A strange community of Jews, a representative assembly of the great Jewish Diaspora—from the most modern European writers to teachers in Talmud colleges in small Lithuanian towns, quiet respectable citizens and fiery students, bankers and Hebrew writers—representing all kinds of civilization and all languages—and, nevertheless, some bond unified the whole.
At the head sat a man of the kind which appears like meteors but once in the course of generations—Theodor Herzl. A sage, a hero, a leader of men, an artist? Everything—even more than everything—the embodiment of an idea. In the body of this man there existed a soul, and that soul was Zionism.
At his side there stood (besides other worthies whose titles to honour we may not here linger to mention) a tribune of the people, in the person of Max Nordau—another famous man only just awakened suddenly and with great power to his Jewish nationality.
There the veil was torn away from the tragedy of the Jews. There it was stated that the Jewish problem was a disease, and that against a disease one should not protest and struggle wildly, but one ought to cure it. Moreover, it was said that at times one cannot heal a wound except by cauterizing it. And all were agreed that it was not a good plan to postpone difficulties, but on the contrary that they should be anticipated.
Speakers there indicated the “Galuth”—the serpent with a thousand coils. And they pointed to the Land of Israel, to freedom, to redemption.
In the Land of Israel, it was there affirmed, Zionism could become a living reality.
Nothing new indeed was there discovered. It was simply stated that two and two make four.
Out of the vocabulary of modern political nomenclature the word “national” was adopted. Is Zionism national? Certainly. It can also be called “human”; perhaps still more simply, “natural.” Let us learn, however, from Nature, in its simplicity and honesty, which knows of no sophistries nor manœuvring.
We Jews have become again children of Nature. There exist species in Nature. The eagle does not toil for the pike nor the lion for the cat; neither can the light of the stars replace that of the sun. Each fulfils its own purpose, and thence results the sum total. Behold the trees and the standing corn—would they be so splendidly developed, so rich and so fresh in their growth, if they were forcibly mixed and mingled together so that one drew its sap from the other? They are flourishing and rich and beautiful, because each keeps its own natural form and each draws its nourishment from the breast of mother earth. “Give us our country,” said the Zionists. “Give it to us for our exiled and wandering ones, who unwillingly find themselves mingled in the great seething pot of assimilation, who drag themselves from place to place. Give it to us for those who long and thirst for another kind of life; our garments, our bread, and our freedom we do not wish to have as alms. We wish to work and to obtain the fruits of our honest labour. We love that little country; waters cannot quench and streams cannot drown our love for it. Our love has the power to move mountains, it is stronger than all material obstacles. We demand a peaceful spot for our future and for our children who are becoming lost to us. Beholding this misery, we are willing to sacrifice ourselves. Even a she-wolf throws herself against danger to protect her young ones. Shall our love be weaker then than that of a wolf? And shall those whom we love be worse off than the offspring of animals? We want to rend asunder our chains, to blot out the mark of serfdom upon us, and win for ourselves true human rights, and the privilege of living equal to others, by honest toil.”
This was the Jewish claim—the demand put by Zionists to the world. And then the world turned against us, especially the little Jewish world.