Zionism, Belonging, and the Complexity of American Jewish Identity

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

The Changing Relationship to Zionism

A year ago, I shared a post on Threads that sparked an ongoing, and at times, emotionally charged conversation. In it, I reflected on the growing number of American Jews, particularly younger, browner, and queerer Jews, who identify as anti-Zionist, non-Zionist, or who don’t feel aligned with the word “Zionist” at all. The Thread and this essay were shaped by conversations I continue to have with rabbis and other Jewish leaders.

This isn’t a fringe or diminishing group. According to a 2020 Pew study, this cohort is growing. The study points to a growing diversity in how American Jews relate to Israel, suggesting that Jewish identity is becoming multifaceted and not solely defined by a connection to Zionism. And yet, the response I received revealed just how hard it still is for our communities to hold multiple truths at once.

Too many of the replies assumed these Jews must be uneducated, disconnected, or lacking firsthand experience with Israel. Some implied that if only they had the “right” education or had visited, their views would align with the mainstream. But what if they have been to Israel? What if they are deeply engaged and still come to different conclusions? What if their lived experiences—shaped by race, gender, sexuality, class, and global politics—lead them to different understandings of nationalism, statehood, and identity?

Lived Experience and Political Consciousness

Many Jews have grown up deeply engaged in social justice work. Their values have been shaped by movements for racial justice, gender equity, queer liberation, and Indigenous rights. These frameworks naturally shape how some view power, oppression, and belonging, including in the context of Israel and Palestine. What they’ve learned about justice elsewhere doesn’t simply get put aside when they consider questions of homeland or peoplehood. For some, it prompts a deeper examination of nationalism and the role it plays in shaping identity and power; for others, it opens them to more diasporic visions of Jewish life.

Added to this is the impact of information access. Unlike previous generations, today, Jews aren’t limited to a single narrative. Social media, independent journalism, and global activism have widened the lens. They can hear from Palestinians directly. They can witness state violence in real-time. And while that information should be approached critically, it has undoubtedly changed the American landscape of Jewish conversation on Israel.

It’s also worth briefly acknowledging the spectrum within anti- and non-Zionist identities. These terms are not monolithic. Some anti-Zionists advocate for a binational state or equal rights within a single political structure. Others call for a complete dismantling of Zionism as a political ideology. Non-Zionists, by contrast, may not oppose Israel’s existence but simply don’t view Zionism as central to their Jewish identity. For many Jews, especially in the diaspora, Israel is experienced as a foreign country—one they may feel connected to culturally or spiritually, but also one whose government can and should be critiqued like any other.

A young Jewish person once shared with me that they consider themselves anti-Zionist. But when I asked deeper questions—like whether they believe the State of Israel should exist or if they care about the lives of Israelis—their answers reflected values often associated with Zionism. For this person, identifying as anti-Zionist meant standing in solidarity with Palestinians without denying connection or concern for Israelis. It was their way of holding both truths: advocating for justice without erasing complexity.

Language, Power, and Belonging

One thing is clear: language evolves. Words like “Zionist” or “anti-Zionist” carry different connotations depending on who’s using them, who’s hearing them, and what history or trauma is present in the room. For some, “Zionist” is an identity rooted in a sense of safety, connection to homeland, or commitment to Jewish continuity. For others, it’s a term that has become inseparable from nationalism, displacement, or violence. And for many Jews—especially those navigating racial, ethnic, and queer identities—it’s simply a term that no longer speaks to their Jewish values or worldview.

Who gets to define these terms? Who decides what is “mainstream”? There is power in language, and often, that power is unevenly distributed. When some voices are excluded from the conversation, or their definitions are dismissed as illegitimate, it sends a message about whose Judaism is seen as valid.

We can begin by acknowledging that not every Jew relates to Israel—or to Zionism—in the same way. We can affirm that Judaism is vast enough to contain multiple, even conflicting, narratives about peoplehood and place. And we can recognize that identity is not static. For some, Zionism may be core to their Jewish self-understanding. For others, it may not be an identity at all but a political ideology they’ve chosen to critique or reject. Both realities deserve to be treated with seriousness and care.

We might also consider alternative ways of framing connection: cultural Zionism, spiritual attachment to land, or Jewishness rooted in the diaspora. For some, these frameworks offer more inclusive or resonant ways to express belonging without flattening their politics.

We must also acknowledge the emotional weight these words carry. “Zionist” and “anti-Zionist” are not neutral—they’re charged with historical trauma, inherited fears, and communal grief. For many, they evoke safety or threat, identity or betrayal.

Anti-Zionist discourse, in particular, can stir real fear—rooted in generations of antisemitism and exclusion. For some, critiques of Zionism feel like a denial of their heritage or a dismissal of family history shaped by persecution and the search for refuge. These responses are not overreactions; they are reflections of real and painful memory.

Honoring these emotional truths is essential. If we hope to create space for honest, nuanced dialogue, we must begin with empathy, curiosity, and care.

Moving Toward Dialogue and Inclusion

Engaging in this conversation doesn’t mean erasing anyone. It means refusing to reduce our community to a single story. We’ve inherited a tradition that celebrates makhloket l’shem shamayim—argument for the sake of heaven. Surely we can make space for disagreement, so long as we hold each other with respect.

So, how do we move forward?

Jewish institutions can play a role. Synagogues, schools, and community centers must learn to reflect the diversity of thought already present in our communities. This might mean creating spaces where different views can be explored honestly, or rethinking how we teach about Israel in ways that don’t presume consensus.

We also need new models for dialogue. Facilitated spaces that center listening over debating, that acknowledge power and emotion, that are designed to hold tension—these are critical for the future of our Jewish communal life.

And perhaps most of all, we need to keep asking questions. What kind of Jewish community do we want to be? One where people are policed for the words they use—or one where our commitments to justice, belonging, and care for each other guide us?

A Vision Forward

What if our communities were brave enough to allow the fullness of our differences? What if we could learn to see disagreement not as a threat, but as a path to deeper collective wisdom? We don’t have to be uniform to be united. We only have to be committed to showing up with honesty, care, and curiosity.

The Thread I started was an invitation: to listen more deeply, to consider how language shapes who feels welcome, and to ask what it might look like to build a Jewish future where difference is not just tolerated, but honored.

What are your thoughts?