High noon in Washington was cold, and I was sitting on the yellow grass, shivering while speaking with my friends. I could barely hear them over the boom of the speakers in Washington’s National Mall. Various students and speakers spoke passionately about the Israeli cause, “Bring Them Home Now” chants filling the air.
As a Yeshiva University student, it may have looked like I fit in seamlessly at the march. But inside, I was deeply questioning my place within the conflict.
Growing up attending Modern Orthodox day schools, I learned to be a passionate self-proclaimed Zionist. All I knew was that Israel was the victim of her surrounding enemies, and that the Jewish people deserve to feel safe in their homeland. I was an active member of AIPAC, attending conferences in DC – I even orchestrated a call-to-action booth during my lunch period to garner student participation.
This is why, after graduating from high school, I decided to follow the footsteps of many Modern Orthodox students and attend a gap-year program in Israel. I had visited the country a few times before, but wanted the chance to “find myself” as I’d heard so many others do during their year abroad.
But instead of cementing an uncompromised love for Israel within me, my program – an Orthodox institution – effectively accomplished the opposite. The seminary I attended, Midreshet Amudim, was dedicated to exposing its students to varying perspectives and opinions. The administration invited representatives from Friends of Roots, a group that includes both Israeli and Palestinian perspectives by fostering honest conversations about painful topics.
We heard from two young men: an expat who moved to Israel in his youth, who lived in Sderot and came from a right-wing background. He described his bias against Palestinians growing up, and how he still felt distrustful toward Gazans. We also heard from a Palestinian man who described his harrowing experiences living in the West Bank. His home was raided by IDF soldiers and some of his family members were arrested wrongfully, he told us. He then explained what life is like for those living in Areas A, B, and C. He told us that residents living in Area C — land under full Israeli occupation — were denied basic human rights such as building and renovating houses, as well as limited access to healthcare.
At that moment, listening to this man speak, I felt that everything I knew was a lie. And I felt betrayed, most of all, by the Jewish day schools that left out this entire narrative. I had lived my whole life being told that Palestinians were bloodthirsty and evil, and only then realized how dangerous those stereotypes were. Hearing him speak opened my eyes to the very real trauma imposed by the Israeli government on people who are just trying to survive.
An Amudim Modern Jewish History class taught me a fuller picture of the conflict; for the first time I learned about the Nakba. I felt embarrassed by my own lack of knowledge and research, but I was also glad that I got to learn more about the conflict from another perspective.
When I returned to America, Israel/Palestine was still very much on my mind but it didn’t take up the space it used to. I’d grown used to being back home and focusing on school, not immediately affected by the subjects I had studied. I was comfortable. But this comfort was suddenly disrupted on October 7, when I woke up to my mother telling me that Israel was at war.
“Again?” I asked her, still groggy from sleep. During my year there, I had spent the greater portion of a week in a bomb shelter. I was almost desensitized.
“No,” she told me. “People were kidnapped from a festival. There are hostages,” she explained. I sat up in my bed. “Wait, what?” I asked. This was unlike anything I heard before.
For the first few days, the media coverage I saw seemed to be in support of Israel. University presidents issued statements against Hamas, expressing their steadfast support for Israel. At that point, I felt heartbroken and terrified – everything I learned in the past few years was overshadowed by fear for my people. But this was another pendulum swing in my thinking.
Quickly, I learned that it was not only possible – but necessary – to hold multiple truths and consider the traumas of multiple peoples.
A few days later, the world learned that Israel had sent airstrikes into Gaza, with the death toll rising daily. Students at my school, Yeshiva University, proudly brandished Israeli flags and blue and white apparel. Security measures were even increased as pro-Palestinian protests flooded the streets – with some protestors expressing explicit anti-semitic sentiments. There I was, stuck between both worlds: on the one hand heartbroken over the hostages, and on the other, disgusted and horrified by the Israeli government for annihilating a people. But each movement I found seemed to only account for one of these heartbreaks.
I found that no students or programming at YU addressed the loss of Palestinian lives, with many peers and friends outright ignoring the wreckage Israel caused in Gaza. Likewise, the protests happening across NYC (many of them led by students my own age) would tear off pictures of hostages from posts, citing them as “Zionist propaganda.” I felt distressed and disturbed by the lack of empathy shown to innocent people on both sides of the conflict.
As I speak to people on all sides, it becomes clear how hurt is reverberating through our echo chambers. Many Jewish people feel attached to Israel, and feel that speaking out against its actions or using words like “genocide” to describe the war invalidates the very real traumas many of our ancestors experienced. But it’s important to understand why that word is being used, and the devastation that Palestinians are actually experiencing on a daily basis.
Many Pro-Palestine protests are calling out against Zionists, but many of my friends fear that the term “Zionist” is just a stand-in for “Jew.” I get it – it’s frightening. Symbols like the Magen David are being associated with violence against Palestinians, and it feels like a large part of the Jewish identity is being censored and confined. A protest in CUNY’s Hunter College called for “Jews of Hunter [to] pick a side.” As a Jewish person, I am being told I must choose one “side” over the other, but I can’t. The suffering is bilateral, and although the situation in Gaza is worse, this is not a competition.
My heart aches to think about this spring, during Ramadan and Purim. Gazans welcome Ramadan under rubble, while Israelis roam freely, celebrating the joyous Purim with friends and family. I have a connection to my people who are still suffering from October 7 and my heart goes out to the hostages brutally kidnapped by Hamas. At the same time, I am devastated for the Gazans who have lost their lives and homes.
We shouldn’t have to pick one “side” over the other, when so many are experiencing an abundance of trauma and suffering. What if we saw our fates as intertwined? What if we considered both Israeli and Palestinian civilians in our education and activism? What if we could criticize both the Israeli government and Hamas? What if, instead of “picking a side” while dehumanizing the other, we chose to prioritize humanity and empathy?
Over the past six months, I have tried to find my perspective as a Jewish person in this conflict but am continually running into spaces that lack nuance. As I graduate from Yeshiva University and enter the “real world,” I am determined to continue having these difficult and necessary conversations that engage with multiple truths.
Thankfully, I’ve found that I’m far from alone. A podcast I’ve found inspiring during this time is Unapologetic: The Third Narrative, which was created by two Palestinian-Israeli peace activists who proclaimed that they’re “sick and tired of the West telling us what to do.” The podcast lays out a “third narrative” – one that values the lives and futures of Israelis and Palestinians in tandem. What’s needed right now is compassion and coalition building, as more innocent people across the region are suffering. Another grassroots movement, Standing Together, mobilizes Jewish and Palestinian citizens of Israel to change the status quo through on-the-ground activism. The group advocates for a future of “peace and independence for Israelis and Palestinians, full equality for all citizens, and true social, economic, and environmental justice.”
Despite the difficulty and pain we’re all experiencing, it is important to note that we are fighting oppressive regimes and not each other.
Back at that Washington march, I remember feeling paralyzed because the speakers there were engaged in an “us versus them” narrative, and I did not want to choose. But through all of the confusion and painful emotions of these years, I’ve been lucky to learn from multiple perspectives – while unlearning the idea that just one can be true. I can only urge other students to try and do the same.
Cover photography by Raquel G. Frohlich
