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.