(July 17, 2026 / JNS)

Over the past week, I found myself thinking several times about one of the more curious episodes in the book of Exodus. The Torah tells us that during the plague of frogs, the frogs entered not only the fields and homes of the Egyptians, but even their ovens.

The sages explain that this, too, was part of the miracle. Left to themselves, frogs do not voluntarily leap into burning ovens; it is contrary to instinct.

The image has stayed with me because it captures something deeply unsettling: the experience of watching someone knowingly act against his or her own interests.

On a personal level, we see this often enough. People make unhealthy choices, sabotage relationships or ignore obvious warning signs. But when entire groups begin acting in ways that appear to weaken their own society, the phenomenon becomes far more difficult to understand.

It reminds me of one of the most enduring ideas in moral philosophy. Immanuel Kant argued that we should act only according to principles that we could will to become universal laws. Put more simply, before judging whether an action is good or bad, we should ask: if everyone behaved this way, would society become stronger or weaker? Who ultimately benefits from this behavior, and who bears its costs?

In the United States, I was struck not only by the recent death of South Carolina Sen. Lindsey Graham, but by some of the public reaction that followed. After posting my own tribute, I received responses celebrating his death. At the same time, Iranian and Russian officials and media openly welcomed the news.

One naturally expects America’s adversaries to celebrate the death of a senator who consistently advocated for American strength. What was far more difficult to understand was Americans having precisely the same reaction. If your instinctive response to an event is indistinguishable from that of regimes openly committed to your country’s decline, it is worth pausing to ask who ultimately benefits.

The issue isn’t whether one agreed with every political position Graham took. Democracies are built on disagreement. What is harder to understand is why delighting in the death of another, even an opponent, has become acceptable, and whether a society in which that instinct becomes commonplace is likely to emerge stronger or weaker.

The same question arises in Israel. This week, I watched a video in which Tel Aviv’s deputy mayor replaced maps of Israel in city schools with ones that omit Judea and Samaria, explaining that this reflected educational honesty rather than politics.

If, as the mayor claimed, it isn’t about politics, then by what standard should such choices be judged? Why not choose a map that reinforces the historical narrative by which generations of Jews understood their homeland? Why not strengthen the story that has bound the Jewish people together for thousands of years?

Education is never merely about geography, because maps do more than describe territory. They teach children where they come from, which story they inherit, and how they understand the place they call home.

A society that loses confidence in its own story eventually loses confidence in defending it.

In an unrelated incident, a resident of Moreshet, a religious community in the Galilee, published an appeal that was later shared by journalist and right-wing activist Ayelet Lash.

According to the account, a group of Arab teenagers frightened a young Jewish child at a playground. After they were asked to leave, selectively edited videos appeared online, followed by threats directed at members of the community. The appeal recalled the violence residents experienced during the riots of May 2021 and warned against repeating the mistakes of the past.

The aftermath of the incident was sadly familiar. Arab activists were soon joined by far-left Israeli activists, who amplified the edited version of events across social media before the broader circumstances had been established.

The issue is larger than any individual case. When members of a society instinctively adopt narratives that portray their own community as uniquely suspect while showing comparatively little curiosity about the surrounding context, it’s worth asking the same philosophical question: If everyone behaved this way, would society become stronger or weaker?

This is not an argument against self-criticism. But criticism detached from a shared sense of belonging risks becoming something else entirely. A family can argue fiercely around its own dinner table while still wanting what is best for one another. Once that bond disappears, criticism is no longer correction but fragmentation.

Perhaps this points to something even larger that we are witnessing throughout much of the Western world. Repeatedly, we encounter people who appear willing to undermine the institutions, traditions and identities that made their own societies possible. We speak about polarization, misinformation and social-media algorithms, and each undoubtedly plays a role. But perhaps these are symptoms, rather than the underlying cause.

It may be that the deeper problem is a crisis of identity. A society that loses confidence in its own story eventually loses confidence in defending it. Once a nation’s history becomes primarily a source of embarrassment rather than belonging, its people begin to see those preserving that story as an obstacle rather than a foundation.

This brings me back to the frogs: When we repeatedly witness individuals or institutions metaphorically jumping into ovens, we should ask what has happened to the instinct toward national self-preservation. Perhaps the answer is found where the story begins.

The account of the frogs appears at the beginning of our story as a people. Long before the State of Israel, there were the people of Israel—united by a shared memory, covenant and story. The Exodus was not merely our liberation from slavery; it was the birth of a national identity. So, if we want a society capable of distinguishing friend from foe, truth from manipulation and criticism from self-destruction, then we cannot begin with politics. We must begin by rebuilding identity.

By strengthening our identity, reconnecting with our history and ensuring that every generation understands the story to which it belongs, we restore that instinct towards self-preservation that every healthy nation depends upon.