The age of Jewish dependence is ending.

And that's a good thing — a very good thing.

photo: Salvatore Favata/Unsplash

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During the last handful of decades, many Jews developed a theory of safety.

They believed that if Israel became militarily powerful enough, technologically advanced enough, economically indispensable enough, and strategically useful enough to the West, then eventually the world would accept the permanence of Jewish sovereignty.

Diaspora Jews developed a parallel theory: If we integrated deeply enough into Western society, championed universal causes, cultivated allies, entered elite institutions, and proved ourselves morally and culturally indispensable, then eventually our place in society would become secure.

Both theories are now under immense strain.

Today, Israel finds itself increasingly isolated in the aftermath of the U.S.-Israel-Iran war that erupted on February 28th. One report over the weekend claimed Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu is being “sidelined” by U.S. President Donald Trump regarding Iran, and that Israel is “almost entirely out of the loop” in talks between the United States and Iran. According to the report, Israel has been forced to use other roundabout avenues to seek information on the peace talks, including other diplomatic connections and intelligence sources within Iran.¹

Meanwhile, across the diaspora, Jews increasingly feel socially, culturally, and politically isolated within the very institutions, movements, workplaces, and groups many once considered their natural homes.

These are not separate dilemmas. They are the same dilemma expressed in different forms. Israel’s dilemma is the diaspora’s dilemma because both force Jews to confront the same painful realization: No outside force is ultimately coming to save us — not the United States, not “the international community,” not “our allies,” not institutions, not coalitions, not public opinion.

And perhaps most unsettling of all: The very people and systems many Jews believed would stand beside them often become hesitant, conditional, transactional, or absent precisely when the stakes become existential.

The recent reports surrounding a potential U.S.-Iran agreement crystallize this reality.

According to multiple reports, the U.S. is expected to finalize an agreement with Iran in the coming days that would extend the current ceasefire for another 60 days while reopening the Strait of Hormuz to global shipping. But the agreement reportedly sidelines the core issues that drove the war in the first place: Iran’s nuclear program, ballistic missile capabilities, and regional proxy network.

Israeli officials are deeply concerned that such a deal effectively gives the Iranian regime breathing room to economically and militarily recover while postponing the central threat to some undefined future negotiation process. The fear is not merely tactical. It is civilizational.

Because Israel increasingly understands something that many diaspora Jews are also beginning to understand: The interests of allies are not identical to your survival. America’s priority is America. Europe’s priority is Europe. The Arabs’ priority is the Arabs. Every nation ultimately acts according to its own interests, pressures, elections, economics, fatigue, and geopolitical calculations.

This is not betrayal. It is reality. The mistake was ever believing otherwise.

For years, many Israelis comforted themselves with the assumption that the U.S.-Israel alliance represented something permanent and unconditional. That no matter how politically polarized America became, no matter how much Western elites shifted ideologically, no matter how exhausted the West became by Middle Eastern conflict, America would always fully align itself with Israel’s threat perception.

But alliances are not eternal truths. They are temporary convergences of interests. And diaspora Jews made a parallel mistake.

Many Jews in America, Canada, Britain, France, Australia, and elsewhere believed that social integration guaranteed social protection. We believed proximity to power meant security. We believed that participation in certain coalitions, universities, media institutions, professional organizations, and cultural life would create deep reservoirs of solidarity when Jews faced hatred or isolation.

Then came October 7th and its aftermath — and many Jews discovered that the coalitions were shallower than expected. The slogans changed, the moral frameworks shifted, and the empathy became conditional. Many Jews who spent years advocating for others suddenly found themselves socially stranded, politically homeless, or morally gaslit when Jewish suffering entered the conversation.

This is the diaspora version of Israel’s geopolitical dilemma.

Israel hears: “De-escalate” and “Show restraint” and “Think about regional stability” and “Now is not the time.” Diaspora Jews hear: “Don’t make this about antisemitism” and “Your fear is exaggerated” and “Your Zionism makes you complicit” and “Your concerns are inconvenient.”

Different language, same structure, and the underlying message is identical: Jewish vulnerability is negotiable.

This realization is profoundly painful because Jews spent generations trying to escape isolation. After centuries of expulsions, pogroms, ghettos, quotas, massacres, and abandonment, many Jews understandably developed a deep psychological desire to belong — to finally become part of the moral center of the societies around us rather than permanent outsiders to them.

That desire was human, but history may once again be teaching Jews that over-reliance on externals creates fragility.

This does not mean Jews should reject alliances, friendships, diplomacy, or integration. Israel still needs alliances. Diaspora Jews still need relationships and coalitions. Isolationism is not a strategy, but dependence is the problem.

A healthy nation can cooperate with allies without outsourcing its survival to them. A healthy minority can participate in society without building its emotional security entirely around social approval.

Too often, however, Jews drifted into a politics of reassurance-seeking. We wanted guarantees. We wanted acceptance certificates. We wanted proof that we would never again stand alone. But Jewish history has rarely offered such guarantees.

And perhaps the defining Jewish mistake of the modern era was believing that history had ended for us.

The lesson of this moment is not despair. It is maturation — because isolation, while frightening, can also clarify. When we stop assuming others will save us, we begin investing differently. We build stronger institutions, we cultivate internal resilience, we prioritize continuity, we develop strategic independence, we stop confusing visibility for security, we stop mistaking applause for loyalty, we stop outsourcing our future.

For Israel, this may mean rethinking the architecture of its alliance with the United States. I’m not saying Israelis should abandon America, but we should understand that even the strongest alliances have ceilings. Israel must continue strengthening its military independence, economic durability, technological superiority, energy resilience, and societal cohesion because ultimately Israelis — not Washington — bear the consequences of strategic miscalculation.

And for diaspora Jews, it means rediscovering something many communities slowly lost: the importance of Jewish civilizational confidence. Not performative confidence, real confidence. The confidence to build more Jewish schools, Jewish media, Jewish philanthropy, Jewish culture, Jewish networks, Jewish businesses, Jewish security infrastructure, Jewish intellectual life, and Jewish communal ecosystems strong enough to withstand social pressure rather than succumb to it.

A community overly dependent on external approval eventually becomes terrified of displeasing outsiders. And terrified communities cannot think clearly.

I am reminded of a recent party I attended in Los Angeles. It was organized by the organization MeetJew and hosted at the mansion of a Jewish couple. The entire atmosphere felt distinctly, unapologetically Jewish — not defensive, not reactionary, not built around fear, but built around joy, confidence, and belonging.

Everything was there that young people could possibly want from a weekend gathering: a live DJ (who was Israeli), two pools, pickleball and basketball courts, a volleyball court, great food, an open bar (staffed by Jewish bartenders), and hundreds of young Jews simply enjoying being around one another. People bonded naturally over Judaism, Jewish identity, Zionism, Israel, family, ambition, humor, culture, and shared experience.

And what struck me most was not the luxury of the setting. It was the feeling. Nobody was asking permission to exist there. Nobody was toning themselves down to make outsiders comfortable. Nobody was anxiously translating their identity into language that would feel acceptable to people who already resent them.

For a few hours, there was no desperate need for external validation; no exhausting performance of proving that Jews deserve inclusion; just Jews building community with one another openly and confidently.

I remember thinking to myself:

“If parts of the outside world increasingly do not want Jews fully included, then perhaps the answer is not endless begging for acceptance. Perhaps the answer is to build stronger Jewish spaces, stronger Jewish friendships, stronger Jewish institutions, stronger Jewish culture, and stronger Jewish confidence — not out of bitterness, but out of clarity.”

Because one of the great lies many Jews absorbed was that strength comes primarily from being accepted by others. But throughout Jewish history, our greatest periods of resilience came when Jews invested deeply in one another — spiritually, socially, economically, intellectually, and communally.

That party reminded me that Jewish continuity cannot survive on anxiety alone. It requires vitality, beauty, friendship, joy, and Jews wanting to be around other Jews not simply because the world hates us, but because there is something genuinely meaningful, energizing, and life-giving about Jewish civilization itself.

And in an odd way, the isolation many Jews now feel may unintentionally push us back toward rediscovering that truth. If much of the world insists on reminding Jews that we are different, then perhaps the Jewish response should not merely be fear. Perhaps it should also be the confidence to say, “Fine, we will build anyway, we will gather anyway, we will celebrate anyway, we will strengthen one another anyway, and we already have far more of what we need than we realize.”

Ironically, embracing a certain degree of Jewish separateness may ultimately produce healthier engagement with the broader world — because when our identity no longer depends on constant validation, we can engage others from a position of stability rather than anxiety. We no longer need every room to approve of our existence, we no longer panic every time alliances weaken, and we no longer experience criticism as existential collapse. We become sturdier.

The modern Jewish condition may now be entering a new phase. The era of assumed acceptance is ending, and the era of strategic Jewish self-reliance is returning. That does not mean permanent loneliness. It means, for lack of a better term, adulthood.

Israel’s dilemma is the diaspora’s dilemma because both are being forced to relearn the same ancient lesson at the same time: The Jewish future cannot primarily depend on the conscience, protection, or approval of others. It must first depend on the strength, courage, clarity, and cohesion of us Jews.

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1. “Once Trump’s Co-Pilot Against Iran, Netanyahu Is Now a Mere Passenger.” The New York Times.