Holding My Humanity in a World Losing its Own

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“I’ve always believed that fighting for peace is like screwing for virginity.” It’s a line I’ve carried with me most of my life, because I’ve always felt its truth in my bones. I hate war. I hate violence. I hate conflict. At my core, I’m a peace-seeker – always have been. I was the kid who tried to break up fights in school. A conflict manager in grade 7 and 8. In high school, I once took a jab to the jaw trying to stop a fight. I’ve always had the soul of a hippie.

I never wanted war. In Jewish tradition, we value life. We value freedom. In Israel – just like in every other country, people just want to feel safe in their beds at night. To raise their children without having to explain why they need to find shelter while playing at the playground. To meet friends at a café without wondering if it will be blown up by a suicide bomber. To live without constantly worrying which of the 22 Arab neighboring countries, some with long histories of hostility toward Israel, might once again turn against them – simply for being Jewish. But for decades, that’s been the nightmare reality – one that repeats itself over and over again.

These past couple of years have taken a heavy toll on my mental health. My heart breaks again and again for every innocent life lost. For each mother who won’t see her child again. For each child who learns too young what death, fear, and war feel like. On both sides of the fence.

I’ve felt so much. Grief. Anger. Horror. Fear. Helplessness. I’ve feared for my loved ones in Israel and my Jewish brothers and sisters around the world. The rise in antisemitism has been unlike anything I’ve seen in my lifetime. It feels like the echoes of another Holocaust – not in some far-off place, but in our own cities, in our own communities. The hate is palpable. And it’s terrifying. To say it plainly: I don’t feel safe. Not here. Not anywhere. And I know I’m not alone in that. I would be lying if I said I don’t, on a weekly basis, think about which of my non-Jewish friends would hide me if it ever came to that – who would truly risk their own lives to keep me safe. It’s a horrible thing to have to think about.

What’s been especially painful – and honestly infuriating – is watching people, including some I once respected, jump on the anti-Israel and often blatantly antisemitic bandwagon sometimes knowingly, sometimes not – with little understanding of the region’s history, trauma, or complexity. I’m not talking about those who engage in thoughtful, good-faith criticism of Israeli policy, I’m talking about those who reduce decades of complex history into slogans, who excuse terror, and who erase Jewish identity while claiming to champion human rights. So many have taken up this cause like it’s the latest trend – reposting propaganda, chanting slogans, and preaching justice while aligning with movements that glorify violence and stand for the exact opposite of the values they claim to defend. They talk about liberation and genocide while supporting groups that oppress women, execute members of the LGBTQ+ community, and indoctrinate children to hate. It’s not justice – it’s performative, dangerous ignorance; hypocrisy at its loudest – and Jewish lives are paying the price for their trendy activism.

There are people in Iran who have been fighting, risking everything, for a better future – for freedom from the violent, authoritarian regime that has crushed dissent for decades. My hope is that this moment will become a turning point for them. That they’ll finally have the chance to live in peace and dignity, with the human rights every person deserves.

My feelings about Gaza are layered and difficult to untangle. I grieve the innocent lives lost there – children, families, people who want only to survive. I mourn for those growing up in rubble, trauma, and despair – especially the children caught in violence, propaganda, used as pawns in power games beyond their control. And at the same time, I’m angry – deeply angry – at how human suffering has been weaponized by those in power, both locally and globally. I feel torn between empathy and fear, between heartbreak and distrust. It’s not simple. Not even close. But I carry all of it – the sorrow, the outrage, the longing for a future where no Israeli, Palestinian, Iranian, Jewish, nor Muslim – has to live in fear. We all deserve peace, dignity, and safety.

I’m worn down by the weight of it all – the grief, the fear, the endless noise. I want to believe in peace, in humanity, in something better. But it’s hard. All I can do right now is keep looking for that hope, even when it feels far away. What’s happened in Iran these past several weeks – the possibility of people finally breaking free from a regime that’s ruled through fear for decades – feels like the tiniest glimmer. Maybe it’s one small step in a world still trying to remember its humanity. Maybe it’s a reminder that peace can still be possible – even if we have to fight like hell for it.