Netanyahu: The Last Wall Against Islamic Extremism
History is not written in straight lines; it bends with
exiles, persecutions, and the stubborn will of nations to endure. For the
Jewish people, the story of statehood has always been both promise and paradox:
a people scattered across continents, carrying in their memory the ruins of
Jerusalem, the scriptures of exile, and the dream of a homeland.
Through two millennia of dispersal—from Rome’s conquest to the ghettos of medieval Europe, from the pogroms of Tsarist Russia to the Holocaust in Nazi Europe—the Jews carried within themselves the ache of a motherland lost. That yearning crystallized into the Zionist movement of the late nineteenth century: a conviction that security and dignity could never be guaranteed in exile, that only in their own land could Jews be both free and safe.
And yet, when Israel was finally born in 1948, it was born into siege. Surrounded by hostile neighbors, its survival was never guaranteed. Every war—1948, 1967, 1973—was not merely a battle for borders but for existence itself. For Jews, the dilemma was sharp: could their long-desired homeland survive in a region that saw its very existence as an affront?
It is against this historical backdrop that Benjamin Netanyahu must be understood.
From Oslo’s Illusions to Hard Reality
When Netanyahu rose to power in May 1996, it was at the close of a turbulent chapter. Shimon Peres, the architect of conciliation, had carried forward the Oslo Accords signed by Yitzhak Rabin and Yasser Arafat in 1993. To the world, Oslo represented hope; to many Israelis, it looked like surrender.
The February suicide bombings that killed fifty-nine Jews tore through whatever trust had been built. The promise of peace suddenly stood beside the graves of children. It was this wound that Netanyahu carried into office. From the outset, his decisions—halting the withdrawal from Hebron, resisting territorial concessions, strengthening settlements—were not merely political gambits but acts of historical instinct. He was not only governing; he was safeguarding the fragile inheritance of a people who knew too well what it meant to be homeless.
The Dilemma of the Motherland
For Jews, the state of Israel was not only a political entity but the redemption of centuries of statelessness. And yet this very motherland was born within the reach of enemies who questioned its legitimacy. The dilemma was profound: to pursue peace at the cost of vulnerability, or to pursue security at the cost of perpetual hostility.
Netanyahu’s answer was clear. The motherland must live, even if it must live embattled. To change the demographic balance of contested lands, to hold firm on the Golan Heights, to resist the blandishments of global diplomacy—these were not the stubbornness of ideology, but the reflex of a people who had seen the price of weakness across history.
America, Oil, and the Shadow of Empire
And yet, Israel’s choices were never entirely its own. From the Holocaust onward, America became the guarantor of Jewish survival. The alliance was sealed not only in sentiment but in science, commerce, and politics: from Einstein to Chomsky, Jewish intellect shaped America; from Washington’s vetoes in the UN to its military aid, America shielded Israel.
But America, too, had dilemmas. Its oil interests in Arabia, its rivalry with Russia and China in the Middle East, its need to maintain balance—all these meant that Israel was at once ally and pawn. Thus Washington pressed Netanyahu to restrain settlement expansion, fearing a collapse of regional diplomacy.
For the Jewish state, this was a cruel echo of its historical fate: once again, the survival of the motherland lay entangled in the calculations of greater empires.
The Golan Heights and Historical Memory
The Golan Heights symbolized this interplay of history and survival. Seized in 1967, its rocky plateau was more than strategic—it was ancestral. For centuries before Arab conquest in the seventh century, Jews had lived there, prayed there, built their towns upon its hills. To relinquish it, as Shimon Peres had suggested, would have been to sever not only a security buffer but a chain of memory. Netanyahu refused. Instead, he offered a measured compromise: partial concessions, but never total surrender.
Here, too, lay the motherland dilemma: how much could be yielded without eroding the essence of homeland itself?
Arafat and the Mask of Peace
Yasser Arafat embodied the paradox of Israel’s neighbors. To Western capitals, he wore the robes of a statesman; to Israelis, he was the father of suicide bombings, the architect of militancy. Netanyahu hesitated to meet him, and rightly so. For Jews, to sit across the table from a man who had sanctioned massacres was to risk repeating history: to misplace trust in those who spoke of peace while plotting destruction.
The Jewish dilemma reappeared here in sharp relief: could survival ever be secured by trusting those who denied their right to exist?
The Historic Crossroads
Thus in the 1990s, Israel once again stood at the same crossroad it had faced in every century of its existence: exile or endurance, surrender or survival. For Netanyahu, the lesson of Jewish history was unmistakable: weakness invited annihilation, only strength ensured continuity.
The motherland, hard-won after two thousand years, could not afford illusions. Every settlement, every soldier on the Golan, every refusal to yield was a brick in the wall of survival.
The Jewish dilemma had always been whether to wait for acceptance from others or to build security for themselves. In Netanyahu’s choices, one hears the echo of ancient exile and modern catastrophe—the vow of a people that never again would they wander homeless, never again would their survival depend upon the mercy of others.
And so, Netanyahu’s politics, however controversial, are not merely the policies of a Prime Minister. They are the latest expression of the oldest struggle of the Jewish people: to turn the dream of a motherland into the permanence of a state.
Through two millennia of dispersal—from Rome’s conquest to the ghettos of medieval Europe, from the pogroms of Tsarist Russia to the Holocaust in Nazi Europe—the Jews carried within themselves the ache of a motherland lost. That yearning crystallized into the Zionist movement of the late nineteenth century: a conviction that security and dignity could never be guaranteed in exile, that only in their own land could Jews be both free and safe.
And yet, when Israel was finally born in 1948, it was born into siege. Surrounded by hostile neighbors, its survival was never guaranteed. Every war—1948, 1967, 1973—was not merely a battle for borders but for existence itself. For Jews, the dilemma was sharp: could their long-desired homeland survive in a region that saw its very existence as an affront?
It is against this historical backdrop that Benjamin Netanyahu must be understood.
From Oslo’s Illusions to Hard Reality
When Netanyahu rose to power in May 1996, it was at the close of a turbulent chapter. Shimon Peres, the architect of conciliation, had carried forward the Oslo Accords signed by Yitzhak Rabin and Yasser Arafat in 1993. To the world, Oslo represented hope; to many Israelis, it looked like surrender.
The February suicide bombings that killed fifty-nine Jews tore through whatever trust had been built. The promise of peace suddenly stood beside the graves of children. It was this wound that Netanyahu carried into office. From the outset, his decisions—halting the withdrawal from Hebron, resisting territorial concessions, strengthening settlements—were not merely political gambits but acts of historical instinct. He was not only governing; he was safeguarding the fragile inheritance of a people who knew too well what it meant to be homeless.
The Dilemma of the Motherland
For Jews, the state of Israel was not only a political entity but the redemption of centuries of statelessness. And yet this very motherland was born within the reach of enemies who questioned its legitimacy. The dilemma was profound: to pursue peace at the cost of vulnerability, or to pursue security at the cost of perpetual hostility.
Netanyahu’s answer was clear. The motherland must live, even if it must live embattled. To change the demographic balance of contested lands, to hold firm on the Golan Heights, to resist the blandishments of global diplomacy—these were not the stubbornness of ideology, but the reflex of a people who had seen the price of weakness across history.
America, Oil, and the Shadow of Empire
And yet, Israel’s choices were never entirely its own. From the Holocaust onward, America became the guarantor of Jewish survival. The alliance was sealed not only in sentiment but in science, commerce, and politics: from Einstein to Chomsky, Jewish intellect shaped America; from Washington’s vetoes in the UN to its military aid, America shielded Israel.
But America, too, had dilemmas. Its oil interests in Arabia, its rivalry with Russia and China in the Middle East, its need to maintain balance—all these meant that Israel was at once ally and pawn. Thus Washington pressed Netanyahu to restrain settlement expansion, fearing a collapse of regional diplomacy.
For the Jewish state, this was a cruel echo of its historical fate: once again, the survival of the motherland lay entangled in the calculations of greater empires.
The Golan Heights and Historical Memory
The Golan Heights symbolized this interplay of history and survival. Seized in 1967, its rocky plateau was more than strategic—it was ancestral. For centuries before Arab conquest in the seventh century, Jews had lived there, prayed there, built their towns upon its hills. To relinquish it, as Shimon Peres had suggested, would have been to sever not only a security buffer but a chain of memory. Netanyahu refused. Instead, he offered a measured compromise: partial concessions, but never total surrender.
Here, too, lay the motherland dilemma: how much could be yielded without eroding the essence of homeland itself?
Arafat and the Mask of Peace
Yasser Arafat embodied the paradox of Israel’s neighbors. To Western capitals, he wore the robes of a statesman; to Israelis, he was the father of suicide bombings, the architect of militancy. Netanyahu hesitated to meet him, and rightly so. For Jews, to sit across the table from a man who had sanctioned massacres was to risk repeating history: to misplace trust in those who spoke of peace while plotting destruction.
The Jewish dilemma reappeared here in sharp relief: could survival ever be secured by trusting those who denied their right to exist?
The Historic Crossroads
Thus in the 1990s, Israel once again stood at the same crossroad it had faced in every century of its existence: exile or endurance, surrender or survival. For Netanyahu, the lesson of Jewish history was unmistakable: weakness invited annihilation, only strength ensured continuity.
The motherland, hard-won after two thousand years, could not afford illusions. Every settlement, every soldier on the Golan, every refusal to yield was a brick in the wall of survival.
The Jewish dilemma had always been whether to wait for acceptance from others or to build security for themselves. In Netanyahu’s choices, one hears the echo of ancient exile and modern catastrophe—the vow of a people that never again would they wander homeless, never again would their survival depend upon the mercy of others.
And so, Netanyahu’s politics, however controversial, are not merely the policies of a Prime Minister. They are the latest expression of the oldest struggle of the Jewish people: to turn the dream of a motherland into the permanence of a state.
Comments
Post a Comment