The Threat of Jewish Terrorism
March 20, 2026 – ב׳ נִיסָן תשפ”ו
There are moments in Jewish history when the question is not only what is being done to us, but what we are doing to others, and who we are becoming as a result.
This is one of those moments. While Israel is at war with Iran and Israeli citizens are running back and forth to their shelters and safe rooms, groups of extremist settlers are running wild through West Bank Palestinian villages, beating up people, wreaking havoc, and even killing.
The Israeli Reform Movement shared in a recent statement:
“In the two weeks since the war with Iran began, seven Palestinians have been killed as a result of actions by extremist settlers: Thaer Farouq Hamayel, 24; Fare Jawdat Hamayel, 57; Muhammad Hassan Murrah, 55; Amir Muhammad Shanaran, 28; Muhammad ‘Azem Muammar, 51, and his brother Fahim ‘Azem Muammar, 47; and Amir Odeh, 28. Four members of the Bani Odeh family, Ali, 37, Waad, 35, and two of their children, Mohammad, 5, and Othman, 7, were shot point-blank in their car by fire from an undercover Israeli unit, who then dragged out
Dozens of other Palestinians and activists have been injured in violent attacks by extremist settlers. For example, a few days ago, extremist settlers broke into the residential compound of a Palestinian family in Khirbet Humsa in the northern Jordan Valley. They gathered a group of ten adults and seven children, members of the family and volunteers from abroad, and abused them for a prolonged period. The abuse included being bound, beatings, the pouring of cold water, humiliation, threats, and the sexual assault of one of the residents. Four Palestinians and two activists required medical treatment following the attack and were taken to the hospital. In another incident, a human rights activist, Aviv Tatarsky of the organization Ir Amim, was attacked in Deir Istiya and beaten until he bled, with fists, kicks, and blows from a rubber hose, after he tried to defend Palestinian farmers.”
After centuries of vulnerability, Jews have sovereignty, strength, and the capacity to shape our reality. This is a blessing beyond what most of our ancestors could have imagined.
But it is also a test.
The prophets of Israel warned us about the abuse of power long before we attained power and sovereignty in the modern era. Isaiah cried out: “Your hands are full of blood… Learn to do good. Seek justice. Relieve the oppressed.” The prophets did not speak to enemies. They spoke to the ancient Israelites, and to us.
The rabbis deepened this revulsion in the abuse of power this way: “Whoever destroys a single life, it is as if they have destroyed an entire world.”
We have to ask ourselves – what happens when we Jews, in the name of Judaism, harm others—especially the vulnerable?
The tradition gives us a name for that: Hillul Hashem—a desecration of God’s Name.
And, quoting from Leviticus, they say: “Do not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor.”
It was precisely this kind of moment that two great sages of modern times, Dr. Yeshayahu Leibowitz and Rabbi Irving “Yitz” Greenberg, warned about.
Leibowitz (1903-1994), an Orthodox public intellectual and polymath, feared that Jewish sovereignty without moral restraint would corrode Judaism from within. He warned that when we elevate the state, the army, or even the Land above our ethical obligations, we risk worshiping idols – avodah zarah.
Judaism affirms that the Land of Israel is holy. The Torah states that it is the Promised Land. It is beloved. But it is not an absolute.
To claim that land overrides all other values—that it justifies harm, humiliation, and the abandonment of restraint—is, in this framework, to transform a sacred gift into an idol.
Here, Rabbi Yitz Greenberg (b. 1933) offers a framing that is sobering and hopeful:
“The test of power is how [a nation] treats the powerless.”
Jewish power, he teaches, is not a betrayal of our past—it is, in many ways, its fulfillment. But it comes with a covenantal demand: that we wield that power differently. That we hold ourselves to a higher standard, not a lower one.
The opening of Sefer Vayikra (the Book of Leviticus), a text many dismiss as technical or unappealing because it deals mainly with sacrifices, begins with a striking premise: that when human beings do wrong, even unintentionally, there is a path of acknowledgment, responsibility, and repair.
“אָדָם כִּי יַקְרִיב מִכֶּם…” — “When a person brings an offering from among you…” (Leviticus 1:2)
The rabbis linger on that one key word: mikem—“from among you.” The offering is not just something you bring. It comes from within you. Real atonement begins not with deflection, but with פנימיות—with the willingness to look inward and say: this, too, is ours.
A few chapters later, the Torah speaks of חטא—sin—not only as a matter of intentional wrongdoing, but also of failure, negligence, and moral blind spots:
“If a person sins…” (Leviticus 4)
The Torah assumes something essential about human nature: that we will get things wrong, that even good people—even a holy community—can cause harm, sometimes without fully seeing it in the moment.
From its beginning, the Torah insists on another foundational truth: that every human being is created בצלם אלוהים, in the image of God. “Whoever sheds human blood,” we are taught in Genesis, diminishes the Divine presence in the world.
More than almost any other command, the Torah repeats:
“You shall not oppress the stranger, for you know the soul of the stranger, having been strangers in the land of Egypt.”
This is not only about being kind or doing the opposite of the wrong done to us. It is fundamentally about the dark side of power.
Because the Torah understands something profound: the greatest moral test is not what we do when we are powerless, but what we do when we are not.
This is where Vayikra returns, quietly but insistently.
When we have done wrong—whether intentionally or not—the Torah does not ask us to justify, deny, or deflect. It asks us to bring something from within ourselves. To acknowledge the harm we do. To take responsibility. And only then, to begin again.
Not because we are uniquely guilty, but because we are uniquely called.
To speak these truths is not to deny complexity. It is not to ignore fear or the very real need for security and self-defense. But it is equally clear: Security and self-defense do not sanctify or justify cruelty or lawlessness.
I often find myself in conversations about this. Some, on the far left, say, “See, this is the result of Zionism.” And some on the far Right easily dismiss this as a few errant weeds or bad apples that do not represent the mainstream, and nothing is as bad as Palestinian terror and rejectionism.
Sadly, I find myself unable to accept either of their claims. This is an aberration of Zionism, and this is not just a few bad apples; it is a growing sore that is green-lighted by the government, unbridled by law enforcement, and is further tarnishing Israel’s image abroad.
How should we understand the motivation of these Jewish terrorists running rampant throughout the West Bank, terrorizing Palestinians?
Many perpetrators, of course, do not regard themselves as aggressors but as defenders. They may believe the state and army are not doing enough to protect Jews. Their violence is framed as preemptive deterrence or retaliation, and for them, the lines between defense and revenge become blurred. In some circles, this draws (often loosely or incorrectly) on the concept of the rodef (a Talmudic permission slip to kill anyone who is regarded as a malignant pursuer)—but without the strict limits that halakhah (Jewish law) actually imposes (despite them wearing kippot and peyot).
What is often referred to as “price tag” (tag machir) logic reflects a pattern in which attacks on Palestinians—and at times even on Israeli security forces—are carried out as acts of retaliation, whether for Palestinian violence or for Israeli government actions such as dismantling outposts. Their underlying goal is not only revenge but to raise the perceived cost of any move seen as threatening the settlement enterprise; in that sense, wanton violence functions less as a spontaneous emotional response and more as a strategy of intimidation and signaling. This dynamic is compounded by a broader breakdown in law enforcement and a sense of impunity. When perpetrators believe there will be few consequences to their violence—due to weak or inconsistent enforcement, sympathetic or conflicted local environments, or slow legal processes—that violence is more likely to proliferate. In rabbinic terms, this mayhem reflects the collapse of a governing structure – שֶׁאִלְמָלֵא מוֹרָאָהּ, אִישׁ אֶת רֵעֵהוּ חַיִּים בְּלָעוֹ (Pirkei Avot 3:2), the essential fear of the law that prevents society from descending into chaos, “people will swallow each other alive.”
At the same time, a subset of younger activists, often described as “hilltop youth,” has become particularly associated with even more extreme forms of violence. Many of these individuals are deeply alienated from mainstream Israeli society, distrustful of state institutions, and at times influenced by messianic and apocalyptic ideas. Their group dynamics reward escalation and defiance. What emerges is less a coherent ideology than a volatile mix of identity, rebellion, and absolutism.
Overlaying all of this is a process of dehumanization, in which Palestinians are no longer regarded as human beings but as a monolithic threat. Their moral concern for the sacred character of life becomes conditional, eventually disappearing, and violence becomes easier to justify. The corruption of their values stands in stark tension with the Torah’s foundational insistence that every human being is created B’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God. Even former Prime Minister and past head of the Yesha Council Naftali Bennett condemned this violence on X, saying, “We did not establish a Jewish state so that violent gangs would operate within it. I strongly condemn any display of nationalist violence by extremist Jews in Judea and Samaria.
So what are we called to do?
To look inward—mikem.
To refuse the comfort of denial.
To remember who we Jews are meant to be.
Because the question before us is not only political. It is spiritual, theological, and moral.
What kind of people will we be in an age of Jewish power?
Will we respond to “Jews behaving badly” by circling the wagons, or by doing what the Torah, the ancient prophets of Israel, and rabbinic tradition demand: acknowledging, repairing, and returning?
The time has come to act. Condemnation is not enough.
To echo the call of our Israeli Reform Movement:
“We call on the government to treat these horrifying acts with the utmost severity.
We call on the IDF and the police to take immediate steps to identify the Jewish terrorists and bring them to justice.
We call on the leaders of the settler public and the rabbinic leadership of the communities in which the perpetrators reside to not remain silent! Do not keep the criminals within your midst.
We call on the media to report every case of violence and assault and to demand a response from law enforcement authorities.
We call on the public to demand that the perpetrators be brought to justice, individuals whose actions are as far from the values of Judaism as light is from darkness.”
Vayikra begins with a call for responsibility and accountability.
And that call still echoes—for us.
Shabbat Shalom.