The Rebbe, Rabin, and the Forgotten Message of Jewish Solitude

The Meeting: A Lesson in Solitude

In 1972, Ambassador Yitzchak Rabin stepped into a small room for a private meeting with the Lubavitcher Rebbe. Rabin, representing Israel in Washington, had been asked by President Zalman Shazar to personally deliver birthday wishes to the Rebbe on his 70th birthday. What he found was more than a formality. The Rebbe, with piercing blue eyes and commanding presence, greeted him not just as a diplomat, but as a bearer of Jewish destiny.

“Do you not feel alone,” the Rebbe asked him, “representing Israel among 120 nations?” Rabin admitted that he did. The Rebbe leaned forward and said quietly, “That loneliness is not a tragedy. It is the secret of our survival.” Pointing to the verse in Bamidbar — “הן עם לבדד ישכון” — “Behold, a nation that shall dwell alone” — the Rebbe taught that the endurance of the Jewish people, through hatred, exile, and oppression, stemmed from this very solitude. Remaining distinct was not a misfortune. It was our strength.

In a world obsessed with acceptance and belonging, the Rebbe offered a radically different vision. True greatness, he implied, is found not by blending in, but by having the courage to stand apart. The Jewish people were not preserved in spite of their isolation; they were preserved because of it. It was a meeting Rabin would never forget. But history would reveal that remembering the verse is not the same as remembering the message.

The Metzora: Solitude as Spiritual Therapy

This week, as we celebrate the 77th anniversary of the modern State of Israel, we also read Parshat Tazria–Metzora, where the Torah introduces another form of isolation: the Metzora, afflicted with spiritual impurity, is commanded, “All the days that the affliction is upon him he shall remain impure; he shall sit alone — his dwelling shall be outside the camp” (Vayikra 13:46).

Rashi explains that the Metzora is separated because he caused separation among others — husband from wife, friend from friend — through the corrosive power of lashon hara. Now he must experience separation himself. At first glance, this seems purely punitive — mida k’neged mida. But the deeper meaning is more profound. Isolation is not simply a punishment. It is a chance to heal.

Lashon hara is rarely born of pure malice. More often, it grows from insecurity — from the deep human urge to feel taller by tearing others down. Words become weapons, not because we are evil, but because we are afraid. The Metzora’s exile forces him to confront this fear. Separated from the noisy comparisons of society, he must find his own dignity. He must learn that his worth does not depend on making others seem smaller.

Solitude, then, is not a prison. It can be a place of restoration. It offers a person the rare opportunity to look inward, to rebuild their sense of identity from within rather than from the shallow comparisons of the outside world. It is no accident that the Torah sees isolation as potentially redemptive. When experienced with honesty and humility, solitude becomes a space where brokenness can give way to healing, and weakness can give way to new strength.

A Nation Apart: The Strength of Distinction

This same theme echoes throughout Jewish destiny. When Bilaam stood atop the hills and gazed upon Israel, he said, “הן עם לבדד ישכון” — “Behold, a nation that shall dwell alone.” At first glance, it sounds like a curse — condemned to permanent isolation. But Chazal understood it differently. To dwell apart is not to be rejected. It is to be chosen.

Our separateness was not imposed upon us as a punishment. It was embedded into the very fabric of who we are. To be a Jew is to live by a different standard, to carry a mission that does not always align with the values of the world around us. Our distinctiveness is our calling card, not our shame.

The Midrash in Eicha Rabbah deepens this idea. “When you fulfill My will,” says Hashem, “I cause you to dwell securely and alone,” as it says, “וַיִּשְׁכֹּן יִשְׂרָאֵל בֶּטַח בָּדָד” (Devarim 33:28). But when the Jewish people abandon their mission, solitude becomes exile — stripped of its holiness, robbed of its meaning. In every generation, the choice remains. Solitude is inevitable. The only question is whether it will be a badge of honor or a mark of disgrace.

Forgetting the Message: The Danger of Blending In

In the glow of that 1972 meeting, Rabin glimpsed this truth. The Rebbe’s words offered him not merely comfort, but clarity: that loneliness was not something to be erased. It was something to be understood — and embraced. But two decades later, that clarity would blur.

On October 26, 1994, standing before the world at the signing of the peace treaty with Jordan, Rabin declared, “This treaty marks the end of the Jewish people being a nation that dwells alone.”

He remembered the pasuk — but he forgot the message. He saw our solitude as a flaw to be corrected, not a calling to be fulfilled. He believed peace could erase the burden of being different — but our history teaches otherwise.

The dream of normalcy, though understandable, runs against the grain of Jewish destiny. We were not meant to be just another nation. Our existence has always carried a different weight, a higher expectation. To dilute that identity in pursuit of global acceptance is not a victory. It is a surrender. We do not survive by surrendering our uniqueness. We survive by holding onto it — especially when it is hardest to do so.

The Eternal Mission: Alone, But Never Abandoned

As we mark Yom Ha’atzmaut, we are not merely celebrating territory or sovereignty. We are celebrating the miraculous return of a people who refused to disappear — who, through centuries of exile and persecution, carried their destiny intact. We are celebrating the privilege of being different.

The world may offer us friendship or opposition. It may sometimes applaud and sometimes condemn. But our identity was never meant to be negotiated. It was given to us at Sinai. It was sealed with the words of Bilaam. It was reinforced by the tears of exile and the triumphs of return.

To be לבדד is not easy. It requires strength, resilience, and faith. It demands the courage to be misunderstood. But it is the only path to true eternity. When we embrace our uniqueness with pride, לבדד ישכון becomes not a sentence of loneliness, but a song of survival. It becomes the bond that ties us to every Jew across time and space. It becomes the connection that links us to Hashem, who has never abandoned His people — even, and especially, when they walk alone.

This is the promise of Yom Ha’atzmaut.  This is the everlasting charge of לבדד ישכון.