Glass House

So this is it, then? Being a humanist in Israel is a bitter joke, a perverse indulgence. It forces me to clap along with the far-right extremists of the world—those smiling hounds from the US, the sneering piety of England, the festering moralism of Germany, the polished hypocrisy of France, the pious rancor of Brazil, the hollow patriotism of Argentina. All these grotesque faces, these power-bloated moguls who pawn off their “support” as charity. Humanist? I’m a farce—a high-priced call girl at the mercy of these men, watching as they take their pills of arrogance, straighten their ties, and expect me to play the role of obedient puppet, grateful for a chance to keep standing.

And what else can I do? I’m in this dance, tethered to survival, forced to stomach the hard words, the contemptuous looks they send our way. No matter how many times they promise to “stand by Israel,” they do so only because we’re a convenient pawn on their board, not because of any actual respect or care for this country. With each new alliance, I twist, trapped between truth and pretense. I know exactly what they think of us, and I know that, if not for the ease of our exploitation, they’d gladly let us burn.

To them, we’re guard dogs—fierce, disposable. Behind closed doors, they laugh at our ideals, sneer at our morality, and I wonder how many more times I’ll sell myself until I forget what I once believed. The global left—with its smug pose of morality and compassion—denounces us, while the right holds us hostage with their poisoned support. They toss me back and forth, like a coin that never gets a moment’s rest. The left loves to accuse, gleeful at every tragedy of ours with a carefully honed hatred, as though Israel itself is a personal affront to their hollow principles. To them, Israel is a sin that must be expunged.

This is reality: to uphold my humanity in Israel, I must embrace cynicism, because outside these borders, any semblance of support is a fraud. I know that. I know these allies want only a submissive Israel, an Israel that plays its part, an Israel buckling under the weight of its own alliances. And I ask myself again: who am I to be a humanist in a land where survival costs everything? How deep is my hypocrisy, how vast my betrayal with every word I don’t say? How dare I demand dignity when I submit to this theater where I am accomplice, slave, and audience?

I choke on the bitter taste of my own resignation. Every alliance feels like a blade cutting into flesh. To be a humanist here is to accept that I am nothing more than a puppet, that my voice is hemmed in, that my silence is the tax paid to these men and women who write the rules. The reality is I am a coin in their hands, and I am worth no more than that.

And in the end, what’s left? An empty echo, a dignity crumbling each time I surrender another piece of what once felt like an unshakeable conviction. To be a humanist in Israel has become a question of survival, and survival is nothing more than a blood pact with cynicism. What remains is to watch as, day by day, I swallow the contradiction, waiting, almost masochistically, for the next blow, the next paycheck, the next look of contempt I must bear.

Perhaps, one day, the moment will come when the dignity I’ve sold for cheap will vanish completely, and all that will be left is silence.

People who live in glass houses? They deserve every stone.