There are many painful experiences in life – loss, disappointment, grief – but few wounds cut as deep as betrayal. I was reminded of this truth the other night, at a dinner with some old friends who were visiting from London.
After a few minutes catching up about our respective families, the conversation inevitably turned, as it so often does now, to politics and the Jewish condition. My friends spoke openly of their sense of betrayal: by their government, by institutions they once trusted, by neighbors, and by acquaintances who, in times of tension, reveal an ugly hostility to Jews and Israel.
One friend who works in the NHS stated that he, personally, had not been subjected to antisemitism or hostility, which he felt was probably because he is a senior consultant.
However, the overall feeling was one of uncertainty and betrayal. Their words stayed with me because they tapped into something much deeper than current politics.
I recalled a conversation I once had with my wife, who works as a psychotherapist with Holocaust survivors and their descendants. She told me that betrayal was one of the most recurring themes in their narratives.
German, Polish, and Dutch Jews would often say: “We could have prepared for hatred, for discrimination, even for violence. What we could not prepare for was betrayal.”
The betrayal was intimate. Friends who turned their faces away. Neighbors who denounced them. Shopkeepers who had once smiled at them now pointed the way to the Gestapo.
Betrayal from the very society into which they thought they had integrated. Betrayal of friendship, of shared culture, and of trust. The shock was existential.
Some survivors recalled that what pushed people to despair was not merely fear of the Nazis but also the unbearable sense that those they thought they could count on had abandoned them.
There are well-documented accounts of Jews in Berlin throwing themselves into the River Havel, not because they feared death – but because they could not live with the collapse of trust.
Why betrayal cuts deepest
Psychologists explain why betrayal is uniquely corrosive. To be betrayed is not simply to be hurt – it is to be wounded by the very people you rely upon for safety.
That is why child abuse by parents or other trusted adults is so devastating: the abuse violates not only the child’s body and soul but also the very structure of trust upon which life depends.
If strangers hurt us, we can fight or flee. If loved ones or trusted institutions betray us, the ground itself gives way beneath our feet.
Jews know this all too well. Our history is littered with betrayal:
* Medieval communities betrayed by rulers who expelled them after decades of service.
* The Jews of Spain, who thought they had reached the pinnacle of cultural integration, were betrayed by the Inquisition.
* The Jews of Germany, who thought of themselves as more German than Jewish, were betrayed by the country they called Heimat.
Again and again, we find ourselves facing the same devastating realization: we cannot rely on those who promise us safety.
The false security after the Holocaust
After 1945, there was a brief illusion that perhaps things had changed. The world was horrified by the Holocaust. Germany sought to atone. Europe was determined to rebuild its moral foundations. Antisemitism became taboo, at least in respectable society.
For several decades, Jews in the West felt that maybe – just maybe – history had turned a corner.
We built lives in London, Paris, New York, Toronto, and Sydney. We prospered in medicine, law, business, and academia. We were even courted politically. Jews began to feel a certain confidence, a sense of belonging, of being not perpetual outsiders but full citizens.
It was not naïve: the post-Holocaust era was genuinely different. But it was temporary.
In recent decades, the tide has been turning. The rise of Islamist terrorism, the poisonous marriage of left-wing anti-colonial ideology with old antisemitic tropes, the emboldening of far-right extremism, and the echo chambers of social media – all have eroded the taboo against Jew-hatred.
And since October 7, the gloves are off. The speed and ferocity with which world opinion turned against Israel, and often against Jews themselves, has left many reeling. The rallies, the graffiti, the boycotts, the university encampments – all carry that old sting.
It is not just hostility. It is betrayal.
Betrayal resonates so deeply now
When my London friends spoke of their sense of betrayal, they were not exaggerating.
They had invested trust: in Britain as a tolerant society, in universities as bastions of rational discourse, and in friends and colleagues as companions in a pluralist project. When that trust collapses, it is not simply political disappointment – it is existential disorientation.
For Jews, betrayal is not new. But it is always shocking. Perhaps because betrayal requires a relationship. We cannot be betrayed by strangers. We can only be betrayed by those we thought were close to us.
The world after the Holocaust created an unprecedented sense of closeness between Jews and non-Jews. There was guilt, sympathy, respect, and even admiration for Israel’s achievements. That made the relationship feel different. Which is why the betrayal now feels so raw.
Lessons we must relearn
And yet, perhaps we should not be surprised. Our tradition has long warned us that “Esau hates Jacob.” History teaches us that nations shift, moods change, and alliances crumble. The Torah repeatedly insists that the Jewish people are a people who “dwell alone” (“am levadad yishkon”).
We do not welcome this loneliness. We do not seek it. But we cannot pretend otherwise.
That is why Israel is so central. The State of Israel is the collective answer to betrayal: we will no longer depend on the goodwill of others for our survival. We will defend ourselves, we will protect our people, and we will take responsibility for our future.
And that is why faith is so essential. We do not trust princes, governments, or shifting world opinion. We trust the God who has carried us through exile, persecution, pogroms, and the Holocaust, and who has brought us back to our land.
The paradox of betrayal
Betrayal is painful precisely because it is rooted in relationships. We wish for friendship, for trust, for solidarity with our neighbors. We cannot, and should not, abandon that aspiration.
The paradox is that we must hold two truths at once: we continue to extend trust, to work for a better world, but we prepare ourselves for betrayal, knowing it is never far away.
This is not cynicism; it is maturity. It is to live with open eyes, neither naïvely nor bitterly, but with a clear sense of reality.
But betrayal does not break us. It hardens our realism, sharpens our solidarity, deepens our reliance on God, and strengthens our commitment to Israel. We may be betrayed by others, but we will not betray ourselves.
And that, perhaps, is the final lesson: we cannot afford illusions. Yes, we must build alliances, cultivate friendships, and argue our case in the public square. But we must not be naïve. Ultimately, the Jewish people can rely only on two things: ourselves and the Almighty.
We can trust each other. We can trust our people. And we can trust that the God of Israel, who has sustained us until now, will not abandon us in the future.
The writer is a rabbi and physician and lives in Ramat Poleg, Netanya. He is a co-founder of Techelet – Inspiring Judaism.