For two years, my family and I, native Israelis, lived along the eastern seaboard of the United States. We spent most of our time in New Jersey, where I taught at Princeton, but our days were filled with countless small journeys. From the historic streets of Washington, D.C., to the rugged mountains of Vermont, we encountered the quiet suburbs and lush forests of Pennsylvania, traced the scenic paths of the Hudson Valley, and wandered through Albany’s storied corners. We marveled at the serene waters of Lake George, the mist-covered Catskills. Manhattan’s vibrant streets buzzed with life, while Massachusetts offered a blend of history and coastal beauty. Cape Cod’s windswept dunes and restless ocean felt untamed and wild, and Connecticut’s tranquil hills and shores provided a gentle counterpoint. Each journey was a discovery, a meeting of the region’s diverse human stories and the ever-changing scenery that framed them.
But our most profound lessons came from a series of encounters that peeled back the layers of the American dream, revealing a nation at odds with its founding ideals.
One sunny afternoon, we pulled off the road to enjoy a simple picnic by a tranquil creek. As our daughters played by the water, the moment seemed idyllic—a snapshot of natural freedom. But this peace was quickly interrupted when a man approached us from a distance, assertively declaring the land as his. We apologized and left, but the experience lingered. Here in America, even a quiet stretch of nature, which might be considered public space in Europe, often belongs to someone. This pervasive sense of private ownership transforms landscapes into territories, fostering not hospitality, but estrangement. It was a small yet telling reflection of the broader American ethos: a land of fences, both literal and metaphorical, where the space for the other is always secondary to the sovereignty of the self.
In the heart of Philadelphia, a city that proclaims the ideals of brotherhood and liberty, I experienced another dissonant note. During an academic conference, my daughter realized she had forgotten her toothbrush, so we ventured a short distance to a CVS. But this simple errand turned into a shocking encounter with a side of America that rarely graces its postcards: The streets were filled with individuals collapsed on sidewalks, their bodies and minds ravaged by drugs. The stench of urine and marijuana hung in the air, and inside the store, even the most basic items were locked behind glass. This wasn't just urban decay—it was the collapse of a promise. In a place that stands as a monument to freedom, I saw the consequences of liberty unmoored from responsibility. What was meant to be a safeguard for individual rights had degenerated into a chilling form of neglect. Returning to the secured confines of our hotel, I told my daughter I would never let her walk these streets alone. The irony of the “City of Freedom” was stark, underscoring how far ideals can fall from reality.
In the suburban park near our Springfield home, a stately church stood—a testament to centuries-old faith. But its grand façade was overshadowed by a large pride flag draped over its entrance, obscuring the Christian cross behind it. This church, like many others we encountered, seemed to have rebranded itself, aligning more with contemporary social movements than with its traditional doctrines. This house of worship, which once echoed with the moral certainties of old, was now a center for a new kind of faith, built on the fluctuating dogmas of the present. It was as if the altar had shifted, and the question lingered: To which god are these prayers now offered?
This transformation is not limited to the churches; it reflects a broader void in American life where the role of moral institutions has diminished. Into this void, “woke” ideology steps confidently, offering a new set of rituals and a new pantheon of virtues. It seeks to replace the cohesive moral vision that once unified communities with a fractured collection of identities and causes. This isn't merely a new expression of values—it's an attempt to rebuild the sacred around the self, often at the expense of shared history and collective purpose.
This ethos of individualism also permeates American education. In Israel, students belong to a class that serves as their social anchor, with a homeroom teacher who oversees their well-being. The class is a community, a stable environment where relationships are formed and nurtured. In stark contrast, American students arrive at school as individuals. There is no fixed class; instead, they are equipped with a locker—a solitary constant amidst a whirlwind of movement from room to room. Teachers stay put while students shuttle through hallways, each following his or her own path. This structure mirrors a broader cultural norm: Independence is paramount, and the individual must navigate his or her own way through the labyrinth of life.
This sense of individualism, celebrated as a virtue, often leads to a disconnect not just from community, but from nature itself. In Israel, school trips are journeys into the wilderness—multi-day hikes that immerse students in the landscape. I remember my own tenth-grade trip, where we walked miles each day, slept under the stars, and felt a visceral connection to the land. In contrast, American school trips often lead to cities and hotels, where the natural world is a backdrop rather than a companion. It’s not a question of resources; it’s a reflection of values. The connection to the earth, the sense of being part of something larger, is lost amidst the urban sprawl.
The American relationship with firearms reflects this same ethos of isolation and self-reliance. In a country so vast that people often find themselves far from immediate help, the desire for personal protection is understandable. A gun becomes a tool of survival, not just against intruders but against the lurking fear of being alone and vulnerable. Yet, the foundational belief surrounding firearms in America goes beyond self-defense; it is rooted in a deep-seated mistrust of authority—a libertarian ideal that posits the gun as a bulwark against government overreach. This ethos is misguided. It imagines a lone citizen standing against the might of the state, a notion that is both futile and dangerous. Rather than being a tool granted by society to protect its members, the gun in America symbolizes a defiance against society itself—a tragic inversion of what freedom was meant to achieve.
Despite these dissonances, I found myself continually captivated by the breathtaking landscapes and, more importantly, by the people. There are still those who embody the vision of the founding fathers—people of kindness and truth, of wisdom and virtue. They are the quiet custodians of a legacy that values community, responsibility, and the common good. Yet, their influence on public life seems limited, often drowned out by the louder, more fragmented voices of contemporary discourse. They are the remnants of a time when freedom was seen not as an end in itself, but as a means to serve something greater.
These reflections conjure images of the Hudson River School, the great American landscape painters like Thomas Cole, who captured a vision of man in harmony with a moral and natural order. Their works depicted a nation not just of rugged individuals, but of citizens who saw themselves as part of a grand, collective purpose. The dream of a “city on a hill” was not merely about shining above others, but about being a beacon of virtue and unity. Today, that vision seems dimmed, replaced by the flickering lights of a thousand isolated souls, each carrying a torch but lacking the collective flame that once illuminated the path forward.
Toward the end of our time in the U.S., I thought often of Alexis de Tocqueville, who marveled at the American capacity for self-improvement and community. He saw in America not just a land of the free, but a land of the responsible—a place where liberty was always tethered to the common good. The founders understood that true freedom is not the absence of restraint, but the presence of purpose. As I reflect on our time here, I am left with a question that Tocqueville himself might have asked: Can America rediscover its moral compass and reclaim its vision of shared destiny, or will it continue to drift into the fragmented wilderness of its own making?
Ronen Shoval, an Israeli philosopher and dean of the Argaman Institute for Advanced Studies, is the author of Holiness and Society: A Socio-Political Exploration of the Mosaic Tradition.
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Image by Gregg Squeglia, from Wikimedia Commons, licensed via Creative Commons. Image cropped.
