One War, Two Realities

Since October 7th, a rift has opened between Israelis and our loved ones across the ocean. It’s not a matter of disagreement but of existential dissonance. We may be facing the same war, but we are experiencing it from two profoundly different realities.

I write this as someone who lives between both worlds. I often find myself crossing the Atlantic Ocean, maintaining roots and relationships with family, friends, and communities on both sides. This dual exposure gives me a particular clarity: I see how this war is being processed through entirely different lenses. My life in Israel ultimately shapes my perspective. And while I can’t speak on behalf of American Jews, I can voice the tension that I, and many of my peers in Israel, have been feeling more and more acutely.

In Israel, war is a constant lived reality. It is not an abstraction, a political debate, or a historical case study. It’s not something we merely read about in the papers or prepare for with drills in school, and it’s definitely not something we can momentarily detach from. War has shaped, and will continue to shape, our consciousness. It’s not a story we hear, but the life we live. It shapes how we grow up, how we raise our kids, how we celebrate life, and how we mourn death.

On October 7, someone woke up and decided they were going to kill me.

Not metaphorically. Literally. Not just individuals, but our sense of security and our very belief in humanity.

Since then, we’ve lived under constant threat. We have buried friends, stood with grieving families, and tried to support young women who were married just months before becoming widows. We’re trying to live normal lives under abnormal fear, the crushing weight of grief, and the shattering, sharp pain of loss. Every phone call and every silence is a trigger. We know viscerally what it means to be hunted. Our death has been physically sought out. 

I work with American young adults who are smart, engaged, and deeply committed. Their hearts are with us, and they are connecting in every way they can. But it’s also clear: they are not living this war. They are witnessing it. That distinction is huge. 

This difference became especially stark on Yom HaZikaron, when I stood with my students at a memorial ceremony. For Israelis, the day is sacred, intimate, and searing, bound up with personal grief. But in that room, I felt a dissonance. The pain I saw in my students’ eyes was real, but it came from a different place. Their mourning was sincere, but symbolic, an attempt to connect with something that, for them, remained external. It’s not their lived pain. Our starting points are different. For us Israelis, grief rises from the inside out. For them, it moves from the outside in, sometimes arriving there, albeit in doses, and sometimes not at all.

Yom HaAtzmaut deepened the divide. A day usually filled with national pride, joy, and celebration had passed in silence. All celebrations were canceled. The air was heavy with grief, uncertainty, and the physical smoke of our burning land. We tried to find meaning in just being together, holding on to the miracle of our existence, but that, too, as we’ve come to learn, was fragile. Meanwhile, on social media, I saw posts ostensibly meant to uplift, from abroad, saying: “We’ll celebrate for you.” 

I know it was meant as a sign of solidarity, but to me, it felt dissonant. How could you carry joy when we were drowning in fear? How could you celebrate while we were in survival mode? I felt the good intention, but it only deepened the sense that we are living in separate worlds. 

For us, this is it. We are fighting for survival. If we don’t show up, if we don’t stand on the front lines, Israel will cease to exist. And with that, the fabric of Jewish life all over the world will be changed forever. We have no other land. You have no other land. No plan B. Ein li eretz acheret. This is it. 

I’m writing this to reach for you, out of a need for connection. I want to bridge the growing gap between us. But that requires a new kind of honesty: we are not in the same place. Not emotionally, not physically, not existentially. 

The words “stay safe” coming from family and friends in America feel hollow. But when an Israeli says those exact words, it carries a different weight. The reason, I realized, is that their words stem from a shared experience, a collective vulnerability. Our fates are intertwined. We exist in the same space. 

So what can our American friends and family do? Meet us in the space between our two realities. Between our day-to-day, shaped by existential threat, and yours, shaped by love and concern. That space, what I’ll call the buffer zone, can become sacred ground. A place of shared language, respectful listening, and real connection. But come gently and with empathy. Let us set the tone. Let our lived experience guide the way.

I’ll meet you there.