HADASH.

This is probably the most personal piece I've written to date, so walk with me for a bit.

This is probably the most personal piece I’ve written to date, so bear with me for a bit. Allow me to reintroduce myself.

My name is Rícky J. Marc. My full name is much longer than that, and the languages that hold it reveal the ground upon which my convictions stand.

HEBREW

‎שַׂר רָמִיאֵל בֶּן יֶפֶה גַּלְיָה מִבֵּית סָלוּק.¹

(Ramíel ben-Yefeh Sālúq)

ARABIC

السَّيِّدُ رَاجِمِي ٱبْنُ جَمِيلٍ وَغَالِيَةَ مِنْ بَيْتِ السُّلُوكِ.²

(Rājèmi ibn Jamil al-Súluk)

AMHARIC

ልዑል ራጀሚ ወልደ ውበታዊ ወ ጋልያ ቤት ሰሉቃ.³

(Rājèmi Wolde Wubetawi)

I begin here so you can see the core of my identity before I speak another word. These names carry history, obligation, and a commitment to walk with integrity before the Most High ﷻ. They also establish why Zionism stands in direct conflict with my faith and why the liberation of Palestine is a spiritual mandate, not a political preference.

My Ḥadashí Jewish (הֲדָשִׁי יַהֲדוּת) identity requires clarity. Zionism violates the ethical structure under which I steadfastly live. It functions as genocidal domination over my Palestinian brothers and sisters and uses the language of my ancestors to defend the machinery of apartheid-styled occupation.

My allegiance belongs to the Almighty God אֲדֹנָי אֱלֹהִים ﷻ who created humanity in His image. I will not grant that allegiance to any system that crushes that image.

THE MEANING

Tikkun Ḥadash (תִּקוּן חָדָשׁ)⁴ sits at the center of my Ḥadashí faith. It governs how I relate to the Most High ﷻ, how I shape my character, and how I move in the world. The phrase means New Restoration, and it describes a life rooted in renewal, integrity, responsibility, and obedience to the Word.

Tikkun Hadash rests on one foundation. Renewal is a sacred duty. Renewal of the self. Renewal of community. Renewal of the world. Renewal comes through fidelity to the Most High ﷻ and through disciplined moral practice that honors justice, mercy, and truth.

Within this structure, Tikkun ha-Brit (תִּקוּן הַבְּרִית) forms the inward discipline. It governs my spiritual life, my study, my obedience, and my relationship to the Word. Tikkun Olam ha-Brit (תִּקוּן עוֹלָם הַבְּרִית) forms the outward discipline. It governs how I treat human beings, how I confront oppression, and how I practice the command to love my neighbor as myself in visible, material ways.

Tikkun Hadash binds these expressions together. It shapes a life defined by obedience to the Most High ﷻ and responsibility for human dignity. This is the system that forms my theology, my ethics, and my politics.

THE MORAL

My Ḥadashí faith shapes every part of how I understand justice. Zionism stands in direct conflict with that faith. I speak plainly because clarity is required. Zionism uses Jewish identity to legitimize domination over Palestinians, turning our tragic history into a shield for the suppression of another people.

My Ḥadashí faith directs me to reject that system without hesitation. It directs me to stand openly for a free Palestine because freedom is the only environment where Jews, Christians, Muslims, and everyone else can live in dignity on the same land.

This is not branding, nor is it mere rhetoric. This is the Most High ﷻ’s command in motion: love your neighbor as yourself. This command stands at the core of Ḥadashí identity, shaping my movement through the world. It defines what I protect and what I refuse to abide.

When I view Palestine through Tikkun Olam ha-Brit—the outward arm of my Ḥadashí path—the conclusion is immediate. Standing and walking with the oppressed is a requirement.

THE FOUNDATION

My Ḥadashí faith names a Jewish identity built on renewal, integrity, and responsibility. It honors Scripture. It honors the Word of the Most High ﷻ. It honors the lineage of struggle, faith, and survival that produced me. Nothing in this identity is passive. Nothing in it is ceremonial. It is a path that requires moral clarity.

The Most High ﷻ commands justice. He commands mercy. He commands care for the stranger, the poor, and the oppressed. These commands form the structure of a life in covenant with Him.

Under this framework, my allegiance does not belong to land, armies, or states. It belongs to the God who formed humanity in His image. My Ḥadashí faith is not a nationalist project but a system of true accountability.

THE OBLIGATION

Tikkun Olam ha-Brit governs how I stand in public. It calls me to confront systems that strip people of life and dignity. It requires that I speak when others remain silent. It directs me to defend human beings wherever they are being crushed.

Under this obligation, I must honor the image of God in every person. I must protect people targeted by institutional power. I must expose injustice even when it arrives wrapped in religious language or ethnic fear. I cannot claim to love my neighbor while accepting structures that deny their humanity.

This is why my commitment to Palestine cannot be separated from my Ḥadashí identity. The occupation strips native Palestinians of movement, land, rights, safety, and future. It imposes surveillance, military rule, and displacement. None of this aligns with Torah תּוֹרָה ethics. None of this aligns with the Most High ﷻ’s commands. Tikkun Olam ha-Brit requires resistance to all of it.

THE OFFENSE

Zionism positions Jewish survival above Palestinian existence, constructing a hierarchy of human worth and calling it security. It turns the generational trauma of European Jews into a tool for permanent military dominance. None of this reflects the character of the Most High ﷻ. None of this reflects the moral tradition I embody.

Zionism transforms religion into an instrument of state power. It turns the promise of justice into a justification for inequality. It takes the language of Scripture and uses it to authorize checkpoints, raids, settlements, and mass displacement. This is a corruption of faith and a violation of the command to love.

I cannot accept any system that treats the suffering of another people as a strategic necessity. My faith stops me from blessing it and my conscience refuses to normalize it. There is no theologically-valid loophole that allows me to ignore the oppression of Palestinians. Their humanity is not a variable. Their freedom is not a bargaining chip.

THE IMPERATIVE

When I say Palestine must be free, I am not making a political suggestion. I am naming a moral demand that flows directly from my Ḥadashí beliefs. Freedom means Palestinians—along with any and all indigenous people subject to colonization—living with full rights in their own land. It means the end of military occupation.

It means legal equality for everyone who lives there. It means the right to return for those exiled for generations. It means a life where no one’s humanity is conditional.

Under my faith, this outcome is not negotiable. Justice requires it. Neighbor-love requires it. Fidelity to the Most High ﷻ requires it. A land claiming to be holy must not function as a machine of discrimination, and any future worth claiming must protect the lives and dignity of everyone rooted in that soil.

THE FORMATION

My commitment shows up in how I speak, organize, and act. I say Palesṭīne فلسطين without apology. I reject narratives that sanitize occupation. I refuse to let Jewish identity be used as a shield for human rights violations. I support movements that push for liberation through pressure, economic accountability, and global organizing. I listen to Palestinian voices because they are the ones living the consequences of systems upheld in the name of my sacred faith.

In Jewish spaces,⁵ I make it clear that anti-Zionism is not antisemitism. My position emerges from Jewish ethics,⁶ not in opposition to them. I honor Black, Hebrew, and indigenous trauma without letting it become a justification for oppression. I carry the memory of our suffering in a way that pushes me toward solidarity, not supremacy.

In interfaith spaces, I stand as a Ḥadashí⁷ committed to justice. I reject any attempt to weaponize faith for dominance. I defend Jews against bigotry while holding Zionism accountable as a political system, not a religious identity.

THE NEIGHBOR

The command to love my neighbor as myself is both simple and relentless. I desire freedom for myself. I desire security for myself. I desire dignity for myself. Under the command of the Most High ﷻ, I must desire those same things for Palestinians. Anything less is disobedience.

My faith does not allow me to sit comfortably inside someone else’s suffering. It does not allow me to hide behind ambiguity. It does not allow me to accept any system that crushes people created in God’s image.

Loving my neighbor requires standing with them when their lives are being stripped away. Loving my neighbor requires naming the truth even when the truth is unpopular.

My Ḥadashí identity calls me to walk in the world with moral clarity. It calls me to reject Zionism because Zionism denies the humanity of my neighbors. It calls me to support Palestinian freedom because liberation is the only environment where holiness can take root. This is the outward face of my faith, the duty I carry, and the standard I refuse to abandon.

THE CONCLUSION

A faith without courage collapses under pressure. A faith without witness becomes a costume. My Ḥadashí path refuses both. I carry a name rooted in renewal, a history shaped by struggle, and a command that leaves no room for moral neutrality. I know what I stand for because I know the God I serve. I know what that God requires of me in the face of state violence, ethnic supremacy, and organized dehumanization. I know what it means to love my neighbor when my neighbor is bleeding.

So I speak plainly. I stand where my faith tells me to stand. I refuse to surrender my ethics to anyone’s political comfort. Zionism does not define my Hebraic spiritual practice. Empire does not define my identity. The Most High ﷻ defines both, and he has never blessed unjust domination.

A free Palestine is the only future that honors the image of God in every human life.⁸ It is the only future that reflects the command written on my heart. It is the only future my Ḥadashí faith can recognize as just. I will continue to say so with clarity, with conviction, and without fear, because truth demands voice, and faith demands action.

This is where I stand. And I won’t move.

1. In Hebrew, my name is rendered fully as Prince Ramíel, son of Yefeh Galyah, from the house of Sālúq. שַׂר (sar) means prince or chief. רָמִיאֵל (Ramíel; ra-MI-el) draws from the root רוּם/רָם (rūm/rām, high, exalted) and אֵל (ʾēl, Elōhîm), giving the sense Elōhîm has raised up, Elōhîm’s thunder, or Elōhîm is exalted. בֶּן (ben) means son [of], and יֶפֶה (Yefeh; ye-FEH) comes from יָפֶה (yāfeh, beautiful, fair), which I use as a paternal name (Jamil). גַּלְיָה (Galyah; GA-lya) carries a Semitic sense tied to revelation or uncovering, which I use as a maternal name. מִבֵּית (mi-beit) means from the house of, and סָלוּק (Sālúq; sa-LUQ) is the Hebraized form of my family house-name Soúlouque, understood as the house of ascent or the house that goes up.

2. In Arabic, my name is rendered fully as al-Sayyid Rājèmi, son of Jamil and Ghāliyah, from the house of Súluk. السَّيِّدُ (al-Sayyid; as-SAY-yid) is an honorific meaning sir, master, or lord. رَاجِمِي (Rājèmi; RĀ-je-mī) functions here as a constructed Afro-Asiatic personal name that vocalizes my initials R–J–M inside Arabic phonology. ٱبْنُ (ibn) means son [of], جَمِيلٍ (Jamil; ja-MĪL) means beautiful, noble, or of beauty, and وَغَالِيَةَ (wa-Ghāliyah; wa-GHĀ-lee-ya) gives the maternal name Ghāliyah, meaning precious, dear, or highly valued. مِنْ بَيْتِ (min bayt) means from the house of, and السُّلُوكِ (as-Sulūk/al-Súluk; as-su-LŪk) derives from the root س–ل–ك (s-l-k), associated with walking a path or conduct, so the house of al-Súluk names a lineage marked by a particular path, way of life, and disciplined conduct.

3. In Amharic, my name is rendered fully as Prince Rājèmi, son of Wubetawi and Galya, of the house of Seluqa. ልዑል (lə’ul; lə-ʾUL) means prince, noble, or exalted one. ራጀሚ (Rājèmi; RĀ-je-mī) is the Amharic-script rendering of the same R-J-M name form. ወልደ (Wolde; WOL-de) means son of, and ውበታዊ (Wubetawi; wu-be-TA-wi) is derived from ውበት (wubät, beauty), giving the sense the beautiful one or the one characterized by beauty, which I use as a paternal name (Jamil). ጋልያ (Galya; GA-lya) serves as the maternal name, an Ethio-Semitic adaptation that echoes the Semitic sense of radiance, celebration, or revealed joy. ቤት ሰሉቃ (bet Seluqa; bet sə-LU-qa) means house of Seluqa, with ቤት (bet) as house and ሰሉቃ (Seluqa) as the Afro-Asiatic form tied to my Soúlouque house-name, marking my ancestral line and noble household identity.

4. Tikkun Ḥadash תִּקוּן חָדָשׁ (new restoration or renewed repair) names the overarching Ḥadashí framework of spiritual, moral, and communal renewal in which Adonai Elōhîm אֲדֹנָי אֱלֹהִים ﷻ, through the Word and the Holy Spirit, heals the damage of sin in the person, the household, the community, and the wider world, chiefly through the twin pillars of Tikkun ha-Brit תִּקוּן הַבְּרִית (restoration of the covenant) and Tikkun Olam ha-Brit תִּקוּן עוֹלָם הַבְּרִית (restoration of the world of the covenant). Within Ḥadashí Judaism יְהוּדִיּוּת חֲדָשִׁי (Yehudiyyút Ḥadashí), understood as the original Hebraic, Afro-Asiatic, Scripture-governed faith fulfilled in Messiah מָשִׁיחַ ﷻ and revived in the Advent movement, Tikkun Ḥadash functions as the practical, lived philosophy and way of life that directs believers to embody that faith through obedience, holiness, justice, and liberation in view of the Great Controversy and the soon return of Yĕshúa ha-Māšîaḥ ﷻ, known in English as Jesus the Anointed (Christ).

5. I say this as someone who grew up in Boca Ratón, where many of my sharpest experiences of exclusion, xenophobia, and casual racism came from inside Jewish spaces themselves. As an Afro-Latīné man, I learned very early that a Black body in a kippah draws stares, double-takes, and quiet questions that never appear for lighter faces. During high holidays, I would walk into gatherings with my kippah on and feel eyes linger just long enough to signal that my presence needed an explanation. In law school, in preparation for a model Pesach פֶּסַח seder while I was serving as Vice President of the Jewish Law Students Association, I sat in the Breezeway as an assistant dean stopped, looked at me, and blurted, You’re Jewish!?—as if Jewishness lives in a narrow, Eurocentric template of Ashkenazi whiteness and anything outside that frame must be an anomaly. None of them knew, or cared to ask, that an entire line of overseas maternal blood relatives bears the name Rosemberg, a surname not stolen or forcibly given but embraced. These moments sit underneath my anti-Zionism and my Ḥadashí identity: I carry the memory of Black, indigenous, and Hebrew suffering and the reality of Jewish racism at the same time, and I respond with a commitment to solidarity and a refusal to embrace hatred.

6. When I say that my position emerges from Jewish ethics, I mean that it grows out of Tōrah תּוֹרָה and the prophets, out of the conviction that every human being bears tzelem Elōhîm צֶלֶם אֱלֹהִים (the image of God), and out of the commands to defend the stranger, the orphan, and the widow. It draws from tzedek צֶדֶק (justice), mishpat מִשְׁפָּט (judgment and right-order), and rachamim רַחֲמִים (mercy/compassion), and from the prophetic warnings against those who shed innocent blood or turn land and law into tools of oppression. Anti-Zionism is a loyalty to that ethical grammar: a refusal to grant any state the authority to trample the image of Elōhîm in Palestinians or in any other people. My Ḥadashí faith stands inside that stream. I critique power because my own tradition tells me that Elōhîm hears the cry of the oppressed and measures His people by how they treat the vulnerable, not by the size of their flags or the reach of their armies.

7. Defined as a Hebrew believer whose spiritual identity is rooted in the original Hebraic, Afro-Asiatic, Scripture-governed faith, fulfilled in Messiah מָשִׁיחַ ﷻ, rekindled through the Advent movement, and ordered by the disciplines of Tikkun Ḥadash. This name binds me to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as revealed in the Word, to the observance of His Sabbath שַׁבָּת, to the prophetic call to justice and mercy, and to a life of renewal, integrity, and responsibility before the Most High. It frames my anti-Zionism as a religious obligation, anchors my solidarity with Palestine in Tōrah תּוֹרָה ethics and neighbor-love, and establishes my faith as a system of accountability that measures every state, ideology, and power-structure against the image of God in every human being.

8. When I say a free Palestine, I am speaking about every people who lives under occupation, blockade, dispossession, or foreign control that denies them dignity and self-determination. That conviction reaches Kiskéyà, especially the western third known as Haïtí, where outside powers and local elites have trapped a Black nation in cycles of debt, intervention, and engineered instability. It reaches Irân ایران under siege and demonization, Cuba and Venezuela under suffocating western sanctions and autocracy, West Papua under militarized extraction, Sudan in the grip of war and displacement, Kurdistan کوردستان divided and denied, Syriā سُورِيَا and the Golan Heights under bombardment and occupation, Tigray scarred by famine and ethnic violence, Cyprus and Abkhazia living with frozen conflicts, Korea split by empire, and the Indigenous nations of the Americas whose lands remain taken and whose sovereignty remains unfinished business. A free Palestine names a wider demand: that every people created in the image of God be allowed to live without apartheid, siege, ethnic cleansing, or imperial guardianship. When I call for a free Palestine, I am calling for a world in which the image of God in each community receives the same regard, the same right to land and life, and the same freedom from domination, wherever they stand on the map. Our struggle remains forever shared and linked.