M y grandmother Marianne was born in 1921 in the German town of Heidelberg. As a child, she spent summers in a home garden shaded by black cherry and pear trees. There was a hen house, a kennel of St.
Bernard dogs, and a fountain filled with goldfish, which her father carefully ringed with an iron fence. Charming relatives gathered for Jewish holidays at the 18-person dining table: cousin Else, a nursing student; Uncle Richard, a hero of the First World War. Marianne died in 1996 in Monterrey, Mexico.
Her terrible journey there is a lesson in, among other things, state cruelty toward minorities and stateless people. She and her parents were able to flee Germany before the Final Solution, but she spent over 20 years as a refugee, escaping or being deported from five countries, including the United States. Growing up, I’d visit the small concrete house in Monterrey, where she lived alone, and stare at the yellowed photographs of faces, a mansion, a garden in Germany.
This personal history shaped my belief in Israel. I’ve always been sympathetic to the idea that, especially after the Holocaust, Jews might need national sovereignty to survive — to the claim that Israel can provide safe harbor for Jewish people while integrating Arab and other non-Jewish citizens as well. This is the idea known as Liberal Zionism.
For years, depending on my mood, and despite frustrations with Israeli politics, I felt the label “Zionist” was necessary, even noble. However, in the West tod.