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Culture August 29, 2024
Since the start of college in 2018, I have been wrestling with my Jewish identity. Without routine practice of Judaism through Hebrew and Sunday School, and without attending my month-long, Jewish sleep-away camp any longer, I felt like my “Jewishness” had faded. Although I engaged casually with Hillel at the University of Miami, maintaining my Jewish habits and traditions proved challenging. Songs and prayers that once seemed firmly imprinted in my memory became faint. As my social circle expanded through other organizations, my Jewish community dwindled. After graduating in 2022, I moved to Austin, Texas, knowing almost no one. With the demands of starting my career and establishing a new life, thoughts of building a Jewish community took a backseat.
On October 7th 2023—the 50th anniversary of the Yom Kippur War and the Sabbath—terrorists launched a horrific attack on Israel, killing anyone in their path and taking over 240 hostages (of which 109 remain in captivity, their fate unknown). From the safety of my apartment, I found myself anxiously refreshing news updates. The following days and weeks were grim. I leaned on my few Jewish friends in Austin as we watched the situation unfold in horror. Yet, as time went on, silence prevailed. Few friends reached out, asked questions, or even followed the news. It felt as though the world had turned a deaf ear and blind eye to the situation. We felt alone; upon reaching out to my Jewish friends across the country, I realized we all felt the collective silence; I wrote:
“This week, in speaking with my Jewish friends, I’ve been most surprised about our common experience that we felt so many of our non-Jewish friends have not been active Jewish allies. Not to give pity or empty support, but to ask: “What is actually going on?” “How is all of this impacting you?” “Can I learn more?”
At first, we all thought it was just us, but the more we asked around, the more we realized our experience wasn’t unique. We spent our lives wondering how it was possible that the world sat idle as Jews were murdered by the millions during WWII. This week, we saw just how possible it is.
As frightening, frustrating, and infuriating as that is, we have never been more proud to be Jewish. To be resilient, kind, and to love more than anyone could ever hate. To not let fear prevail at times where it feels impossible to be brave. That is what it means to be Jewish.”
Since that day when I felt isolated and distant from the comfort of a Jewish community, I’ve been reevaluating my Jewish identity. Now, ten months later, the war in the Middle East rages on. Death tolls rise, and false narratives spread like wildfire across the internet. Watching from the safety of my home, I struggle to educate myself, overwhelmed by the torrent of horrific images and information flooding my screen. My stomach churns as I try to focus at work, fighting back tears. The news continues to drive wedges between friends, families, religions, and political parties, with marches, protests, and uprisings deepening the world’s divisions. I’m drained—of data, knowledge, and energy—exhausted by the constant search for truth. The lines between accurate information and propaganda blur, leaving me lost and unsure of what to believe. I don’t know what else to do. If only I could see it for myself…
That’s exactly what I did. Taglit Birthright offers a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for Jewish adults to experience Israel and build a lasting connection to their heritage. I knew it was more important than ever to visit Israel and see the country firsthand, especially at such a critical moment in history. Without hesitation, I signed up with my brother, Ethan, and we hoped the trip would proceed safely. As our departure date neared, friends, family, and colleagues grew increasingly concerned about our decision: “Won’t you be hiding in bomb shelters the whole time?” “Isn’t it dangerous to go to Israel right now?” “Are you scared?” “Are you sure you want to go now?” I was more sure than ever.
Amid all the chaos of news, videos, live streams, political campaigns, marches and more, it is fear that evil people wish to instill in the innocent. Fear is paralyzing. Fear strips individuals of their agency and clarity. Fear grips the mind with a vice-like hold, distorting reality and amplifying the worst of possibilities until action becomes inaction and reason dissipates. This is what makes fear a tool of exploitation for malevolent forces. By exploiting the inherent anxieties and uncertainties within a populace, these powers craft narratives and scenarios that heighten fear to a level where people surrender their autonomy and rational judgment. In this state of panic and disorientation, control is seized not through direct force, but through the subtle erosion of individual will, turning fear into a mechanism for domination and manipulation. For Israel, fear is not a choice; that is precisely what I saw throughout my experience in Israel.
Any nervousness or hesitation I felt vanished the moment I boarded the Israeli-operated EL AL flight from JFK to Tel Aviv. Surrounded by Israeli passengers, I immediately sensed a powerful feeling of community, positivity, and collective strength that comes with returning to a homeland. As we boarded, passengers expressed their gratitude and happiness to see Americans visiting Israel to learn and experience the country, despite the potential dangers. It was the most social, familial plane ride I’ve ever had. Instead of diving into their movie screens, passengers of all ages, backgrounds, and religious beliefs engaged in conversations, laughing and joking with their neighbors as if they were longtime friends. In front of me sat an IDF intelligence officer who shared how sick she feels when data confirms upcoming terrorism attempts, knowing her suggested defense orders could result in death. Next to me was a 23-year-old IDF Commander who, despite his shaky English, spent three hours sharing his experiences and perspective with me—from his time in the army to the tensions that ebb and flow in his hometown, surrounded by Arab neighborhoods. Through all my questions about his life and the current conflict, one thing became clear: he is never scared. He doesn’t let fear overshadow his hopes and dreams for a peaceful future. He explained that it is his duty to serve and protect, just as it is for all Israeli citizens. “I’m scared for my younger brother, who just started serving in the army, but no, I’m never scared for myself,” he said without hesitation. “I can’t be.” For those on this plane ride into potential danger, fear does not prevail.
Upon landing at an eerily empty TLV Airport, the plane unironically erupted in applause—we were home. We arrived at our first hotel in Tiberias, the northernmost town we were permitted to visit, as the north of Israel was an active warzone. Our maps and GPS didn’t function in this region, as the army jammed them to protect the country from attacks. Before heading to our rooms, our guide, Omer, informed us that this hotel—like all the hotels we would be staying in—was occupied by displaced families from the north and south of Israel. He explained how they had been evacuated as bombs descended on their homes, hoping to return within a couple of months. No one could have imagined they’d still be there 10 months later, with no end in sight. Yet, despite the dismantling of life as they knew it, positivity filled the
hotel. Kids played in the foyer, and families gathered in common spaces to read, play games, and laugh together. For those displaced and living in the hotels, fear does not prevail.
The Mifgash, or “encounter,” is a pivotal part of the Birthright experience, where Israeli professionals and soldiers join the trip as full participants. One of these participants, Yuval, a 21-year-old former IDF commander, shared his harrowing experience from the front lines on October 7th. Amidst the chaos of that day, as heavily drugged terrorists invaded his country, Yuval and his brigade had little time to process the horror unfolding around them. They quickly mobilized, entering their armored vehicles and engaging in a fierce battle for survival. Trapped inside his tank, surrounded by terrorists and under relentless fire, Yuval faced unimaginable terror. A bomb exploded beneath his seat, shattering his lower leg and leaving him bleeding out. Despite the excruciating pain and the overwhelming odds, Yuval and his comrades held on, fighting for their lives as they awaited rescue.
For five agonizing hours, they endured the unrelenting assault, grappling with the very real possibility that they might not survive. Thoughts of their unfinished lives, their families’ impending grief, and the cruel uncertainty of their fate haunted them. Yet, in the face of such despair, they clung to hope. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, another IDF tank arrived, rescuing Yuval and his team from their besieged vehicle. Even as they were rushed to the hospital under continuous fire, they could only close their eyes and pray for survival. Yuval’s ordeal didn’t end with his physical injuries. As he lay in his hospital bed, recovering from emergency surgery, he was confronted with the devastating news that several of his friends, teammates, and trainees had not made it. Despite these profound losses, Yuval has chosen to embrace life with renewed purpose. He is training for the Invictus Games in Canada, preparing for an Ironman, and sharing his story with the world. Though he and his family have been displaced from their northern hometown of Metula, now living in Tel Aviv with no certainty of when or if they can return home, Yuval remains resilient. When asked about the challenges of living in limbo, his response was striking: “Personally, I think I have nothing to complain about as long as there are hostages in Gaza. I don’t mind being displaced if it’s going to help.” For Yuval, his family, and countless others like them, fear does not prevail.
One thing I’ve emphasized to non-Jewish friends back home is just how small the Jewish world truly is. No matter where we’re from, we all knew someone—or knew of someone—who was directly impacted by the events of October 7th. In Israel, every single citizen felt the devastation of that day. This became painfully clear during our visit to Mount Herzl, Israel’s national cemetery, where 750 (and counting) IDF soldiers from this war have been laid to rest. Each of our Israeli participants, including Yuval, knew someone buried there. As I walked among the freshly dug plots, tears streamed down my face as I saw photos of fallen soldiers—young men and women, some just like me. Our Israeli friends explained that in Israel, the people are one family; everyone is a brother, sister, son, daughter, father, or mother. The pain in Israel is not borne individually; it’s a collective, soul-crushing grief that permeates daily life. They carry this weight with them to work, to school, to their jobs. It’s a burden that has long existed but has grown unbearably heavy since October 7th. Yet, they keep moving forward, knowing that if Israel falters, there is no other home. For the people of Israel, fear does not prevail.
In fact, my experience revealed the profound power of community and collective effort in Israel. In Tel Aviv, we volunteered at Revital’s Hamal, an organization dedicated to providing homemade meals and comfort to Israel’s soldiers. For those not physically on the front lines, Revital’s mission is to do everything possible to show the young men and women fighting that “we are with them.” Since October, her operation has delivered over 91,000 meals, along with letters and other tokens of love, to the front lines. Revital’s initiative is just one of countless efforts like it across the country. Israeli soldiers don’t want to be fighting and killing, but they are resolute in defending their nation against terrorists who still hold 109 of their family members hostage. Many families have turned to efforts like Revital’s to stay busy and keep their minds occupied, despite their constant worry for loved ones on the front lines. For the soldiers at war and their families back home doing everything they can to offer support and love, fear does not prevail.
Despite the overwhelming history of devastation, murder, antisemitism, hate, war, and ignorance, fear does not prevail in Israel. If fear takes control over Israel and its people, there would be no Israel. The resilience of the Israeli spirit is rooted in something far deeper than fear—it’s founded on a profound sense of identity, community, and an unwavering commitment to survival. October 7th is not the first war Israel has endured, nor the first time a barrage of rockets has been launched against the Iron Dome. The experience of running to shelters during Code Red alerts is not new. Terrorist attacks are commonplace. These are moments of immense challenge, and they are met not with paralysis but with determination. Fear has no place in Israel because the people refuse to let it dictate their lives. Instead, they respond with strength, unity, and an unyielding resolve to protect their homeland and each other. In the face of adversity, Israel stands tall, proving that while fear may knock at the door, it is never invited in.
Returning to America and reflecting on the intense highs and lows of this profound Jewish experience, I found that nothing could have fully prepared me for the impact of being on the ground. Standing on the shores of the Sea of Galilee, gazing into Syria, or knowing you’re just miles from the Gaza Strip offers a perspective that can’t be replicated. The palpable excitement at the Shuk on Shabbat, the somber sight of a mother tending to her daughter’s grave at Mount Herzl, the breathtaking sunrise over Masada and the Dead Sea, and the deeply emotional moments of mothers and daughters pressing their faces into the Western Wall and weeping—all these experiences were uniquely powerful.
For so long, I felt not only mentally disconnected from my heritage but also physically distant from the pain and suffering occurring in the Middle East. During my trip, I asked many Israelis: “What message do you want to convey to those outside of Israel, observing from afar?” The response was nearly unanimous: “Please, come to Israel. Experience our history, culture, and people firsthand. Until then, it’s impossible to truly understand us.” From my own experience, this could not be more accurate. I pray for a future where visitors come to Israel to witness its beauty, innovation, resilience, and freedom, and where the images of Israel reflect its vibrant spirit rather than war, death, and destruction. One day.
