Realistic Optimism: Leadership in Hard Times

On Tuesday night, I attended an interview with Donniel Hartman, a highly regarded Israeli public intellectual.  Hartman is a pluralist in a land of supercharged opinions and I expected as moderate a take as possible on the roiling Israeli-Gaza conflict. 

Much to the dismay of the rabbi interviewing him and, I think, much of the audience, Hartman said very little about the war, itself—the shock and horror of October 7 and the terrible war to follow.  He had already claimed in his weekly podcasts that Israel has a right to defend itself, that his heart breaks each time an Israeli soldier is killed in combat.  But Hartman also has a commitment to working with Palestinians and, for this moment, he had nothing critical to say about the their participation in the war and he made clear his empathy for the average Gazan families caught in the crossfire.  

Instead, he lectured the Israelis, though not in a way that we expected.  He told us that Israelis had grown too comfortable, “as though they lived in Sweden.”  Comfort and letting down their defenses was, according to Hartman, a very poor choice in such a dangerous neighborhood.  Israel is and has long been surrounded by Gaza, Hezbollah, Iran, Syria, Lebanon, Yemen, and others who, from the start of Israeli nationhood, have been hostile to its existence.  That hostility, Hartman said, is a basic fact and straying from facts into the land of longing is always a mistake.   

But Hartman did not follow that observation with rage or a desire for retribution—or a sense of defeat.  He acknowledged the tragedy, the shock and losses of October 7, but that was in the past, he declared.  Unlike his American followers, he—and, he claimed, most Israelis—was done with mourning.  He was done with rage.  He was ready for a sober assessment of the situation. 

It was a time for strategy, unencumbered by whatever Israelis wished had happened or even what could happen in the best circumstances.  It was a time for sober analysis in order to build the best possible plans.  Not perfect plans, not vengeful plans, but realistic plans to reach towards relative—and only relative—safety within five to ten years. Israel, Hartman insisted, would not destroy Hamas or Hezbollah or Iran or Yemen.  Those, he maintained, were simply Netanyahu’s talking points, political declarations that pointed in a false direction.  A direction that weakened instead of strengthened Israel. 

Strategy begins, Hartman insisted, with a clear estimate of the situation.  Israel would have to both build up its defenses and its surveillance capability.  It would need to be as strong as possible but—and here was the essence of his analysis—it would also have to learn to live with the situation—as it is.   

He called his attitude realistic optimism.  Over and again, he said “I’m an optimist, a realistic optimist.”  Being realistic gave him the best chance to devise effective strategy and effective defenses.  Realism kept you ready. Being ready, not leaping in all directions, allowed Hartman to live in the present.  To embrace his children, grandchildren, friends, and colleagues. 

The clarity of Hartman’s vision, the lack of rage and the odd combination of acceptance of danger and readiness to fight with no need for revenge seemed to shock many in the audience.  At least I think it did.  It certainly stunned—and delighted me.

In addition to his political wisdom, Hartman’s perspective provided a great lesson for me about aging.  It said to me: be realistic; you won’t get better; you will decline; that’s natural.  Your friends and relatives will grow ill, more limited, and die.  What else can happen.  You should take care of yourself and others as best you can, knowing that you won’t solve all the problems or relieve all the pain and anxiety.  And—this is the second key of realistic optimism—you need to find satisfaction and joy where it is.  Now.  Not in spite of troubles but in the midst of troubles.  In the dangerous neighborhood of troubles. 

I also believe that Hartman was offering a lesson in leadership.  At the end of the lecture, almost everyone stood and cheered—even though Hartman hadn’t told them what they expected or even wanted to hear. I think they expected an opportunity to vent, to mourn, to justify.  He refused. 

Instead, like Camus’ Sisyphus, he told them to live (and fight)—in spite of how absurd and dangerous the world is.  You might remember that Camus developed his philosophy in the midst of the Nazi conquest of France and while fighting in the treacherous world of the French Resistance.  Every time Sisyphus, his mythic anti-hero, pushed the rock up the mountain, it fell and fell again, but still Camus affirmed his efforts.

What else can we do if we are to remain human and ethical and find joy in the midst of both absurdity and tragedy. So I will push the rock, as well. 

Having said this, I confess that I am still struggling to understand Hartman’s lesson for leadership.  It has something to do with how he refused to tell an expectant and adoring crowd what they wanted or expected to hear and still got them to cheer as one—to coalesce, to let go of their difference, to be uplifted by his extremely sober message. 

Hartman is traversing the country, talking with American Jews.  Maybe he was tired.  He was not particular eloquent.  He struggled for words.  Maybe in his weariness he skipped lecturer’s stance and spoke to us, person to person.

He clearly wants to offer us something he believes will help.  It does. He says it over and again—with passion.  And eventually, his relatively inarticulate mutterings grow incredibly articulate.  I felt what he was saying before I understood it.  I felt at one with him.  Then, as I looked around, I felt at one with the congregation.  And we had all moved to a new place vis a vis Israel and ourselves.  It was like listening to an ancient prophet.

Hartman repeated this lesson over and again.  He ignored questions from the interviewer.  He refused to moderate.  And the more he did, the more he seemed to create a still center, a center that admitted almost all of us, pulled us in, no matter where we had started our journey that evening.   

We need that kind of leadership in America today.  We are divided.  We want solutions, often easy ones.  But they don’t exist.  We need to face the terrible state we are in: angrily divided by culture, religion, political views.  We want answers now.  Kick Trump out.  Or, from the other side: a dictator who will bring everyone into line.  But there will be no simple and short term fixes to the divisions and hysteria that plagues our nation.  We need to face that fact, do the best we can to bring out a good enough resolution to our differences—not a perfect resolution, maybe not even a lasting one, but one that will hold long enough to begin working things out.  And, while we work things out, live decent lives. 

And we need a very personal, passionate, and compassionate style of leadership to create a still center in which we can come together.