The Hope

כֹּל עוֹד בַּלֵּבָב פְּנִימָה נֶפֶשׁ יְהוּדִי הוֹמִיָּה.

As long as in the heart, within,

The soul of a Jew still yearns,

And onward, towards the ends of the east,

an eye still gazes toward Zion;

Our hope is not yet lost,

The hope of two thousand years,

To be a free people in our land,

The land of Zion and Jerusalem. 

It is a strange choice for a national anthem. The haunting melody, the longing, somber lyrics. No rockets’ red glare or bombs bursting in air, no “jour de gloire est arrivee.” Israel’s national anthem is no triumphant victory march. It is also, like so many things about Israel, controversial.

The lyrics of HaTikvah were written in 1878 as a poem by Naftali Hertz Imber, an Austro-Hungarian Jew. The music was written ten years later by Samuel Cohen, a Romanian Jew who based the melody on a Moldavian folk song. It quickly became a popular song among the chalutzim, the Jewish pioneers of the early Zionist movement.

But the song also had its detractors. Theodor Herzl didn’t like the fact that the lyrics were written by Imber, who was, as one contemporary described him, “a vagabond, a drunkard and a Hebrew poet.” Others didn’t like the fact that the melody wasn’t from Jewish tradition. Religious Zionists objected to the omission of God from the lyrics, socialist Zionists objected to the messianic overtones they saw in the reference to a return to the land, and cultural Zionists objected to the minor key, which they described as gloomy and depressing.  But in spite of all the objections, HaTikvah stole the hearts of the people, becoming the de facto national anthem once the State of Israel was established. It finally became the official anthem in 2004. 

It’s easy to see why people love HaTikvah. It captures the deep love and longing for the Land of Israel that has been a hallmark of the Jewish experience for thousands of years. In HaTikvah, we hear the echoes of our ancestors, those who wept by the rivers of Babylon, those who were exiled and found new homes in North Africa and Babylonia and across Europe, but who still turned towards Jerusalem whenever they prayed. We hear the echo of Yehudah HaLevi, the great 12th-century Spanish poet, who wrote, “My heart is in the east, but I am at the edge of the west.” We hear the echoes of the early Zionists, who envisioned an ancient promise being made real with their own hands. And we hear the echoes of the victims of the Shoah, those who sought refuge from the Nazis and found that they had nowhere to go.

  It might seem strange that 77 years after the establishment of the State of Israel, HaTikvah remains the anthem. After all, we are no longer dreaming of a Jewish State -- we have one. But it is clear that the dream has not been fully realized: we are not yet a free people in our land, the land of Zion and Jerusalem. The Hope has not yet been fulfilled.

The Hope has not been fulfilled because although Israel is a sovereign Jewish state, its inhabitants are still not free, assuming that freedom includes the freedom from fear, violence, and war. The attacks of October 7, the continued captivity of the hostages, and the ongoing war in Gaza have all but crushed that hope for many Israelis. And the ensuing surge in antisemitism around the world has all but crushed that hope for the rest of us. According to recent polls, only 47% of American Jews believe a two-state solution is possible and 85% of Israeli Jews believe there is no realistic prospect for peace between Israel and Palestine in the near future. HaTikvah is quickly becoming a painfully ironic anthem for the State of Israel.

If that weren’t bad enough, there is another dream represented by the State of Israel that is in danger of being lost. That is the dream of a homeland where the Jewish people can live out the values and commitments of Judaism. Rabbi Donniel Hartman, president of the Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem, describes the problem this way: 

“In the year-and-a-half since October 7 and 8, as I travel and teach across Israel and North America, what is most palpable to me is how much we have all changed, and the extent to which existential fear and instability are now common to the Jewish experience… What is also evident to me is that this newfound fear is accompanied by a reassessment of individual and collective priorities…. Moral standards and concerns regarding the way the war in Gaza is being waged, the disposition of humanitarian aid, or the future of Gaza and the West Bank, are now second-tier concerns at best, perceived as luxuries that we can no longer afford. In this context, in Israel, it has become commonplace to view morality and security as mutually exclusive…. Today, I am finding it increasingly difficult to raise moral concerns and engage people in Israel and North America in aspirational ethical discourse regarding Israel’s policies and the future of Zionism.” This is a problem because, as Hartman reminds us, “[S]urvival alone has never exhausted our goals as a people. We are not commanded to walk in the ways of God and do that which is just and right only in times of safety and prosperity. We are expected to have moral concerns and aspirations even in this time of existential fear. The fact that it is difficult, that for many it feels unnatural or like a luxury, or that it might even be dangerous, cannot absolve us of the obligation to understand and at least aspire to live up to our ethical standards. We need to reengage with moral discourse and bring it back into our private and public lives. We need to find a way to resume talking about who we are and who we ought to be. When moral discourse is vibrant, moral behavior follows.” 

Hartman concludes that “[i]t is incumbent upon us to learn, to internalize the ethics of seeing [the Other] and non-indifference, and to struggle and debate the ways we must apply it in our lives. For this, we were placed on earth. For this, we came home and established the State of Israel.” Rabbi Hartman powerfully reminds us that the two dreams of Israel, to be a safe haven for Jews and a safe haven for Judaism, must not be mutually exclusive. They should, in fact, be inextricably linked.

“עוֹד לֹא אָבְדָה תִקְוָתֵנוּ. Our hope is not yet lost” declares HaTikvah. There are days when I wonder if I can still sing those words wholeheartedly. But then I return to the first lines of the anthem: “כֹּל עוֹד בַּלֵּבָב פְּנִימָה נֶפֶשׁ יְהוּדִי הוֹמִיָּה. As long as in the heart, within, the soul of a Jew still yearns.” Many of us are still yearning for Israel – yearning for an end to the war in Gaza, yearning for justice and peace for Israel and her neighbors, yearning for Israel to live up to the vision of its founders and the covenant of our ancestors. As long as we keep yearning, our hope is not yet lost. So, it turns out, HaTikvah really is the ideal anthem for the State of Israel.