Jews should retreat, before they force us out.

Retreating on our own terms transforms weakness into sovereignty, dignity, and renewal — before history repeats itself again.

photo: Levi Meir Clancy/Unsplash

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History is unambiguous: Jews who cling to borrowed platforms, borrowed protection, and borrowed legitimacy eventually find themselves betrayed.

Whether in Spain in 1492, Germany in the 1930s, or Russia in the late 19th century, Jews who believed that integration alone could guarantee permanence were eventually shown the limits of that hope.

The lesson is clear: If we do not consciously withdraw from fragile dependencies, others will one day push us out — often violently. It is better to retreat on our own terms than to be forced into retreat.

Our ancient texts foresaw this pattern. Bilaam himself, who sought to curse Israel, was compelled instead to declare: “Behold, it is a people that shall dwell alone, and shall not be reckoned among the nations.”¹ Rashi, the most widely read Jewish Bible commentator, noted that this is not a temporary condition, but Israel’s destiny. To dwell alone is not a curse but a blessing, a sign of Israel’s uniqueness and survival. The Ramban, a leading medieval Jewish scholar, often stressed that exile is punishment for trying to be like the nations; redemption comes when Jews live distinctly.

Again and again, the prophets warned against trusting in the “shadow of Egypt” or the power of foreign rulers. Isaiah condemned those who sought protection from Pharaoh, saying their trust would turn to shame.² The Torah predicts that Israel will be exiled, scattered, and persecuted when dependent on other nations, but that retreat to God and return to the land will restore dignity. Voluntary retreat (teshuvah, return) is the way back to sovereignty. The metaphor here is staggering.

Retreating voluntarily is also psychologically and strategically powerful. When we withdraw by choice, we telegraph confidence and value: We show that we are not desperate to be accepted, that we have our own grounds, our own gravitational pull. Outsiders watching will see that our absence matters. That sense of loss — the missing added value, the missing voices, the missing funding, the missing cultural force — will dawn slowly, and often too late, on those who once took us for granted.

In contrast, when a people are forced to retreat, the power dynamic is inverted: The outsiders feel strength, superiority, and dominion. They believe they dictated the outcome, they feel they have won. Only much later do they often realize that in pushing Jews out, they gave up something indispensable: the creativity, resilience, moral weight, and strategic heft of a people with vision.

But by then the harm is already done. A voluntary retreat seizes the narrative: We choose when and how to depart, so we also choose what remains in our wake. A forced retreat leaves only rubble and regret.

To be certain, we Jews are not in some hypothetical. We are already witnessing Jews being steadily pushed out of positions of influence and respect, even in societies that once prided themselves on tolerance. In the United States, Kamala Harris, when thinking strategically about her vice-presidential pick in 2024, reportedly sidestepped Governor Josh Shapiro, who is Jewish and highly popular in his state (Pennsylvania) — suggesting that even Jewish success can be sidelined when identity becomes inconvenient.

American billionaire David Friedberg, who is Jewish, has publicly stated that he has seen “senior people passed over because they are Jewish … because of concerns … of someone Jewish being viewed to be in a leadership position.”³

In Canada, the federal tax authority revoked the charitable status of Jewish National Fund Canada and the Ne’eman Foundation after complaints from “anti-Israel activists” (meaning, antisemites). This was not a mere regulatory tweak; it was a symbolic and financial blow, striking at Jewish fundraising infrastructure.

Across Europe, Jewish institutions and individuals increasingly face public pressure, boycott campaigns, defamation, and institutional exclusion. In the United Kingdom, Jewish Members of Parliament have faced harassment so severe that some left politics altogether, with the Labour Party’s antisemitism scandal driving Jews from public life.

In France, Jewish schools and synagogues require military protection, and many French Jews emigrate under pressure. In Australia, Jewish businesses and community centers have been targeted by hostile rallies and intimidation campaigns on campuses. In the UK, the government permits pro-Hamas rallies while restricting Jewish demonstrations. The message is consistent: Jews are again being pushed out of public legitimacy.

This is why retreat must be chosen, not imposed. And history itself testifies that voluntary retreat has always been the Jewish way of survival and renewal. The Exodus from Egypt was not just liberation, but a retreat into the wilderness to build a nation of our own. After the Babylonian exile, Jews returned to Jerusalem to rebuild instead of vanishing into foreign lands.

Under the British Mandate, Jews created parallel schools, militias, and agriculture — a state-in-the-making under hostile oversight. Even in America, when country clubs, universities, and hospitals excluded Jews, we responded with Jewish Community Centers, federations, Jewish schools, synagogues, and our own hospitals. Retreat is not weakness. Retreat has always been rebirth.

The economics of retreat also matter. Jewish capital and creativity, withdrawn from hostile systems, would not merely protect us, but also accelerate Israel’s transformation into an unmatched global hub.

Imagine if Jewish philanthropy currently pouring into universities that host anti-Israel boycotters instead built new universities in Israel; if Jewish donors shifted their billions from cultural institutions that vilify us into Israeli tech, film, and biotech; if Jewish conferences and cultural festivals convened in Jerusalem rather than New York or London.

Each time a Jewish donor or institution withdraws from a hostile structure, the outside world feels the loss — culturally, economically, intellectually. Our retreat is their decline.

There is also a moral case. Participation in corrupt or antisemitic institutions lends them legitimacy. By withdrawing, Jews stop lending cover to systems that demonize us. Just as Shabbat is a retreat from the week into sanctity, Jewish withdrawal from hostile structures is a retreat into dignity. Remaining in such institutions is complicity; withdrawing is clarity.

And retreat liberates us psychologically. Jews have too long sought outsider validation: the “good Jew,” the “universal Jew,” the Jew who proves to the world that we are enlightened and acceptable. But this posture is exhausting and degrading. Voluntary retreat ends that dynamic. It transforms our role from “minority begging for approval” into “sovereign people choosing self-preservation.” It replaces shame with agency.

That sovereignty must extend to culture and diplomacy. Hollywood, an industry Jews once built, now too often rewards narratives that vilify us. Why remain supplicants under someone else’s tree when we can plant our own? Jewish filmmakers and artists should redirect their projects to Jewish-owned platforms, with Israel as the hub. If you want to make a movie, do it in Israel, not under executives eager to appease fashionable antisemitism. And just as our grandparents created Jewish day schools, Jewish Community Centers, and Jewish country clubs when excluded, we must again create spaces where Jewish identity is the default.

On the diplomatic stage, Israel should sever relations with any state that recognizes a Palestinian (terror) state or refuses to acknowledge Jerusalem as Israel’s eternal capital. Such partnerships are not partnerships at all; they are charades designed to extract concessions while erasing our legitimacy. By withdrawing, Israel demonstrates dignity: We will not beg for seats at tables where our very existence is denied.

This is not isolation; this is consolidation. Retreat is not passivity; it is strategy. It is the reallocation of our resources, our faith, our heritage, our culture, and our energy to Jewish continuity. The world may call it retreat; we will know it as return. Zionism itself was once mocked as retreat from assimilation, yet it became the rebirth of Jewish sovereignty. What I propose now is in the same spirit: stepping away from systems that wish us harm, and stepping into our own strength.

Better to retreat now, with heads held high, than to be pushed out later with shame. History has shown that when Jews leave on their own, they rise again stronger. What the world may see as retreat, we will know as renewal. And in that renewal, our people will not merely survive; we will flourish.

Preemptive retreat is not about fear; it is about foresight. When Jews retreat on our own terms, we shift from being perpetually on the defensive — reacting to the latest boycott, smear, or exclusion — to being proactively strategic. We decide where our resources go, what institutions we build, and which areas get our patronage and loyalty. We are no longer scrambling to protect ourselves after the world turns against us; instead, we are setting the terms of engagement from the start.

Defensive retreat is about survival after the damage has already been done. Proactive retreat is about building the next stage of Jewish sovereignty before anyone else has the chance to dictate it.

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1. Numbers 23:9

2. Isaiah 30:1–3

3. “All-In Podcast.” YouTube.