Reflections on Parshat Kedoshim and Yom HaAtzmaut
There is a word that appears several times in Tanach with a haunting, resonant power.
In last week’s Parasha, it describes the unsettling figure of an outcast: “Badad yeshev, michutz la’machaneh moshavo.” The metzora — often mistranslated as a leper — sits alone. Sent outside the camp, the metzora isn't just ritually "unclean." He is socially erased. He dwells in a forced vacuum, required to warn others to stay away.
At the beginning of Eicha, it describes a nation: “Eicha yashva badad ha’ir rabati am.” A city once teeming with life now sits — utterly alone. Of all the horrors that happened to Jerusalem in its destruction, the first and foremost was that it is now "alone".
there is an ache of being set apart, of being kept at arm’s length by the rest of the world
At first glance, these two uses of badad feel worlds apart. One is a consequence of personal failing; the other is a collective tragedy. Yet, in a deeper sense, they map out the same raw human experience: the ache of being set apart, of being kept at arm’s length by the rest of the world.
In general, Badad, or being alone, is not a good place to be. The first time the words “not good” appear in the Torah is in the phrase Lo tov heyot ha’adam levado, “It is not good for man to be alone” (Bereishit 2:18). And yet, that same language of separation appears elsewhere in the Torah (Bamidbar 23), transformed into a praise and blessing: “Hen am levadad yishkon u’vagoyim lo yitchashav.” A nation that dwells alone, not counted among the nations.
Here, being "apart" isn't a punishment; it’s an identity. It is essential to who we are. We pride ourselves on living among the nations while retaining our separateness and uniqueness, with our own value system. In fact, we see this as a great positive. It is the essence of the repeated exhortation in this week’s Parshat Achrei Mos-Kedoshim—that we should strive to be Holy. According to Rashi’s famous comment, this means we should strive to be Perushim—separate. Separate from the ethics and values of the surrounding culture, following the instruction of the Torah to live with divine values.
However, the world has often looked at the separateness of the Jewish people through the same lens that Haman used: “There is a certain people, scattered and different... their laws are incompatible…” To the world, our distinctness often looks like defiance. Our difference is treated as a reason for alienation.
This year, as we approach Yom Ha’atzmaut, that tension isn't just a theological idea; it feels like a lived reality.
Israel today exists in a strange, jarring paradox. On one hand, we see military successes that would have seemed unimaginable just a short time ago. Threats—whether Iran, Hezbollah, Hamas, or other enemies—that loomed over us for decades have been dismantled with a precision that feels, to many, like an open miracle. Moreover, we have accomplished this while striving to act with moral restraint. We have fought a war under intense scrutiny, bending over backward (at times, to my mind, perhaps too much) and putting our own soldiers at risk to avoid unnecessary civilian casualties. We warn them to get out before bombing, only to find ourselves criticized by increasingly loud voices on both the right and left, accusing Israel of genocide and war crimes while supporting our enemies. At times, it can feel as though the walls are closing in and we are being cast as a pariah state.
The criticism isn't just coming from our enemies; it feels like it's coming from everywhere. We aren't just being debated; we are being pushed to the margins of the so-called "family of nations." As for our great friend, the United States, we must be incredibly grateful to Hashem for the leadership of President Trump, who, despite his many faults, proved to be a historic friend to Israel—particularly in his efforts to confront the accursed Iranian leadership. Nevertheless, there is growing concern about the post-Trump era. We see it on the Democratic side, with 40 senators voting this week to embargo Israel, and we see it increasingly on the right as well.
In a world that demands simple categories, there is less and less room for people who do not fit into them.
Even more painful is the fact that we cannot find a unified shelter within our own community. The Jewish world itself feels fractured. For many, Yom Ha’atzmaut is a moment of transcendent religious significance, a time for Hallel and great rejoicing. For others, particularly in the Haredi world, the day is ignored or even criticized with severity—viewed through a lens of antagonism toward the secular state.
We are living in a world that seems to be losing its center. Nuance has become a casualty. Conversations are no longer layered; they are flattened into slogans. The "middle ground"—the space for complexity and careful thought—is shrinking. In a world that demands simple categories, there is less and less room for people who do not fit into them.
In such a world, “middle of the roaders” such as myself find themselves standing in the uneasy space between these two poles.
There is a specific kind of loneliness—a badad of the soul—that comes when you can hear the truth in the arguments of both sides, yet find yourself unable to join either camp fully. When most people have moved to one extreme or the other, those who seek a nuanced, integrated path often end up sitting "outside the camp" of both groups. We celebrate the miracle, yet we carry the weight of the critique. We feel “aloneness" even when our own people surround us.
Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik famously began his work The Lonely Man of Faith with the stark words, “I am lonely.” He wasn't talking about a lack of friends. He was talking about the inherent loneliness of a person of faith — the realization that your deepest commitments might never be fully understood by the world around you. There is a loneliness that comes from being pushed away, and there is a loneliness that comes from being fundamentally different.
In this atmosphere, the line between badad and levadad starts to fray. We have to ask ourselves: Is this "aloneness" a rejection—or a calling? Is it the result of being cast out, or the inevitable price of standing for something?
This year, the world's silence makes that loneliness unmistakable.
The metzora is alone because he lost his place in the community. But the Jewish people are levadad because we have a specific, separate purpose.
Yom Ha’atzmaut has always been a paradox. It celebrates our return to the stage of history—our right to stand as equals among the nations. But it also highlights just how lonely our path is. This year, the world's silence makes that loneliness unmistakable. And the ever-increasing divide between the Haredim and the rest of the citizenry is never more apparent than on Yom Ha’atzmaut. It is particularly jarring for people like myself who follow the shita of the Ponovezher Rav zt’l and Yibadel Lachaim Rav Yisroel Meir Lau, who emphasize that Hallel needs to be said as Hakaros Hatov, even while omitting the bracha because of halakhic considerations, while at the same time recognizing it is obvious that one does not say Tachanun. We treat the day with the joy and gravity that it deserves, while observing others treating it as a completely ordinary day, not even worthy of as much note as Purim Katan.
Perhaps we are being asked to re-read our situation. Perhaps what we are feeling isn't just badad—isolation imposed from the outside—but also a forced reawakening of levadad—the sanctity of a people that must stand alone.
Our tradition suggests that a time will come when we realize that our alliances are fragile and our "supports" are thin—and that, ultimately, we have no one to lean on but our Father in Heaven.
Our hearts go out on Yom HaZikaron to those living it on the front lines. To the soldiers who stand guard while the world looks away. To the families whose tables have a permanent, agonizingly empty chair. To the parents living in the "Badad" of 3:00 AM, worrying about their children’s fate, or worse. They are standing at the edge of the camp, literally and figuratively.
The word badad can mean exile and pain, but it can also be the threshold of a deeper understanding. The challenge this Yom Ha’atzmaut is not to deny the loneliness, but to elevate it. We are a nation that was never meant to be measured by the approval of the world or the simplicity of a political camp. If we find ourselves standing alone, it is because we are standing in a place where only the truth can survive. In a noisy, polarized, and crowded world, standing levadad—with our values intact and our faith unshaken—is the hardest path to walk. But it is the only one that leads us to the ultimate Geulah.
Published in the Jewish Press 4/22/2026
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