An article published last week lavishly praises Panama as an ideal vacation destination for observant Jews. The author begins by celebrating the country’s natural beauty, warm climate, and relative affordability, before turning to what he describes as Panama’s most remarkable feature: its Jewish community. From modest beginnings of some 2,000 members in the early 1950s, the community has grown to approximately 17,000 today—and, the author boldly claims, it may be “the most observant Jewish community in the world.”
To substantiate this striking assertion, he offers an impressive list of facts. The vast majority of the community observes Shabbat and keeps kosher. Over 95 percent of Jewish children attend one of four Jewish day schools. There are no fewer than 38 kosher restaurants and two large kosher supermarkets. Panama has become a center of Torah study and has at least fourteen daily minyanim. Beyond these statistics, the author emphasizes the community’s distinctive cohesion: Jews in Panama do not merely affiliate with synagogues but belong to a single communal framework, in which weddings and bar mitzvahs take place at the central community center. Add to this the relative absence of antisemitism and the community’s successful integration into Panamanian society, and the conclusion seems irresistible. “In many ways,” the author declares, “Panama is a Jewish paradise.”
Having read this glowing portrait, one cannot help but ask a simple question: if all this is true, why should observant Jews see Panama merely as a vacation destination rather than a permanent home? If Panama offers year-round sunshine, safety, prosperity, and what is purportedly the most observant Jewish community in the world—if it is indeed a “Jewish paradise”—why live anywhere else?
If Judaism consisted solely of synagogue attendance, kosher food, Torah study, Jewish schools, and a close-knit community, the argument would be compelling. However, even a cursory reading of the Torah suggests that Jewish life is meant to be far more than this.
The first words God addresses to the first Jew—though the term itself would emerge later—are: “Go forth from your land, from your birthplace, and from your father’s house, to the land that I will show you.” Abraham is commanded to uproot himself from his homeland and go to Canaan so that he might become the father of a great nation. And nationhood requires two essential elements: a people and a land. A family that grows into a nation, and a land which that nation can call its own.
The Book of Genesis traces the emergence of the Jewish people; the remainder of the Torah charts their journey from Egypt, through the wilderness, to the threshold of the Land of Israel. Crucially, along the way—at Mount Sinai—God gives the Torah as the blueprint for Jewish life in the land they are destined to enter.
That the Torah is meant to be observed in the Land of Israel is evident from the mitzvot themselves. Entire categories of commandments—the Sabbatical year, agricultural tithes, the laws of gleanings—are inextricably tied to the soil of the land. Even the Jewish festivals are anchored in its agricultural rhythms (Leviticus 23; Deuteronomy 16), while the Torah’s vision of social justice and tzedakah presumes a society rooted in the land (Deuteronomy 15:4–11). Its teachings on kingship, courts, warfare, and economic justice (Deuteronomy 7, 16–17, 20) likewise assume a sovereign people living in their own country.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks articulated this vision with characteristic clarity:
“Judaism is the constitution of a self-governing nation… Without a land and state, Judaism is a shadow of itself. In exile, God might still live in the hearts of Jews, but not in the public square—in the justice of the courts, the morality of the economy, and the humanitarianism of everyday life… Only in Israel can Jews, if they so choose, construct an agriculture, a medical system, and an economic infrastructure shaped by the values of the Torah… Only in Israel can Jews live Judaism in anything other than an edited edition.”
(Future Tense, p. 136)
In a similar vein, Rabbi Aaron Lichtenstein described life in the diaspora as “compartmentalized”. What he meant was that there is a deep structural difference between Judaism lived as a minority religion and Judaism lived as a national civilization.
In the diaspora, Judaism is largely confined to designated spaces and times: The synagogue, the home, the beit midrash, Shabbat and holidays. In Israel, however, Judaism embraces all aspects of the life of a sovereign nation and in its public spaces. Thus, it addresses the nation’s agriculture, healthcare, economics, judiciary, governance, international relations, the ethics of warfare, the treatment of minorities, structure of the calendar, the language we speak, and even the names of the streets.
In other words, Jewish observance in the diaspora—however sincere, rigorous, and vibrant—inevitably remains partial and incomplete. It is for this reason that Jews have long understood life outside the Land of Israel as galut—exile and homelessness—and have prayed daily, multiple times a day, for their return to the Land of Israel.
Thus, to describe Panama, or any community outside of Israel, as “the most observant Jewish community in the world” or as a “Jewish paradise” is not only profoundly misleading; it risks undermining the Torah’s vision and our ultimate goal as a people. For, if a Jewish paradise can be found in Panama—or anywhere else—why bother returning to the one place on earth which God actually designated as such?
