Not a Question of Loyalty

In the month week, I’ve been asked on three separate occasions about my supposed dual loyalties. These weren’t casual inquiries—they went straight to the heart of who I am: my work, my religion, my family, and my Zionism. They weren’t about my record or vision for Australia; they were about whether my beliefs, politics, and very being are somehow divided between Australia and Israel.

It’s a strange, unsettling thing to face. In over thirty years, the only time anyone ever questioned my “dual loyalties” was in the light-hearted context of sport—like when Canada, the country of my birth, faced Australia at the Olympics, and people would joke about who I’d support. But in just the past month, I’ve been asked this three times—and unlike sport, these questions were dangerously serious. That shift speaks volumes more about prejudice than it does about me. And I know it cannot be only me—this is the same weary refrain Jews hear across the diaspora, wherever we live.

The charge of “dual loyalty” is one of the most insidious antisemitic tropes in history. For centuries, Jews have been accused of being “foreign” to their countries of residence, belonging not to their homelands but to some global cabal. The Nazis weaponised this smear, portraying Jews as rootless outsiders, part of a global conspiracy, and the 1935 Nuremberg Laws stripped Jews of citizenship entirely. Today, a modern version of that smear persists when Jews’ connections with Israel—real or cultural—are treated as grounds for mistrust. That is the true weight of history—not an innocent query, but a dangerous echo.

This prejudice isn’t just academic or historic. Earlier this year, a decorated Australian Defence Force officer had his security clearance revoked—not for misconduct, but for expressing cultural and emotional affinity with Israel. After nearly twenty years of loyal service, he was deemed to have “a higher loyalty to Israel than to Australia.” Trust, not disloyalty, was replaced by doubt. In the United States and Europe, too, Jewish politicians, community leaders, and ordinary citizens face the same insinuations. The geography changes, but the accusation remains the same.

I wonder if Australians with ties to Britain, Greece, Italy, India, or Canada are ever asked these kinds of questions. Somehow, I doubt it. Multiculturalism is celebrated as part of our national story. Yet for Jews—in Australia, in America, in France, in Britain—our ties to our people, our faith, our families, and yes, our Zionism, are potentially met with suspicion. That double standard stretches across the diaspora.

These personal indignities are happening against a broader political backdrop in Australia that intensifies the unease. The current Albanese Labor government’s posture toward Israel and the Jewish community has increasingly been troubling. Diplomatic manoeuvres—abstentions at international forums, critical headlines framing Israel as a liability rather than a partner, and even sanctions against Israeli ministers—all send a message of distancing. They create an atmosphere of doubt, division, and subtle othering.

This erosion of trust hasn’t gone unnoticed. Israel’s Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu publicly accused Australia’s Prime Minister of “betraying Israel and abandoning Australia’s Jews,” branding him a “weak politician.” Israel’s Foreign Minister Gideon Sa’ar reinforced the message, stating that Australia’s decisions—such as banning another Israeli MP from entry—were “fuelling antisemitism” by undermining Jewish solidarity. Domestically, former NSW Premier Bob Carr, once Australia’s Foreign Minister, recently intensified the tone by accusing the “Israel Jewish lobby” of distorting democracy. Such remarks echo the age-old narrative that Jews are divided in their allegiances—a narrative that plays out not just in Sydney or Melbourne, but in London, Paris, New York, and beyond.
For a community already confronting rising antisemitism, this isn’t abstract rhetoric—it lands on the ground as mistrust that wounds. It feels like a betrayal of communities that have always stood by their countries, but whose loyalty is now scrutinised—treated as if it must be earned again. This is the lived reality not only of Jewish Australians, but of Jews across the diaspora.

And yet, the truth remains: loyalty is not a pie chart. Loving Israel does not mean loving Australia less, any more than it means loving America, Britain, or France less. Jews throughout the diaspora can and do hold deep connections to both their ancestral homeland and their countries of citizenship. My work in advocacy, my Judaism, my role as husband and father, my Zionism—they do not conflict; they enrich my contribution to Australia. And the same is true for Jews in every corner of the world.
When I’m asked about dual loyalty, I turn the question back: why must my identity—my work, faith, family, Zionism—be subjected to suspicion that no one else faces? The persistence of the “dual loyalty” myth is not about me—it is about the resilience of an antisemitic idea that refuses to die.
Australia, like every democracy, is stronger when it embraces the richness of multiple identities. To question that is to misunderstand the values that built and sustain it. And the same lesson holds across the Jewish diaspora. We are proud citizens of our nations, and at the same time deeply connected to Israel.

That is not contradictory. That is us.

And it should never be a question of loyalty.

Michael Gencher is the Executive Director of StandWithUs Australia