One Land, Two Futures

The tragedies we endure are a mirror, reflecting the cost of our division. There is no escape from this land, no escape from each other. Only by weaving our fates together – however painfully – can we find a way to live, not just survive.

In light of the tragedies that have befallen us—the heart-wrenching news of the Bibas family, the terrorist attacks in Tel Aviv, the horrific images of Hamas’s theatrics during the hostage release—it is clearer than ever that the status quo is unsustainable. It is not just a moral imperative but a matter of survival for Israel to seek a better path. It is a chance to build a future where Israelis can live in security and dignity, free from the constant shadow of conflict.

After nearly 24 years of active peace activism, my ambitions have been reduced to this: we don’t have to like each other. We don’t even have to tolerate each other. The only thing I’m reduced to hoping for now is that we can at least acknowledge that we’re part of each other’s reality. That we can find a way to hate each other in the safety of our own homes and respective nations, rather than on battlefields and in bomb shelters. The eternal discussion of who’s more indigenous to the land is not relevant: it has never been relevant. The only thing that matters is how to provide safety and equality to all the people on this land we’re talking about constantly. Until this happens, no one on this land will ever live in peace.

I once believed in the two-state solution as the only just path forward. But as reality eroded that conviction, I found myself increasingly drawn to a confederation or a federation, a shared homeland and two states where two peoples might weave their histories, identities, and futures together. This is my journey from ideological heartbreak to the uneasy hope of a new paradigm.

I don’t remember the exact moment when my ideological defenses began to crack. It wasn’t a sudden rupture but a slow, insidious erosion, like water wearing away stone over time. For years, I held on to the belief that the two-state paradigm was not just an ideal but a viable, moral necessity. It was a matter of justice, a way to reconcile my Zionism with my humanity. But at some point, I had to admit that I was gripping a mirage.

I began encountering writers who had taken the same journey, who had reached the same painful realization: Peter Beinart, whose words in The Crisis of Zionism read like my own thoughts only a month ago; Shlomo Sand, who only recently acknowledged his transformation; and David Grossman, who still clings to that last thread of moonlight. Only two weeks ago, I had a moment of raw, emotional collapse. It was as if the last vestiges of my carefully constructed belief system had been wrenched away.

Yes, I once believed in two states. I repeated the mantra, perhaps even as a form of self-soothing: two states for two peoples. It was the only way. It was just. It was possible. But I have come to understand that for too many in power, it was never truly on the table. It was a slogan, an abstraction, a hollow incantation that gave the illusion of morality while masking the machinery of continued control.

Beyond the fact that the two-state solution has become a hollow slogan, it has also become structurally unviable. The map itself is unworkable; settlements have fragmented the West Bank into isolated enclaves, making the vision of a contiguous Palestinian state extraordinarily difficult to implement. Gaza remains severed, a separate entity under siege, with its people living in a state of perpetual uncertainty. Meanwhile, political realities on both sides make an agreement nearly impossible. The Israeli government, driven by security concerns and demographic fears, has veered steadily rightward, entrenching annexationist policies, while the Palestinian leadership remains divided and weakened, with little legitimacy to negotiate on behalf of its people. Even if an agreement were miraculously signed, what army would enforce the evacuation of hundreds of thousands of settlers? What mechanism would ensure that a future Palestinian state would not fall into the hands of extremist factions seeking Israel’s destruction? The deeper I looked, the more I realized that the two-state solution was not just dead in practice—it had become a fiction sustained only by those unwilling to face the consequences of its failure.

I am still in transition. I do not yet feel fully at home in the vision of binationalism or federalism, but I am getting considerably closer. The cognitive dissonance that once gnawed at me has become undeniable. The ideological gymnastics required to sustain my previous stance have left me exhausted. That said, at my ripe, medium-old age, perhaps it’s time to accept that there is no such thing as ideological purity or perfection. We are all simply searching for the most honest path, even if it’s not the one we imagined.

And yet, I have not renounced Zionism. Instead, I have discovered its multiplicity. My previous understanding of Zionism was narrow, shaped by a rigid framework that could no longer hold the weight of reality. But Zionism is not a single doctrine; it has always contained within it a spectrum of visions, from territorial maximalism to cultural and spiritual revival, from political sovereignty to ethical responsibility. My journey has not been one of abandoning Zionism, but of rediscovering its breadth, of realizing that the survival of Zionism as a moral and sustainable project depends on expanding its possibilities rather than constraining them.

I have turned to thinkers who saw this coming long before I did: Ahad Ha’am, Martin Buber, Gershom Scholem, Judah Leon Magnes, Hugo Bergmann, Arthur Ruppin, Albert Einstein as an outside supporter of Brit Shalom, and Hannah Arendt—voices who warned that political nationalism, when married to the perpetual need to strive for demographic majority of one ethnicity over another, would lead to disaster. That Zionism, if it were to survive as a moral project, could not be built on dominance. That a Jewish homeland could not be sustained through the denial of another people’s aspirations.

Hannah Arendt, writing in the 1950s, foresaw the pitfalls of partition with striking clarity. Her words, written decades ago, feel eerily prescient today. Shlomo Sand painfully writes:

As Arendt feared, the Jewish state has indeed taken the form of a kind of enclosed ghetto surrounded by a hostile environment, or, we might say, a heavily armed but prosperous ‘Spartan state.’

I now find hope in the model of confederation and federalism, in the principles of A Land for All or CPRPI. A shared land, where two nations maintain their identities yet cooperate under a single framework of laws and representative governance. This would not be a mere coexistence of parallel systems but a binational structure that ensures equality while preserving group autonomy in matters of culture, religion, and local administration. It is a vision where Israelis and Palestinians are bound by the same legal and political system, yet free to nurture their distinct identities.

In this arrangement, Aliyah, the right of Jews to immigrate to their ancestral homeland, would remain intact, just as Palestinians would have the right to absorb as many refugees as they deem feasible. Both peoples would have the opportunity to address historical injustices without undermining the other’s future. Violence, of course, would have to be abjured entirely. This is not naivety but a necessity: any shared future depends on the mutual renunciation of force as a means of resolving disputes. It is a difficult but non-negotiable precondition.

Federalism offers a framework that balances unity and diversity. It allows for regional autonomy, enabling each community to govern its own affairs, education, culture, and local governance, while sharing overarching institutions for defense, foreign policy, and economic coordination. This model acknowledges the deep historical ties both peoples have to the land without requiring one side to negate the other’s past. It creates a framework where neither people has to erase the other to survive.

This is not an untested idea. Federations and confederations have provided solutions to seemingly intractable conflicts elsewhere. Belgium, my country of birth where I spent the first 33 years of my life, has maintained stability despite deep divisions between Flemish and Walloon communities through power-sharing and regional autonomy. Switzerland, a multiethnic and multilingual society, has thrived on a federal system that respects each group’s identity while ensuring national cohesion. Even Bosnia and Herzegovina, despite its challenges, demonstrates that post-conflict societies can function under a confederal framework when the alternative is continued bloodshed. These models are not perfect, but they show that political frameworks can be designed to reflect complex identities and histories without resorting to separation or dominance.

For Israelis, federalism means security without occupation, a future where they are not bound to rule over another people indefinitely. It means a Jewish homeland that does not require eternal vigilance against demographic threats, but rather thrives through cooperation. For Palestinians, it means self-determination without fragmentation, freedom of movement without exile, a homeland not carved into isolated, unviable enclaves but restored as a coherent, sovereign entity. It is the promise of dignity, of a future where identity is not a weapon but a bridge.

One of the main concerns skeptics raise is the fear that a federal system will not eliminate demographic anxieties, particularly among Israelis who fear losing their Jewish majority. But federalism, by design, does not mean an unfiltered majoritarian rule where one population can simply outvote the other. Belgium, a country deeply divided along linguistic lines, has structured its system so that no one group can unilaterally impose sweeping federal decisions on the other. Key issues require approval from both linguistic communities, ensuring mutual protections and preventing one side from being politically overwhelmed. In a similar way, a Jewish-Palestinian federation could safeguard national and cultural identities while creating shared governance mechanisms that prevent domination by sheer numbers. This structure would require careful power-sharing arrangements, veto protections, and constitutional guarantees to ensure that federal decisions reflect the interests of both peoples rather than becoming a demographic contest.

A shared future, however, cannot be built on political structures alone. It will require an unwavering commitment to combating violent and ideological extremism on both sides. Hatred, fear, and revenge have been deeply entrenched through generations of trauma, and dismantling these forces will demand sacrifices from all. This will mean confronting the narratives that fuel division, rejecting leaders who thrive on perpetual conflict, and fostering a civic culture that prioritizes dialogue over dogma. A federation or confederation cannot succeed if it merely replicates the dynamics of power and resentment that have defined the past; it must actively resist them. Organizations like Hamas, with their ideology of violent resistance and rejection of coexistence, represent a fundamental obstacle to any vision of a shared future. Likewise, violent settlers who cling to messianic justifications for expansion and aggression are no less destructive to the possibility of peace. Both movements, though politically opposed, operate from the same premise: that the other people’s existence is an obstacle rather than a reality to be engaged with. If there is any hope for a sustainable future, it must begin with the rejection of these destructive forces and the construction of a new paradigm rooted in partnership rather than perpetual war.

It is not an easy vision. It does not erase pain, nor does it grant me the comfort of ideological certainty. But it is honest. It does not ask me to pretend that the two-state solution is still within reach when every fact on the ground screams otherwise. It does not force me to choose between my Zionism and my moral clarity. It allows me to redefine both.

Yet, even as I write these words, I feel the weight of despair pressing down. This conflict has become so entrenched, so polarized, that by design, new ideas are either preaching to the choir or falling on deaf ears. The walls between us are not just physical but ideological, fortified by generations of trauma, fear, and mistrust.

For now, I remain in process. It is not entirely organic to me yet, this vision of confederation and federalism. But neither is clinging to a dream that has long since been crushed under the weight of settlements, checkpoints, and political cowardice. And so, I move forward, step by step, into the discomfort of new possibility.