Maidenhead Synagogue – Erev Shabbat Va-etchannan – 24 July 2026 / 11 Av 5786
Twice a day, evening and morning, we say these words that come from our Torah portion:
שְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל יְיָ אֱלֹהֵינוּ יְיָ אֶחָד – Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheynu, Adonai Echad
“Hear, O Israel: the Eternal is our God. The Eternal is One.” (Deuteronomy 6:4)
We say these words so often that we can forget their first word is a divine command. Before the Shema asks us to believe anything, it asks us to listen. To listen to the words spoken around us, to the stories people tell about other human beings, and to notice when those stories become too simple. Words shape the way we see people, and the way we see people shapes the way we treat them.
These past few days, I came across two articles, one in ‘The Jerusalem Post’, the other one in the Wall Street Journal, that attempt to read the present through the lens of the past.
The first is about Rwanda. It was published on Wednesday, written by Adam Louis Klein, and is called “Rwanda, Israel and the Inversion of ‘Genocide'” [1]. The author reminded us that, in 1990, the Rwandan Patriotic Front, largely made up of Tutsi exiles, invaded the country, and a real political and military conflict followed. The invading army was made up of Tutsi exiles, people outside the country. Hutu extremists took that fact and blurred a crucial line: they spoke of Tutsi civilians inside Rwanda, ordinary neighbours who had nothing to do with the invasion, as if they were the inner arm of the enemy at the border. A person stopped being a person and became a representative of a group; a farmer, a teacher, and a neighbour became suspect simply for existing. Years before anyone was killed, the groundwork for the genocide was laid in language, in the way people were spoken about. And we know what happened: from the 7th of April, 1994, the genocide of about 800,000 Tutsis took place.
The journalist makes a comparison with what is happening today to Jews around the world. There is a real and terrible conflict between Israelis and Palestinians, and there are legitimate, necessary debates about the Israeli government, Gaza, the occupation, and the future of both peoples.
However, something different happens when the distinction between Israel and Jews begins to disappear: when a Jewish student in Britain is expected to answer for the Israeli government, when a synagogue is treated as though it were an embassy, when someone looks at a Jew and believes they already know what that person thinks about Gaza or Zionism. At that moment we have moved from asking “What do you think?” to deciding “I know who you are.” That is the mechanism Rwanda teaches us to recognise: the collapse of individuals into categories.
But historical comparisons require caution. Britain in 2026 is not Rwanda in 1994. We live in a democracy protected by law and institutions, with friends and allies across British society; we should neither exaggerate our situation nor persuade ourselves that catastrophe is inevitable. History does not follow a script. It does not repeat itself exactly, whatever people may say. What it can do is help us recognise patterns and mechanisms that may appear at different times and in different places.
The second article was also published on Wednesday, written by Zvika Klein in the Jerusalem Post, an opinion piece introduced by these words: “Germany’s good Jews thought they were safe; New York should pay attention” [2]. The new NYC mayor, Zohran Mamdani, doesn’t hide his anti-Zionism, and we know that the line between anti-Zionism and plain anti-Semitism is really thin. And yet, 33% of New York Jews voted for him. Why would you do that?, asks the journalist. She introduces a moment in German history. In 1921 Max Naumann, a Berlin lawyer and decorated veteran of the First World War, founded the Association of German National Jews. Naumann believed antisemitism was partly a reaction to Jewish behaviour, and he particularly blamed Zionists and Jews from Eastern Europe. He hoped that if German Jews proved their patriotism and distanced themselves from the Jews whom antisemites disliked, the hatred would fade. In 1935 the Nazis dissolved his organisation anyway, and most of its members perished in the camp.
Again, we are not living in Germany in the 1930s, and criticism of Israel is not in itself antisemitic. Naumann’s story exposes a temptation rather than a prophecy: the temptation to believe that one can negotiate with prejudice. The idea is seductive because it offers a sense of control; if antisemitism is caused by something Jews do, then Jews can make it stop. But antisemitism rarely respects the subtle distinctions Jews draw among themselves. It fails to distinguish Zionists from anti-Zionists, religious from secular, Israelis from Diaspora. The lesson is simple: our safety must never depend on deciding which other Jews we are prepared to abandon.
Now, back to our Torah portion, what can we do? Va’etchanan answers immediately after the Shema:
וְהָיוּ הַדְּבָרִים הָאֵלֶּה אֲשֶׁר אָנֹכִי מְצַוְּךָ הַיּוֹם עַל־לְבָבֶךָ – Ve-ahyu ha-devarim ha-ele asher anokhi metzavekha ha-yom al-levavekha
“These words which I command you today shall be upon your heart.” (Deuteronomy 6:6)
וְשִׁנַּנְתָּם לְבָנֶיךָ וְדִבַּרְתָּ בָּם – ve-shinantam le-vaneykha ve-dibarta bam.
“Teach them diligently to your children and speak of them.” (Deuteronomy 6:7)
Listen, remember, teach, speak. These are active verbs, and they give us four tools.
The first is precision. We can insist on distinctions. Israel is a state. Israelis are its citizens. Jews are a diverse people spread across the world. Zionism holds many different ideas and histories. We should be able to say, calmly, ‘You may criticise Israel, and so may I, but you cannot make Jews collectively responsible for it.’ That draws a boundary without closing down legitimate conversation. The same precision applies within our community. We can disagree profoundly about Israel and still stand against antisemitism directed at any Jew, and nobody should have to prove they are the right kind of Jew to deserve respect.
The second is curiosity. When someone repeats a troubling claim, a question is often more powerful than an accusation. “What do you mean by that?” “Would you say the same about another minority?” “Why should a British Jew account for the actions of a foreign government?” Questions slow a narrative down and force its assumptions into the open.
The third is relationship. Antisemitism thrives on abstraction: “the Jews”, “the Zionists”, and “they”. Caricatures are harder to sustain between people who know one another. This is why our presence in the wider community matters, why our interfaith friendships matter, and why opening our synagogue to our neighbours or to schools matters. We need to be visible as human beings.
The fourth is the most important. We must refuse to let antisemitism define our Judaism. If everything we teach our children about being Jewish is that people have hated us, we let our enemies write our Cheder curriculum. Moses tells us to teach our children these words: words of Torah, of memory, of responsibility, of questioning – to teach them that Jewish life is worth living. And then comes one of the loveliest verses in the parashah:
כִּי־יִשְׁאָלְךָ בִנְךָ מָחָר – Ki yish’al’kha vin’kha machar
“When your child asks you tomorrow…” (Deuteronomy 6:20)
Our tradition imagines the future opening with a child’s question, asked in curiosity rather than fear.
These two histories carry related warnings. Rwanda shows what can happen when individuals are absorbed into a supposed collective enemy. Naumann shows the danger of accepting that logic in the hope of being spared by it: “They mean those other Jews; they do not mean me.” Both begin when categories or abstract definitions replace human beings, and the warning holds wherever collective blame appears, whether against Jews, Muslims, Palestinians, Israelis, or refugees.
This brings us back to the Shema we recited together a few minutes ago. Shema Yisrael: listen, Israel. Listen to the stories told around us and to the stories we tell ourselves. When a story about a group of people becomes too simple, ask a question. When individuals are collapsed into a category, insist on the distinction. Stand beside one another even when we disagree. Keep our doors open, keep our friendships in this town alive, and answer our children’s questions with Torah rather than with fear. We have language; we have memory; we have allies; and above all, we have a Jewish life to live.
וְהָיוּ הַדְּבָרִים הָאֵלֶּה עַל־לְבָבֶךָ – Va-ayu ha-devarim ha-ele al-levav’kha
Let these words be upon your heart.
[1] https://www.wsj.com/opinion/rwanda-israel-and-the-inversion-of-genocide-0d177a98
[2] https://www.jpost.com/israel-news/article-903301