As an Israeli who spent the first two decades of my life in Jerusalem, I’ve come to realize that I didn’t really understand the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Over time, I’ve had a humbling awakening to my impoverished grasp of the situation I grew up in, and to my passive disregard for the Palestinian experience. What follows is a reflection on my journey from an ingrained one-sided perspective on the conflict towards a more nuanced and balanced understanding of it.
In the ultra-Orthodox world I grew up in, the narrative was something like this: Israel was a spiritually significant land bestowed upon the Jewish People by God. As the Chosen People, we had a Divine right to this sacred ground, supported by a rich religious and cultural history. We repeatedly tried to make agreements with the Palestinians, only to have our good-faith efforts rejected; we had no partner for peace. We were forced to go to war in 1948, 1967, 1973 and beyond, resulting in inevitable loss of life and territorial acquisitions. When pressed, it was acknowledged that there were a few regrettable moments along the way, such as the Dir Yassin massacre or the Baruch Goldstein mass shooting in Hebron, but they were considered rare outliers.
The hatred entrenched in our mindset was unmistakable. I remember multiple instances when unsuspecting Arabs from the Muslim Quarter in the Old City were attacked by my schoolmates for no reason as they passed through the Jewish Quarter. We frequently found ourselves in disputes with local Arabs over use of the one soccer court in our neighborhood, disputes that occasionally escalated into violent confrontations. Hearing chants of “death to all Arabs” and encountering graffiti with the same message was disturbingly common.
One particular memory stands out in my mind, which sadly exemplifies the nature of this dynamic. When I was a kid, we spotted a couple of Arabs circling our street and checking out our building. Suspecting they were looking to steal things, we alerted a neighbor who was notorious for taking matters into his own hands. He eagerly answered the call, cornered them in our building and viciously beat them. I was horrified by their bloodied appearance as they staggered out and ran off. I deeply regret my involvement in this incident.
It is difficult for me to recall my attitude during those years, but I’m sure I internalized hate and fear. Growing up during the suicide bombings of the Second Intifada could only have deepened these feelings. Surrounded by this narrative from all sides, it was only natural that I would adopt the story I was given: We belonged here, they did not; we were the good guys, they were the bad guys.
After leaving the Orthodox way of life in my late teens, I joined the Israeli military and enlisted in an elite combat unit for my compulsory three years of service. This was my first proper encounter with the broader secular society and an opportunity to break out of the religious environment I had been confined to. Though the Divine justifications were often left out, the narratives and attitudes I encountered were similarly black-and-white. It certainly was taken for granted that the actions of the military were always fully justified.
In 2012, about a year into my service, “Operation Pillar of Defense” brought us to the Gaza border in preparation to invade. Night after night, we assembled in our armored vehicles with engines rumbling, only to be told the ground assault had been postponed. I was terrified the entire week this continued. Ultimately, the ground offensive did not materialize, but I recall being taken aback by the enthusiasm I detected in many of my comrades at the prospect of going into combat. In fact, I had come to know a powerful sense of unity and purpose that took over Israeli society as a whole whenever we were at war.
During my time in the military, it was easy to avoid thinking about the gravity of what I was engaged in. My moment of reckoning came in 2014, when my dear friend and comrade, Liel Gidoni, was killed in Gaza during “Operation Protective Edge.” I was crushed, suddenly confronted with the full weight of what it truly meant to be a soldier. Still, I didn’t stop to reflect on the conflict as a whole. By the time I was in my third year of service, I was more than ready to be done. After my discharge, I left Israel and eventually relocated to the United States.
As I gained some physical and emotional distance from Israel, I felt a growing desire to educate myself about the conflict. I began reading books by Israeli authors such as My Promised Land by Avi Shavit, Israel by Daniel Gordis and Six Days of War by Michael Oren. These readings revealed how limited my knowledge of history was, as the Orthodox schools I attended offered no history lessons whatsoever. Although these books provided an Israeli angle on the conflict, they exposed a more complex reality than I had previously realized. For instance, I was unaware of the acts of Jewish terrorism carried out by the Irgun in the 1930s and 1940s. Over the years, I gradually developed a broader awareness, but I didn’t venture far outside the Israeli narrative.
That all changed on Oct. 7. The magnitude of the barbaric Hamas attacks and brutal Israeli retaliation jolted me out of this limited perspective, igniting a strong desire to truly understand the nature of the conflict. I began avidly consuming information from various sources, including those on the Palestinian side, and soon discovered that I had been fed a woefully incomplete story. The flood of new details that cast Israel in a less-than-flattering light was overwhelming.
I hadn’t considered how the 1947 U.N. Partition Plan failed to address the aspirations and rights of the Arab majority in Palestine. I hadn’t confronted the devastation inflicted on the Palestinians during the 1948 Arab-Israeli war or the many ruthless measures carried out by Israeli forces — or the fact that the population expulsions may not have been simply an unavoidable consequence of the war but part of a deliberate plan. I learned that Israel bore partial responsibility for the breakdown of the Oslo peace process and for the disaster that followed the Gaza withdrawal in 2005, as highlighted in The Crisis of Zionism by Peter Beinart. And the revelations just kept coming.
For every chapter in the history of the conflict, I discovered another side to the story and a competing Palestinian narrative. I was particularly impacted by Rashid Khalidi’s book The Hundred Years’ War on Palestine, which offers a compelling Palestinian perspective and was eye-opening on nearly every page. I’m fully aware that there are disputes about every detail of history, and I’m not in the position to resolve these disagreements. But if even a fraction of Khalidi’s claims are accurate, an entirely different picture begins to emerge.
Above all, I was shocked to learn about the ongoing harsh realities of the occupation. I had grown up visiting my cousins who lived in the town of Beitar in the West Bank, riding bulletproof buses along separation barriers to spend Shabbos with them. My uncle drove a car with a “TV” decal affixed to the roof, hoping that would deter potential attackers from targeting his vehicle. Looking back, I’m struck by how normal this seemed at the time.
What I have confronted in the last year is an astonishingly oppressive and unjust reality for nearly 3 million Palestinians. I hadn’t grasped that Palestinians were subject to military law in the Occupied Territories while Israelis there had full legal protections. I found out about the countless everyday indignities endured by Palestinians, from roadblocks to restricted access to basic services. And the frequent vandalism and violence from settlers, who often act with near-total impunity. I began to doubt whether the military adequately addresses misconduct and human rights violations within its ranks. I learned about decades of successive Israeli governments whose policies favored and actively fueled the expansion of Israeli settlements — a process that continues to this very day. I came to see that the ultimate goal of annexation was not fringe but embedded in segments of the mainstream political agenda. Whether or not the term “apartheid” applies is a matter of debate, but I could now clearly see the parallels. The notion that we sought peace while they sought war started to seem like a self-serving myth.
To equate criticism of Israel with antisemitism is to silence legitimate discourse and protect injustice from scrutiny.
I’ve also grown sensitive to the way accusations of antisemitism are often used to shut down any and all criticism of Israel. No doubt, global antisemitism is ever-present, and we must stay vigilant and clear-eyed about this enduring issue. Many attacks on Israel are indeed thinly veiled antisemitism, and Oct. 7 has exposed alarming levels of hostility even on U.S. college campuses. But to equate criticism of Israel with antisemitism is to silence legitimate discourse and protect injustice from scrutiny. Invoking the Jewish victim card to shield the act of victimizing others strikes me as particularly cynical.
The most troubling part of this new perspective is realizing how indifferent I was to the plight of the Palestinians. I had been too busy celebrating Israel’s Independence Day every year to give any thought to the tragic Palestinian experience of the Nakba. I didn’t question that Palestinians are routinely stopped at checkpoints whenever they went anywhere since I could move freely. Their complete lack of legal protections and political representation didn’t concern me, as I enjoyed the full protection of Israeli law and had a political voice.
It’s become painfully clear to me that I had been dehumanizing the Palestinians. I didn’t see them as people; in fact, I barely saw them at all. This is the dehumanization of apathy, a particularly pernicious form as it so easily goes unnoticed. I’ve found it deeply unsettling to confront this capacity within myself, recognizing that the roots of the conflict lie within my own being.
My growing awareness has revealed that grappling with the full picture is a difficult process. I repeatedly found myself caught between disbelief and shock. I didn’t want to face what we are culpable for, nor did I want to acknowledge what we were capable of. I could sense the pull of avoidance and familiar viewpoints, the temptation to retreat into the comfort of the prevailing collective mentality. Coming to terms with the immense pain and injustice that we — my nation, my people, my tribe — inflict on others has been challenging and disorienting. I’m in the process of grieving my once-rosy conceptions of our role in this century-long struggle. Facing the vast ocean of Palestinian suffering is heartbreaking, and I can’t help but feel complicit. Yet I recognize that the emerging picture is closer to reality, and it feels meaningful to be opening myself up to it.
I didn’t see Palestinians as people; in fact, I barely saw them at all.
As I reflect on this journey, I’m well aware that I’ve only begun to scratch the surface of a conflict that has shaped countless lives, including my own. While I can’t change the past, I can choose to move forward with greater awareness, empathy and a willingness to face uncomfortable truths.
