben-Gurion, David, 145, 186, 205, 209–11, 217, 219–21, 225–26, 232, 261–63, 268–77, 282, 291–95 Ben-Israel, Hedva, 15 Ben-Yehuda, Eliezer, 53–54, 194–95 Ben-Zion, Simcha, 12, 64–65, 95, 110, 125 Ben-Zvi, Yitzhak, 186, 262, 268 Benjamin, Rabbi. See Radler-Feldman, Yehoshua Benjamin, Walter, 21n45 Berdichevsky, Micha Josef, 91–93, 102–5, 107, 122, 124, 145, 163, 257, 270 Berlin, 19, 33, 39, 43, 45, 47–48, 57, 60, 104, 125, 127, 168, 242, 282 Bern, 196 Bernfeld, Simon, 93–96 Betar, 258 Bezalel ben Uri, 248 Bialik, Haim Nachman, 10, 20, 31, 47, 52, 60, 64, 91, 93, 98–101, 103–137, 247, 287–91, 299 Bialik, Manya, 133 Białystok, 218 Biltmore, 274–76 Black Sea, 32

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Bloch, Marc, 2, 9 Bnei Moshe, 19, 62–63, 68, 78, 97, 111, 166, 170, 246–47, 249 Bolshevik revolution, 125 Bonn, 233 Brazil, 175 Breisach, Ernst, 27 Brenner, Michael, 15, 232 Brenner, Yosef Haim, 103, 107, 124, 284 Breuilly, John, 5, 279 Brit Ha-Biryonim, 204, 227, 232n3, 257, 260, 267 Brit Shalom, 143, 179–80, 204, 227, 232n3, 257, 260, 264, 267 Britain, 197, 208–211, 265, 270–71 Buber, Martin, 256–57 Buckle, Henry Thomas, 42n40, 97, 102n5 Bund, 28n3 Burckhardt, Jacob Christoph, 29 C  Cahan, Ya’akov, 257 Cairo Genizah, 70 Canaanite school, 103 Canaanites, 204, 227 Carmel, 168, 186 Caro, Rabbi Yosef, 71, 81 Chamberlain, Joseph, 189, 191 Christianity, 42, 95 Christians, 163, 207–8, 245–46, 266 Clement Hill, 197 Columbia University, 65 Comte, August, 102n5 Constantinople, 156, 197 Crémieux, Adolphe, 236 Croce, Benedetto, 29 Cromwell, Oliver, 46 Cyrus, 291 D  Dahan, Yossi, 11 Damascus affair, 237 Danube, 186 Darius, 291 Darmesteter, James, 66–69 Darnton, Robert, 84 Darwin, Charles, 72, 97, 106 Deutsch, Karl, 5 Diderot, Denis, 78, 84 Dinaburg, . See Dinur, Ben-Zion Dinur, Ben-Zion, 11–13, 65, 95, 125–26, 289–90 Dizengoff, Meir, 125 Don-Yehiya, Eliezer, 290 Dreyfus affair, 245–46, 247n55

Drumont, Édouard Adolphe, 245 Druyanow, Alter 133 Dubnow, Simon, 11, 28n3, 30, 38–39, 64, 66–69, 80–81, 98, 110n27, 185 Dvir, 99–100, 125, 127–29, 133 E  Egypt, 156, 163, 283, 290 Eisler, Menachem Edmond, 242–44, 246 El Arish, 189–90 Elbogen, Ismar Moshe, 100, 127 Elboim-Dror, Rachel, 232–33 Eliav, Mordechai, 13 Elmaleh, Avraham, 133 Elroy, Gur, 194 Engels, Friedrich, 256 England, 6, 40, 42, 86, 142–43, 156, 181, 190, 196, 207, 260, 271, 280–81 Enlightenment, 2–4, 6, 19, 22–23, 28–29, 31–35, 39–49, 52, 55, 57, 60, 77, 84, 89, 96, 119, 131, 147, 152–53, 163, 169, 173, 175, 181, 183, 251, 261, 280, 282, 287, 289, 295, 298–300 Epstein, Ya’akov Nahum, 100, 127, 240 Epstein, Zalman, 286 Eran, Mordechai, 280 Etzion-Geber, 168 Ewald, Heinrich, 94 F  Faisal [bin Hussein bin Alial-Hashemi], Emir, Prince, 263 Farbstein, Yehoshua Heshel, 219 Feiner, Shmuel, 35, 47 Feinstein, Eliyahu, 125 Fichman, Ya’akov, 91, 124 Fishman. Rabbi Yehuda Leib Maimon, 216, 223, 294 Foreign Affairs, 265 Fourier, Charles, 256 France, 42, 86, 143, 156, 181, 207, 244–45 Frankel, Jonathan, 30 Freemasons, 62 French Revolution, 4–5, 22, 42, 46n50, 235, 256 Friedlaender, Israel, 70–71 Frischmann, David, 122–23 G  Galicia, 49 Galilee, 211, 247 Gat, Azar, 6 Geertz, Clifford, 6 Geiger, Abraham, 47, 60, 64, 130–31 Gellner, Ernest, 5, 7–8, 102, 279

Index

Geneva, 212 Germans, 37, 42, 162, 234 Germany, 19, 27, 30–31, 34, 42–43, 48–49, 56, 58–60, 64, 75–76, 86, 89, 92–93, 100, 113, 115, 118–20, 128, 130–32, 136, 143, 156, 178, 222, 233, 240, 244 Geyer, Rabbi, 158, 178 Ginsberg, Asher. See Ahad Ha’am Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 239 Goitein, Shlomo Dov, 288–89 Goldstein, Yossi, 160 Gordon, David, 37, 255–57 Gorny, Yosef, 21n46, 232 Gottheil, Rabbi Gustav, 66n9 Gottheil, Richard, 65–69 Gottlober, Abraham Ben, 33 Graetz, Heinrich, 11, 48–49, 59, 64, 130 Greece, 95, 207 Greenberg, Leopold, 191 Grosby, Steven, 6, 280 Gruenbaum, Yitzhak, 212 Güdemann, Motitz, 178 Gush Etzion, 294 Gwas Ngishu, 197 H  Ha-Boker Or, 33 Ha-Ihud, 204, 232n3, 227 Ha-Melitz, 79, 81 Ha-Nasi, Rabbi Yehudah, 81, 105 Ha-Pardes, 166 Ha-Shahar, 19, 31–37, 43, 49–51, 56, 59–60, 85–86, 91, 128, 167 Ha-Shiloah, 19, 50, 59, 62, 72, 85–94, 96–98, 104, 107, 109–111, 115, 128, 154–55, 159, 173, 202, 287 Ha-Shomer Hatza’ir, 204n63 Ha-Tehiya, 104 Ha-Tsfira, 161, 165, 192 Habsburg Empire, 239 Haifa, 157–158, 288 Halacha, 237, 249 Hanukkah, 196, 290, 298 Hapo’el Hatza’ir, 284 Hapoel Hamizrachi, 215–16, 224 Harkabi, Avraham Eliyahu, 132 Hashomer, 257 Hasidism, 118 Haskalah, 33–34, 89–90, 96, 280, 282 Hastings, Adrian, 6, 280 Hazaz, Haim, 19 Hebron, 168, 222 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 29 Heine, Heinrich, 239

Helman, Ya’akov, 218 Helsingfors Program, 262, 267 Hertzka, Theodor, 241 Herzl, Theodor, 13, 16, 20, 52, 62, 109, 142, 144–68, 170, 172–82, 188–94, 196–200, 202–3, 209, 211, 216, 219, 226, 238–43, 246, 248, 250, 254, 261, 299–300 Hess, Moses, 21, 37, 233–36, 238, 253, 282 Hibbat Zion, 10, 13, 16, 19, 52, 55–56, 59–60, 62, 76, 132, 142, 147, 149, 158, 173, 200, 246, 283. See also Hovevei Zion Hirschi, Caspar, 6 Hitler, Adolf, 276 Hiyya, Rabbi, 236 Hobsbawm, Eric, 5, 11–12, 16, 279, 296 Hokhmat Yisrael, 31, 119, 126–29 Holtzman, Avner, 103, 104n11 Hopkins, John, 69, 158 Hovevei Zion, 52, 142, 147–49, 154, 176, 189n8 Hudson, 186 Hungary, 242 Hutchinson, John, 6 I  Ibsen, Henrik, 124 Ignatius, Priest, 159 India, 207 Iraq, 220 Iron Wall, 258, 267 Isaac, 216 Islam, 95, 263 Israelites, 236, 283, 290 Istóczy, Győző, 242 Italian, 36, 72, 168, 235 Italy, 49 ITO ( Jewish Territorial Organization), 187, 202 J  Jabotinsky, Ze’ev, 145, 221, 225, 232, 258–63, 266–68, 277 Jacobson, Alexander, 6 Jaffa, 167, 247, 286 Jellinek, Aaron Adolf, 32 Jerusalem, 12, 20, 30–31, 37, 65, 76, 97, 100–101, 134, 137, 167–68, 170–71, 173, 180–181, 187, 194, 212, 214, 216–17, 222–23, 234–36, 239, 245–46, 248–49, 251, 270, 276, 289–90, 292, 294, 301 Jezreel Valley, 168, 186 Jihad, 251 Jordan, 168, 221 Judea, 245 Judean Hills, 186 Juedischer Almanach, 58

329

330

Zionism and Jew ish Culture

K  Kabbalah, 118 Kadesh Barnea, 168 Kafka, Franz, 113–14 Kalischer, Rabbi Zvi Hirsch, 37, 235–36 Kana, Heinrich, 175 Katz, Jacob, 9, 237 Katznelson, Berl, 222–23, 225–26 Kaufmann, David, 33, 41n36, 291 Kaveret, 56, 78 Kedourie, Elie, 5 Kharkov, 192 Kiev, 114 Kishinev, 110, 189, 196, 257 Klausner, Joseph, 31, 54n66, 55n68, 84, 91, 96–97, 107–8, 111, 202 Kleinbaum, Moshe (Sneh), 218–19 Kleinman, Moshe, 173–74 Kohn, Hans, 5, 141, 143–46, 157, 163, 174, 179–82 Kook, Rabbi Avraham Isaac HaCohen, 216, 224, 250 Krochmal, Nachman, 39–40, 49–50, 55, 74, 299 Kropotkin, Peter, 256 L  Landauer, Gustav, 256 Lazare, Bernard, 244 Lebanon, 168, 186 Lenin, Vladimir, 270 Levin, Shmaryahu, 125, 161 Levites, 260 Lewinsky, Elhanan Leib, 125, 156, 166–74, 176, 179–80, 246–48, 253 Liebman, Charles, 290 Lilienblum, Moshe Leib, 10, 31–32, 54–56, 64, 135, 283–84 Litvak, David, 176 London, 69, 106, 168, 267 Löwenberg, Friedrich, 174–76 Luah Ahiassaf, 62 Luah Eretz-Israel, 186 Luban, Haim Zelig, 196 Lubavitch, 32 Luncz, Avraham Moshe, 186 Luz, Ehud, 15 Luzzatto, Shmuel David (Shadal), 39–40, 49, 130, 299 M  Macaulay, Thomas, 42n40 Maimon, Shlomo, 77, 216, 223, 294 Maimonides, 41, 78, 81, 105 Mandelstamm, Max, 165, 176, 202 Mapai, 206, 211, 222, 289

Mapu, Abraham, 259 Marmorek, Alexander, 197, 201 Marmorek, Oscar, 190 Marquess of Lansdowne. See PettyFitzmaurice, Charles Keith Marseilles, 244 Marx, Karl, 29, 234, 256 Mazzini, Giuseppe, 235 Mediterranean, 167 Meir, Golda, 221n121 Mendelssohn, Moses, 33, 43–44, 47, 76, 77 Mendes, Henry Hayim Pereira, 250–52 Menorah, 144 Messiah, 124, 159, 243, 260–61 Messianism, 218, 226, 233, 238 Mevasseret Zion, 196 Michelet, Jules, 29 Mill, John Stuart, 102n5 Minhelet Ha’am, 294 Mirabeau, Honoré, 46 Miron, Dan, 110n28, 259 Mishnah, 22, 56, 77–78, 81, 298 Mishneh Torah, 78, 81 Mississippi, 186 Mizrah u-Ma’arav, 133 Mizrachi, 193, 195, 201, 215–17, 219, 223–25, 240, 250, 254, 285, 287–88 Moab, 211 Modernism, 147, 169, 251 Modi’in, 222 Moetzet Ha’am, 294 Mohilev, 32 Mohilever, Rabbi Shmuel, 149, 240 Monaco, 213 Monastyrchina, 32 Montefiore, Moses, 236 Moore, George Foot, 70 More, Thomas, 244 Morgenstern, Aryeh, 13 Moriah Publishing, 110–111, 125, 127, 133 Mossinson, Ben Zion, 285–86 Moznayim, 133 Müller, Daviv Heinrich, 33 Musa Dagh, 223 Muslims, 163, 245, 251, 266 N  Nayditz, Yitzhak, 125 Naysayers, 192, 202 Netherlands, 181, 281 Neudorf, 158 Neues Zion, 239 Netivot, 63n4 Neufeld, Rabbi Reuven Yehudah, 219n109 New York, 65, 69–71, 250, 268 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 29, 124

Index

Nigerians, 159–60 Nile, 186 Nordau, Max, 1n1, 109, 152, 154–55, 159, 161–66, 182, 190, 196–97, 201, 257, 300 NZO (New Zionist Organization), 221 O  Odessa, 20, 32, 62, 64, 78, 86, 110, 125–26, 290 Ohel Shem, 133 Omar, Mosque of, 248 Oneg Shabbat, 133, 137 Orthodoxy, 18, 34, 116, 131, 247 Osorogin, Mikhail, 70 Oswald, 175 Otsar Ha-Yahadut Be-Lashon Ha-Ivrit, 49, 78, 80–81, 83–85, 97, 123, 126, 159 Ottoman Empire, 203, 241, 243, 251, 262, 266, 268 Owen, Robert, 256 P  Palestine, 10, 17, 21–22, 28, 30, 39, 50, 53, 57, 69–70, 94, 125, 127, 143, 158, 178, 183, 189, 193, 203, 205, 207–9, 214, 231, 233–34, 239, 242–45, 248, 251, 256, 259, 261–76, 283–87, 289–91, 301 Palestine Royal Commission, 293n68 Panama scandal, 247n55 Pardes, 62, 78, 246 Paris, 167, 196 Passover, 158–59, 239, 290, 298 Penslar, Derek, 232 Petty-Fitzmaurice, Charles Keith, the Marquess of Lansdowne, 191 Philadelphia, 69 Philistines, 259–260 Pinsker, Leon, 55, 132, 142, 188, 189n8, 238, 243 Pinsker, Simcha, 132 Plehve, Vyacheslav von, 190 Po’alei Zion, 217, 222n122, 262 Podolia, 173 Poland, 67, 166, 217–19, 222 Prague, 49, 143, 239 Proudhon, Pierre-Joseph, 256 R  Rabinovitz (Ben-Ami), Mordechai, 110n27 Rabinovitch, Simon, 39 Radler-Feldman, Yehoshua, 124, 179–80, 224 Ram, Uri, 12 Ranke, Leopold von, 29 Rapoport, Shlomo Yehuda (Shir), 39–40, 49, 130, 299 Rav Hisda, 124 Ravnitzki, Yehoshua Hone, 31, 64, 78, 98, 100, 103, 110–111, 125, 133, 149, 247

Rawidowicz, Simon, 105 Rawls, John, 277n177 Razsvet, 55 Red Sea, 168 Reformation, 42 Reines, Rabbi Yitzhak Ya’acov, 193–94, 201, 217, 240, 250, 287 Renan, Ernest, 57, 73, 94, 97, 102n5, 185 Reshumot, 133 Revisionism, 267 Revivim, 124 Rhein, 233 Riad Bey, 263 Romania, 45, 222 Rome, 75, 207, 234–36 Roshwald, Aviel, 6, 280 Rosman, Moshe, 29 Rubin, Adam, 117n44 Russia, 32, 39, 49–50, 57, 91, 109, 126, 143, 166, 176, 190, 193–95, 197, 300 S  Sabbath, 133, 180, 301 Sabra, 187, 203 Samaria, 211 Samson, 258–60 San Remo, 263, 271 Sand, Shlomo, 11 Sanhedrin, 245, 249 Sarajevo, 236 Schatz, Boris, 248–249 Schechter, Solomon, 70 Scholem, Gershom, 47, 58, 99–100, 131 Seder, 158, 164, 239 Sefer Ha-Aggadah, 100, 103, 111–12, 137 Sephardi, 238, 301 Shabbat, 41n36, 133, 137, 180, 235, 239, 252–53 Shahar, Yoram, 292 Shalkowitz, Ben Avigdor Avraham Leib, 63 Shapira, Anita, 280, 294 Sharett, Moshe. See Shertok, Moshe Sharon, 186, 211–12 Shavit, Uzi, 85 Shavit, Ya’akov, 85, 125, 232, 280 Shavuot, 290, 298 She’erith Israel, 250 She’ifoteinu, 143, 179 Shechem, 171 Shertok, Moshe, 6, 8, 15–16, 102, 117, 206, 279, 293–94 Shils, Edward, 6 Shimoni, Gideon, 15 Shklov, 32 Shragai, Shlomo Zalman, 224 Shulchan Arukh, 78, 81, 116

331

332

Zionism and Jew ish Culture

Sinai Peninsula, 189–90 Smith, Anthony, 6, 8, 15–16, 102, 117, 279 Smolensk, 32 Smolenskin, Peretz, 10, 19, 31–60, 63–64, 74–76, 79, 85–86, 93, 96, 98, 101–2, 105, 111, 120, 122, 128, 130, 134–35, 137, 167, 237, 247, 298–99 Sodom, 164 Sokolow, Nahum, 10, 161, 165–66, 214 Spain, 65, 67 Spencer, Herbert, 71–73, 97, 102, 106, 145 Spinoza, Baruch, 202, 234–35, 254–55, 281–82 St. Petersburg, 164 Steinschneider, Moritz, 64 Suez Canal, 168 Switzerland, 143, 176, 188, 196, 263 Syria, 167, 193, 220 Syrkin, Nachman, 254–55 T  Tabenkin, Yitzhak, 223, 225 Tachkemoni school, 287 Talmud, 22, 77, 117, 124, 171, 236, 247, 290, 295, 298 Talpiyot college, 287 Tarbiz, 100 Targum Yonatan, 129 Tartakower, Aryeh, 221, 222n122 Tchernichovsky, Saul, 1n1, 145 Tel Aviv, 127, 133, 174 Temple, 35, 101, 170, 180, 206, 239, 244, 248, 285, 301 Thon, Yehoshua Ozias, 58, 107 Tiberias, 158, 239 Tocqueville, Alexis de, 29 Tolstoy, Leo, 124 Torah, 40–41, 48–49, 52, 56–57, 78, 81–83, 134–35, 137, 170, 192, 244, 248–50, 252–254, 287, 290, 298 Torczyner (Tur-Sinai), Naftali Hertz, 100, 127 Tories, 40 Transjordan, 221 Treitschke, Heinrich von, 93 Tschlenow, Yechiel, 150, 190, 199 Tushiya, 62, 111 Tzur Yisrael, 294 U  Uganda Plan, 21, 109, 153, 186–87, 190, 192–97, 199–202, 205–6, 209–210, 212–13, 215–16, 223, 226, 297, 300 UN, 292 Unna, Rabbi Yitzhak, 224 UNSCOP, 205

USA, 264, 267 Ussishkin, Menashem, 192–93, 198–99, 209–216, 218–19, 225–26 V  Vienna, 19, 31–32, 45, 64, 111, 114, 122, 174, 178, 192, 197, 242 Vilna, 168 Vistula, 186 Volozhin yeshiva, 108, 111 W  Wales, 207 Wasserman, Henry, 11 Weber, Max, 152 Weizmann, Chaim, 145, 152, 205, 206n67, 209, 214–16, 218–21, 223, 225–26, 232, 261–65, 267, 274, 277 Wellhausen, 94 Welt, Die, 245 Werfel, Franz, 223 Wessely, Naphtaly Hertz, 77 Whigs, 40 White, Hayden, 29 Wissenschaft des Judentums, 2, 69n16, 128 Wissotzky, Kalman, 78, 84–86, 112 World War I, 16, 22, 28, 125–26, 142n2, 186, 203, 224, 258, 261–70 World War II, 131, 264, 274 Y  Yehuda Leib Gordon (Yalag), 32 Yavetz, Ze’ev, 56n69, 195, 200–201, 250, 252–54 Yeasayers, 192 Yerushalmi, Yosef Hayim, 113–14 Yiddish, 141 Yishuv, 2, 18–19, 22, 28, 125, 133, 136–37, 145, 158, 187, 194, 195n38, 203–6, 225, 232–33, 259, 261, 266, 277, 283–92, 294–95, 300–302 Yom Kippur, 41n36 Z  Zakhor, 113 Zakovitz, Yair, 280 Zangwill, Israel, 202 Zeitlin, Yehoshua, 85–86 Zion, 12 Zipperstein, Steven, 62n1 Zippori, 158 Zisling, Aaron, 294 Zohar, 124 Zunz, Leopold, 48n54, 64, 113, 118, 128, 131 Zurich, 214, 217, 222n122 Zuta, Haim Aryeh, 286–87