Bolok, Jewish Supremacy, and the Traps of Nationalism / בלק, יידישע אייבערשקייט, און די פּאַסקעס פֿון נאַציאָנאַליזם

This is a weekly series

of parsha dvarim (Tōrah commentaries) written by a frum, atheist, transsexual anarchist, with guest posts from comrades. It's crucial in these times that we resist the narrative that Zionism owns Judaism. Our texts are rich—sometimes opaque, but absolutely teeming with wisdom and fierce debate. It's the work of each generation to extricate meaning from our cultural and religious inheritance. I aim to offer comment which is true to the pshat (i.e. engages with the plain meaning of the text, especially when it's difficult) and uses Tōrah like a light to reflect on our modern times.

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Content note

Zionism, nationalism, genocide in Palestine

Set Apart, Not Alone—And Not Above

Guest dvar by Chava Shapiro

Bmidbar 23:9 (Misha Holleb)

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Parshat Balak in Brief

Let’s be honest: this parsha is deeply weird. It reads like a fever dream, complete with talking animals, divine messengers, failed curses, rogue blessings, and a violent, bloody ending that should leave any reader—especially those of us who love Torah and hate authoritarianism—deeply unsettled.

Parshat Balak (Bamidbar 22:2–25:9) opens with the Moabite king Balak in panic. The Israelites, fresh off their victory against the Amorites, are encamped nearby. Fearing their growing strength, Balak hires Bil’am, a non-Israelite prophet, to curse them. Bil’am sets out on the journey—confronted with divine dream warnings and a talking donkey who sees an angel long before he does. Eventually, Bil’am reaches Balak, and instead of cursing Israel, he blesses them repeatedly. These blessings culminate in one of our most famous liturgical lines: “Mah tovu ohalecha Yaakov”—“How good are your tents, O Jacob” (Bamidbar 24:5).

But the parsha doesn’t end with poetry. In its final verses, the Israelites are engaging in idolatrous behavior and sexual coercion with Moabite and Midianite women. In response, a plague breaks out, and the priest Pinchas murders an Israelite man and a Midianite woman mid-act. This act ends the plague, but not the theological unease. Balak is a parsha of contradiction—of divine blessing and human violence, of foreign prophecy and internal collapse.

I want to briefly diverge and hone in on the word used for “whoring,” in the text. The word לִזְנ֖וֹת is used here and is derived from the root words זני, זָנָה meaning to run to and fro, wander. This comes to mean run about sexually or to sell sexual labor. I point this out because for many of us, sexuality, whether exchanged freely or for money, is not something to denigrate. When I encounter alienating language in Torah, I turn to root words in Hebrew to guide my understanding and connect to the spirit of the word more clearly.

A Dangerous Blessing

Among Bil’am’s declarations is one that has become iconic: “A people that dwells alone” (Bamidbar 23:9). It’s often quoted with pride—as if it’s the core of Jewish resilience. But Rabbi Jonathan Sacks z”l urged us to see this line with caution. He writes:

“What I suddenly saw… was how dangerous this Jewish self-definition had become… Rashi says it means that Jews are indestructible. Ibn Ezra says it means that they don’t assimilate. Ramban says it means that they maintain their own integrity. It does not mean that they are destined to be isolated, without allies or friends. That is not a blessing but a curse. That is not a destiny; still less is it an identity.”

—Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, “A People That Dwells Alone”

Bil’am was no friend of the Israelites. His “blessings” come with ambiguity. The rabbis teach (Sanhedrin 105b) that nearly all his blessings turned into curses—except for one: “Mah tovu ohalecha.” We should be careful about which parts of Bil’am’s vision we claim as our own.

"How Good Are Your Tents, O Jacob" — A Heretical Blessing

It is vital to note that this is a blessing spoken by an outsider. A pagan prophet. A would-be curser. And yet—his words are preserved, memorized, canonized. He is the one who sees Israel clearly. And what does he praise? Not their piety. Not their laws. But their tents. Their homes. The way they dwell and live together.

What if holiness is measured not in ritual precision, but in how we live with each other? In how we build home? What if the most sacred thing is the camp itself—the temporary, imperfect, collective shelter in the wilderness? And perhaps this was the way Hashem always intended us to live as a people, vulnerable but together.

This blessing isn't just unexpected. It's heretical. It flips the script. It tells us that the divine can emerge from any mouth, that truth can ride a donkey, that blessing can come from someone outside the camp.

From Survival to Supremacy

There is a line between protecting what is sacred and believing yourself to be sacred above others. Between seeking refuge and building a fortress. Between saying “we must live” and justifying another people’s death in the name of survival.

Zionism, as it has unfolded in the last 76 years, picked up Bil’am’s line and reframed it as a rallying cry. The Jewish people are alone, it claimed—so we must make ourselves strong. Build a state. Arm ourselves. Never depend on the world again. But nationalism has a way of hollowing out theology. What begins as self-defense can twist into supremacy.

The State of Israel, in its current form, has taken “a people that dwells alone” and turned it into military policy. A walled-in, ethnonationalist regime that defines itself through dominance over Palestinians. The logic: we are different, we are exceptional, we are chosen—and therefore we will wield power-over.

But that is not Torah. That is not the teaching of the G-d who said, “You shall not oppress the stranger, for you were strangers in Egypt” (Shemot 23:9). That is not holiness. It is a perversion of survival into domination.

When a nation sanctifies its exceptionalism, it becomes deaf to the suffering of others. It loses the thread. It forgets that the divine voice doesn’t speak exclusively through tanks or prime ministers. It forgets that the cries from beneath the rubble in Gaza are also sacred.

Set Apart ≠ Alone

Rabbi Sacks reminds us that kadosh—holy—means “set apart,” not “isolated.” To be holy is to live in covenantal relation with others. Abraham argued with G-d to save lives. Moses stood between the people and divine wrath. Our ancestors’ distinction was never about purity or exclusion. It was about integrity, responsibility, and radical empathy.

We are not called to be alone. We are called to be present. To show up. To listen. To dissent. To disrupt systems of cruelty, even (especially) when they are enforced in our name.

Holiness is not found in walls. It is not won through drones. It is not declared in press conferences. Holiness is fragile, porous, and relational. It dwells in tents with open flaps. It dwells in refusal. How good are your tents–vulnerable and yet resilient. 

The Real Blessing

The question we should ask is not “How do we stay alone?” but “How do we stay human?” How do we resist turning our trauma into policy? How do we stop blessing the very systems that silence others?

Maybe the real Torah lives in the tension between Bil’am’s words and our choices. Maybe the truest blessing is the one we make when we refuse to mistake isolation for holiness—or nationalism for faith.

Let us build tents worth blessing. Not bunkers. Not borders. But spaces of relation, grief, solidarity, and life.

“Mah tovu ohalecha Yaakov, mishkenotecha Yisrael.” Let us make our dwelling not a place apart—but a place in which others, too, can live.

Chava Shapiro

is a cultural worker and Jewish educator committed to fostering more inhabitable futures. As an artist and writer, they explore histories of resistance, identity, erasure, and collective memory. In 2019 they founded the Jewish Zine Archive, which serves as both an archival collection and digital Jewish cultural space. Their writing was featured in the anthology There is Nothing So Whole as a Broken Heart: Mending the World as Jewish Anarchists published by AK Press in 2021. They have participated in nearly 20-years of anarchist and community-based organizing through which they strive to root in Jewish histories of political and social resistance while engaging in acts of solidarity and co-creation with others. They currently teach Mishnah Collective with SVARA and will be teaching a class this fall with the UnYeshiva.