We Are All Jews Here”—But Some Are More Equal Than Others

 

A boy in uniform salutes the Israeli flag while his grandmother, wrapped in a faded shawl from Gondar, stands behind him with tears in her eyes. He is Ethiopian. She is proud. And yet, even in that moment of belonging, something lingers. Something unsaid.

Maybe this is what integration looks like: uniforms, Hebrew fluency, and youth protests sparked by police bullets.

Maybe that’s the tragedy too.

You ever wonder how a country born from persecution can build its own ladders of exclusion?

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When Justice Wears a Kippah but Looks Away

Let’s talk about success—because it’s always the counterpoint, isn’t it?

“But look,” someone says, “that Ethiopian girl just became a judge.”

True. But what of the dozens of Ethiopian teenagers locked away for petty crimes at rates three times higher than their peers?

And sure, Mizrahi music plays in Tel Aviv clubs. But whose accent do newscasters still mimic when they want to sound "uncultured"?

Israel's founders dreamed of ingathering exiles—Jews of all colors and customs. But not all exiles were welcomed equally. Ashkenazim (European Jews) became the architects. Mizrahim (Jews from Arab lands) were assigned the guest rooms. Ethiopians? Sometimes, they were made to knock twice.

In the 1990s, Israel’s national blood bank was found to have been quietly discarding blood donations from Ethiopians—for fear of HIV. No press release. No apology. Just a silent verdict that echoed: "Your blood isn't good enough."

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The Mizrahi Majority That Still Feels Peripheral

Now here’s a twist: Mizrahim aren’t a minority in Israel. They’re the majority.

And still, they earn 36% less on average than Ashkenazim. A Mizrahi resume gets fewer callbacks. And the university halls remain disproportionately Ashkenazi.

How did a people who carried Arabic lullabies, Persian poems, and North African cuisine into Israel end up being told to drop their “Arab habits”?

Ben Gurion once dismissed Moroccan Jews as “primitive.” Policy followed prejudice. Arabic was discouraged, French was fine. Middle Eastern customs were exoticized, then erased.

Traditional Yemeni dance became “Israeli folk dance.” Not Yemeni. Not Arab. Just… assimilated.

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 Echoes from Karachi, Dhaka, and Kabul

If you're South Asian, this all sounds familiar.

Ahmadis in Pakistan. Chakma tribes in Bangladesh. Hazaras in Afghanistan. Every post-colonial state inherits fault lines—and often deepens them.

Israel privileged its European Jews just as our own post-Partition elites favored Urdu-speaking migrants or those with colonial-era diplomas. It's not about religion. It's about who speaks the “right” language, wears the “right” clothes, eats the “right” food.

It’s why an Ethiopian Israeli might distance himself from African asylum seekers. Why a Mizrahi youth might lean harder into Israeli nationalism—just to prove he’s not “Arab.”

Because when the state says, “We’re all Jews here,” it doesn’t always say it equally.

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 Beyond the ‘Apartheid’ Frame

Here’s where it gets tricky. Is this apartheid?

Not in the South African sense. Ethiopian and Mizrahi Jews are citizens. They vote. They serve in the army. Some rise to high office.

But scratch beneath the surface and you’ll find softer walls—less visible, but just as real. Cultural exclusion. Bureaucratic cold shoulders. Ashkenazi dominance in media, academia, and the rabbinate.

That’s not apartheid. But it is discrimination. And it demands a reckoning.

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Seeds of Change, But Will They Grow?

Some signs offer hope.

Ethiopian officers now command army units. Mizrahi chefs are reclaiming pride in their culinary heritage. Activists are louder. Protests more visible.

But systems are stubborn. A state that questions the Judaism of Ethiopian elders or marginalizes Mizrahi prayer traditions isn't just being bureaucratic. It’s sending a message: there’s a hierarchy here. You’re in it. But not on top.

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Final Thought: The Danger of Simple Stories

We want our stories to be clean. Israel is either a refuge or a colonizer. Mizrahim are either fully Israeli or forever outsiders. Ethiopians are either victims or success stories.

But life isn’t binary. It's layered. And acknowledging injustice doesn’t mean denying belonging.

Maybe the better question isn’t: “Is Israel racist?”
Maybe it’s: “How can any society born of trauma avoid reproducing it?”

South Asians should ask the same. We've done it too.

Because in the end, building a just society isn’t about purity. It’s about courage—especially the courage to see your own reflection in the eyes of those you once othered.

Then again, maybe silence says enough.

Why Ireland Understands Palestine Better Than Brussels

“History doesn’t repeat itself,” said Mark Twain. “But it often rhymes.” In Ireland, that rhyme has a distinctly Palestinian rhythm.

You feel it in Dáil speeches. You see it in student protests. You hear it in the raw moral certainty of Irish voices denouncing occupation, checkpoints, demolitions. It’s not just solidarity—it’s personal.

And Brussels? Brussels sees policy, legal frameworks, and diplomatic balancing acts. Ireland sees eviction notices in East Jerusalem and hears the ghosts of 1847 knocking.

That difference matters. It explains not just Ireland’s vocal support for Palestine—but also why this support unnerves others, especially Europe’s Jewish communities.

The Politics of Pain Recognition

There’s something profound in how post-colonial nations perceive injustice abroad. It’s not abstract—it’s memory.

Ireland remembers being dispossessed, partitioned, surveilled, second-class. It remembers famines blamed on laziness and landlords who shipped out wheat while children starved. So when Irish politicians speak about Gaza, they're not just citing UN resolutions. They’re reliving historical trauma in someone else’s story.

In 2024, Ireland joined Spain and Norway to recognize Palestinian statehood. It backed South Africa’s ICJ case against Israel. It pushed forward the Occupied Territories Bill to ban trade with settlements.

To Brussels, this was disruptive.

To Dublin, it was destiny.

But that moral clarity, so rooted in Ireland’s own history, doesn’t always leave room for nuance—or for minority concerns closer to home.

Partition: Ireland’s Mirror for Palestine

Partition haunts both nations.

The 1947 UN Partition Plan for Palestine and the 1921 partition of Ireland carry eerie echoes:

Two communities claiming the same land.

Imperial withdrawal.

Sectarian violence.

Barbed borders.

Diaspora politics.

In both cases, the “solution” became the next crisis.

So when Ireland sees Gaza fenced off, or settlers protected by soldiers, it doesn’t just see oppression—it sees a version of its own story. That’s why Palestinian flags hang from Irish windows. Why Irish passports outnumber most others on Gaza-bound flotillas. Why "Free Palestine" has become a kind of second anthem on Irish campuses.

It’s empathy—but with inherited baggage.

The Brussels Disconnect: Why the EU Plays It Safe

Most EU countries avoid taking strong sides. Germany, shaped by Holocaust memory, leans pro-Israel. France walks a tightrope between laïcité and the largest Jewish population in Europe. The Nordics abstain.

Ireland breaks the mold—not because it's antisemitic, but because it's unconvinced by EU exceptionalism. Where Brussels sees a “complicated geopolitical issue,” Ireland sees a national liberation struggle.

But this passionate clarity has costs. Jewish communities across Europe report rising anxiety. In Ireland, some Jewish students say the line between protest and prejudice is getting blurry.

A student at Trinity described Holocaust jokes after October 7th. Not systemic hatred—just the slow erosion of safety through emotional climate. As if Jewish identity must now explain or apologize for foreign policies.

South Asia’s Echoes: Partitioned Nations, Selective Outrage

Ireland isn't the only country with this emotional investment in Palestine.

Pakistan channels its partition trauma into fierce advocacy for Kashmir. Bangladesh cites its liberation war when defending Rohingya refugees. South Africa invokes apartheid parallels.

But there's a pattern:

Pakistan rarely faces accusations of Hinduphobia.

South Africa isn’t branded antisemitic.

Ireland, though, is.

Why? Because criticism of Israel doesn’t just challenge policy—it touches on global Jewish identity. That makes it uniquely sensitive.

Which is why the moral clarity Ireland feels can sound, to others, like erasure. As if history is being remembered selectively—and someone else’s trauma is being sidelined.

The Risk of Moral Absolutism

Moral clarity is powerful. It moves hearts, builds coalitions, drives policy change. But without reflection, it hardens into moral absolutism.

When Ireland speaks of Palestine, it often does so with thunder. But thunder isn’t always what’s needed. Sometimes, a whisper—a question—a pause—speaks more.

What would it mean to affirm Palestinian rights and Jewish dignity?

To support liberation without alienating a tiny, often-invisible community within your own borders?

That’s the next test of Ireland’s conscience.

History may not repeat itself—but when its echoes grow too loud, we sometimes stop hearing each other altogether.

So maybe the question isn’t whether Ireland understands Palestine better than Brussels.

Maybe it’s whether Ireland is ready to understand its own Jewish neighbors just as well.