The man who would become the father of modern Zionism appeared to be the most unlikely candidate for the role. For most of his life, Theodor Herzl (1860-1904) lived as a thoroughly assimilated Austrian journalist, barely observing Jewish ritual, possessing minimal knowledge of Hebrew or traditional Jewish texts. He moved comfortably through Vienna’s secular intellectual circles, writing plays and covering politics for prestigious newspapers. Nothing in his public persona suggested he harbored any deep connection to Jewish destiny or ancient dreams of restoration.
Yet this same man would dedicate the final years of his short life to an impossible mission: convincing the world’s powers to establish a Jewish homeland. The standard historical narrative attributes Herzl’s transformation to his witnessing of the Dreyfus Affair—the infamous 1894 French military trial where Captain Alfred Dreyfus, a Jewish officer, was falsely convicted of treason amid cries of “Death to the Jews” from Parisian mobs. According to this account, the shock of seeing how quickly European civilization could turn against its Jewish citizens compelled Herzl to seek a political solution to antisemitism.
But was the sting of antisemitism really powerful enough to drive a secular man with minimal Jewish education to sacrifice his career, health, and ultimately his life for the restoration of Jewish nationhood?
On December 25, 1903, just months before his death at age 44, Herzl sat across from his first biographer, Reuven Brainin, for a wide ranging interview. Brainin was shocked by the signs of premature aging on Herzl’s face, and sensed that the great man knew he would not live much longer. Herzl took the opportunity to share a story from his childhood.
“When I was twelve years old, a German book fell into my hands… in which I read the story of the Messiah, the king of Israel, whose coming any day is expected by many Jews even in these generations, and he will arrive as a poor man riding a donkey…” Though the details were fragmentary and much remained unclear to his young mind, something stirred within Herzl. The messianic idea awakened “sorrow and some vague yearning” that he could not initially comprehend.
Lying in bed, the story of the Exodus from Egypt merged in his memory with the messianic prophecies. Past and future became intertwined—the Exodus and the coming redemption formed what he would later describe as an uplifting vision.
One night, Herzl had a vivid dream that would shape his destiny. He found himself lifted in the arms of the Messiah, soaring on the wings of the wind until they encountered Moses himself—appearing like Michelangelo’s marble statue that had captivated Herzl since childhood. The Messiah called to Moses: “For this child I have prayed!” Then, turning to the young Herzl, commanded: “Go and announce to the Jews that I will soon come and perform great miracles for my people and for the whole world!”
Herzl kept this vision secret his entire life. Yet it was this dream—not the antisemitism he witnessed—that drove him to establish and lead the Zionist movement.
The Sages understood something that modern historians miss: authentic Jewish leadership springs not from external persecution alone, but from the people of Israel’s deep inner yearning for redemption. “Whoever mourns for Jerusalem will merit to see it in its joy.” This mourning—this “sacred ache” for Jerusalem—is the engine of Jewish activism. Yearning for redemption drives us forward and fuels our determination.
After the destruction of the First Temple, the Jews exiled to Babylon were told exactly how long their exile would last—seventy years, as the prophet Jeremiah declared: But after the Second Temple’s destruction by Rome, no end date was revealed for our current exile.
The early Zionist leader Rabbi Isaac Nissenbaum, later murdered in the Warsaw Ghetto, explained why God concealed the timing of the final redemption that we still await: “How fortunate we are that the exact timing was never revealed! Instead, we have waited each day expecting the Messiah’s arrival. This daily hope for redemption has been what preserved us from disappearing among the nations.”
This expectation—this daily hope—represents the most powerful force in Israel’s history. It sustained our ancestors through two millennia of exile, pogroms, and persecution. When troubles intensified, this messianic spirit was “reborn in the hearts of the afflicted and humble masses. Like a divine presence hovering over turbulent waters threatening to overwhelm them, this hope provided inner light that strengthened them through their greatest sufferings.”
Herzl followed this same pattern. His biographers focus on his response to antisemitism because they cannot fathom what really happened: that the soul of even the most assimilated Jew carries within it the DNA of redemption. Herzl himself testified to this reality in words that should be carved in stone: “In the depths of my soul, the legend continued to be woven, even unknown to me.”
Unknown to him—yet driving him toward his destiny.
Some forces are too powerful to suppress, no matter how deeply buried they may be. Herzl the secular journalist carried within his bones, like Jeremiah, the burning fire of messianic longing. His childhood encounter with the Exodus narrative and the stories of redemption had planted seeds that lay dormant for decades before bursting forth when he founded the Zionist movement.
Antisemitism can motivate Jews to flee persecution, but only the positive vision of redemption can inspire them to build. Fear drives people away from danger; hope draws them toward purpose. Herzl’s true genius lay not in his analysis of the “Jewish problem” but in his ability to reconnect modern Jews with their spiritual inheritance—the yearning to return home that had sustained their ancestors for two thousand years.
In our generation, antisemitism is once again metastasizing—not only in traditional Jew-hating countries like France and Russia, but also in America. Armed guards stand outside synagogues in New York City. Jewish students are attacked on college campuses across the nation. This rising hatred has shaken many Jews awake. But fear alone cannot build a future. Herzl showed us that Jewish destiny is not shaped by fleeing danger, but by returning to purpose. If we are to rise in this moment, we must go beyond fear and rekindle the ancient yearning that sustained our ancestors—the longing for Zion, for redemption, for a world filled with the knowledge of God. That was the fire that burned in Herzl’s bones. It must also burn in ours.
