On the brink of our entry into the Land of Israel, after delivering most of His commandments, God entered into a covenant with us. This solemn pact entwines our national destiny with our moral and religious choices. If we walk in His ways, we will dwell in the land with peace and abundance. If we stray, we will endure hardship and, ultimately, exile.
This covenant – etched into our history as the tochacha, or “the great rebuke” – has, heartbreakingly, come to pass. Twice we were torn from our homeland, cast into exile by the weight of our own spiritual failure.
Most of the blessings we were promised lie beyond our control. We cannot summon rain, nor can we guarantee the ripening of crops. Despite our efforts, we cannot dictate the behavior of our neighbors or ensure that they remain peaceful.
Yet among the many promised blessings, one lies, at least in part, within our hands. God promises to liberate us from a suppressive yoke, allowing us to walk tall and proud. The Torah describes this elevated state with the word komemiyut, “walking upright,” not only in posture but in spirit.
Though God shapes the circumstances that can elevate or diminish our national pride, we are not completely passive. We choose how to view our people and our story. History may confront us with sorrow or struggle, but we still choose whether to respond with pride and confidence or with frustration and self-doubt.
Religious pride
Ideally, religious people feel proud of their Jewish identity, regardless of historical circumstance. We alone were chosen by God to live a life aligned with His will and to bring light to a world often dark and disoriented. The privilege of living in His presence and following His will should radiate an inner pride, untouched by the chaos that often swirls around us.
History may rise and fall, but the pride born of religious experience is eternal, beyond the grasp of history’s often harsh hand.
However, history also affects our inner pride, and the past 85 years have unleashed a storm of challenges to the pride we hold as Jews.
1940-1948
After two millennia of exile and discrimination, Jewish pride hit its lowest point in the wake of the Holocaust’s horrors. Our people were broken and scattered, left to question how God could allow such darkness to unfold. To echo partisan survivor Abba Kovner: “We are the remnants of a people… shadows of the murdered.” In those shadows, it was hard to find room for pride in the historical fate of the Jewish people.
1948 was meant to change all of that. The birth of the State of Israel was widely considered an opportunity to restore dignity to our people. The War of Independence was called the war of komemiyut – uprightness – in the hope that it would revive our shattered pride.
Without question, the establishment of the state was a monumental event, answering the Holocaust both spiritually and practically. This miracle is forever etched in modern Jewish history. Yet Jewish pride was still searching for its footing. Our new state was only a glimpse of the homeland we had dreamed of.
We were a young and fragile nation, struggling financially, surrounded by hostility, and still finding our place in the broader family of nations. Many Jews immigrated to Israel, fleeing persecution in Arab lands. Many others, though, emigrated from Israel, looking westward for stability and opportunity. 1948 brought hope and relief, but the komemiyut we had yearned for had not yet fully arrived.
1967
That moment arrived in 1967, with our return to the heartland of Jewish history, and, of course, to the sacred city of Jerusalem. Coupled with the breathtaking military victories of the Six Day War, which we celebrate this coming week, Jewish national pride was electrified. Waves of pride surged through the country.
This pride was not confined to the hills of Jerusalem or the shores of Tel Aviv. It rippled eastward to Jews living in the Soviet Union, whose Jewish identity had long been suppressed. Their renewed pride, sparked by the Six Day War, ignited a movement that ultimately brought millions of Jews home to Israel.
The ripples of Jewish pride also spread westward, igniting a revival of Jewish spirit in Western countries. For many religious Jews, this renewed pride in the wake of 1967 sparked a religious revolution: greater observance and renewed devotion. Even among non-observant Jews, it brought a newfound confidence in embracing and celebrating their Jewish identity. The komemiyut that eluded us in 1948 finally awakened in 1967.
In the 55 years since 1967, life in Israel has become increasingly entangled in political and social complexities. Over time, pride has worn thin for many Israelis. Abroad as well, Jewish pride didn’t break or vanish; it slowly dissolved, as many quietly blended into surrounding cultures and identities. The vibrant pride that surged in 1967 still echoes, but for many it has slipped from immediate feeling.
Oct. 7
Oct. 7 changed the equation. Confronted by unspeakable violence and inconceivable hatred, many Jews around the world have chosen to stand tall against cruelty and moral collapse, embracing a profound belief that we stand for something better, something nobler, for ourselves and for all humanity.
In many ways, Oct. 7 echoes 1967 – a moment when Jewish pride was renewed, and Jewish identity surged with fresh intensity. We fervently pray that God helps us reclaim our national pride through victory and success, and not, God forbid, through future hardship or suffering.
Self-shame
Pride is a quiet form of national currency, often determining whether cultures flourish or falter. Part of the unease gripping the West today lies in its growing struggle to take pride in its own story.
We’ve shifted from a generation once celebrated for courage and conviction to one that often feels uneasy about its cultural roots. Unsure how to honor the world they’ve inherited, many turn inward, questioning their own institutions and values, and viewing the West as stained by colonialism and racism.
Maybe this helps explain the deep hostility toward Israelis. Jews don’t hide our national pride; we speak openly about our story and believe in the justice of our cause. For many in the West, that confidence can feel jarring. It may hold up a mirror they would rather not face. And so, they turn outward, projecting onto us all the wrongs they associate with their own history.
Pride is not merely a state of mind or an emotional feeling; it is a conscious choice. When we face adversity and challenges, both from within and from external enemies, we confront a decision: Do we stand tall and embrace pride in what we have accomplished? Or do we fall into worry, panic, and doubt? Do we let internal divisions convince us that we are broken, and do we continue to feed the narrative of a fractured society?
In this crucial battle, every person – whether he or she serves in the army or not, whether he or she lives in Israel or abroad – is part of the struggle. Walking tall is a responsibility for all of us, not just to overcome those who seek to break us but to strengthen our own resilience and national vitality.
As we mark the anniversary of 1967, we must remember our place in history. Pride came more easily then. In 2025, the challenge is more complex, more nuanced. We can choose to sink or to rise. We can bend or we can stand tall. That choice is ours, and it will shape our collective future.
The writer is a rabbi at the Har Etzion/Gush Hesder Yeshiva, with an MA in English literature. His books include the recent To Be Holy but Human: Reflections Upon My Rebbe, HaRav Yehuda Amital (Kodesh Press).
