Rabbi Asher Knight, Temple Beth El, Charlotte [former student rabbi at Temple Shalom Wpg] Earlier this week, I read about an Israeli mother who said, “Don’t send your sons to the army without a foreign passport.” I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. Her words weren’t meant to provoke. They were an expression of grief. Of betrayal. Of something sacred in Israeli life breaking open. Her words broke my heart. Zionism—and the creation of the State of Israel—was never only about safety. It was also about sacred mutual responsibility: If you fight for the Jewish state, it will fight for you. If you are taken, you will not be forgotten. You will not sit alone in a tunnel. Israel is coming for you. This week, Edan Alexander—an American-Israeli soldier held by Hamas—came home. But not because of the Israeli government. He came home because of American intervention. His American passport brought him home. For that, I say thank God. And yes, thank President Trump and his team. A human life was saved. That must always be our starting point. And yet, we must speak a hard truth: Edan came home not because of Israel’s leadership, but despite it. Israel’s current government—widely regarded as the most extreme in its history—has not made the return of the hostages its highest priority. It has chosen political survival over moral responsibility, slogans over rescue, expansion over accountability, and conquest over compassion. It was striking that Edan’s parents did not thank Prime Minister Netanyahu. For that omission, some in Israeli society responded with cruelty, blaming the family instead of asking the harder question: why might they have felt no gratitude to offer? For every Israeli hostage who doesn’t hold a second passport, this moment cuts even deeper. Their families are still waiting. Still holding signs. Still watching as their government not only stalls and distracts, but beats the drum of war and describes occupation as destiny. Israel’s leaders are chasing the mirage of victory while treating the hostages as inconvenient and human dignity as a distraction from war. They are sending more young men and women back into Gaza with no real plan for bringing the hostages home. This is a betrayal—not only of the hostages, but of the moral heart of Zionism, of our values, and of the covenant the State of Israel owes its citizens. Many American Jews have also felt disoriented by this moment. We’ve been told for years that President Trump was Israel’s greatest friend. And yet it was President Trump who bypassed the Israeli government entirely to secure Edan’s release. He didn’t consult. He didn’t coordinate. The Prime Minister was informed only after the deal was done. That decision may have saved a life—but it also laid bare the growing fracture in what was once a steadfast strategic alliance. That raises a hard question: If this is what “standing with Israel” looks like—bypassing its leaders, cutting deals with its adversaries, and leaving its people in the dark—then what kind of alliance is this, and what are we truly celebrating? This week’s developments go beyond the return of one hostage. We are watching the United States negotiate with actors who arm Hamas, finance terrorism, and reject Israel’s very existence—Qatar, the Houthis, Syria, and reportedly Iran. The American administration appears willing to redraw the map of regional influence without Israel at the table. What does that mean for the future of U.S.–Israel relations? For Israel’s long-term security? For the trust that so many American Jews have placed in the relationship between our two nations? I spoke with someone this week who has supported Trump for years. They said something I can’t shake: “I thought he stood with us. How can America broker deals with regimes that fund terror against Jews?” That feeling—of celebration laced with betrayal—is real. It’s not just political. It’s deeply personal. It’s the grief that comes when someone you trusted acts unilaterally, even successfully, but leaves you out of the equation. Rabbi David Wolpe said it well: “If Qatar can arrange for a hostage to be freed, they can influence the captors. Freeing one while others remain means they’re not just mediators—they’re complicit.” His words expose what many of us feel but struggle to articulate: that even a moment of rescue can be a window into a much darker reality. Edan’s return, while profoundly moving, forces us to confront the truth that his freedom was secured not through covenant or shared sacrifice—but through backchannel deals, political calculations, and the cold math of leverage. And that realization can feel destabilizing. Destabilizing for American Jews who have worked hard to build an unshakable U.S.–Israel relationship grounded in shared values. Destabilizing for Israelis still waiting in anguish, wondering whether their citizenship alone is enough for their country’s leaders to bring them home. We are watching the ground shift beneath us. The system we trusted—a partnership built on mutual responsibility and moral clarity—is being redrawn through unilateral decisions and transactional politics. What we once called an “alliance” is being redefined—and not in ways that reflect our voice or our values. We cannot let Edan’s return distract us from those still trapped beneath Gaza. We cannot mistake delay and deflection for leadership. And we cannot confuse political calculation with covenant. A second passport should never be the only lifeline. The first one—the one written in Hebrew and in hope, rooted in peoplehood and care—should still mean something. It should be enough. That was the promise. And that is the future we must dare—together—to rebuild.