The No-State Solution Chapter 1

Just-So Stories: How the Diaspora Came to Be

I begin this project of political imagination by telling a brief story about the origins of the Diaspora and its alleged antidote, the State of Israel. In a sense, this is a narrative about how—under horrendous circumstances, to be sure—a nation, as I will deem it, the Jews, or Jewry, if you like, lost its way, then offer a hand-drawn map for a hardscrabble road back. I contrast my story with the standard, triumphal way that this history is generally told now.1 Both revolve around the nature and meaning of diaspora and how it relates to concepts of nationhood.

Journalist Becky Cooper has recently written, “There are no true stories; there are only facts, and the stories we tell ourselves about those facts.”2 Any historical story is a construction, a hypothesis built up from known facts, put together by historians because they judge that this version of the story explains more of the known facts than others. Such stories also—and this is no longer a secret—lead to different judgments about the present and even the future, and the historian for multiple reasons may prefer one outcome over another. But the story told must account for the established and given facts and ideally do so better than other stories. I hope that this is what I will achieve here.

The Just-So Story till Now

The standard story goes like this. Jews were once a people like any other, with a king, a kingdom, warriors, and all of the other accoutrements of other nations, including their own religion. At a

certain point, their kingdom was conquered by an empire; the Babylonians exiled much of the population to their land, where they were in effect lost (the ten tribes). After a while, the remaining Jews returned from Babylonia and set up their polity again until it, too, was conquered by yet another empire (the Romans), and the rest of the Jews were exiled from their land, but miraculously not lost. For some two millennia, give or take, Jews had been oppressed, stateless folk wandering around amid all of the other, proper nations that had their own lands and states until one of those proper nations decided to solve the problem of all of those Jews who didn’t fit in anywhere by exterminating them. That nation didn’t quite manage the feat, and a lot of the wandering Jews came back to the ancestral ethnostate, where, after defeating their enemies, they built a new nation-state just for Jews, a triumphal and final restoration of the correct state of the Jews.

In this account, the conception of a “diaspora” appears in two ways. The first is chronological and refers to an earlier past in which the nation was one and sovereign, a condition that was interrupted, leaving it homeless, weak, and assailable. The second is spatial, offering a descriptive model in which there is now a situation of homeland versus diaspora.3 Homeland, once again, is imagined as ideal, diaspora as deeply, profoundly, necessarily a defective condition.

A New Just-So Story

Here is my revisionist version of the story (not only mine, of course). In antiquity, the ancestors of the people we call Jews were more or less like any other folk of their time in terms of their social structures. They dwelt in a particular stretch of land, although it wasn’t a country, for countries hadn’t been invented yet, had a king (or, frequently enough, two rival kings), their own cult(s), language,

and various forms of an epic telling the story of where they came from. They were frequently allied with or dominated by one or another of the great empires of the ancient Near East, the Egyptian or Mesopotamian.

So far, my story more or less tracks the first version. My version parts ways with the standard Jewish narrative somewhat later, however, sometime during the Hellenistic and Roman periods. During this period, people from Judea, the people we will later call “Jews” ( Juifs in French, Juden in German, Iddin in Yiddish, Yehudim in Hebrew) scattered—voluntarily, for the most part—into different places in the Hellenistic, Greek-speaking world and made homes there. In places such as Alexandria and many others, they lived according to Judean customs, worshipped the Judean god, read the Torah in a Greek translation, and produced some highly significant Jewish literature in Greek, such as the works of Philo and the Wisdom of Solomon. 4 They referred to themselves by the Greek word diaspora. Diaspora, for them, felt more like establishing Judean colonies than anything else.

Despite many desperate travails over the centuries, the Jewish nation persisted and created culture of all kinds, in substantial part owing to the productive interaction with other cultures in their environments, and those interactions were then transmitted to other Jews elsewhere as well.

Diaspora or Exile?

Since even quite a bit before the destruction of the Jewish polity in Palestine, Jews have lived in, even created colonies in, many places, at first within the Mediterranean world and then farther afield. In our present day, there is a strong tendency to identify “diaspora” with exile, a concept central to the standard account, especially with respect

to Jews. In the Alexandrian Greek translation of the Bible known as the Septuagint, from the third century B.C., however, the Greek word diaspora is almost never used to translate words that mean exile. Instead, it uses a mixture of both positive and negative terms, such as sojourning, captivity, or colony. “Diaspora,” in its ancient Greek sense, while founded on a word meaning “scattering,” most frequently focuses more on the creation of new homes, not on being absent from a home, for which they generally use the word apoikia (literally, away from home).5 When referring to themselves, the Alexandrian Jews use “diaspora,” not the words they use to translate the biblical “exile.” In other words, exile was something different from diaspora; they were not exiles, an unhappy condition, but in diaspora, and not at all unhappy at that.6 Philo, the great Jewish-Alexandrian philosopher of the first century, regarded the Judeans as a people on the same level as Romans or early Greeks and referred to the Jewish Diaspora “as rather a positive colonization: the colonies abroad . . . in other prosperous lands preserve the customs of the mother-city.”7 If we read “customs” here as all of the elements of a Jewish form of life, then we are close to the imagining of diaspora suggested in this manifesto.

In Hebrew/Aramaic, even the term galut (quite literally “exile”) is not always negatively charged. Thus, the Rabbis of the Mishna can say: “Be a goleh [that is, exile yourself!] to a place of Torah!” These Rabbis, living in the Holy Land, advise the Jewish man [!] to leave even Palestine when it is barren of Torah and travel to live in a place where Torah is studied and created even outside of the Land of Israel. Exile is configured here as a positive space and given a positive valuation.

Indeed, that is how the Rabbis of the Talmud themselves frequently understood the move to Babylonia: not as a disaster, but as a move to a better place, where the Torah could be studied more easily.8 We cannot think of the Jewish Diaspora, therefore, as always and

everywhere being understood as a forced and oppressive exile. Today, “diaspora” may suggest dislocation and possibly distress, but it was not always so; in the future, we might again think of the settlements of Jews not in their putative land, the Diaspora, as enhancing, developing the customs, in the broadest sense, of the Jewish nation. Both for the Greek-speaking Jews of the Hellenistic world and for the Semitic speakers of Babylonia, at any rate, diaspora was not understood as a negative or even anomalous condition for the Jews to abide within, but one full of creative possibilities.

Since I’ve written extensively on this topic already, two pithy examples here will have to do for making this point concrete. First, in direct contradiction to current neo-Zionist ideology, the Talmud claims that Jews are safer when they are scattered in at least two places than when they are all gathered together. As the Talmud [Pesachim 87b] relates:

Rabbi ʿOshaya said: What is it that is written “even the Righteous acts toward the inhabitants of his villages [ pirzono] in Israel (Judges 5:11). The Holy Blessed One acted righteously toward Israel by scattering [pizrono] them among the nations [emphasis added]. And this is identical to what a certain sectarian [min] said to Rabbi Yehuda Nesia: “We are superior to you, for it says of you: ‘For six months did Joab remain there with all Israel, until he had cut off every male in Edom’ (1 Kings 11:16), but you have been among us for many years and we haven’t done anything to you.”9 He said to him [the sectarian]: “If you will, one of the students will answer you.” Rabbi

ʿ Oshaya answered him: “That’s because you didn’t know what to do. If you wanted to kill all of us, . . . [you couldn’t because] we’re not all among you, and if you killed those who are among you, they would call you a cutting-off kingdom!”

[That would precisely deprive you of your point of pride!] He said to him, “By the Agape of Rome [Isis!], that’s what we think about when we get up and when we lie down.”10

In contrast to the standard (Zionist) story, the Jewish People in this text are less vulnerable, safer, when distributed between two empires or among even more different sovereignties, because no one evil emperor can endeavor to kill us all. Ahashverus could, according to the book of Esther, because he allegedly ruled all 129 nations from the Ganges to Kush. It took a very wise woman to save us from that (fictional) threat, but according to the Talmud, G-d’s plan of scattering us between powers renders it impossible for one of them to completely commit genocide upon us.

The sense of the positive virtues of diaspora goes even further, however, for according to other passages in the Talmud, not only is Babylonian Diaspora a mode of safekeeping for the Jews, but also a place in which Torah study and creativity is enhanced. Why, asks the Talmud, has G-d sent the Jews to Babylonia?

Rabbi H . anina says, “It is because their language [Aramaic] is close to the language of Torah [and therefore good for the study thereof].” Rabbi Yoh anan says, “Because he sent them to the House of their Mother. Its exemplum is of a man who becomes angry at his wife, to where does he send her? To the house of her mother.” ʿUlla said, “It was in order that they will eat dates and be busy with Torah.”

Not only is the great advantage of Babylonia that their Semitic speech, which is close to the Hebrew of Torah, promotes the study of Torah, according to the first speaker, but the Palestinian Rabbi Yoh . anan turns the “exile” in Babylon into a homecoming to their

motherland, the land, after all, from which Abraham is commanded to “go forth from your land to the land that I will show you!”11 The entire notion of diaspora as the act of forced dispersion from a single homeland is exploded by the Talmud at this moment, and by a Palestinian speaker, nay, the leader of the Palestinian Rabbis in his day—if, of course, the attribution is to be trusted. Indeed, as Isaiah Gafni points out, this statement reads almost as if it is an “embracing of what is usually considered a uniquely Hellenistic idea, namely that Israel, like other ethnic groups, have a dual homeland ( δευτέρα πατρίς).” Babylonia is portrayed here not only as a second homeland but as the original homeland from which the Jews have come to Palestine. The concepts of homeland and Holy Land are thus, at least for these Rabbis, not coterminous.12 Far from being sent into an oppressive situation, the Jews were brought to a refuge in the place in which they would feel most at home, returning home, as it were, owing to their ancient roots and cultural ties with that place.13

There is, to be sure, ambivalence signified here as well. Even though Babylonia is pictured repeatedly as a place of refuge, nonetheless, there is a sense of exile from the Holy Land that also is encoded. A bride being sent to her mother’s house is, of course, the sign of the at least temporary dissolution of a marriage. This does not mean, then, that the Jews abandoned the ancient hope to be restored to the Holy Land, but as so poignantly evoked, especially by Jewish liturgy, this was an apocalyptic hope, for the end of times, for the whole world, and not a structuring principle for life in the here and now. For now, despite having been exiled from the husband’s house, we are at home in the mother’s safe refuge and warm embrace.

Seen in this light, diaspora was not an interruption of the history of the Jews but an essential moment in that history; indeed, it became the condition of Jewish life for centuries thereafter. To be sure, the Jews frequently suffered and suffered dearly during many of

those times and in many of those places, but they also thrived and created, with the Talmud as the living center of shared existence over time and space. 14 Much of that creativity and vitality was the product of the fruitful miscegenation, as it were, of shared Jewish culture all over the world with the local and vibrantly different cultures of the lands in which Jews ended up. 15 Not at all at a loss for home, Jews made a home in diaspora, as a scattered, but deeply conjoined folk.

The reclamation of the Diaspora Nation involves attending to its foundational import as a defining character of Jewish existence, as well as to its cultural and political vitality.16 Conceiving of diaspora as an entirely negative condition has provided the underpinnings for the neo-Zionist mode of thinking known as “negation of the diaspora” (

תולגה תלילש), the idea, especially promulgated by David Ben-Gurion (and after him by a host of others), that not only must there be a sovereign state of the Jews, a Jewish state, but that all Jews ideally would move there and thus the diaspora, as an anomalous and tragic situation, would be eliminated.17 In Ben-Gurion’s view, all Jews who didn’t join the Zionist project in Palestine were simply waste products, “dust,” or even soap (common Israeli usage about refugee Jews after the war, not Ben-Gurion’s). This view persists even today. For Natan Sharansky and many other Jewish voices, all Jews who do not join the territorialist nationalist project of the State of Israel are simply “unJews,” whatever their commitment to Jewish learning or practice.18

The Nazis, of course, offered a terrible Final Solution to the Jewish problem, Ben-Gurion an only less terrible vision: a final solution to the Diaspora. Those who find this formulation too extreme may not be aware that Ben-Gurion explicitly wrote (in a letter) that it was better that half the Jews of Europe die in the Nazi genocide if the other half would come to Palestine, rather than have them all survive and remain outside of the Jewish state.

Other Zionist views—nearly totally occluded by now—included versions of the multinational state proposed by Leon Pinsker (discussed at some length below), Judah Magnes, and others. However, Zionism now fit—and must needs fit—into what historian Noam Pianko names “the sovereign mold,” in which territorial boundaries are in direct correlation with the dwelling of particular national populations; each national group has a right of self-determination, defined as the right to political independence somewhere for that group alone, and all substate loyalties must be subsumed to loyalty to that nation-state. This set of ideas was renamed “Zionism,” in the case of the Jews, and afterward quite quickly became the only legitimate referent for the term.19 The ideational and perhaps even practical payoff of demonstrating the very recent and deeply contested (even among Zionists) nature of the allegedly irrevocable nexus between nation and state is to make more plausible the claim that something put together can be once more revoked.

Rejecting neo-Zionist ideas of diaspora as an anomalous, if not pathological, condition, with Jews perhaps its only example and the state its only cure, I propose diaspora as a kind of cultural situation in which a group of people—the Jews, for instance—are doubly situated (culturally) at home and abroad, located in their doikayt—here and now—but also culturally and affectively bound to similar collectives that are in other places, and perhaps other times as well, which we could name their Yiddishkayt, their Jewishness, or, in order to avoid Ashkenazocentrism, their Judezmo or Judaïté. Any future for the Jewish People will necessitate an inclusion of all of the Jews and cannot include only European or Eurocentric terms.20

Israeli historian and political theorist Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin writes of his concept of exile: “As a cultural position, it grants meaning and value to a heterogeneous reality by turning toward the foundations repressed by the concept of negation of exile; moreover, it also recognizes the existence and rights of the Palestinian collective and its

viewpoint. In the concept of exile is thus embodied a consistent moral position, on which critique can be grounded.”21

I agree, but there is a difference between us, too. Both of us propose that the situation of the Jews without sovereignty holds significant promise, but while Raz-Krakotzkin defines that promise under the figure of exile and produces an account of morality out of it, I am thinking in terms of diaspora, not exile, and looking for a just political solution—just to all forms of life (Lebensformen).22 I am not suggesting that these approaches are incompatible with each other; I suggest, rather, that they add to or supplement each other. We both imagine a binational state in Palestine; the question is how we get there—conceptually. I call for a diasporic state of (at least) two nations in Palestine. The model of diaspora that I adumbrate throughout this manifesto, if it doesn’t quite provide solutions, perhaps provides some terms within which to imagine future systems of thought and structures that recall aspects of the past.

I have elsewhere imagined and advanced this new-old usage for the word diaspora, and it is by using these terms that I am proposing an old-new mode of Jewish existence. 23 The fi rst term, doikayt , is drawn from the language of the Jewish Bund, the Yiddish socialist mass movement of pre–World War II Jews in Central and Eastern Europe. It translates quite literally as “hereness,” which I’m adopting as my term for the commitment to the welfare of the people among whom I—we—live. It involves primarily class solidarity, but can very easily be extended to the struggle for justice for all oppressed in my city, state, country. The second term, Yiddishkayt or Judaïté, signifies the national ties and commitments to other collectives that I identify as part of my nation even when living under other political formations or states, the people with whom I share a history and other stories, songs, foods, holidays, modes of speech—and humor as well as memories of horrific suffering. By writing Yiddishkayt/Judaïté, I am

explicitly indicating my intention to expand the nation beyond the Eastern and Central European realm of the Ashkenazi, Yiddishspeaking Jews encompassed by the Bund, via a terminological move to include all of the tribes of Israel, speakers of Yiddish, Judezmo , Judeo-Aramaic, Judeo-Persian, Greek, and a multitude of others. The Jews, whatever they are, are not a European ethnicity. The Bund’s perspective gives us the model to move beyond it, a prospect for which I will argue in the ensuing chapters of this manifesto.