I was talking recently with a young man about his social life. He described an evening that did not sound like the stuff of romantic legend.

The dinner seemed to be going well. The wine flowed, as did the conversation — with just enough spark to suggest possibility. He leaned into the moment, sensing chemistry, feeling that quiet optimism that accompanies a promising first date.

And then she leaned forward, lowered her voice, and asked a question that changed everything.

“I really like you,” she said. “I feel attracted to you.

“But I need to know something. Are you a Zionist?”

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