A Return to the Sanhedrin: How Disagreement Makes Us Stronger

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been told that I’d make a good lawyer. While this was often backhanded, coming while I was digging in my heels on an argument or refusing to let a point go, I never resented it. I can’t resist a good debate, and never feel more Jewish than when I’m engaged in one. Whether sparring passionately over abortion rights, going back and forth over textual interpretations in English class, or even just disagreeing with friends about where to go out to lunch, I feel transported to the Sanhedrin, the ancient Jewish courts of Jerusalem, leaving no question unasked or idea unexamined. 

Those kinds of conversations feel familiar and timeless; I consider them to be a way for Jews to respect and continue our traditions. For me, this type of debate does not require another person. Reflecting on my beliefs and values and questioning where they may fall short brings me that same fulfillment and feeling of Jewish belonging. 

The scale of the destruction in Gaza has made this need for reflection even more urgent and real for me. The deaths of at least 70,000 Palestinians since the horrors of October 7, 2023, and hearing the individual stories behind that number, have transformed the way I engage with Israel both with myself and with others. I now approach the topic not just as a geopolitical debate, but through the lens of reckoning with human catastrophe. 

This grappling doesn’t stop with the State of Israel’s recent actions. In a recent webinar for the Rising Voices Fellowship, musician Erez Zobary spoke to us Fellows about Yemeni Jewish history and culture. We saw the beautiful jewelry her family members made, heard her sing prayers in a traditional tune, and then learned about the more solemn history of the mistreatment of Yemeni Jewish immigrants upon their arrival in Israel, including prejudicial housing placement and the disappearance of children. Alongside my pre-existing knowledge that Israel nonconsensually sterilized Ethiopian Jewish women, learning about the experience of Yemeni Jews forced me to confront the deeply uncomfortable reality that racism and patriarchy have determined whose bodies and futures were deemed expendable in the pursuit of nation-building. When these actions are carried out in the name of the Jewish people, it means the world comes to understand Jews through Israel’s actions. I feel a responsibility to sit with that reality and do what I can to fight against it. 

Personally reflecting on these injustices has been challenging in itself, but it has also led me to significant disagreements with members of my community. What I have found most difficult and isolating, however, is not disagreement over Israel itself, but how that disagreement is handled within Jewish spaces. Among my peers, I often see criticism of Israel met with immediate defensiveness. State-sanctioned violence is minimized, excused, or occasionally denied, and critique of Israel’s actions—or, more commonly, Israel itself—is automatically dismissed as antisemitism. To be clear, antisemitism absolutely exists in some anti-Zionist spaces, and it should be named and challenged wherever it appears. But the indiscriminate characterisation of any attempt to question Israel’s actions as hatred of all Jewish people forecloses the kind of meaningful moral engagement that is core to Jewish identity. 

Somewhat paradoxically, this dismissal of critique is often at its strongest when the criticism comes from other Jews, particularly anti-Zionist or non-Zionist Jews. I’ve had many conversations with members of my community who, instead of engaging with arguments they disagree with, reflecting on them, and responding to them, jump to criticizing the person: questioning their education, intentions, credibility, and even their legitimacy as Jews. Suggestions that someone “must not have had a proper Jewish education,” or that Jews who converted or practice differently are “less Jewish” or even not Jewish at all, cross a troubling line. When I consider how Jews have historically been alienated, accused of dual loyalties, and treated as “less than,” attempts to set up such hierarchies within our community strike me as an echo of this exclusionary logic and set a harmful precedent.

I understand where these reactions come from. Antisemitism is rising globally, repeatedly manifesting itself in tragic ways. Jewish communities have been attacked, and many people have grown up hearing their grandparents’ stories of the Holocaust or experiencing forms of religious persecution. It is not irrational to tighten our grip on community and safety and to be on edge when something seems to threaten it. But when we allow fear to dictate who is and isn’t welcome in our community, the entire community suffers.

On the contrary, fostering a community that is diverse both in identity and beliefs, and engaging thoughtfully with those differences, can help us grow connections. I attend a secular high school, founded by Black and Jewish families, with the mission of promoting diversity and fearless intellectual engagement. Since starting at the school, conversations with friends have introduced me to perspectives I never would have otherwise considered, and watching others take pride in their identities and beliefs has made me prouder of my own and more excited to share them. Even among other Jewish students, I am constantly exposed to new thoughts, experiences, and practices, giving me a fuller, livelier sense of the world.

I also see a strategic case for keeping our community open. Excluding Jews who are intensely critical of the State of Israel alienates younger generations, narrows the range of voices speaking out against antisemitism, and leaves us vulnerable to being taken advantage of by movements that do not have our best interests in mind. I saw this in September, when President Trump proclaimed himself the protector of Israel while pre-emptively blaming Jews if he were to lose the upcoming election. This provoked more fear in me than any criticism of Israel ever had. As a D.C. resident, I saw firsthand on January 6, 2021, the power of this president’s hateful and violent rhetoric, so I knew what could be in store once he turned it against my own community. In making such a statement, Trump engaged in the type of scapegoating that has followed the Jewish people throughout history. 

As a result, I think this moment demands something more from us, something honest and hard. We should take this opportunity to step out of the comfort of homogeneity and be willing to endure the uncertain for resiliency’s sake. I choose to define Jewish identity not through a litmus test of allegiance to a set of positions, or conformity to a way of observance, but instead through shared identification with a peoplehood and culture. If we focus on what connects us and accept the complications that come with diversity, trusting our ability to work through all else with good-faith conversation, we will be stronger for it.