Do North American Jews understand the attacks on Israel?

How the Other Half Lives: Sirens in Jerusalem, Silence in North America

Jacob Riis titled his exposé of New York’s tenement poverty “How the Other Half Lives.” His goal was to shine a light on lives hidden in plain sight—people breathing the same air but living in an entirely different reality. Sitting in my apartment in Jerusalem during last night’s missile barrage from Iran, I couldn’t help but feel that same chasm. But this time, the divide isn’t economic or geographic—it’s existential. It’s between two halves of the Jewish people: those living in Israel and those in the Diaspora.

Over the past year living in Jerusalem, I have heard my share of missile sirens. Most came from Houthi-fired drones and rockets; threats were intercepted high above the Negev or Red Sea, followed by a return to routine within minutes. Life resumes quickly here. Schools remain open, buses continue to run, and public spaces continue to observe Shabbat. There’s a resilience that borders on the surreal, a normalization of danger that is unique to life in Israel.

But last night was different. Iran launched a coordinated and direct missile and drone attack on Israel. The country entered a full state of emergency. Four waves of attacks through Shabbat night where three people were killed and more than 200 injured. There was a direct hit on a home, and buildings collapsed in central Israel. Airspace was shut down. Schools, workplaces, and public gatherings, including synagogues on Shabbat, were closed. In Jerusalem, the silence after the sirens wasn’t peace. It was shock and fear.

Earlier that day, I had tuned into a Tehillim (Psalms) gathering over Zoom from my community in Montreal. Only 120 people showed up. There was sincerity, of course, and a desire to connect—but also a distance I couldn’t ignore. The prayers were said, but the urgency was missing. It was as if we were watching two different movies: one, a real-time crisis; the other, a slow-motion echo. The pain hadn’t landed; it felt like they were watching someone else’s tragedy unfold on a screen—moving, but still safely abstract.

The North American Jewish community lives with growing antisemitism. That reality is real, painful, and frightening. But it is still fundamentally different from living in a country under direct attack by hostile states. In Israel, the threat is military, existential, and immediate. It’s sirens at 1 a.m. It’s scrambling for shelter. It’s waking up unsure what’s still standing. These aren’t metaphors; they are muscle memory.

Having spent most of my life in Montreal and now nearly a year in Jerusalem, I have come to see both sides. And like Joni Mitchell, I feel I have lived “both sides now”—one shaped by Diaspora identity and its quiet fears, the other forged in a homeland that demands vigilance, sacrifice, and courage.

I have experienced campus antisemitism at its most extreme, being pushed out of graduate studies at McGill University by the administration because of my writings in support of Israel and a fear of being on campus post-October 7, 2023. And the last year in Israel with the constant and unpredictable Yemeni Houthi missiles and sirens from them.

That duality gives me empathy for both, but also a growing concern: that neither half truly sees the other. The two sides are drifting apart. I reached out last night to friends, to rabbis, and to people I once stood beside in synagogues back in North America. Most didn’t answer. I understand; it was the workday, they are busy, it’s far, and they don’t always know what to say. But that silence speaks volumes.

Too often, Diaspora support for Israel is institutional, not personal. It’s donations, statements, and solidarity rallies. But few people reach out to ask, “How are you?” “Where were you when the missiles fell?”

This isn’t about guilt. It’s about relationships.

To effectively bridge the gap, we need more than just federations. We need empathy. Personal empathy. Diaspora Jews must recognize that supporting Israel means checking in on people they know—not just reading headlines. It means understanding that Israel isn’t a metaphor or a political issue—it’s a real place where Jews live and die.

While supporting Israel is more than the fundraising galas, it’s the wounded baby in Rishon Lezion. It’s more than beautiful words of Tehillim; it’s the woman in who died in the early morning when a building collapsed in Ramat Gan. Between the headlines they read and the sirens I hear.

We need something deeper than organizational solidarity. We need personalized empathy. Former community members, classmates, cousins, rabbis—we need them to reach out, not as donors, but as family. That’s how the other half begins to understand how we live. This understanding comes not from a distance, but from proximity. From asking. From listening.

And Israelis, too, need to understand that antisemitism in the Diaspora is not just name-calling or social media trolls.

It’s in the shadows, targeted, sporadic, and deadly. From Tree of Life to Colleyville, and most recently the deadly attack in Washington, DC. It’s about living in societies that turn hostile overnight. It’s about being shot in shuls, attacked on campuses, or harassed in supermarkets. It’s real—and it is happening to Jews who can’t run to bomb shelters or rely on the Iron Dome. These are guerrilla wars. Subtle, scattered, but just as dangerous.

If there’s anything last night taught me, it’s that we cannot afford to live in parallel. Jewish unity must be felt. Not just in dollars, but in dialogue. It’s not just about praying, but also about being present. Jewish peoplehood means nothing if we do not feel each other’s pain. It’s time we stopped living like strangers, each side peering into the lives of the other like Riis’s readers—half shocked, half removed.

We need to stop watching each other’s tragedies and start sharing them. That’s the only way we survive—together.