Loving Israel doesn’t mean agreeing with it all the time.

In fact, the most Jewish thing you can do is disagree with Israel sometimes.

photo: Levi Meir Clancy/Unsplash

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This is a guest essay by Elli Benaiah, a writer, criminal defense lawyer turned chef, and storyteller of the Jewish diaspora.

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Branding means searing.

We live in a world where badges on our sleeves announce who we are — to the world, and sometimes to ourselves. They’re declarations, not discoveries. Logos, slogans, and hashtags shape our buying habits, our dress codes, even our sense of belonging. Nations, too, have become brands.

See a Swiss cross, “Made in Germany,” or “Product of Japan,” and you instantly infer quality, reliability, price.

Until recently, Israel carried a similar brand: a miracle of revival and resilience. For the first time since the Shoah, many Jews could take pride in a collective identity — and, yes, in a cool Tel Aviv weekend on a budget airline. We were no longer only the downtrodden minority; we belonged to a nation that could defend itself.

For many of us, the Israel brand was seared into us in childhood and fused with our Jewishness. In Israel’s early decades, the state was poor and reliant on diaspora donations; later it became the self-reliant “Start-Up Nation.” The umbilical cord turned from financial to emotional, and the traffic ran both ways: Diaspora Jews increasingly defined themselves through Israel. The country had an army that astonished the world, Nobel laureates, medical breakthroughs, Eurovision wins — and food that made gefilte fish look beige.

This is especially true for my generation, born after the Holocaust, knowing only a world in which Israel exists. Israel reshaped the Jewish image: from powerless refugee to citizen-soldier, from exile to builder. That’s part of why criticism of Israel is, for many, hard to separate from antisemitism: When your identity is intertwined with a country, an attack on the country can feel like an attack on you.

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Israel built its brand through a variety of ways:

• Pioneering Ethos: Early statehood projected kibbutz imagery — sun-browned idealists coaxing crops from dust, collective sacrifice, Hebrew reborn on the tongue. Sparta and the shtetl in one frame.

• Cinema and Story: Hollywood did its part. The film “Exodus” turned a national struggle into epic legend; for many diaspora kids it was the first time Jews weren’t only victims of history but its agents.

• 1967 as Apex: The Six-Day War recast Israel as nimble and unbeatable. That aura of competence radiated pride across the diaspora. Celebrated Israeli Defense Minister Moshe Dayan’s eye-patch became a logo.

• Pop Culture and Soft Power: Eurovision, Olympic delegations, Tel Aviv’s “Mediterranean California” — sun, nightlife, tolerance. Falafel and hummus went global; “Israeli” became shorthand for bright, herb-forward cooking.

• Tech Nation: Drip irrigation, cybersecurity, Waze, medical devices — “Start-Up Nation” became the reputation of a place that solves problems.

This brand reached many of us in the diaspora through youth movements and camps, where we sang Hebrew songs around bonfires, mapped hikes in the Judean hills from thousands of miles away, and wallpapered bunks with kibbutz posters.

It reached us through synagogue “Israel Days,” and Israeli Bonds drives made fundraising a rite. Many congregations added a weekly prayer for the State of Israel as well.

Teen tours and gap years promised “a year that will change your life” — and often delivered. Taglit-Birthright stamped a connection between Israel and Jewish identity in the years it matters most.

And community life normalized Israel as the center of gravity; even those who never moved felt enlisted in the story.

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In the book “The Israeli Century,” written before October 7th, Israeli professor and politician Yossi Shain argues that Israeli sovereignty has become the primary engine of Jewish identity. Diaspora Judaism still matters, but its refracted through Israel’s power, culture, and fate — the “Israelization of Judaism.”

From an Israeli vantage point, that can ring true. But it’s incomplete. I’ve lived as a Jew in Israel, North America, and Europe. I no longer know what it feels like to be Jewish without Israel; I do know what it feels like to be Jewish with a problematic Israel.

Before October 7th, it was easier to insist that criticizing Israel wasn’t necessarily antisemitism. There were warning signs — BDS campaigns, academic boycotts — but they could be waved off as fringe. The brand felt strong enough to absorb the blows.

After October 7th — and as the Gaza war grinds on — the brand tarnished. Hamas intended to “change the equation,” and it did. Not only on the ground, but in how many of us perceive and present ourselves.

Israel-bashing became fashionable in some circles. Jews worldwide found themselves branded by association — as Zionists, as Israelis, and, in the ugliest caricature, as baby‐killers. The factual truth of such claims often doesn’t matter; nor did official assurances of protection. The psychological damage was already done.

Since October 7th, many diaspora Jews rallied to Israel’s side with unprecedented emotional and material support. Donations surged; engagement deepened. Israelis, for their part, voiced new appreciation for diaspora communities.

And yet, the aura of invincibility that had emboldened post‐1967 Jewish identity cracked — and the crack traveled across oceans. Key allies reevaluated exports; international courts opened proceedings; Israel’s reputation dimmed.

I carry four passports — British, Israeli, Canadian, and German — the stamps of birth, aliyah (immigration to Israel), and a life across continents. Yet the Israeli passport is the least used, taken out only to enter and leave Israel, as the law requires. Worse, despite being an Israeli citizen, I am barred from voting because I live abroad. Some say that means I shouldn’t have an opinion at all.

Until October 7th, my life was braided with the country. I made aliyah by choice. I practiced law there for two decades. My mother, son, and brother live there. I still listen to Reshet Bet (an Israeli radio station) daily; I can hear the mood in the pauses between words.

And yet, the other day, when a salesman asked where I’m from, I said, “all over.” Accurate, but not true. The truth was that I was afraid to say Israel. Afraid, even, to say Jewish. That’s what happens when a brand flips from badge to liability: It changes not only how others see you, but how you choose to present yourself.

I’ve decided to shift my paradigm. I can’t prevent antisemitism, but I can avoid needless blows. Diaspora Jews have to define ourselves differently now. It’s possible to support Israel and hope for its survival and recovery without assuming responsibility for policies you reject. It’s not our job to defend the indefensible with bogus facts or weaponized accusations.

If I keep seeing the Israel brand as part of me, it doesn’t oblige me to defend every product it ships. I’m not a salesman or an apologist. When a brand releases a faulty product, you don’t prop it up with false advertising or emotional blackmail. You fact‐check, tell the truth, and — if it can’t be sold — you don’t force it. That doesn’t reflect badly on you. I’m Jewish. I’m not an Israeli foreign ministry official.

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A post-October 7th Jewish identity has to be something else. I’m not arguing for abandonment, but the bond must change. It should be less dependent on marketing and myth, more rooted in values, practice, and shared culture. Here’s what I mean:

• Less Branding, More Doing: Fewer performative slogans; more mitzvot in the broadest sense: hospitality, study, tzedakah, care for the vulnerable. Judaism as verbs, not logos.

• Thicker Culture: Music, food, literature, prayer — shared language that doesn’t require unanimous politics. If Tel Aviv once stood in as our “California,” let culture be the climate we share even when the weather differs.

• Moral Autonomy: Space to say “this crosses my line” without exile from the tent. Honesty as the price of real solidarity.

• Global Humility: My grandmother used to say: “Your yichus (your pedigree) starts with you.” Pride is earned in the present tense.

For me that also means creating some distance — for my well‐being, not for anyone else’s approval. I’ve already distanced myself from actions and policies I can’t endorse, and I’m at peace saying so. I don’t have a model state I can wholly identify with. The world is turbulent; I keep my footing by staying close to practice and conscience.

That’s the work ahead: to move from branding to being, from logo to life. Brands can be scorched in a night. Identities, if forged in substance, endure. If “branding means searing,” then let the marks we carry be chosen — by the lives we lead, not the labels we wear.

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