Before there was Herzl, before there was a flag or a national anthem, there was a boy thrown into a pit by his brothers for daring to dream. And he was hated not because he was weak—but because he had the audacity to imagine power. Because he spoke of sheaves bowing to him, of stars bending in his direction. Because in a world of exile and servitude, he refused to see himself as a victim. That’s what got him thrown into the pit. That’s what got him sold to the empire. But that’s also what put him in a position to save his people.
Yosef teaches us something Zionism had to remember: it is not safe to dream—but it is fatal not to. Zionism is the radical Jewish act of dreaming with our eyes open. Herzl said it best: “If you will it, it is no dream.” But what he meant was more subversive than the slogan we recite today. He wasn’t speaking from comfort—he was issuing a warning. If you don’t will it—if you don’t build it—then the dream becomes your grave. And Herzl alone would not have been enough. While Herzl dreamed in ink, Max Nordau dreamed in flesh. Nordau asked: What kind of Jew survives the next century? Not the ghetto Jew. Not the apologetic Jew. But the Muscular Jew—the reborn Hebrew with calloused hands, a straight spine, and eyes fixed on the horizon. Zionism, for Nordau, wasn’t just about sovereignty—it was about transformation.
And then came Jabotinsky. Jabotinsky didn’t dream in metaphors. He dreamed in fire and iron. He saw the storm before anyone else. While the salons of Europe clinked glasses, Jabotinsky raised a fist. He trained Jewish youth to fight, to march, to take up space in a world that wished us gone. He wrote: “If you do not eliminate the diaspora, the diaspora will eliminate you.” That wasn’t hatred—it was heartbreak. It was a prophecy.
Jabotinsky understood something most Jews still refuse to admit: exile is not just a place. It is a mindset. And if we do not crush it—if we do not build a new Jewish consciousness rooted in strength, sovereignty, and soil—it will crush us again and again. The Zionist dream was never just about land. It was about people—becoming again.
Eliezer Ben-Yehuda didn’t just want Jews to speak Hebrew—he wanted Jews to think in Hebrew. Language is not communication—it is identity. Only a Hebrew-speaking people could truly return to Hebrew destiny. Ahad Ha’am didn’t just want territory—he wanted spirit. He wanted a Jewish cultural renaissance—a center of gravity so strong it would pull even the farthest diaspora soul back into orbit.
Today, that dream is under threat—not from missiles but amnesia from our own exhaustion. We’ve grown comfortable, addicted to security, lulled by startup culture and Netflix deals. But Zionism was never meant to be safe. It was intended to be sacred. We are not here to survive. We are here to transcend. Dreaming is not retreat—it is revolt. It is planting vineyards in the Negev. It is Hebrew on the lips of toddlers in Brooklyn. It is Krav Maga taught in gymnasiums across America. It is declaring: we will not die quietly. We will live loudly.
Because the world doesn’t fear our tanks, it fears our vision. It fears a people who still believe in tomorrow. A people who resurrected a dead language, revived an ancient land, and redefined what it means to be Jewish. Not a victim. Not a ghost. But a force. Zionism is not the dream. Zionism is the refusal to stop dreaming. And now it’s our turn to dream new dreams. To finish what Herzl, Nordau, Jabotinsky, and Ben-Yehuda began. To build a generation that speaks Hebrew, thinks freely, fights fiercely, and knows who they are.
Yosef saw his brothers bow before him, but only after he rose. We will increase too. But only if we dream like Yosef, will we fight like Herzl, and live like free men and women. Because if we do not eliminate the exile within us, it will eliminate us.
And if we will it, it is no dream.
