Why Do God’s Chosen People Suffer So Much?
If the Jewish people are God’s beloved nation, wouldn’t you expect God to show preferential treatment from time to time? Why doesn’t God “play favorites” and ensure that Jews live in peace and stability? Why doesn’t God grant the State of Israel security on par with Belgium, Dubai-style economic prosperity, and perhaps a bit more goodwill from the international community? Why have the Jewish people endured, and continue to endure, so many hardships?
Some have blamed the Jewish people themselves, arguing that if we were willing to relinquish the title of “the chosen people,” perhaps we would be spared so much hatred. But this is nothing more than classic victim-blaming; a way for aggressors to deflect responsibility for the suffering they cause.
Others, including some Jews, have tried to shed the image of being “chosen.” Yet while many nations have viewed themselves as special or chosen in one way or another, none have faced the same intensity of hatred. Indeed, it is rather remarkable that the Jewish people—so small in number, without political or military power for most of history, living at the mercy of others, subject to endless attacks and decrees—are “the chosen people.”
The intense hostility toward Jews stems precisely from the fact that the other two monotheistic religions—Christianity and Islam—accepted the Jewish claim of chosenness and then fought to replace it. Both sought (and in some cases still seek) to prove that the title of “the chosen people” was transferred to them, and that the Jews no longer hold it.
The Rambam’s Answer in the Epistle to Yemen
One of the most direct answers to the question of Jewish suffering appears in a letter written by the Rambam (Maimonides).
In 1172, the Rambam received a desperate letter from Rabbi Yaakov ben Rabbi Netanel, the leader of Yemen’s Jewish community. Jews there faced intense persecution: forced conversion to Islam under threat of death, defamation from a Jewish apostate who claimed that the Torah hinted at the truth of Muhammad’s mission, and the turmoil of a false messiah who stirred messianic hopes only to leave crushing disappointment in his wake. Rabbi Yaakov foresaw the collapse of faith this could cause and wrote to the Rambam for guidance on how to restore hope and strengthen belief in God and in the future of Israel.
The Rambam’s reply, known as the Iggeret Teiman (“Epistle to Yemen”), includes an important philosophical approach to Jewish suffering. He describes three primary ways that the nations of the world have sought to combat the Jewish people since the giving of the Torah—a moment that set us apart and ignited perpetual jealousy and hostility.
Physical destruction. From our biblical enemies Amalek, Sancheirev, and Nevuchadnezzar, to Chmielnicki, Hitler, and Stalin, rulers have sought to annihilate us with the sword.
Religious attack. Others have tried to undermine Judaism by banning Torah study and mitzvah observance or by using theological polemics to prove the superiority of other faiths.
Imitation through a competing religion. The most sophisticated strategy, according to the Rambam, was the creation of new religions—Christianity and Islam—that claimed to build upon Judaism while subtly replacing it. They present themselves as complements to the Torah, but in reality, they’re just lifeless imitations.
And yet, the Rambam notes, these religions have indirectly benefited Judaism’s mission by spreading belief in one God, familiarizing the nations with the Hebrew Bible, and preparing the world for the day when Israel will resume its role as a “light unto the nations.” Regardless of their current strength, the Rambam insists these three strategies will ultimately fail, while Israel will endure forever despite the pressure and persecution.
The Spiritual Purpose of Suffering
Beyond the historical explanation, the Rambam offers deeper theological insight and explains that suffering serves as both a test and a refinement.
Suffering has two main purposes: To demonstrate our faith. Remaining loyal to God despite the cost sanctifies His name in the eyes of the world. To refine the faithful. Like metal purified in a furnace, trials strip away those without deep belief, leaving the pure “silver,” namely those whose ancestors stood at Sinai and fully accepted the covenant.
In this way, suffering ensures that those who remain within the covenant are those who are truly committed to it.
Preventing Complacency
Elsewhere, the Rambam offers another reason: too much comfort can lead to spiritual complacency. A nation living in ease may forget its mission and drift away from God. Hardship, as painful as it is, keeps the Jewish people tethered to their purpose, safeguarding their eternal reward in the World to Come.
The Ramban (Nachmanides) adds that suffering often comes as a Divine wake-up call, prompting individuals and nations to turn away from harmful paths. When life is easy, we rarely pause to examine our purpose and mission. Adversity forces us to reflect and realign with God’s will.
Often, suffering begins gently, almost as a subtle warning. But if the message goes unheeded and a person stubbornly continues in the wrong direction, the hardship grows more intense—for one’s eternal good—even if that’s nearly impossible to recognize in the midst of the trial.
Sometimes, suffering comes as a way to purify the soul from past wrongs, similar to the way that silver is refined by fire and emerges pure. Through this process, a person becomes worthy of receiving the full reward for the good they have done in life.
An Essential Tool
The suffering experienced by the Jewish people is not necessarily to their detriment. While in a narrow sense, suffering is extremely unpleasant, from a broader perspective, it serves a clear purpose. On a practical level, it stems from the nations’ struggle with the idea that the Jews are God’s chosen people—an idea they may accept in theory but find difficult to reconcile with. On a faith-based level, suffering is meant to help the Jewish people fulfill their historic mission.
Through suffering, God’s name is magnified, as the nations witness the Jewish people’s steadfast devotion to Him despite hardship. At the same time, the faith of those who experience adversity is refined, stripping away “impurities,” and leaving them with strong and enduring belief. Suffering also serves as a safeguard, and prevents the nation from abandoning God, in the spirit of the verse, “Yeshurun grew fat and kicked” (Devarim 32:15). When life is filled with abundance—plentiful livelihood, a loving family, success, and every imaginable comfort—it is all too easy to slip into self-satisfaction and forget the very purpose for which we were created. For the sake of a person’s ultimate and eternal good, God sends a wake-up call.
Through these trials, the Jewish people fulfill their role in the world and also merit greater reward in the World to Come, as suffering serves as atonement for sin.
This leads to a challenging question: If suffering is a tool God uses to bring us toward our mission, perhaps if we truly devoted ourselves to that mission and fully invested ourselves in proclaiming His name in the world, and strived to deepen our attachment to Him, perhaps suffering would no longer be necessary? If hardship is only meant to drive us toward our purpose, wouldn’t it be far better to simply fulfill that purpose and spare ourselves the pain?
The Hebrew word nisayon—often translated as “test” or “trial”—can also mean “elevation.” In life, tests are meant to raise a person to a higher level and elevate them beyond where they stood before. Just as physical strength is built through resistance and strain, spiritual strength grows through challenges of faith. It’s the struggle itself that develops our “spiritual muscles” and moves us to greater heights.
This is why, contrary to what many think, the hardest tests aren’t given to the wicked. God knows they would not be able to withstand them. Our Sages explain that God only sends trials and challenges to those who have the strength to endure them. They offer a parable to demonstrate this principle: If a merchant selling clay jugs in the market wants to show how strong his merchandise is, he’ll knock on the jugs, but only the sturdy ones. Since the cracked or fragile jugs would break instantly, he leaves them untouched.
In the same way, God “taps” only the strongest souls. As Rabbi Yonatan said: “The potter does not test defective vessels, which shatter with a single blow. Whom does he test? The sound vessels, which can be struck many times without breaking. So too, the Holy One, blessed be He, does not test the wicked, but the righteous” (Bereishit Rabbah 32).
Anne Frank’s diary, written while she and her family hid from the Nazis in the Secret Annex in the Netherlands, is one of history’s best-selling books, with more than 30 million copies sold in over 70 languages. Tragically, the happy ending she deserved never arrived: after a Dutch betrayer revealed their hiding place, Anne and her family were deported to concentration camps. Just weeks before liberation, Anne and her sister Margot perished in Bergen-Belsen.
Anne began writing her diary at just thirteen, displaying maturity and a sense of purpose beyond her years. She meticulously recorded the mounting restrictions imposed on Jews: the yellow star, school expulsions, confiscation of bicycles, bans on driving, limited shopping rights, and exclusion from public parks, among other things.
Yet Anne possessed a deeply rooted Jewish awareness. She poignantly wrote: “Who has set us apart from all the nations?…It is God who has treated us this way, and it is God who will lift us from the abyss and redeem us. If we bear all this suffering, and yet there remain Jews in the world, the day will come when Jews will no longer be doomed to destruction, but instead will be an example to the world. Who knows? Perhaps it is our faith that will teach goodness to the entire world and all nations. And for that purpose, and that purpose alone, we must suffer. We can never simply be Dutch or English, or any other people alone. We will always, in addition, be Jews, and that is something we willingly embrace.”
In Bereishit, the “Covenant Between the Pieces” marks a pivotal moment in Avraham’s life. There, God gives him two promises: he will have descendants to carry on his mission, and those descendants will inherit the Land of Israel. Avraham’s response is unexpected: “How will I know that I shall inherit it?”
It is striking that Avraham does not question the promise of children—despite his advanced age—but instead asks how he can be certain that his descendants will hold onto the land. Why?
Avraham understood that the Land of Israel is not just a piece of real estate; it is a sacred space, bound up with spiritual responsibility. To truly merit it, its inhabitants must live by the Creator’s commandments and follow His ways. In effect, Avraham was saying: “Whether I have children or not—that is entirely in Your hands. But whether they will live righteously enough to deserve this land—that depends on them. How can You guarantee that?”
God’s answer turns the question on its head: “Know for certain that your descendants will be strangers in a land not their own; they will serve them, and they will oppress them for four hundred years. But I will also judge the nation they serve, and afterwards they will leave with great wealth… And in the fourth generation they will return here” (Bereishit 15:13–16).
Exile, God explains, will safeguard the covenant. Centuries of living on foreign soil, in servitude and suffering, will carve into the national soul the unshakable awareness that they depend on God alone, not on any ruler, empire, or political power. This deep imprint will ensure their faithfulness to the covenant—because if they abandon the Torah, they will once again become strangers, wandering the earth.
The tension surrounding the concept of “the chosen people”—which some non-Jews have tried to claim for themselves—has at times led to acts that are not only troubling but also baffling and brazen. One striking example was the Catholic attempt to “appropriate” Auschwitz, the largest Jewish cemetery in the world.
Under communist rule, when Jews were denied any form of religious or national expression, Auschwitz was recast as a multi-national memorial site. Nowhere was it mentioned that more than 90 percent of its victims were Jews. Instead, they were counted as Poles, Greeks, Belgians, or Frenchmen, without acknowledging that they were persecuted because they were Jews.
In 1984, a group of Carmelite nuns entered a building at the camp—once used to store Zyklon-B gas, the chemical that murdered countless Jews in the gas chambers—and converted it into a convent. They erected a large cross (and later additional smaller crosses), expressing their hope that “the convent would become a spiritual fortress.”
The intrusion sparked an international uproar. Years later, the convent was finally relocated—about 1,500 feet away—but the large cross remained in place.
In the Bible, Israel is often likened to olive trees. The olive itself is bitter, yet hidden within it is pure oil that brings light and can illuminate the darkest nights. To release that oil, the olive must be beaten and crushed.
Just as the olive is struck while still on the tree, then gathered, dried in the sun, pressed, ground, bound, and weighted with stones until it yields its oil—so too with Israel. The nations beat them, drive them from place to place, imprison and bind them, surround them with soldiers—and then they repent, and the Holy One, blessed be He, answers them.
As a case in point, consider what happened in Egypt: “The children of Israel groaned from the labor and cried out, and their cry rose up to God” (Shemot 2:23).
Likewise, the Torah promises: “When you are in distress and all these things befall you…you will return to the Lord your God…For the Lord your God is compassionate; He will not abandon or destroy you, nor forget the covenant of your fathers” (Devarim 4:30–31).
Like the olive, Israel’s bitter trials and crushing hardships draw out the purity that lies within, kindling light for themselves and for the world.
The Hebrew word nisayon—often translated as “test” or “trial”—can also mean “elevation.” In life, tests are meant to raise a person to a higher level and elevate them beyond where they stood before. Just as physical strength is built through resistance and strain, spiritual strength grows through challenges of faith. It’s the struggle itself that develops our “spiritual muscles” and moves us to greater heights.
This is why, contrary to what many think, the hardest tests aren’t given to the wicked. God knows they would not be able to withstand them. Our Sages explain that God only sends trials and challenges to those who have the strength to endure them. They offer a parable to demonstrate this principle: If a merchant selling clay jugs in the market wants to show how strong his merchandise is, he’ll knock on the jugs, but only the sturdy ones. Since the cracked or fragile jugs would break instantly, he leaves them untouched.
In the same way, God “taps” only the strongest souls. As Rabbi Yonatan said: “The potter does not test defective vessels, which shatter with a single blow. Whom does he test? The sound vessels, which can be struck many times without breaking. So too, the Holy One, blessed be He, does not test the wicked, but the righteous” (Bereishit Rabbah 32).
In Bereishit, the “Covenant Between the Pieces” marks a pivotal moment in Avraham’s life. There, God gives him two promises: he will have descendants to carry on his mission, and those descendants will inherit the Land of Israel. Avraham’s response is unexpected: “How will I know that I shall inherit it?”
It is striking that Avraham does not question the promise of children—despite his advanced age—but instead asks how he can be certain that his descendants will hold onto the land. Why?
Avraham understood that the Land of Israel is not just a piece of real estate; it is a sacred space, bound up with spiritual responsibility. To truly merit it, its inhabitants must live by the Creator’s commandments and follow His ways. In effect, Avraham was saying: “Whether I have children or not—that is entirely in Your hands. But whether they will live righteously enough to deserve this land—that depends on them. How can You guarantee that?”
God’s answer turns the question on its head: “Know for certain that your descendants will be strangers in a land not their own; they will serve them, and they will oppress them for four hundred years. But I will also judge the nation they serve, and afterwards they will leave with great wealth… And in the fourth generation they will return here” (Bereishit 15:13–16).
Exile, God explains, will safeguard the covenant. Centuries of living on foreign soil, in servitude and suffering, will carve into the national soul the unshakable awareness that they depend on God alone, not on any ruler, empire, or political power. This deep imprint will ensure their faithfulness to the covenant—because if they abandon the Torah, they will once again become strangers, wandering the earth.
In the Bible, Israel is often likened to olive trees. The olive itself is bitter, yet hidden within it is pure oil that brings light and can illuminate the darkest nights. To release that oil, the olive must be beaten and crushed.
Just as the olive is struck while still on the tree, then gathered, dried in the sun, pressed, ground, bound, and weighted with stones until it yields its oil—so too with Israel. The nations beat them, drive them from place to place, imprison and bind them, surround them with soldiers—and then they repent, and the Holy One, blessed be He, answers them.
As a case in point, consider what happened in Egypt: “The children of Israel groaned from the labor and cried out, and their cry rose up to God” (Shemot 2:23).
Likewise, the Torah promises: “When you are in distress and all these things befall you…you will return to the Lord your God…For the Lord your God is compassionate; He will not abandon or destroy you, nor forget the covenant of your fathers” (Devarim 4:30–31).
Like the olive, Israel’s bitter trials and crushing hardships draw out the purity that lies within, kindling light for themselves and for the world.
Anne Frank’s diary, written while she and her family hid from the Nazis in the Secret Annex in the Netherlands, is one of history’s best-selling books, with more than 30 million copies sold in over 70 languages. Tragically, the happy ending she deserved never arrived: after a Dutch betrayer revealed their hiding place, Anne and her family were deported to concentration camps. Just weeks before liberation, Anne and her sister Margot perished in Bergen-Belsen.
Anne began writing her diary at just thirteen, displaying maturity and a sense of purpose beyond her years. She meticulously recorded the mounting restrictions imposed on Jews: the yellow star, school expulsions, confiscation of bicycles, bans on driving, limited shopping rights, and exclusion from public parks, among other things.
Yet Anne possessed a deeply rooted Jewish awareness. She poignantly wrote: “Who has set us apart from all the nations?…It is God who has treated us this way, and it is God who will lift us from the abyss and redeem us. If we bear all this suffering, and yet there remain Jews in the world, the day will come when Jews will no longer be doomed to destruction, but instead will be an example to the world. Who knows? Perhaps it is our faith that will teach goodness to the entire world and all nations. And for that purpose, and that purpose alone, we must suffer. We can never simply be Dutch or English, or any other people alone. We will always, in addition, be Jews, and that is something we willingly embrace.”
The tension surrounding the concept of “the chosen people”—which some non-Jews have tried to claim for themselves—has at times led to acts that are not only troubling but also baffling and brazen. One striking example was the Catholic attempt to “appropriate” Auschwitz, the largest Jewish cemetery in the world.
Under communist rule, when Jews were denied any form of religious or national expression, Auschwitz was recast as a multi-national memorial site. Nowhere was it mentioned that more than 90 percent of its victims were Jews. Instead, they were counted as Poles, Greeks, Belgians, or Frenchmen, without acknowledging that they were persecuted because they were Jews.
In 1984, a group of Carmelite nuns entered a building at the camp—once used to store Zyklon-B gas, the chemical that murdered countless Jews in the gas chambers—and converted it into a convent. They erected a large cross (and later additional smaller crosses), expressing their hope that “the convent would become a spiritual fortress.”
The intrusion sparked an international uproar. Years later, the convent was finally relocated—about 1,500 feet away—but the large cross remained in place.
Rabbi Yosef Mendelevich's journey from communist Latvia to the heart of Jewish faith
Rabbi Yosef Mendelevich grew up in the Soviet Union knowing virtually nothing about Judaism. Yet deep within, the Jewish spark began to burn, urging him toward a different way of life. In 1970, at the age of 23, he and a group of friends hatched an audacious plan: to hijack a small plane, fly it from the Soviet Union to Sweden, and then hold a major press conference to alert the world to the plight of Soviet Jewry. Their cover story was a flight to a large family wedding. The real aim was to break through the Iron Curtain and awaken global action for Jews trapped inside it.
The KGB uncovered the plan before it could be carried out. Arrested and charged with treason, Mendelevich was sentenced to 15 years in prison. He served 11—three of them in harsh, maximum-security conditions. Even after all he endured, he has no regrets: “We were privileged that our path opened the gates of aliyah to the Land of Israel.”
Sparks of Jewishness in a Communist World
Yosef was born in 1947 in Riga, Latvia, into a staunchly communist home. His father had once attended cheder (Jewish elementary school) but left Torah life in pursuit of what he believed to be the justice of communist ideology. At home, they spoke Latvian, Russian, and some Yiddish from his father’s youth.
Yosef’s first encounter with his Jewish identity came from the non-Jewish society around him. One day in school, the teacher went around the class asking each child about their background. When he admitted he was Jewish, the reaction was swift—taunts, insults, and name-calling from classmates. He fled home, shaken. The question gnawed at young Yosef: Why do they hate us? What makes us different?
By age sixteen, financial hardship forced him to work in a factory by day and attend school at night. At night school, most of his classmates were Jewish. One friend explained that they would not have class that day—it was Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. Curious, Yosef joined his friends at the sinagoga (synagogue). Ten days later, he returned for Yom Kippur; soon after came Sukkot. “I thought it was wonderful—every week there was another holiday!” he recalls.
“Inside Prison, I Felt Free”
In 1970 came Operation Wedding. On the day they reached the airport, the KGB pounced. Told they faced the death penalty, they realized the regime’s goal was to crush their spirits to deter other Jews. Some broke under pressure; Yosef refused.
At that moment, Yosef made what seemed like an illogical choice—but to him, it was the only one. “I heard a voice from above telling me that the way out was not to surrender, but to keep Torah and mitzvot,” he recalls. “It put my life at risk, but it was the truth burning inside me.”
In prison, he tied four knots in his handkerchief and wore it on his head as a kippah. Determined to keep Shabbat, he prepared creatively. Throughout the week, he saved bread slices—six in total—for Friday night and Shabbat day. He tore his handkerchief in half, and used half as a head covering and half to cover his “challah.” He cleaned his cell before Shabbat, found a nail on the floor, and scratched an image of Shabbat candles into the wall. Covering his eyes, he recited the blessing, and when he uncovered them, he felt the candles were truly burning. “There I was, awaiting a death sentence, yet honoring Shabbat in my cell. I sang and danced ‘Am Yisrael Chai’ until the guards told me to be quiet. In those moments, I knew the commandments had made me a free man, even behind bars.”
The Soul Never Gives Up
The hijacking never happened, but the trial became an international cause célèbre, opening the gates for the mass emigration of Soviet Jews in the 1970s. “Our press conference happened in court instead of Sweden,” he says. “I spent eleven years in prison, but knowing it helped redeem tens of thousands of Jews gave me the strength to rejoice in my choice.”
After his release, Mendelevich became a rabbi, earned a master’s degree in Jewish history, and now teaches at Machon Meir’s Russian department. “I had the great privilege of coming close to God from a place where Judaism was unknown,” he says. “In communist Russia, no one told me about Torah or God. When people ask how I found Him, I say: only God brought me close. He gave me the trials and the strength to endure them.”
For the Soviet authorities, the revival of Jewish identity was incomprehensible. They thought assimilation was complete. But, Mendelevich says: “That is the great miracle. The Jewish soul never gives up. Even with no knowledge and no help from the outside, it awakens on its own.”
