I’m a religious Zionist, in the proper sense of the term. When the coronavirus whirlwind finally passes, much may have been obliterated and changed. But not the truth that Judaism has a geography as well as a history.

It all began for me in August 1969 when, fulfilling the requirements of rabbinic training at Leo Baeck College, my newly wedded wife and I spent a much extended honeymoon in Jerusalem. I’ll never forget the night-time thud of rockets on the hills, the anxiety caused by the setting fire to Al-Aqsa Mosque. And the difference from the suburban calm of Redbridge.

Neither of us found it easy —the shoulder-shrugging bureaucracy, the constant invasion of our privacy with uninvited advice, the preference for pushing over queueing, the cacophony of foreign sounds and smells. Yet when the time came to leave, we both experienced a surprising ambivalence, reluctance. Which I came gradually to understand and incorporate into my life.

These people from many backgrounds, with a plethora of accents and encyclopaedia of opinions, all told the same story — of a family of families, of a people not better than any other but not quite like any other. But what did and does that mean?

We give the same account of the Land. It’s documented in Simon Sebag-Montefiore’s illuminating biography of Jerusalem. From the earliest times, the Land has always been the home of the Jewish people. Some chose (or were forced) to explore the wider world but others have always maintained a significant presence.

Even when Jerusalem itself was obliterated by the Romans, we clung on in the Land. Indeed the Mishnah was compiled there. Harassed by Islamic dynasties and Christian crusaders, we hung on, repeatedly returned. Jewish historian Martin Gilbert records that in the mid-19th century, before the first chalutzim (pioneers) arrived from Eastern Europe, the population of Jerusalem was more than 50 percent Jewish.

Both the chalutzim from Christian Europe and the swelling Jewish population of Jerusalem from the Muslim world reflect a stark truth: a millennia-old non-acceptance of Jews as respected and equal members of society. There were times when interaction, cultural as well as economic, did flourish to the benefit of both. But such episodes didn’t last; we were never treated as equals, never secure, remorselessly persecuted.

Which gives rise to a profound sense of outrage: if we’ve always been here, seen the Land as our homeland and if you could never accept our presence, how dare you begrudge us a portion of the Land, as our Palestinian siblings are entitled to a portion of the Land. How many lives has Israel saved from your unending persecution?

Israel, the Land, the state, legitimised — as if legitimation were even necessary – by a vote at the United Nations. In which Britain abstained.

For many that’s the story – of a family of families, of a people with a shared history and culture vindicating its right to control its own destiny having been at the merciless mercy of its Christian and Muslim siblings and their descendants for far too long.

But it’s not the whole story. And in those terms alone, it frightens me. Notwithstanding the force of the historic, pragmatic, morally justified and legal claims, on their own they lay themselves open to debate and analysis in terms of ethnic rights alone. As one American writer put it some months ago, the Kurds, Tibetans, French Canadians and Cornish have the same rights to ethnic identity but they’re not ipso facto entitled to a land of their own.

My religious Zionism owes its intellectual substance and conviction to Rabbi Dow Marmur — born in Poland; brought up in Uzbekistan; educated in Sweden; graduate of Leo Baeck College who served congregations in London; moved to Toronto; and now lives in Jerusalem. From where he writes regular columns railing against the threats to democracy and flagrant breaches of Jewish ethics by the government of Israel but expressing his Judaism in Zionist terms: “Jewish geography is no less significant than Jewish history; there is Jewish space and Jewish place, not just Jewish time; Jewish aspirations are not only about the world beyond but are also about an address on this earth; the heavenly Jerusalem and the earthly Jerusalem are contingent upon each other.” Israel is a non-negotiable address of the Jewish people.

Living at the time of Hadrianic persecution and expulsion, Rabbi Akiva spoke repeatedly of the Shechinah, the Divine presence, which travels with us in diaspora. The presence of God (Whoever or Whatever we understand today by that word) accompanies us on our journeying, reminding us of who we are, of the ethical and spiritual tradition we carry with us, sharing our suffering, pained by our pain but insisting we don’t look back, don’t lose our nerve and press forward. After seventeen hundred years or more of diaspora alone, the journey continues both in Israel and in the countries of our dispersion. It’s a journey of meaning and purpose, the journey not just of Jews but of Judaism.

Rabbi Bayfield is author of Being Jewish Today: Confronting the Real Issues, published by Bloomsbury