andrew d. - Recognizing our Dual Histories

Andrew shuffles into a narrow room tucked away in the Omdim Beyachad office, apologizing for being late – it’s the day after the IDF rescued four Israeli hostages in Gaza and he’s been swamped. “I don't think we’ve ever faced this type of complexity at once,” he explains, “today was the first time I felt it to such a deep degree.” Omdim Beyachad, or Standing Together in English, is a grassroots Jewish-Arab coexistence movement fighting for peace, equality, and social justice in Israel-Palestine. Andrew joined their staff in February and serves as the organization’s Executive Assistant.

Earlier that morning, he was involved in releasing the organization’s official statement on the hostage rescue – a military operation that saved the lives of four innocent Israeli hostages at the expense of hundreds of Palestinians killed in Israeli airstrikes. “Omdim Beyachad finds itself in this extremely unique position because we're operating on both sides of this strict binary,” he shares. From Andrew’s perspective, it makes the work both rewarding and challenging, “people on both sides have critical things to say about you.”

“We know yesterday four hostages were freed after eight months in horrific captivity and the fact that they’re home now is a beautiful, amazing thing. But my Palestinian coworkers have to come to the office today knowing that people who could have been their children, their brothers, or their parents could have died,” he explains, identifying the latest challenge in navigating the impact of the war in Israel.

“We know yesterday four hostages were freed after eight months in horrific captivity and the fact that they’re home now is a beautiful, amazing thing. But my Palestinian coworkers have to come to the office today knowing that people who could have been their children, their brothers, or their parents could have died,” he explains, identifying the latest challenge in navigating the impact of the war in Israel.

“You can’t possibly put out a statement to make everyone feel okay. If you’re celebrating the hostages you’re celebrating the death of Palestinians, and if you’re mourning the loss of Palestinians you’re not celebrating the hostages. It’s impossible.”

The fatalities of the rescue operation represent a particularly sensitive example of the complexities Andrew encounters working at an organization focused on peace and coexistence in Israel-Palestine. “Everyone seems to have a problem, in some way, with this work. Which is why I think it’s the right one,” he confesses. 

Some may say Andrew has landed quite far from his upbringing in Brooklyn, New York. “I wasn't really raised in America,” he explains. “I was raised in New York City in an ultra-orthodox community, in an extremely Zionist home. I went to Zionist Yeshiva where Israel was everything and defending Israel was everything. I was one of these people who was raised to believe that Israel could do no wrong.”

Across all sects of Judaism, many claim that advocating for Palestinian liberation and Jewish-Arab co-existence is antithetical to Zionism, otherwise known as the belief in a Jewish state within the boundaries of modern-day Israel. But Andrew doesn’t see it that way. 

“I still have that in me,” he says. “I believe in the need for this country, in the beauty of this country, in the possibilities of this country, and it’s what moves me to do the work I do now.” For Andrew, working towards peace is a direct expression of his belief in the Jewish state, not a rejection of it. 

“I think it’s important that Israel is a Jewish state, but with that said, whose Judaism are we talking about? For me, Jewish values are peace, love, acceptance, kindness, charity, and caring for others.”

Andrew’s faith in Israel runs so deep that he often finds himself grappling with what this country is and what he believes it could be– a gap that’s grown more severe since October 7. Before the war, Andrew understood that the status quo entrenched by the occupation and systemic inequality between Jews and Arabs was unsustainable and needed to be addressed. But it wasn’t the primary motivator behind his political beliefs.

The threats presented by Israel’s most radical, right-wing government to date and its attempted judicial reforms felt more immediate, particularly because the coalition’s anti-democratic agenda ran so contrary to his vision for the Jewish state. “I spent most of my time on internal Israeli politics,” he shares, “Bibi and the far-right were what kept me up at night.” 

Then, the horrors of October 7 revealed the true cost of letting the status quo continue unchecked. The perceived viability of conflict management over conflict resolution shattered overnight, forcing millions of innocent people to reckon with the unbearably painful consequences of denial. “Since October 7, it’s clear we have this massive issue that no one in Israeli media or society is talking about– everyone is ignoring the reality that we’re living in a land where two nations exist at the same time.” 

It’s increasingly obvious to Andrew that Israel’s most ardent defenders are doing the country a disservice by failing to recognize the dual history that exists here. “It’s in our best interest as Israelis and Jews around the world to acknowledge this,” he explains, “so we can address the internal issues plaguing us, like terrorism, violence in Arab communities, and inequality. There’s an entire reality operating here that we’re completely ignoring because it cracks our narrative.” 

Despite working at one of the organizations leading the charge of the progressive left in Israel-Palestine, Andrew doesn’t fully consider himself a leftist. “I think of myself as a social democrat,” he shares, referencing both the American and Israeli political spectrums. “On most issues, I fall on the very left-hand side of things, but I've never really given myself a label.” He attributes this hesitancy to his ability to understand where many centrists are coming from. “I don't necessarily agree with their answers to problems,” he explains, but in many ways “I find myself sympathizing with [the] center-left.” 

Andrew’s careful consideration of his political identity pre-dates his move to Israel. “When I was in America I was also a very politically-minded person. I knew I was gay, so when I got to a literary age where I was able to understand political issues, I cared about my own rights.” Frustrated by the inaccessibility of a career in American politics, he came to Israel in 2020 with “no idea about Israel’s internal politics or how the knesset (the Israeli government) was set up.”

He made aliyah (the process for Jews to become Israeli citizens) after completing an English teaching fellowship through Masa Israel Journey, an organization funded by the Israeli government and the Jewish Agency that offers long-term programs and internships for young, Jewish adults in Israel. Andrew then worked at Masa for two years, happy to take a break from his dreams of working in the political arena, until “Bibi got reelected, the judicial reform started, and everything [he] experienced with Trump was happening here.”

“It really disturbed me,” he shares, “everything I believed about this country was being taken away.” Committed to finding a way to join the pro-democracy camp, Andrew participated in a political consulting course run by Yisrael Hofsheet or Be Free Israel, an Israeli grassroots organization that promotes freedom of religion and pluralism as core democratic values. Equipped with a better understanding of Israel’s political ecosystem, he secured an internship in the knesset “with a lot of pushing and a lot of patience.” 

From there, he found his way to Omdim Beyachad, where his ability to connect with people and make them feel heard serves him well. In his assistant role, he’s often tasked with explaining how the organization balances multiple beliefs, perspectives, and ideologies that may appear contradictory. “It’s an amazing thing,” he says, “but also very challenging.” 

“We’re an organization of Palestinians and Israelis who come to the table with our own narratives, pain, and suffering,” he explains, identifying the four pillars that guide the organization’s work: peace, equality, social justice, and climate justice. “No matter what people believe, where they come from, or what their ideas for solutions are, we all come to this office and we’re here for those pillars. Nothing else really matters.” 

When asked what his ideal future looks like, Andrew paints a vision of peace deeply grounded in coexistence. “I would love to see the Israeli government recognize the Palestinian narrative and I would love to see the Palestinian government recognize the Israeli narrative. I think it’s an integral part of peace,” he explains. 

“I want a wealthy, successful, free, democratic Palestinian state, that Israel needs to play a part in. I want to live in a world where our neighbors [and] the people we live with have the same rights and access to all the wonderful things we get to experience,” he says, the “we” being Israeli Jews. Working towards Palestinian self-sovereignty is both an act of morality and strategic pragmatism; Andrew understands that the safety, security, and overall well-being of the Israeli people can only benefit from living next to a stable and democratic Palestinian state. 

“I would love to live in a country where I can have children who aren't worried about terrorist attacks all the time [and] no matter who you are, you can love Israel because it doesn't oppress you.” 

Andrew’s commitment to a better future is largely inspired by his ongoing religious faith. “I believe in God [and] I believe that this country has a very special place globally. The things that happen here reverberate everywhere, [so] it's imperative, not just for Jews, but for the whole world to have peace here.”

Emma W. - fighting for Compassion

Trigger warning: This article contains brief references to rape and sexual violence

Crocheting from her couch in her South Tel Aviv apartment, Emma describes her latest venture in activism: those who donate to a fundraiser to support a Palestinian family’s evacuation from Gaza will be entered into her raffle to win handmade crocheted goods.

A tenuous process even before the war, getting out of the Gaza Strip can cost between 5,000 and 10,000 USD per adult and between 2,000 and 5,000 USD per child under 14, she explains. Oftentimes, one relative must already live abroad and the price constantly fluctuates, particularly when you add the additional thousands of dollars needed to grease palms along the way. On top of the immense financial burden, she continues, Egyptian officials “open registration once in a [while] and don't say when they're going to do it again; after you're registered you might not leave for another month or you might leave the next week. It’s not always clear.” 

Emma got involved in a group dedicated to sharing online fundraisers to help individuals evacuate from Gaza after a friend of hers recognized the untapped potential of personal social media accounts. Even though larger leftist organizations have already been utilizing their social media followings to promote online fundraisers, people who have connections with their followers offline are far more likely to receive donations. 

Soon after showing interest in the project, Emma was connected with a Palestinian family and immediately started sharing the link to their fundraiser with people she had seen posting or talking about Palestine since the outbreak of the war. Not long ago, she received a text in the group thanking all the campaigners for their hard work, with an image of the mother, daughter, and three sons together, finally reunited in Egypt after months of anguish, grief, and uncertainty. 

Emma’s interest in activism started early. Growing up in Berkeley, California, her education was heavily influenced by the city’s history as a central hub for many equal rights movements, as exemplified by the Oakland base of the Black Panthers. According to Emma, Berkeley was “one of the best places to grow up; I felt really encouraged to explore, to experiment, and to have respect for other people.” A semi-diverse city, “overall, being Jewish in Berkeley felt very normal,” she explains, then adds that most people in her hometown “don’t like Israel very much.” Criticism of Israel is common within the American political left, particularly given the historic alliance between the civil rights and pro-Palestine movements.

Given her upbringing, building a life in Israel was never a part of Emma’s plan. But she was curious about the country, so despite pushback from friends and family, she went on a Birthright trip in early 2020. She then found herself stuck here after getting into a bicycle accident shortly after the Coronavirus struck. Still unsure about the moral implications of claiming her Israeli citizenship (under the Right of Return, Diaspora Jews are guaranteed Israeli citizenship, while members of the Palestinian diaspora are afforded no such privilege), she put it off as long as she could, first applying for a work permit and then a residency permit before finally making aliyah (the process of Jews becoming Israeli citizens). Much to her surprise, Israel had started to feel like home over those first three years and she realized she wanted to stay.

But not all of Israel. For Emma, Tel Aviv is where she feels the most comfortable. “I could even shorten that to South Tel Aviv feels like home. I don't know that Israel necessarily feels like home. There’s a lack of familiarity with the rest of this country and what non-Tel Avivian people's views are,” she says, drawing a comparison to the uniquely liberal “Berkeley Bubble” of her childhood and the stark difference between political values in Tel Aviv and the rest of Israel.  

South Tel Aviv is the most diverse part of the city, home to several different migrant and refugee populations, such as Eritreans, Ukrainians, Ethiopians, as well as many progressive olim (Jewish immigrants to Israel) from all over the world. It’s the city’s liberal character that allows her to feel right at home. For Emma, being a leftist isn’t only about her stance on the conflict or resistance to religious extremism, “there's an environmental aspect as well. [But] right now it's not being so loud because there's a war raging outside.” 

Emma’s liberalism, particularly regarding her stance against the war, is emotional, rooted in her feelings about issues, rather than policy. “I’m not an expert on Israeli and Palestinian policy, history, or borders,” she offers as a disclaimer, “but if people are suffering we should stop that. There's this human morality there, but there’s also a Jewish sense of ethics being ignored.” 

The disconnect between feeling at home in Tel Aviv but not quite “Israeli” has led Emma to question her legitimacy in voicing critiques of Israeli policy, especially as an active member of the peace camp. She recalls a moment at a recent anti-war and anti-government protest, realizing that “often the radical bloc, or the peace bloc, appears to be pretty heavily olim. Does this mean we’re bringing our Western values into the Middle East? If the majority believes that a war is the answer, does that mean war is the answer?” 

She questions her right to make demands on behalf of a people she does not fully identify with, torn between wanting to stand up for her own values and reluctance to overpower the movement. Without a clear answer, she handles this dissonance by taking a step back, following the lead of her Israeli peers, and utilizing her Hebrew as much as possible. “When I’m in these spaces, I don't really want to be vocally an olah (female Jewish immigrant) because I don’t want to take over the group. If I don't understand something, I'll ask.” 

When asked if her beliefs have changed at all since October 7, Emma’s sentiments echoed an emotional rollercoaster experienced by many progressive Israelis in recent months. Immediately following the attack and feeling betrayed by the lack of international support, “I had a lot of Zionist feelings, like I would see a Palestinian flag and feel like it was an attack against me,” she starts. “But as the war continued, I shifted a lot and started to see certain patterns [that have made me] less hopeful about Israel and Israelis.” She’s particularly concerned for the nation’s ability to access compassion and empathy in light of the trauma of October 7. 

Earlier this year, she joined the grassroots peace organization, Women in White, who stage sit-ins for peace in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. Participants dress in white and hold signs with phrases such as “empathy,” “running water,” and “food security,” in Hebrew, English, and Arabic. “I was really struck by the women's sit-in,” she says, explaining why she got involved with the movement. “I thought it was a beautiful display of solidarity and I felt like it was really saying something without anger.” 

Describing a sit-in that took place in the same week that evidence of sexual abuse among female hostages in Gaza was made public, Emma recounts being approached by Israeli men shouting “‘you should be raped, you should be raped in Gaza,’ for holding a sign that said ‘compassion’ or ‘running water.’ Not even that Palestinians should have running water,” she says. “Just the overall message that everyone deserves these things.” 

She describes another interaction at a different sit-in, where a woman asked one of her fellow protesters what her sign said in English, to which she replied “compassion.” The woman’s immediate response? “Fuck you,” as she walked away.  

On top of the degradation of widespread empathy, Emma’s also been disappointed with what she sees as the commodification of the war among the Israeli public, a population so accustomed to violence and terror that inflicting it upon others has lost some of its meaning. Holding onto her beliefs in equality and hope for peace during wartime has led to a growing sense of isolation. 

“For a long time I felt a real kinship with Israeli people,” she explains. “I felt comfortable here, I felt like my personality fit in really well with the Israeli mindset. Now there’s a very different feeling. I’m chatting with the guy who comes and fixes my laundry machine, but I know we have vastly different understandings of what Palestinians deserve in terms of rights, citizenship, and livelihoods.”

Despite these experiences and her fear for Israel’s future, Emma’s not angry with those who are unwilling to face the truth of what’s happening in Gaza or find compassion for Palestinians. “I can completely understand why so many Israelis refuse to look at videos of what's going on in Gaza,” she starts. “I recognize my mindset is from a sheltered place, but I feel grateful I'm able to have the ‘let’s have peace view.’”

Emma refuses to allow the atrophy of compassion and growing polarization between the left and right in Israel to get to her. “I have a lot of empathy towards people who want to flatten Gaza; a lot of them have experienced immense loss. Many people who have experienced immense loss are calling for peace, but it’s a totally common trauma response to have lost someone and want to seek revenge.” 

Looking to the future, she thinks “it's important for the American left and the Western left to see the Israeli left and see them as a partner.” In sharing images and videos from her activism, she wants “people to know and see that there is a big community against the war [and] there is an Israeli left. It’s small, but it should be involved in the conversation.”

A native of Berkeley, California, Emma has lived in Israel for the last four years (purely by accident). You can find her biking along the coast, crocheting in the park, and perusing pop-ups of every variety, just as long as they’re south of Rothschild Boulevard. 

samantha a. - searching for the space to ask

Sitting on the floor of her Florentin studio apartment, Sam is drinking a glass of rosé, absentmindedly scratching her dog, Indi, behind the ears. A semi-native Californian, she sips from an elegant wine glass, a nod to her predilection for natural wine. Like many olim (Jewish immigrants to Israel), Sam works in hi-tech, despite her background in political science. 

“I studied political science at Berkeley, and actually planned on working in [the Israel-Palestine] space for most of my young adult life. Ultimately, I took enough classes to realize I would probably fall into a black hole of depression because [the conflict] felt insurmountable.”

In a country straddling the divide between Jewish and secular, democratic and authoritarian, even the East and West, politics wrestles itself into everyday life. As an oleh/olah, (a Jewish immigrant to Israel) formulating a political identity often requires reconciling the conflicting narratives about Israel of your childhood and the reality of life in Israel as an adult. For Sam, that identity isn’t only informed by her stances on a particular issue such as the judicial overhaul or a two-state solution, it’s also about community. 

“There’s a great deal of fear of identifying too far to the left of the ‘Zionist’ story we were taught as kids because some days I feel like I’m already pushing it trying to be included,” she explains. “I don’t know how much,” she continues, “but I do know that part of what creates my political belief is this sense of not wanting to be excluded from a community that feels very important to me.” 

When asked what those beliefs are, she mentions democracy, equal rights, and equitable access to opportunity for all. Feeling frustrated by the level of control maintained by the Chief Rabbinate over everyday life, Sam specifically cites the Israeli government’s abandonment of refugees and asylum seekers as well as the unjust challenges those without a Jewish mother face in navigating life here. The Chief Rabbinate is an ultra-orthodox governing body that ensures Israel’s national laws and policies adhere to Jewish laws. The Rabbinate maintains a monopoly over religious life in Israel as well as areas of the civil sphere such as regulating marriage, adoption, and other life cycle events. This can be particularly burdensome on non-Jewish immigrants’ lives, as well as those who may have difficulty proving their Jewish heritage because they fled a high-conflict zone or only have a Jewish father (Judaism is a matrilineal religion). 

From Sam’s perspective, denying full democratic rights to those who aren’t Jewish just to maintain a demographically Jewish majority isn’t fair. “Ultimately, I’ve always voted for Meretz,” she says, referring to one of Israel’s leftist political parties. “In my head it seems very obvious to me what Israel should be and then every time I sit down and think about it, it becomes less and less obvious.”

The conflict between Israel and Gaza in May 2021 is one of the first times Sam remembers struggling with her beliefs about Israel. “That hit me really hard. Especially because there aren’t a lot of questions about the fact that Israel was the aggressor in that situation,” she starts. “I remember at one point being really upset and very stressed out. I felt very stuck, thinking ‘if this is how it is, then Israel must be wrong.’”

She recalls feeling angry with the Israeli government for unnecessarily inciting greater violence, knowing something wasn’t right upon seeing how internal tensions rose so dramatically. Her frustration with Israel’s actions in 2021, both internally and in Gaza, led to a deeper process of questioning her own Israeli identity. “Personally, I’m very happy with my life here, but there are times when I’m like, ‘why should I be allowed to be here when so many other people aren’t?’ Both people who have nothing to do with the land and people who have a lot to do with the land.” In Israel, Jewish people have the right of return, whereas Palestinians do not. This means that any Jewish person is able to claim their Israeli citizenship as a part of their ancestral connection to the land, while Palestinians are afforded no such privilege, despite holding the same ancestral connection.

“I know there's no way I would be nearly as happy anywhere else,” she continues. “Like I really think that. And that doesn't necessarily mean [moving to Israel] was the right thing to do. Whatever right is, you know, it was right for me. There's only so much I can take responsibility for as a person who [just wants] to be happy and live in the world and have nice things and hang out with my friends; all I can do is my best to achieve that while not gravely outstepping my own moral boundaries.” 

When asked how she copes with the dissonance between feeling fulfilled by her life in Israel and her awareness of the injustice that comes with that, she laughs, admitting she relies upon “deep, deep dissociation.” Politics is always personal, but since the war, that intimacy has taken on a whole new meaning. For Sam, navigating a political existence means finding a way to live in a way that brings her joy without compromising her values or allowing herself to become paralyzed by the pain and suffering happening all around her. 

“Sometimes it’s uncomfortable because it’s true, there’s more I could be doing to live in the type of world that I think it should be, but there's not much more I could do and keep my own sanity. I've seen a lot of people give their lives to things they care about and it's really admirable. I would love to be able to do that and know it would make me crazy.” 

Reflecting on the way the current Israel-Hamas war is being discussed on social media and within the news, she admits “there have been moments in the past few months where I’ve read things where, if you believe everything you read here, I understand why you would question the legitimacy of Israel.” Viral infographics can only include so many details; all too often those covering the Israeli-Palestinian conflict exclude facts or nuance in order to push a specific narrative. Recently she’s faced difficulties navigating the conversation about the war even among friends. “I’m less concerned about sharing my opinions and more concerned about sharing my questions,” she shares. 

“Is this really the best way? Of course we all want the hostages home, but do we really think wide-scale destruction is doing that? Do we think it’s making us safer?” “I don’t mean that in an antagonistic way,” she confesses, genuinely wanting to better understand the rationale behind supporting a war that has exacted such a massive civilian death toll. “I’m really curious. What is the logic behind supporting the war? Is it truly that the IDF is going to be able to extract the hostages? Is it truly that we believe you can remove an ideology from a place by killing people?”

In many spaces, the war has also brought a new sense of absolutism to the conversation. When it comes to their views on Israel, these past few months the American Left has seemed more concerned with having answers rather than raising questions. “There's just not a lot of room for questions,” she reaffirms. “And I think questions are probably more important than answers [but] I don't feel comfortable asking them because I don't feel like people are willing to question themselves.” 

She sighs when asked about the two-state solution. “It’s just so hard. Everyone wants to have a solution, and the truth is, none of us do.” At least, not a solution that comes with a guarantee of peace and security for all. “Otherwise, it would be fixed by now. If we have the right to self-determination, so do they; I just don’t know what that looks like. I’ve stopped even participating in conversations about what it should look like because I don’t think anybody has an answer right now.”

Sam understands her ability to disengage is a gift. “I do have the privilege to be where I'm at now, which is that I can fairly comfortably live my life and not have to think about these things every second of every day. If I thought that me stopping my life and doing something very different to try and affect the sort of world I wanted to live in would make an actual difference equivalent to the amount I would need to suffer then maybe I would, but I know that's not the case. All I can do is care for the people immediately around me. And if that’s all I can do, then all I need is enough energy to do that. Anything beyond that isn't actually useful.” 

Sam is a 26 year-old living in South Tel Aviv. Originally from Palo Alto, California, she has lived in Israel for the past five years. When she’s not at her hi-tech job, you can find her in Florentin (a hipster neighborhood in Tel Aviv), at a cafe with her dog Indi, running by the beach, or checking out Tel Aviv’s newest local wine bar with friends.