Post-Zionism and Doikayt: Here Is Where We Live
Zionism is the belief that Jews have the right to self-determination and their own homeland, which I don’t disagree with any more than I disagree with Native Americans having sovereignty and land of their own. The problem is that the creation of the state of Israel came at a real and devastating cost, most notably the Nakba and the long history of violence and war that followed. Anti-Zionism, at least in the form I most often see it expressed, calls for dismantling Israel entirely and sending Jews “back to Poland,” which I consider antisemitic. You don’t undo one displacement by creating another, and it ignores the fact that many Jews, particularly Mizrahi Jews, are indigenous to the region. That’s not a path toward justice. Post-Zionism is where I land: Israel exists, and I believe it can and should continue to exist, but only if we are willing to reckon honestly with our history and pursue real peace, including a two-state solution with Palestine.
When I talk about post-Zionism, I mean moving beyond the idea that Israel’s existence, on its own, solves the problem of Jewish safety. Israel is not a theory anymore. It’s a state with power, borders, policies, and consequences. Like any other state, it has to be accountable for what it does. It cannot be placed outside of criticism or treated as morally untouchable because of the trauma that shaped its founding.
Post-Zionism also requires a willingness to face history in full. The Nakba is not a minor detail or a matter of debate for Palestinians. It is central to their lived reality and identity, just as the Holocaust is for many Jews. Both histories carry immense weight, and both continue to shape the present. Taking that seriously means acknowledging harm without deflecting or minimizing it. It means understanding that moral clarity doesn’t come from ignoring uncomfortable truths.
It also means rejecting the idea that Jewish safety can depend on the ongoing deprivation of another people’s rights. A system built on inequality, restriction, or displacement will never be stable. It will continue to generate fear, anger, and violence on all sides. If safety is the goal, then it has to be mutual. It has to be rooted in dignity, equality, and a willingness to share the land rather than dominate it.
Post-Zionism goes hand-in-hand with the concept of doikayt.
Doikayt is a Yiddish word that roughly translates to “hereness,” but that translation only scratches the surface. It’s less about location and more about orientation. It’s the idea that Jewish life is not something deferred to another place, but something lived fully in the present, wherever you are.
Historically, doikayt comes out of Eastern European Jewish political movements like the Bund, which emerged in a world of intense antisemitism. These were not people living in comfort or safety. They were facing violence, discrimination, and exclusion. And still, their answer was not flight, but engagement. They believed in fighting for dignity and rights where they already lived, alongside others who were also marginalized.
That origin matters. It shows that doikayt isn’t rooted in denial or naïveté. It’s grounded in the recognition that there is no guaranteed refuge waiting somewhere else. Instead of placing hope in a distant solution, it insists on building something meaningful in the present.
If Zionism centers the idea of Jewish safety in a particular land, doikayt shifts the focus back to lived reality. It treats diaspora not as a problem to be solved, but as a condition in which Jewish life has always existed and evolved. Jewish culture has never been confined to one place. It has taken shape across languages, countries, and centuries, adapting without disappearing.
For me, this is where doikayt and post-Zionism connect. Post-Zionism questions whether a single nation-state can actually guarantee safety, while doikayt asks what it means to live responsibly and fully in the world as it is. Together, they move the conversation away from the idea of a single “correct” place to be, and toward the reality of how Jewish life actually unfolds.
Doikayt also carries an ethical dimension. It’s not about passively accepting whatever conditions you’re in. It’s about recognizing that if you live somewhere, you are part of that society, and you have a stake in what happens there. That includes confronting antisemitism, but also engaging with broader injustices. Safety, in this framework, isn’t something granted by borders. It’s something built through relationships, solidarity, and collective effort.
This ties into how I understand Judaism itself. It’s not just belief, it’s practice. It’s about how you live, how you treat people, and what kind of world you’re helping to create. Doikayt grounds that in the present. It asks what responsibility looks like here, not in some imagined future where everything is resolved.
It also requires letting go of the idea of perfect safety. There is no place where nothing bad can happen. Every country has its own risks, its own tensions, and its own capacity for violence. The belief that any single place can offer absolute security is, at best, wishful thinking.
After October 7, 2023, that belief feels even harder to sustain. A place that is supposed to be a refuge became the site of immense violence against Jews. The aftermath has only deepened instability and fear, not resolved it. I do not believe that Israel is the safest place in the world for Jews, and I think we need to be honest about that if we actually care about safety.
That doesn’t mean abandoning the idea of safety altogether. It means redefining it. It means understanding safety as something that comes from justice, from community, and from the conditions we build together, rather than something guaranteed by a state.
Jewish identity has never been singular. There are Jews who feel safest in Israel and Jews who feel safest elsewhere. There are Jews who see diaspora as exile and others who see it as home. Those differences aren’t new, and they aren’t going away.
My perspective is just one among many. It’s shaped by the path that brought me into Judaism and the values I’ve come to hold. Doikayt gives me language for something I already felt: that my life is here, that my responsibilities are here, and that belonging isn’t something I need to seek somewhere else.
A future where Jews are safe, to me, is not one where Jews are concentrated in a single place behind walls. It’s a future where antisemitism has been reduced, where societies are more just, and where Jews can live openly wherever they are.
That vision is complicated and imperfect. It doesn’t offer guarantees. But neither does anything else.
At the end of the day, doikayt is about choosing to invest in the world as it actually exists. It’s about saying: this is where I am, and this is where I will build something meaningful. And for me, that feels like a more honest place to stand.
When I talk about post-Zionism, I mean moving beyond the idea that Israel’s existence, on its own, solves the problem of Jewish safety. Israel is not a theory anymore. It’s a state with power, borders, policies, and consequences. Like any other state, it has to be accountable for what it does. It cannot be placed outside of criticism or treated as morally untouchable because of the trauma that shaped its founding.
Post-Zionism also requires a willingness to face history in full. The Nakba is not a minor detail or a matter of debate for Palestinians. It is central to their lived reality and identity, just as the Holocaust is for many Jews. Both histories carry immense weight, and both continue to shape the present. Taking that seriously means acknowledging harm without deflecting or minimizing it. It means understanding that moral clarity doesn’t come from ignoring uncomfortable truths.
It also means rejecting the idea that Jewish safety can depend on the ongoing deprivation of another people’s rights. A system built on inequality, restriction, or displacement will never be stable. It will continue to generate fear, anger, and violence on all sides. If safety is the goal, then it has to be mutual. It has to be rooted in dignity, equality, and a willingness to share the land rather than dominate it.
Post-Zionism goes hand-in-hand with the concept of doikayt.
Doikayt is a Yiddish word that roughly translates to “hereness,” but that translation only scratches the surface. It’s less about location and more about orientation. It’s the idea that Jewish life is not something deferred to another place, but something lived fully in the present, wherever you are.
Historically, doikayt comes out of Eastern European Jewish political movements like the Bund, which emerged in a world of intense antisemitism. These were not people living in comfort or safety. They were facing violence, discrimination, and exclusion. And still, their answer was not flight, but engagement. They believed in fighting for dignity and rights where they already lived, alongside others who were also marginalized.
That origin matters. It shows that doikayt isn’t rooted in denial or naïveté. It’s grounded in the recognition that there is no guaranteed refuge waiting somewhere else. Instead of placing hope in a distant solution, it insists on building something meaningful in the present.
If Zionism centers the idea of Jewish safety in a particular land, doikayt shifts the focus back to lived reality. It treats diaspora not as a problem to be solved, but as a condition in which Jewish life has always existed and evolved. Jewish culture has never been confined to one place. It has taken shape across languages, countries, and centuries, adapting without disappearing.
For me, this is where doikayt and post-Zionism connect. Post-Zionism questions whether a single nation-state can actually guarantee safety, while doikayt asks what it means to live responsibly and fully in the world as it is. Together, they move the conversation away from the idea of a single “correct” place to be, and toward the reality of how Jewish life actually unfolds.
Doikayt also carries an ethical dimension. It’s not about passively accepting whatever conditions you’re in. It’s about recognizing that if you live somewhere, you are part of that society, and you have a stake in what happens there. That includes confronting antisemitism, but also engaging with broader injustices. Safety, in this framework, isn’t something granted by borders. It’s something built through relationships, solidarity, and collective effort.
This ties into how I understand Judaism itself. It’s not just belief, it’s practice. It’s about how you live, how you treat people, and what kind of world you’re helping to create. Doikayt grounds that in the present. It asks what responsibility looks like here, not in some imagined future where everything is resolved.
It also requires letting go of the idea of perfect safety. There is no place where nothing bad can happen. Every country has its own risks, its own tensions, and its own capacity for violence. The belief that any single place can offer absolute security is, at best, wishful thinking.
After October 7, 2023, that belief feels even harder to sustain. A place that is supposed to be a refuge became the site of immense violence against Jews. The aftermath has only deepened instability and fear, not resolved it. I do not believe that Israel is the safest place in the world for Jews, and I think we need to be honest about that if we actually care about safety.
That doesn’t mean abandoning the idea of safety altogether. It means redefining it. It means understanding safety as something that comes from justice, from community, and from the conditions we build together, rather than something guaranteed by a state.
Jewish identity has never been singular. There are Jews who feel safest in Israel and Jews who feel safest elsewhere. There are Jews who see diaspora as exile and others who see it as home. Those differences aren’t new, and they aren’t going away.
My perspective is just one among many. It’s shaped by the path that brought me into Judaism and the values I’ve come to hold. Doikayt gives me language for something I already felt: that my life is here, that my responsibilities are here, and that belonging isn’t something I need to seek somewhere else.
A future where Jews are safe, to me, is not one where Jews are concentrated in a single place behind walls. It’s a future where antisemitism has been reduced, where societies are more just, and where Jews can live openly wherever they are.
That vision is complicated and imperfect. It doesn’t offer guarantees. But neither does anything else.
At the end of the day, doikayt is about choosing to invest in the world as it actually exists. It’s about saying: this is where I am, and this is where I will build something meaningful. And for me, that feels like a more honest place to stand.
