Stability and Change

At first glance, the census data appear to demonstrate that the UK Jewish population has grown over the past ten years.  The figures released by the Office for National Statistics (ONS) last week show a Jewish population of 263,346 for 2011, compared to an equivalent count of 259,927 for 2001.  The increase is small – just 3,419 people or slightly more than 1% - but it is an increase nonetheless.

However, before we start claiming that the UK Jewish population has risen, we should be conscious that these figures (both for 2011 and 2001) are just for England and Wales. We don’t yet have 2011 data for Scotland or Northern Ireland, although regional demographic trends suggest that the Jewish populations of both will have declined somewhat since 2001, thereby potentially offsetting part of the small increase we see for England and Wales.

Moreover, neither of the numbers quoted above for England and Wales take into consideration the undercount.  The religion question on the census form from which all this data is derived was voluntary.  People did not have to answer it.  So as in 2001, the 2011 figure needs to be adjusted to account for that.  We know that in 2001 Jews chose not to answer the question in slightly higher proportions than the UK population as a whole, but we don’t yet know the proportions for 2011.  Until further data are released by the ONS next year, it is impossible to draw reliable conclusions.

In addition, people could identify themselves as Jewish by ethnicity on the census form, and, in 2001, 2,594 people who did this did not identify themselves as Jewish by religion.  The equivalent 2011 figure needs to be added to the overall count, and even a small reduction from the 2001 number could potentially affect the current picture of growth.

In short, at this stage it is too early to draw any conclusions.  Until it is possible to accurately calculate the size of the undercount and add in the Scotland, Northern Ireland and ethnicity figures, we should keep the champagne on ice.

Nevertheless, it seems probable that the UK Jewish population has at least remained static over the past ten years.  This is an extraordinary finding in and of itself.  The UK Jewish population has been declining for over half a century; it reached its historical peak of approximately 410,000 in the mid-1950s, and has contracted ever since, to an estimated 291,000 in 2001.  The decline has been reflected in the titles of books such as Wasserstein’s Vanishing Diaspora and Sacks’s Will We Have Jewish Grandchildren?, both of which capture the dominant narrative of recent decades.  The British Jewish community is on its way out.  Slowly but surely we are withering away.  Yet these data appear to challenge that story.  It seems we may not be doing so badly after all.

The question is, why?  And the answer, while still requiring more detailed data to really substantiate it, can begin to be discerned by looking at what is going on in Jewish populations at the local and regional levels.  Three Local Authority Districts in particular stand out: Hackney, Salford and Gateshead.  Taken together, the Jewish population of these three places – all centres of the haredi population – has increased by 50% in just ten years.  This corroborates with other data on haredim which show a doubling of numbers over the past eighteen years, and probably can be largely explained by a simple factor: babies.  In many respects, the demographic equation is very simple: if the number of births outstrips the number of deaths, the population will grow.  And this is exactly what is going on in the UK’s haredi population in an extraordinary way.  Household size figures capture it perfectly.  The average household size in the UK is 2.4 people; in the haredi population of Hackney, it is estimated to be 6.3.

In contrast, other parts of the Jewish population are not faring so well.  The combined populations of Harrow, Redbridge, Camden, Westminster and Brent, all of which appeared in the top ten Jewish population centres in 2001, have declined by 21%.  Provincial communities show a similar pattern – Leeds, Brighton and Hove, Liverpool and Southend-on-Sea have collectively declined by 19%.  The hypothesis in all these cases is much the same: first, death rates outweigh birth rates, and second, a proportion of the affiliated and engaged is migrating to the growing centres of Jewish life, particularly Barnet and Hertsmere.

Other factors are certainly at play, but when we look at these patterns together, it seems possible that growth in the haredi and strictly Orthodox sectors could be counterbalancing decline elsewhere. What this means is that the character of the British Jewish population is changing, and likely to become more Orthodox over time.  While long-term projections should be made with caution, it seems entirely probable that the British Jewish community of the future will look rather different to that of today.

This has important policy implications for all Jewish charities, schools, synagogues and local organisations.  We remain a small community – just 0.5% of the UK population – with limited human and financial resources.  How we deploy these is critical to our future.  Policy makers at all levels should look at these data to inform their thinking and planning.  An empirical understanding of Jewish population trends can help us to make good, informed decisions that both honour our past and build our future.

As more census data are released in the coming months, the scope to understand community dynamics at the local level will become increasingly refined.  The National Jewish Community Survey (NJCS), a JPR project planned for early 2013, will add depth and nuance to our collective understanding.  By next autumn, we will have sufficient access to both datasets to generate data tables and charts to assist organisations working across the community.  The UK Jewish community is extremely fortunate to have access to data of this quality and accuracy – very few Jewish communities worldwide are in our position.  Let’s make sure we use them well.

 

(Also published in The Jewish News, 20 December 2012)

Jewish Journeys: Between Motion and Stability

Limmud's strap line, “wherever you find yourself, Limmud will take you one step further along your Jewish journey” - has an intriguing resonance with this week's parsha, and indeed, with Avraham's life as a whole, which is punctuated by Jewish journeys throughout.  Indeed, it is bookended by two commands to lech lecha: the first, this week, to leave his home, and the second, next week, to sacrifice his son. In between, the journeying continues – in fact, Yeshayahu Leibowits characterises his life as one of “wandering… from Aram Naharayim to Canaan, from Canaan to Egypt, and back from Egypt to Canaan; even in Canaan he ‘went on his journeys,’ ‘journeying and going on’ from one place to the next, dwelling in Beit El, then in Gerar, then in Beer Sheva, then in Hebron.”  In short, Avraham never seems to stand still.  But is there any connection between his journeys, and the ones captured in Limmud’s strap line?

Examining his journeys literally, it’s difficult not to be struck by his nomadic lifestyle, and the amount of physical travelling he does.  Yet there are also extended periods of his life when he settles down and lives in a single place.  He spends time seeking out new vistas, certainly, but he also spends time dwelling and consolidating.  In fact, the end of the parsha seems to indicate that Avraham spent almost quarter of a century living in a single place.  So his literal journeys are not a constant in his life; they are balanced by periods of stability.

However, Limmud's reference to journeys is far more metaphorical than literal; it is less about practical geography than it is about Jewish purpose and fulfilment.  In fact, in many respects, it appears to resonate with the contemporary journey concept the American sociologist Robert Wuthnow calls “religious seeking.”  Religious seeking, writes Wuthnow, “emphasizes negotiation: individuals search for sacred moments that reinforce their conviction that the divine exists, but these moments are fleeting: rather than knowing the territory, people explore new spirituality vistas, and they may have to negotiate among complex and confusing meanings of spirituality.”  Wuthnow contrasts this with “religious dwelling,” a form of spiritualty that “emphasizes habitation: God occupies a definite place in the universe and creates a sacred space in which humans too can dwell; to inhabit sacred space is to know its territory and to feel secure.”

Thinking about Avraham’s life in these terms, should we characterise him as a seeker or a dweller?  As with his literal journeying and resting, the answer may well be that he is both.  We see his emphasis on negotiation when he challenges God over Sodom and Amorah; we see his obedience to God’s place in the universe when he submits to God’s will and sets off to sacrifice Yitzchak.  We see further contrasts in his personality when, on the one hand, he peacefully resolves the tension between his and Lot’s herdsmen, and on the other, he goes to war to free Lot after he has been taken captive.  It seems as if Avraham understands that there are times for seemingly divergent positions – to travel and to stand still, to argue and to submit, to negotiate and to fight.

So what exactly is a Jewish journey? Is it just those moments when we are travelling from one place to another, exploring new horizons and negotiating or arguing with power?  Is it just those moments of religious seeking, when we search for those dimensions of Jewishness that are most meaningful to us and where we embrace complexity, nuance and confusion in order to try to figure out what makes the most sense?  Or does it include those moments when we situate ourselves in a single place, hold our ground, and fight for the things which matter most?  Does it include those moments of religious dwelling, when we put down roots, commit to stay put, and put our faith in a singular authority, community or idea?

It is tempting to say that a Jewish journey only equates to moments of religious seeking.  But Avraham’s life story suggests that his religious dweller moments act as an essential counterbalance to those times when he responds to the lech lecha call.  He needs to move, negotiate and seek, but he also needs to stand still, submit and dwell.  Both of these together constitute essential parts of his journey.

Both constitute essential parts of our journey too.  A Jewish life with exclusive emphasis on habitation and devoid of exploration, experimentation and the quest for personal meaning, runs the risk of descending into fundamentalism; a Jewish life spent in constant flight, devoid of permanence, stability and collective obligation runs the risk of descending into vacuousness. We need to do both.

As for taking one step further, Jewish steps sometimes involve movement and sometimes involve standing still.  Rather like the amidah, that begins and ends with small steps forward and back, but necessitates standing perfectly still, they are strange like that.  And, in the midst of those moments between motion and stability, between seeking and dwelling, our Jewish journey moves on.

(Written for Limmud) 

Go Back

Ten years ago, in the midst of the Second Intifada and just a year after 9/11, I was asked to give a d’var torah (sermon) during the Kol Nidre service on Yom Kippur at New North London Synagogue. Ten years on, the world may have changed, but the ideas, I think, still stand. I am re-posting it here as some Yom Kippur reading, and in memory of the nine people murdered in the suicide bombing at the Frank Sinatra café at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem on 31 July 2002.


Just before Rosh Hashana last year, two young women – Marla Bennett and Amanda Pogany - both of whom were learning at Pardes Yeshiva in Jerusalem, sat down together to look over and learn the famous Unetaneh Tokef prayer. They read and re-read its famous words together: mi yichyeh u-mi yamut – who will live and who will die?; mi v’kitzo u-mi lo v’kitzo – who will die at their predestined time, and who before their time? Of course, for both Marla and Amanda – two young women in their twenties - the text must have been pretty metaphorical – this time of year is all about self-reflection, and developing a consciousness of one’s own mortality is a key part of that process.

This year, however, when Amanda looked again at the Unetaneh Tokef, it was all too real. Her friend Marla, aged just 24, was murdered in the bomb that went off in the Frank Sinatra cafeteria at the Hebrew University a few weeks ago. For her, and for all too many others, mi yichyeh u-mi yamut – who will live and who will die – has taken on an entirely different, and frighteningly real meaning this year.

During the yamim noraim – Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur – we are meant to feel a sense of fear and trepidation about our own futures. Much of the imagery surrounding this time of year pushes us to consider our own frailties, and in light of our immense weaknesses and shortcomings, demands of us that we reflect on our own behaviour and resolve to do teshuva – to return to the ways of God. On Yom Kippur, our life almost depends on it – the imagery of the closing gates during the Neilah service tomorrow as we seek desperately to be entered into the sefer chayim – the book of life – is immensely powerful and deeply awe-inspiring. Today, our task is to take a good long hard look at our selves, and to resolve to do more, to be more in the year to come.

But when I look ahead at the year to come, I cannot but help to feel a sense of anxiety and apprehension about it. The past year has been so full of terror and tragedy that it has become increasingly difficult to see beyond the horrific images that have littered our television screens. Two particular events stand out for me: the horrifying attack on the seder at the Park Hotel in Netanya, in which 29 people were murdered including several survivors of the Shoah; and the more recent attack at the Hebrew University, in which eight people were murdered, including a friend of several people in the community this evening – Marla Bennett. For me, there was something about both of these incidents that was somehow even worse than the countless terror attacks on restaurants and buses. I think it was the fact that these incidents were not simply random terror attacks on innocent civilians; they seemed instead to have much deeper and more insidious motive behind them. In the case of the Hebrew University, it was the notion that this was not just an attack on innocent people, it was an attack on values – on the values of learning, on educational pluralism, on cultural diversity that the university is so well known for. And in the case of the Netanya seder, it felt like an attack on Judaism itself, and the very notion of being able to practice Judaism in freedom, in our own homeland. I’m not sure that it is appropriate to pass comment on the legitimacy of the Palestinian cause, but there is no doubt in my mind that all suicide attacks are the ultimate chilul Hashem – the ultimate desecration of God’s name – and they can never, and should never be legitimised in any way, shape or form.

But, however wrong they may be, it seems almost inevitable that we’re not over this stage yet. In spite of the fairly sporadic coverage in the British media recently, incidents are still occurring on a daily basis. Perhaps most disturbingly, a couple of days before Rosh Hashana, the Israeli army intercepted a group of Palestinians attempting to bring a 600kg bomb into Israel. I don’t know a whole lot about bombs, but suffice it to say, the controlled blast, when the bomb was detonated, was heard 25 kilometres away. So when I reflect back on all of this and then think ahead to the year to come, I cannot help but feel that we are standing on the edge of an abyss, almost waiting for the next tragedy to unfold. It feels like it is no longer a question of whether it will happen, but rather just a question of when it will happen.

As each one of the tragedies unfolded over the past year, it was difficult not to feel that sickeningly raw sense of shock, bewilderment and outrage that is becoming all-too-familiar. My questions are always the same. What is this? How do we get out of this mess? How can we stop the bloodshed? How can we ensure that Israel survives this wave of unprecedented terror, not to mention the impending threats from Hizballah, Iraq, Iran, Syria? Is there anything that can be done? Is there anything that I can do? The lack of vision that seems to exist at the moment is really frightening. Where on earth will we find the strength and courage required to ensure that the names of all those who ought to be inscribed in the Book of Life today, achieve their deepest and most profound wish?

These kinds of questions though, are not simply limited to the realm of Middle Eastern politics. They are also the kind of questions we ask in our personal lives – the kind of questions we often ask in times of personal and individual distress and tragedy. When we become seriously ill, when we lose a parent, a spouse, a sibling, a friend or a child, when our relationships and our marriages break down, we ask: what is this? How do I possibly get beyond this? How can I stop the suffering and the pain? How can I survive this? Is there anything that can be done? Is there anything I can do?

These are also the questions of Yom Kippur. What are we? How do we transform our selves from what we are, to what we ought to be? How do we make the changes we all know we need to make in our lives, to enable us to live the kind of lives we all know that we have the potential to live? How do we become the kind of parents, the kind of spouses, grandparents, siblings, friends that we should be, that, if we genuinely put our minds to it, we could be? Is there anything that can be done? Is there anything that I can do?

In thinking about these questions, I was drawn to the story in Bereishit, in the Book of Genesis, that we read in shul at the very beginning of this ten-day process, on the first day of Rosh Hashana. The story begins after Hagar, Avraham’s concubine, and Yishmael, Hagar and Avraham’s son, have been banished to the desert by Sara, Avraham’s wife. Before long, Hagar and Yishmael find themselves lost in the wilderness of Be’er-sheva without any water. In a state of utter desperation and despair, Hagar places her young son Yishmael in the shade of a bush, in the full knowledge that he will die of thirst there, and then she distances herself from him, so she doesn’t have to witness his suffering. And she sits down, completely resigned to the tragedy that is about to unfold, weeping and wailing, and crying desperately to God.

And then, in the midst of this tragic scene, God hears Yishmael’s weeping and He intervenes, and He calms Hagar down with the reassurance that Yishmael is not about to die. God tells Hagar that Yishmael’s destiny remains unchanged: he is to be the father of a great nation. And then the text relays that “God opened her eyes and she saw a well of water. And she went, and filled the skin with water, and gave to the boy to drink.”

I’m intrigued by this story. I’m intrigued because it’s a story that begins in a desperate place. There’s no hope. Death is imminent. There’s no way out. And yet, just a few pasukim later, just a few verses later, the story has changed to one that is infused with hope, optimism and the possibility of future greatness. It seems to me that this brief story may just have something to teach us about how to transform our own lives from a state of desperation to the possibility of future hope – both on an individual and very personal level, and on a collective, even global level.

Let’s look at the story a little more closely. At the beginning, Hagar is desperate. She is lost. Her son is about to die. She is weeping. There is no hope. Like the Netanya seder, like the Hebrew University cafeteria, like September 11, like those awful moments most of us have experienced in our personal lives at one time or another, it’s almost impossible to see even a glimmer of hope.

How does Hagar respond? She weeps. She wails. She beseeches God. From the text, Yishmael appears to weep too, although his crying is inaudible. So they both genuinely feel their pain and cry out to God. And it seems to me that this is an important part of the story – the tears, the expressions of genuine suffering, the physical and tangible images of pain, and the pleas for help. All of these things are important parts of the process of transformation – having the ability and the opportunity to express the pain that we feel when people are murdered in Israel, or when terror strikes at the heart of America, or when personal tragedies strike at the heart of our own lives, and then articulating our desperation in our prayers and our pleas for help. This appears to be stage one.

But of course the story doesn’t end there. It goes on. Hagar and Yishmael’s suffering is witnessed by God, and Hagar hears God’s voice. “What ails you Hagar? Fear not. For God has heard the voice of the child where he is. Get up, pick up the boy, and hold him in your hand, for I will make him a great nation.”

What’s happening here? For me, the critical factor is that Hagar is being reminded of God’s promise to make Yishmael a great nation. She’s being reminded that her life, that Yishmael’s life was not meant to end like this. She’s being reminded that the future could be different. That the future should be different. That the future will be different. Suddenly, there’s a vision, an alternative scenario, a new possibility. And now the tears dry up, as they often do when we begin to imagine new possibilities, when we begin to imagine new hopes and new dreams. So the second stage of the transformation process then, appears to be to recall the vision. To recall the idea on a collective level that when we think about the State of Israel, we’re not meant to instantly see images in our minds of tragedy, bloodshed and despair, but are rather meant to recall the beauty of the land, the vast achievements of our remarkable State, and the profound values and principles upon which it was built. We’re meant to recall the compelling and inspirational words of David Ben Gurion – that the State of Israel was to “prove itself not by material wealth, not by military might or technical achievement, but by its moral character and human values.” And, on a much more personal and individual level, it’s about reminding ourselves that our lives need not be as they currently are. That, at some point in our lives at least, we had real dreams for ourselves, we had genuine hopes and desires that we would be better people than we know we currently are. Recalling that vision of ourselves – a strong and compelling image of ourselves as the kind of people we ought to be – that’s the next step in the transformation process.

But then the visionary image alone isn’t enough. For Hagar, the vision enables her to see something that has been there all the time, but, in her despair, she has been unable to see thus far. She sees a water well. She sees a way out. She identifies a course of action that might just work. And for us, and for Israel, this too surely becomes a possibility from the moment we remind ourselves of the vision of what we could, of what we should, of what we must become. And the course of action that Hagar identifies is not complicated – all she has to do is get up, go to the well, draw some water, and give it to her son. So, I believe, it could be for Israel if the vision was a little clearer, and certainly so it can be in our own personal lives. The right course of action is often simple and obvious – in our heart of hearts we probably know what we have to do. It’s just that sometimes, even when the solution is staring us squarely in the face, we just can’t seem to take the small step that we know we need to take.

But that is what the fourth and final stage of the process demands of us. It wasn’t enough for Hagar to cry out to God in her despair. It wasn’t enough for her to recall the vision of Yishmael as the father of a great nation. It wasn’t even enough for her to, on the basis of that vision, to determine an appropriate course of action. To genuinely transform her situation, she had to do one more thing – she had to act. She had to actually get up, walk over to the well, draw the water, and give it to Yishmael to drink. And so it is with us. Israel needs to act, and we in our personal lives need to act. Until we do so, we have not completed the process. And yet this is often the hardest part – having the courage to act, when we are almost transfixed in fear by the possible implications of our actions – that’s really tough. Yet if we are to transform our situation, we have to do it. There is no other way.

At the end of the story, Yishmael is not a great nation. Actually, the Torah tells us simply that he grew up, lived in the desert, became a great archer, and got married. But the important thing about the story is that, in just five pasukim, in just five verses, we’ve witnessed a situation being transformed from one that is immersed in utter despair, to one that is infused with a profound sense of possibility. How did it happen? Hagar cried out to God in pain and anguish; Hagar recalled a different vision of an alternative future; on the basis of that vision she identified a course of action; and finally she took the critical steps that needed to be taken.

Put another way, Hagar used three devices that are extremely familiar to us. She prayed to and beseeched God – tefilla. She returned to the path and the vision that God had determined – teshuva. And she gave water to Yishmael to drink – tzedakah. And through these acts, she ma’avirin et ro’a ha-g’zerah - she averted the severity of the decree.

At certain times in our lives we can all feel a sense of fear or desperation, and perhaps more of us feel that at this moment than usual. For some, it may simply be a general sense of fear about the state of our world. For others it may be something small – the apprehensions associated with starting a new school, university, job, or life stage. For others it may be a much deeper sense of desperation – the fear of losing someone close to us, the fear of confronting a serious illness, the fear of a possible relationship or marriage break up. On Yom Kippur, all of these fears come into sharp focus, as we stand here in the presence of God, with all our frailties and weaknesses on display.

But the story of Hagar and Yishmael should remind us that we can transform our own lives. We need to cry and we need to pray. We also need to envision a different future for ourselves – a future in which we are part of a goy kadosh u-mamlechet kohanim – a holy nation and a kingdom of priests – and a future in which we are all, every single one of us, made b’tzelem Elohim – made in the image of God. And we need to identify, on the basis of the power of these revolutionary and visionary ideas, the small things that we can all do in our lives that will make a difference both to ourselves and to others around us. And then we need to act – to perform the type of simple and basic mitzvot or deeds that, over the course of time, have the power to change the world.

And perhaps this year, we are even more compelled to change our selves than usual. If we are standing on the brink of yet more destruction and devastation, it is surely even more incumbent upon us, every one of us, to repair our lives. Because if we don’t, who will? Our every deed matters, because our every deed has the potential, in its own small way, to affect change in the world.

I should add one final comment in parentheses. There is clearly something ironic about building a Yom Kippur message around a story about Hagar and Yishmael – two characters traditionally associated with Islam. And yet I do so unashamedly and unapologetically. I do so because the story teaches us both that we can learn from the texts of our own tradition, and that we can learn from individuals outside of our own tradition – even those we might regard as our enemies. But perhaps we can learn most from those who have been afflicted by tragedy. When a friend of Marla Bennett’s introduced herself to Marla’s mother at the funeral in San Diego, her mother, with great warmth in her words, said to her: “Go back to Israel next year. Don’t even think about not going back. Marla would have wanted you to go back. It would be a waste of Marla’s life and everything she stood for if you don’t go back.” If we are to transform our lives this year, we too must go back – to Israel, to Judaism, to our true inner selves – because that is the essence of teshuva – that is the true essence of Yom Kippur.

Red Chairs

Two weeks ago, in commemoration of the terrible 44-month long siege of Sarajevo that began exactly twenty years ago this month, 11,541 empty red chairs were lined up along Titova Street, Sarajevo's main thoroughfare, to symbolise the number of men, women and children killed by Bosnian Serbs during those long dark days. The images are extraordinarily powerful - the lines of chairs seem to go on and on, creating an image of a river of blood running through the heart of the city.

The siege of Sarajevo was only part of the Bosnian War; in total, an estimated 100,000 people lost their lives in the Balkan conflict. The Bosnian Serb policy of ethnic cleansing, and, in particular, the massacre of some 8,000 Muslim men and boys in Srebrenica, made it abundantly clear to the world that genocide did not end with the defeat of Nazism in 1945.

Two weeks on and it is Yom HaShoah, the day in the Jewish calendar when we commemorate the genocide perpetrated against us. Part of the philosophical and historical discourse that has surrounded the Shoah includes the question of uniqueness - whether the Holocaust represents a unique event in human history or not, and, if it does, what makes it so. In many respects, and perhaps particularly since the war in the Balkans, the debate seems perverse. What does it really matter? For the families of the victims of Sarajevo or Srebrenica, as for the families of the victims of Theresienstadt or Treblinka, the effects are no more or less horrific. The pain of such meaningless, cruel and incomprehensible loss is much the same. One empty red chair is one too many.

Yet today is Yom HaShoah, so my thoughts turn to the six million. And it occurs to me that the sheer scale of the Shoah does in some way mark it out from Bosnia. If one red chair is one too many, 11,541 red chairs is utterly unbearable. 100,000 red chairs is beyond comprehension. But six million red chairs? Six million? There are no words.

There is, however, an image. The 11,541 chairs in Sarajevo, laid out in 825 rows, stretched to almost an entire kilometre in length. But six million chairs laid out in the identical formation would require almost 430,000 rows, and would cover practically the entire length of the State of Israel, from Eilat in the south to a few kilometres short of Metulla on the Lebanese border. That is no exaggeration. It would extend that far.

(Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Memorial Day, begins at sundown on Wednesday 18 April)

Trust and Suspicion

It seems like the overarching story will run and run. As the UK's Jewish Chronicle uncovers incident after incident of Jewish individuals and organisations 'fraternizing with the enemy', the mutterings in opposition to its stance grow louder and louder. You can almost see the two sides drawing their swords, shaping up for battle, determined to prove at all costs the objective truth of their position. I don't think this is going to end well.

Perhaps, fundamentally, the issue is about the extent to which we view the world with suspicion or trust. It is undoubtedly possible to regard the organisation London Citizens with suspicion - there are, apparently, individuals involved who have said appalling things about Israel, and who have been associated with others who have said and advocated even worse. It is equally, if not even more possible to view the East London Mosque with suspicion - preachers expressing sentiments that are abhorrent to many within the Jewish community are clearly given a platform there.

However, London Citizens is not defined by extremist Islamists. Indeed, the vast majority of people who are involved have never spoken about Israel or Jews, and are more than happy to engage in dialogue with members of our community both for its own sake and for the benefit of the people of London. They are open to learning about Judaism and Jewish life, and interested to hear about our range of opinions about Israel. There is no reason to be suspicious of them, and every reason to trust. The East London Mosque is a more complex case, but even there, it is simply wrong to stereotype. We should be aware, for example, that construction work taking place at the mosque was stopped on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur so as not to disturb Jewish worshippers at the Fieldgate Street Great Synagogue, which backs onto it. Indeed, there are both members and trustees of the mosque who are genuinely open to engagement with Jews, and welcome the opportunity to do so; they are willing to listen to Jewish perspectives, and appreciate the chance to discuss Israel. In the course of discussion, we may not always agree, but we may come closer to an appreciation and understanding of one another's narratives, and, in this way, add an important human dimension to what is so often a fractious and damaging political debate.

On the spectrum of suspicion and trust, the JC seems to sit closest to the suspicion end. They are not wrong to choose to sit there; certainly there is much about which to be suspicious, and there are genuine dangers lurking for Jews which we would be naive and foolish to ignore. However, the questions are: to what extent should we allow that suspicion to cloud all of our interactions with others? To what extent should we feel compelled to do our due diligence on everyone and anyone, just in case they may have associated with an unsavoury individual at some point in the past? To what extent should we assume the worst about people until they prove to us the opposite? In short, how suspicious do we really need to be?

One reading of our recent past would argue we should be highly suspicious. It would point to the Shoah, Arab states' history of seeking to delegitimize and destroy Israel, two Palestinian intifadas, 9/11, 7/7 and Iran's determined efforts to secure nuclear weapons, and conclude that we have no choice but to be. However, an alternative reading of our recent past would highlight the facts that we live at a time in which an All-Party Parliamentary Group Against Antisemitism exists and has published a ground-breaking and highly influential report on the issue, a high profile Holocaust denial trial has been fought and won, Holocaust Memorial Day has become part of the UK's annual calendar, learning about the Holocaust has become an established part of the national curriculum, and a controversial decision to provide a platform for the leader of the BNP on the popular TV programme Question Time, resulted in him being ridiculed and humiliated. Viewed from a historical perspective, ours is almost certainly the most accepted and socially-integrated generation in all of Jewish history.

It is possible, indeed it is entirely legitimate, to read our contemporary circumstances in this way, and to situate ourselves on the 'trust' side of the spectrum. That is the side that Rabbi Jonathan Wittenberg naturally leans towards – perhaps even feels compelled to lean towards – and I love him for it. It is what allows him to continually invite people into his home, to constantly reach out to those in need both within and beyond his community, and to actively seek out opportunities to engage across political and religious divides. It is what drove him to write to the Chairman of an Orthodox synagogue in his neighbourhood at a time of particular difficulty and sadness within that community, simply to say he was thinking of them. It is what spurred him on during his recent fundraising walk from Frankfurt to London (yes - you read that right - he walked), when he stopped off numerous times on his journey to meet with Christian leaders to discuss with them, in impeccable German, how to heal the centuries-old rifts in Christian-Jewish and German-Jewish relations. It's why he recently wrote to Stephen Lawrence's parents, Doreen and Neville, to let them know that there are people within the Jewish community who feel their pain, and support and respect the tremendous courage and dignity they have shown in their pursuit of justice. And it's what motivates him to be part of London Citizens. It provides a framework for him to genuinely engage with others many of us rarely bother to meet - people from different socio-economic backgrounds, people from different ethnic backgrounds, and yes, even the odd Moslem or two. In each and every one of these instances, there was a possibility that his good intentions may have been spurned or used, and no doubt they have been on several occasions, but how much poorer would our community, indeed our world be, without his profound belief in the good of humankind? If that makes him a “useful idiot,” I aspire to such useful idiocy.

Trust and suspicion are both human imperatives; they are not either/ors. Ultimately, a balance appropriate to the circumstances needs to be struck between them. The wholly suspicious individual values safety above everything, and therefore never engages with anyone outside her closest circle for fear of what may happen, and remains eternally isolated. In her apprehension, she sees only the dangers of caricatures and stereotypes, and loses the opportunity to expand her horizons beyond her warm, all-embracing and protected shell. In contrast, the wholly trustful individual values relationship above everything, and pursues those blindly despite the inherent risks, engaging with everyone and anyone in an on-going and possibly naive pursuit of redemption. In his openness, he sees just human beings, and seeks to build bridges, even when those with whom he is trying to engage are simultaneously blowing those bridges up. It is the rare individual who sits at the extremities of the spectrum, and none of the characters writing, or being written about in the JC situate themselves there; they, and most of us, are more than aware of the foolishness of doing so. But each of us must find our place on that truth/suspicion spectrum; each of us must determine how we are to balance these two imperatives of human existence. And if we find ourselves leaning in one direction or the other, we should listen carefully to the voices on the other side. As my teacher and friend Yonatan Ariel said recently: “You will rob people of the richness of the educational grappling if you don’t bring a range of views to bear. There are idiots on the other side that disagree with you, but I promise you there are also smart people. And I promise you too there are idiots on your side, whatever your side is.”

As for me, fundamentally I choose to situate myself alongside the trusting and inspiring presence of Rabbi Wittenberg, whilst ensuring too that I read the editorial line of the JC from time-to-time. I am no longer young enough to know whether that is the ‘right’ thing to do. But I don't want to live in a world of suspicion, nor do I feel it is necessary to do so. Whilst I fully acknowledge the importance of protecting the interests and security of the community, I don't want my Judaism to be constantly on the defensive. It is possible to play the game by putting everyone behind the ball, but it offers no guarantees and it severely hampers our chances of scoring any goals. And I want a goal-oriented Judaism that is committed to affecting change for the better, determined in its efforts to build a better world, dedicated in its pursuit of justice not just for Jews, but for all humanity. That, I'm afraid, involves taking some risks. Perhaps the most important question facing the Jewish People today is whether or not we are courageous enough to do so?