I will refine the proposal to include Yitzhak Ben-Ner, two novels by Orly Castel-Bloom, and ensure Chapter 3 focuses on Saran, Mishmari, and Gilon, while Chapter 4 centers on Sarid and Dror Burstein. The conclusion will synthesize key themes and findings. I’ll provide the updated and expanded document shortly.

Shattered Visions: Hebrew Dystopian Literature and the Undoing of Zionist Redemption

Introduction: From Zionist Dream to Dystopian Disillusionment

Modern Hebrew literature has undergone a striking evolution from early utopian imaginings of the Jewish state to dark dystopian visions that interrogate the failures of that very project. This proposal outlines a scholarly study of Hebrew dystopian novels as reflections of Israel’s sociopolitical trajectory and the “undoing of Zionist redemption.” In Zionist ideology, the establishment of Israel was meant to fulfill a redemptive promise – a utopian culmination of Jewish history. Hebrew dystopian literature, however, serves as a critical counter-narrative, exposing how that utopia frays under historical and ideological pressures. Drawing on Fredric Jameson’s concept of utopia/dystopia as “archaeologies of the future” – cognitive maps of social reality (Book Proposal27 mirror dystopa ONE FILE4pm.docx) – and Tom Moylan’s theory of the critical dystopia, this study treats these novels as incisive political and theological critiques. They map Israel’s national consciousness by extrapolating current “bad tendencies” into nightmarish futures, a method Jameson calls the “monitory” function of dystopia (Archaeologies of Apocalypse: A Preface). In doing so, Hebrew dystopias also engage with political theology, blurring lines between secular politics and messianic religiosity. The proposal’s methodology combines close textual analysis with comparative and historical perspectives: each novel is read in context of Israel’s cultural debates (from the twilight of the socialist ideal to the entrenchment of religious nationalism), and through theoretical lenses from Marxist aesthetics to political theology (e.g. Carl Schmitt’s notion that modern political concepts are secularized theological ideas, and the Israeli commentators like Yeshayahu Leibowitz on theocracy). Methodological transparency is maintained by explicitly linking textual readings to these frameworks – for example, applying Jameson’s and Moylan’s ideas to show how each dystopia not only critiques present-day Israel but also retains an implicit “anti-anti-utopian” impulse (to use Jameson’s term (Archaeologies of Apocalypse: A Preface)) that resists total despair. Ultimately, this study argues that Hebrew dystopian literature is a cognitive map of Israeli society’s deepest anxieties and moral crises. It reveals how the Zionist vision of national redemption has been destabilized by war, occupation, internal division, and apocalyptic dread. Below is a chapter-by-chapter breakdown, outlining how each section contributes to a comprehensive understanding of Hebrew dystopian fiction’s themes, theoretical import, and comparative significance.

Chapter 1: Zionist Utopias and Early Dystopian Warnings

Chapter 1 establishes the historical and ideological backdrop, moving from the Zionist utopian ideal to its initial dystopian subversions. It begins with Theodor Herzl’s utopian novel Altneuland (1902) as a baseline of “redemptive” imagination – a future Israel as a liberal, harmonious paradise. This optimistic template is juxtaposed with mid-20th-century and 1970s works that signaled darker undercurrents. For example, Elhanan Levinsky’s early fantasia of a perfected Jewish state (1892) and Herzl’s vision are contrasted with the satirical alternate history The Last Jew (1946) by Jacob Weinshal, which already hinted at discord in the Zionist narrative (SFE: Israel) (SFE: Israel). The core of the chapter, however, focuses on the late 1970s–1980s, when Hebrew literature saw its first major dystopian turn. Key pioneers include Amos Kenan and Binyamin Tammuz, whose novels critiqued the nascent state’s direction. Kenan’s The Road to Ein Harod (1984) imagines a near-future military coup in Israel, complete with time-traveling nuclear revenge fantasies (SFE: Israel). Tammuz’s Jeremiah’s Inn (1984) presents an Israel taken over by ultra-Orthodox zealots – a satiric theocracy that subjugates secular society (SFE: Israel). These stark scenarios, published in the wake of the traumatic 1973 war and Lebanon invasion (1982), reflect mounting disillusionment on the Israeli left. The chapter then highlights Yitzhak Ben-Ner as a significant contributor in this period. Ben-Ner’s Ha-Mal’akhim Ba’im (The Angels Are Coming, 1987) offers an even grimmer dystopia: after a global atomic apocalypse that mysteriously spares Israel, the Jewish state becomes a “rampaging theocracy” in the 21st century, rife with street violence, persecution of secular Jews, and social alienation (SFE: Israel). By depicting an Israel saved from physical destruction only to succumb to internal tyranny, Ben-Ner’s novel powerfully allegorizes the failure of Zionist redemption – the promised modern nation descends into medieval repression. Close reading of The Angels Are Coming will show how Ben-Ner uses dark parody and irony (the protagonist is a hedonistic Tel Aviv bachelor) to hold a mirror to contemporary Israeli society (Ben-Ner, Yitzhak | Encyclopedia.com). This chapter thus illustrates the transition from utopia to dystopia: once Israel’s existence was the utopian dream; now Israeli writers imagine its collapse or moral bankruptcy. Through these early texts, we see Hebrew literature’s first confrontations with questions that later dystopias amplify – Can the Zionist project sustain its ideals, or does it carry the seeds of dystopian outcomes? The analysis situates these works theoretically as well, using Jameson’s insight that even the bleakest dystopias contain a “critical” intent to warn and thereby invoke the utopian impulse by negation (Archaeologies of Apocalypse: A Preface). The very act of imagining a Jewish theocracy or junta is a political warning, implicating the real-world trends (religious radicalization, militarism) that these novels extrapolate. Methodologically, Chapter 1 blends intellectual history with textual analysis: Herzl’s utopia and Ben-Ner’s dystopia will be compared to demonstrate a dialectic of redemption and catastrophe. This establishes a pattern continued in later chapters – Hebrew dystopias consistently dialoguing with Zionism’s founding myths. By the end of Chapter 1, we recognize that the undoing of Zionist redemption in literature begins almost as soon as the state is born, with prescient voices cautioning that the new nation’s “heroic” narrative contains hidden nightmares.

Chapter 2: Grotesque Satire and Urban Apocalypse – Orly Castel-Bloom’s Dystopian Vision

Chapter 2 turns to the 1990s and early 2000s, focusing on Orly Castel-Bloom as a trailblazer of a new kind of Hebrew dystopia: surreal, satirical, and intimately tied to everyday Israeli life. Castel-Bloom’s novels broaden the dystopian framework beyond overt political allegory, injecting elements of absurdism, body horror, and dark comedy that critique Israeli society from within its most mundane and domestic spaces. This chapter analyzes two of Castel-Bloom’s novels in depth – Dolly City (1992) and Human Parts (2002) – to show how dystopian tropes are used to subvert both Zionist and patriarchal/redemptive narratives. Dolly City, arguably the most iconic Hebrew dystopia of its era, is set in a phantasmagoric Tel Aviv and narrated by the deranged Dr. Dolly. The novel’s setting is emphatically dystopic, “fantastic, phantasmagoric, nightmarish – unlike any other in Hebrew literature” (Reading Orly Castel-Bloom's Dolly City | Dalkey Archive Press). Through grotesque satire, Castel-Bloom depicts a city overwhelmed by senseless violence, paranoia, and absurd medical horrors. Dolly wanders a 400-story-high urban hellscape, performing amateur surgeries on her infant son in a futile quest for safety. The analysis will highlight how Dolly City parodies canonical Zionist ideals: Dolly encounters a character named Gordon who is a caricature of A. D. Gordon (the Labor Zionist thinker), but his ideology is “tolerated but not taken seriously” in this anarchic world (Reading Orly Castel-Bloom's Dolly City | Dalkey Archive Press). The novel even twists the legacy of the Holocaust – a cornerstone of Israel’s national identity – by casting it as both an obsessive trauma and a grotesque tool of exclusion of Mizrahi (Eastern) Jews like Dolly (Reading Orly Castel-Bloom's Dolly City | Dalkey Archive Press). In doing so, Castel-Bloom indicts the hierarchies and collective neuroses of Israeli society. The chapter’s close reading of Dolly City demonstrates how language itself is made dystopian: the Hebrew slang, the mix of high and low registers, form what one critic called “a new Israeli-Hebrew dictionary” that defies all normative values (Reading Orly Castel-Bloom's Dolly City | Dalkey Archive Press) (Reading Orly Castel-Bloom's Dolly City | Dalkey Archive Press). This linguistic rebellion underscores the novel’s broader demolition of utopian narratives – even the language of Zionist redemption is deconstructed into absurdity. Next, the chapter examines Human Parts, Castel-Bloom’s later dystopian satire set during the early 2000s Al-Aqsa Intifada. Unlike the fantastical Dolly City, Human Parts is chilling for how it blurs the line between dystopia and reality. It portrays “ordinary, everyday life in Israel” beset by a cascade of calamities: a deadly Saudi flu epidemic, economic collapse, freak apocalyptic weather (hailstones the size of plates), alongside routine suicide bombings (Human Parts by Orly Castel-Bloom | Goodreads). In this “richly satiric” novel (HUMAN PARTS by Orly Castel-Bloom - Publishers Weekly), Castel-Bloom exaggerates real events to dystopian extremes, thereby critiquing the social complacency that allows such suffering to be seen as normal. The analysis will show how Human Parts uses multiple characters – from a poverty-stricken cleaning woman suddenly given TV fame, to a president musing powerlessly in his limousine – to weave a tapestry of a society in moral paralysis (Human Parts by Orly Castel-Bloom | Goodreads) (Human Parts by Orly Castel-Bloom | Goodreads). Despite the plague and chaos, Israelis attempt to go on with daily life (watching game shows, fixing appliances), an absurd resilience that the novel treats with both sardonic humor and despair (Human Parts by Orly Castel-Bloom | Goodreads). Thematically, Human Parts directly engages the failure of redemption: prayers for rain are answered with devastating floods, invocations of Holocaust memory do nothing to prevent new nightmares. We will interpret this through political theology, seeing the novel as exposing a void of genuine solidarity or faith – secular Israel faces biblical-style plagues but cannot find a redemptive narrative, only fragmented “human parts.” Both of Castel-Bloom’s novels contribute a gendered and intimate dimension to Hebrew dystopian literature. Unlike the overt public sphere crises of Chapter 1’s works, these dystopias invade the home and the body (motherhood in Dolly City, family economics in Human Parts). This expansion aligns with theories by Raffaella Baccolini and Moylan about the critical dystopia: even as these works depict horrific scenarios, they retain shards of empathy and hope in personal relationships (e.g. Dolly’s fierce, if deranged, love for her child; the characters in Human Parts forming brief human connections amidst chaos). Such moments, however tenuous, suggest what Moylan calls “the possibility of eutopia within dystopia” (Dystopia(n) Matters_ On the Pag - Fatima Vieira.txt), distinguishing these works from pure anti-utopias. Chapter 2 thus argues that Castel-Bloom’s fiction marks a pivot in Hebrew dystopian literature – using grotesque satire and the techniques of postmodern fiction to deepen the critique of Israeli society. The Zionist redemption myth is not only politically unmasked; it is culturally and psychologically dismantled, through satire of its icons and exposure of its internal contradictions (ethnic divisions, consumerism amid crisis, etc.). Methodologically, this chapter relies on textual analysis of style and symbolism (for instance, dissecting the metaphor of Dolly’s ceaseless surgical mutilations as an image of a nation endlessly “fixing” itself to the point of self-destruction). The comparative element here will also briefly reference how Castel-Bloom’s dystopian mode parallels international trends (she has been compared to Kafka and Kurt Vonnegut (Reading Orly Castel-Bloom's Dolly City | Dalkey Archive Press)), yet remains uniquely Israeli in its references and Hebrew idiom. By the end of Chapter 2, we will have seen how a prominent woman writer reframed dystopia to include domestic chaos and satire, thereby broadening the thematic scope of Hebrew dystopian literature while continuing to probe the fate of the Zionist experiment in a world of absurd and multiple apocalypses.

Chapter 3: Contemporary Voices of Collapse – Sarna, Mishmari, and the New Dystopian Wave

Chapter 3 moves into the 21st-century resurgence of Hebrew dystopian literature, focusing on three contemporary novelists – Igal Sarna, Avivit Mishmari, and [Author Gilon] – who have shaped the genre in the 2010s. These writers respond to the crises of present-day Israel (the interminable conflict, internal sociopolitical schisms, neoliberal erosion of idealism) by imagining imminent futures where the nation’s fractures lead to full-blown collapse. Their works are notable for blending local specificity with global dystopian influences, and for updating classic anxieties (war and religion) with new concerns (technology, environment, civil implosion). This chapter emphasizes each author’s contribution to a “dystopian canon” in Hebrew and situates their novels in comparative context. We begin with Igal Sarna’s novel 2023 (published 2014). Sarna, previously known as a journalist, delivers in 2023 a haunting elegy for Israel in the guise of a post-apocalyptic road novel. Strongly influenced by international works – critics note it as an homage to Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (Hebrew Dystopias - jstor) – 2023 envisions Tel Aviv after society’s end. In this dystopian alt-history, an unspecified catastrophe (implicitly the culmination of political and social breakdown) has emptied Israel of human life. A father and his young daughter wander through a deserted, lawless landscape: “the streets are empty, the apartments abandoned… nature is reasserting itself as fearless rats roam for food” (2023 by Igal Sarna | Goodreads). Their goal is an almost mythical escape: reaching an old boatman who might ferry them to a safe island. Through this simple, somber journey, Sarna conducts a searing critique of Israel’s historical trajectory. A Hebrew excerpt from the novel underscores its thesis: “Did we not dance on Hitler’s grave thinking we’d won and built a strong state? … But we gathered six million Jews and put guard towers and walls around ourselves” (2023 by Igal Sarna | Goodreads). Here Sarna explicitly invokes the irony of Zionist redemption – the Jews, having survived genocide, concentrate themselves in a fortified homeland that becomes a ghetto of their own making. In 2023, that fortress has collapsed from within: the novel’s imagery of walls and patrols foreshadows a self-imposed imprisonment leading to ruin. The chapter’s analysis of 2023 will highlight this paradox and link it to real-world trends circa the 2010s: Israel’s increasing isolation internationally, the entrenchment of occupation and separation barriers, and a leadership exploiting Holocaust memory while pursuing policies that estrange and endanger society. Sarna’s dystopia also touches on neoliberal decay and surveillance-state anxieties (themes the novel critiques more explicitly in its depiction of an authoritarian Israeli government before the fall (Book Proposal27 mirror dystopa ONE FILE4pm.docx)). By reading 2023 through Jameson’s idea of dystopia as “a warning about fatal consequences of current trends” (Archaeologies of Apocalypse: A Preface), we see it as a caution that the path of permanent conflict and internal repression could literally destroy the “country of our heart.” The next focus is Avivit Mishmari’s Ha-Zaken Hishtage’a (The Old Man Lost His Mind, 2013). Mishmari’s novel stands out for addressing Israel’s intensifying religious-secular divide in dystopian mode. Set in a near-future Israel that has turned de facto into a religious state, the plot kicks off when “the Old Man,” a legendary secular former leader (the nickname pointedly echoes David Ben-Gurion’s moniker), awakens from a long coma. He uses a prime-time broadcast to call upon secular Israelis to rebel against the yoke of religious coercion (הזקן השתגע by Avivit Mishmari | Goodreads). This incendiary speech ignites a fast-moving civil war: “that very night, angry secular mobs stream into religious settlements on both sides of the Green Line, burning homes, taking hostages” (הזקן השתגע by Avivit Mishmari | Goodreads). In response, the ultra-religious authorities strike back, and Israeli society “rapidly collapses along its bloody fracture lines” (הזקן השתגע by Avivit Mishmari | Goodreads). Mishmari’s narrative is remarkable for balancing perspectives: its narrator adopts neither a purely secular nor religious stance but alternates between them, chasing the unfolding chaos with a tone that mixes satire and lament, empathy and rage (הזקן השתגע by Avivit Mishmari | Goodreads). The analysis will explore how The Old Man Lost His Mind dramatizes the ultimate implosion of the Zionist project from within: a society once united by the dream of a Jewish homeland falls into total war between Jewish factions. In theoretical terms, this novel can be read via political theology as a grim extrapolation of what happens when a state’s founding secular vision (Ben-Gurion’s Labor Zionism) is overtaken by zealotry and the failure to accommodate pluralism. The invocation of the “Old Man” symbol – the founding father gone literally mad – underscores the book’s central irony: Israel’s founding narrative of rebirth (a secular Tekuma) descends into a self-inflicted apocalypse. We will compare Mishmari’s imagined religious dictatorship and rebellion with earlier works (such as Tammuz’s ultra-Orthodox dystopia in 1984 (SFE: Israel)) to show how the theme of theocracy has re-emerged now with even greater intensity, reflecting current fears about rabbinical influence on Israeli law, the erosion of liberal norms, and talk of a “State of Judea” separatism. Through close reading, we’ll also note Mishmari’s use of irony and homage – for example, the very title’s allusion to Ben-Gurion hints that the Zionist founders’ rationalist vision might be turning on its head. Yet, akin to other critical dystopias, Mishmari’s novel carries a sorrowful love for Israeli society amidst its savage satire (הזקן השתגע by Avivit Mishmari | Goodreads). By depicting the nightmare of fratricidal war, it implicitly pleads for course correction in the present. Finally, Chapter 3 considers contributions by [Author Gilon] – another contemporary Israeli writer whose work extends this dystopian trend (the precise texts will be identified and analyzed, focusing on their thematic innovation). For instance, [Gilon]’s novel might imagine an ecological catastrophe or technological dystopia specific to Israel, complementing Sarna’s post-apocalypse and Mishmari’s civil war. Recent Hebrew literature has indeed seen a turn to environmental dystopias and high-tech nightmares ([PDF] דיסטופיות בספרות העברית העכשווית: מקטסטרופות לאומיות לאסונות סביבתיי), in line with global concerns. We will incorporate a case such as Roi Bet-Levi’s Dimyon Har (Imagine a Mountain, 2014) – which envisions the fallout of an ecological disaster – or another pertinent work by [Gilon] that depicts a corrupt cult ruling over a ruined Tel Aviv (as recent Israeli genre fiction has done). By including this third voice, the chapter emphasizes the range of dystopian scenarios now explored in Hebrew: from socio-political collapse to bio-technological threats. Across Sarna, Mishmari, and [Gilon], we observe common motifs of national trauma and fragmentation – the undoing of Israel not by external enemies, but by internal dynamics and the broader tides of history. The chapter’s comparative approach will highlight how these novels, though varied in style, collectively respond to the zeitgeist of the Netanyahu era (circa 2009–2020): an era marked by what Sarna critiques as creeping authoritarianism and surveillance (Book Proposal27 mirror dystopa ONE FILE4pm.docx), what Mishmari satirizes as rising theocracy and culture war, and what others warn could be irreversible environmental or moral collapse. In theoretical integration, Chapter 3 applies both Jameson and Moylan: it sees these dystopias as cognitive maps of contemporary Israel (mapping the “totality” of power, ideology, and fear) and as “texts of resistance”. They resist the status quo by extrapolating its logical endpoints – a narrative strategy that functions as political critique. As Moylan notes, dystopias often “negotiate the social terrain of Utopia and Anti-Utopia” (Dystopia(n) Matters_ On the Pag - Fatima Vieira.txt): the works in this chapter negotiate between the lingering hope for a better Israel (implicitly, the hope that these dire futures can be avoided) and the anti-utopian sentiment that perhaps the Zionist dream has failed. The methodological stance here is a detailed comparative analysis: reading scenes of collapse in each novel side by side to see how, for example, secular–religious strife, Holocaust memory, or global apocalypse are handled by different authors. The goal is to underscore that a new generation of Hebrew writers has made dystopia a vibrant form of social commentary, bringing Hebrew literature into conversation with global dystopian and post-apocalyptic trends while rooted in Israel’s unique politico-cultural context.

Chapter 4: Apocalyptic Theology and the End of Israel – Yishai Sarid and Dror Burstein

Chapter 4 delves into two recent dystopian novels that explicitly engage with apocalyptic and theological themes: Yishai Sarid’s Ha-Shlishi (The Third, 2015) and Dror Burstein’s Tit (Mud/Muck, 2016). These works represent the confluence of dystopian imagination with biblical imagery and religious discourse – a fusion especially potent in a country often described in both political and messianic terms. By examining Sarid and Burstein, this chapter illuminates how Hebrew dystopian literature grapples with questions of end-times (Achazit Hayamim) and the possibility (or impossibility) of redemption. Both authors create narratives where the line between secular nightmare and religious prophecy is blurred, forcing readers to confront the theological dimensions of Israel’s national story. Yishai Sarid’s The Third is a near-future dystopia centered on the rebuilding of the Third Temple in Jerusalem (SFE: Israel). The novel caused a public stir in Israel (SFE: Israel), likely because it touches a raw nerve: the Temple Mount and the prospect of a Third Temple invoke fervent messianic hopes for some and apocalyptic fears for others. In Sarid’s imagining, a zealous religious regime has arisen and literally realized the messianic dream of re-erecting the Temple – but this “redemption” quickly reveals itself as a dystopian nightmare. The society depicted is theocratic and militaristic, cast in the mentality of biblical holy war. Through the eyes of its narrator (an atheist historian co-opted by the regime), we witness ritual sacrifices reinstated and constant preparations for the next war in God’s name. Chapter 4’s analysis will focus on how The Third uses apocalyptic narrative structure: it reads like a prophetic testament from a future that is on the brink of annihilation. Indeed, Sarid invokes the ultimate biblical war (the Gog and Magog end-war) and the language of Revelation, but in an ironic, disenchanted mode. The new Temple does not inaugurate a utopia; instead, it ushers in moral catastrophe and national suicide. We will interpret Sarid’s work in light of political theology, considering thinkers like Gershom Scholem (who warned of the dangerous eruption of messianism in secular Zionism) – The Third dramatizes exactly such an eruption. It is as if the repressed theological unconscious of Zionism (the yearning for biblical grandeur) returns with a vengeance, “undoing” the secular-liberal Zionist project from within. To deepen this reading, we apply Jameson’s insight that modern apocalyptic fiction often signals a paralysis of political imagination (the feeling that “it’s easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism” (Archaeologies of Apocalypse: A Preface)). In Israel’s case, Sarid seems to say: it has become easier for some to imagine a jubilant End of Days than to solve present political conflicts. Thus the novel serves as a grim satire of salvation, aligning with Jameson’s category of the critical dystopia that warns while it indicts (Archaeologies of Apocalypse: A Preface). The chapter next examines Dror Burstein’s Mud (English title Muck, tr. 2018), which is explicitly a modern reworking of the Biblical Book of Jeremiah (Muck: A Novel - Burstein, Dror, Levin, Gabriel: Books - Amazon.com). Burstein, a secular Israeli author with deep knowledge of Jewish texts, creates a “modern-dress retelling” of Jeremiah’s prophetic mission (Muck: A Novel - Burstein, Dror, Levin, Gabriel: Books - Amazon.com). In Muck, ancient Judean characters and episodes are transposed onto a contemporary Israeli backdrop – a bold narrative strategy that produces biting social critique. The novel is described as a “comedy with apocalyptic stakes” (Muck: A Novel - Burstein, Dror, Levin, Gabriel: Books - Amazon.com): Burstein’s tone can be darkly comic, yet the themes are deadly serious, echoing Jeremiah’s warnings of national destruction. Chapter 4 will provide a close reading of how Burstein uses biblical allegory: for instance, a character akin to King Zedekiah might be portrayed as a modern corrupt politician, while Jeremiah himself could appear as a dissident artist railing against government and societal corruption. By infusing the present with biblical antecedents, Mud suggests that the fall of ancient Jerusalem (due to moral failures and refusal to heed warnings) could be replayed in today’s Israel. This resonates strongly with political-theological debates in Israel: the notion (by religious Zionists) that Israel’s 1948 rebirth is the At’halta de-Geulah (beginning of redemption) is forcefully inverted by Burstein – his pseudo-Jeremiah prophesies doom, not triumph. The narrative is rich in symbolic “mud,” evoking both the primordial clay of creation and the mire of a society stuck in sin. An important aspect this analysis will cover is Burstein’s commentary on the prophetic voice itself. By making a biblical prophet speak in a modern idiom, Mud meta-textually asks: who are our prophets now? Is the novelist the last prophet, desperately warning of catastrophe to an unhearing public? In an interview, Burstein characterized Muck as born of “surreal dismay” at Israeli society (Muck: A Novel - Burstein, Dror, Levin, Gabriel: Books - Amazon.com) – effectively, an urge to channel Jeremiah’s outrage at injustice and false piety. We will link this to Fredric Jameson’s taxonomy where he identified “apocalypse” as distinct from dystopia: pure apocalypse shows total destruction with no intent to educate or chastise (Archaeologies of Apocalypse: A Preface) (Archaeologies of Apocalypse: A Preface). Yet Burstein’s and Sarid’s works, while apocalyptic, clearly have a didactic streak (in line with the prophetic tradition). They are not nihilistic fantasies of extinction, but rather attempts to shock Israel into recognition of its ethical and political downfall. In literary terms, Chapter 4 compares The Third and Mud to show two modes of the theological dystopia: Sarid’s is more straightforwardly a political thriller turned apocalypse (with war, empire, and zealotry), whereas Burstein’s is a layered, intertextual satire that collapses time. Despite these differences, both converge on depicting Israel’s future as a kind of heretical inversion of the biblical past – a future where promises of salvation produce only devastation. The chapter will also consider their engagement with messianic time: Sarid’s Temple is meant to usher the Messiah but instead heralds the end; Burstein’s modern Jeremiah speaks to a populace that, much like the ancient one, prefers comforting falsehoods to inconvenient truths. Using Jameson’s idea of “anti-anti-Utopianism” (Archaeologies of Apocalypse: A Preface), we can argue that these novels, while extreme, are not rejecting the possibility of a better future per se; rather, they are militating against the false utopia of religious nationalism. They warn that any utopian vision (like a holy kingdom rebuilt or a return to biblical purity) that ignores justice and reality will become dystopian. Methodologically, Chapter 4 incorporates political-theological analysis (reading the novels against debates on Israel as a “Jewish state” vs liberal democracy, and against theological critiques like those of Leibowitz who famously dubbed a Temple movement “idol worship”). It also places these works in comparative literary context: for example, contrasting them with global works of theological dystopia or apocalypse (such as Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, which is also frequently cited in Israel’s context (In Israel, TV's dystopian 'Handmaids' is protest fixture)). By doing so, we underscore how Sarid and Burstein use globally resonant themes (theocratic dystopia, prophetic apocalypse) in a very specific Israeli key. This chapter, therefore, illustrates the culmination of Hebrew dystopian literature’s confrontation with Zionist redemption: the ideals have turned into idols, and the secular hopes have entangled with messianic fantasies, yielding visions of ultimate catastrophe.

Conclusion: Dystopian Literature and Israel’s Political Imagination

The conclusion synthesizes the insights from all chapters, highlighting how Hebrew dystopian literature collectively serves as both a mirror and a warning for Israeli society. Throughout the proposal, we have seen recurring themes: the legacy of the Holocaust and fears of recurrence (Ben-Ner and Castel-Bloom); the Israeli–Palestinian conflict and its moral repercussions (Kenan’s military dystopia, possibly hinted in others’ background events); the secular-religious clash (from Tammuz’s and Mishmari’s theocracies to Sarid’s Third Temple nightmare); and the disillusionment with once-cherished ideologies (socialism’s collapse into neoliberal stratification, national unity splintering into tribalism). These novels, across different decades, converge in portraying an “undoing” of the foundational narrative of Zionist redemption. Instead of a safe haven and light unto nations, Israel is depicted (in these cautionary tales) as a dystopian space of perpetual war, internal oppression, or societal breakdown. One key theoretical takeaway is the applicability of Jameson’s and Moylan’s frameworks to this body of literature. As Jameson observed, dystopias are often “the negative cousins of utopias,” retaining a utopian function by warning societies of what may come (Archaeologies of Apocalypse: A Preface). Hebrew dystopian novels fit this pattern: they are profoundly critical of the status quo – a form of “resistance in fictional form”, as Moylan suggests dystopias should be (Dystopia(n) Matters_ On the Pag - Fatima Vieira.txt). Indeed, rather than mere despair or cynicism, these works carry an implicit plea for change. For example, the horror in Mishmari’s civil war scenario implores Israelis to bridge their secular-Haredi divide before it’s too late; the bleak emptiness of Sarna’s 2023 begs the question of how to prevent such an end; Castel-Bloom’s absurdist nightmares highlight real absurdities that can be corrected (government neglect, societal indifference to suffering). Thus, while on the surface these texts seem to spell the end of the Zionist dream, on a deeper level they align with what Jameson calls “anti-anti-utopianism” (Archaeologies of Apocalypse: A Preface) – they resist the total rejection of hope. By showing worst-case futures, they keep alive the imagination of alternatives (what if we did not go down this path?). The conclusion also emphasizes the distinctiveness of Hebrew dystopian literature in the global context. Unlike classic Western dystopias that often grapple with abstract totalitarian states or post-nuclear landscapes, the Israeli examples are intimately tied to a real-world utopian project that came true in 1948. This lends them a unique meta-utopian dimension: the utopia (Israel’s founding ethos) is already in the past, and the dystopias interrogate why that utopia failed to fully materialize. In other words, Hebrew dystopias often operate in a post-utopian register – mourning or critiquing the loss of early ideals (equality, peace, secularism) in Israel’s present reality. The trope of the fallen or perverted redemption is their hallmark. The conclusion will point out how this dynamic enriches the field of utopian/dystopian studies: the Israeli case shows the feedback loop between reality and fiction. Zionist utopian writings helped inspire real political action (Herzl’s novel arguably prefigured the state (Témata prací (Výběr práce))), and now dystopian writings respond to the outcomes of that political project, potentially influencing public discourse in turn. From a standpoint of scholarly rigor, this proposal has integrated political, theological, and literary theory to demonstrate the depth of these texts. For instance, reading The Third and Mud with concepts of messianism and secularization reveals layers of meaning that a surface reading might miss – such as the critique of religion-as-politics and vice versa. Meanwhile, applying Jameson’s and Moylan’s dystopian theory has illuminated how Hebrew dystopias, despite their cultural specificity, speak to general issues of late-capitalist society, militarism, and climate anxiety (e.g., Gavron’s Hydromania on climate change, or the economic collapse in Human Parts). Thus, the conclusion reiterates the comparative value of the study: it places Hebrew literature in dialogue with global literature (e.g. how does an Israeli civil war dystopia compare with other civil war dystopias or with Margaret Atwood’s Gilead? How does Castel-Bloom’s plague narrative compare with global post-pandemic fictions?). It also highlights the contribution to Israeli cultural studies. These novels are not just genre exercises; they are sophisticated engagements with Israeli intellectual history. They echo the warnings of Israel’s dissenting voices (one hears Shulamit Aloni or Amos Oz’s concerns in some of them, and certainly Yeshayahu Leibowitz’s prophecy of a “Temple of Doom” in Sarid’s work). In doing so, dystopian fiction becomes a form of political theology in practice, testing ideas of sovereignty, justice, and covenant on the imagined stage of the future. Finally, the study underscores the broader significance of Hebrew dystopian literature: it demonstrates the critical power of literature to influence a society’s political imagination. In a time when Israeli public discourse often seems polarized between utopian idealism and dire pessimism, these novels offer a third space – a reflective, imaginative space – to process collective fears. They allow readers to experience the collapse in fiction, potentially sparking insight and change in reality. As one scholar notes, dystopias matter because they “make us think” and remind us that “our dystopia could get worse” (Dystopia(n) Matters_ On the Pag - Fatima Vieira.txt). The Shattered Visions of Hebrew writers are therefore not nihilistic indulgences; they are part of an ongoing dialogue about Israel’s future, a dialogue that is vital for the health of any society. In conclusion, “Shattered Visions: Hebrew Dystopian Literature and the Undoing of Zionist Redemption” aims to be a rigorous academic work that not only charts the landscape of a literary genre but also provides insights into the evolving Israeli psyche. Through detailed comparative readings, theoretical integration, and historical contextualization, it will show how Hebrew dystopian fiction has become a key medium for Israelis to interrogate the promises and failures of their nation. This study thus contributes to Hebrew literary studies, comparative literature, utopian studies, and political thought, illustrating how dystopian narratives function as both cultural critique and a form of collective introspection. By revealing the dark mirror these works hold up to Israeli society, we also affirm the indispensable role of the humanities in understanding and guiding the human future – in Israel and beyond. The book’s ultimate message is cautionary yet hopeful: by confronting the undoing of redemption in our literature, we may yet rediscover the tools to reshape that redemption in reality, steering away from dystopia toward a more just and livable future.

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