Reflections from Israel: Navigating Between Pride and Compassion in Times of War

As an Israeli, it’s hard to put into words the mix of emotions I’ve been feeling in these tumultuous times. The pride I feel for my country and the brave men and women of the IDF will always run deep within me. Every day, they stand between us and those who wish to destroy us. Their courage and unwavering commitment to defending our people and our homeland fill me with immense gratitude and admiration. 

But alongside that pride, there’s another feeling I can’t shake—compassion. Compassion for many civilians in Lebanon who, much like us, are being dragged into a conflict they never asked for. Many of them find themselves caught in the middle of a war driven by forces beyond their control, manipulated by the violent ambitions of a militia serving foreign interests. They’re paying the price for decisions they had no part in, just as we are.

Here in Israel, the reality on the ground is devastating. Hundreds of thousands of people from the north have been displaced from their homes, forced to leave behind everything they know as the threat of violence looms large over their lives. The uncertainty of when—or if—they will be able to return is heart-wrenching. Businesses have shuttered, livelihoods destroyed, and the impact on our economy is something we’ll feel for a long time to come.

The emotional toll is just as heavy. The mental health challenges we are all facing—particularly for those who have lost loved ones or are living in constant fear—are unprecedented. The trauma of living under the shadow of war is something that lingers long after the last rocket is fired. Anxiety, grief, trauma, and stress have become daily companions for so many of us, especially for our children and our grandchildren, who are growing up in a world that feels increasingly unstable and unsafe.

As much as my heart aches for Israel—for our fallen soldiers, for the displaced, for the pain our citizens are enduring—I can’t help but also feel a deep sadness for the innocent people in Lebanon who are similarly caught in the crossfire. I think of my friend Rami and the countless others like him who despise the violence and fanaticism that’s been imposed on them. Many Lebanese people are being forced to flee their homes, their lives upended by the very same extremists who claim to represent them. Their suffering, though different from ours in many ways, is just as real.

I know Israel and Lebanon are not the same. Our situations, our histories, our leadership—they’re all very different. But when I think about the innocent civilians, the everyday people just trying to live their lives in peace, I can’t help but see the common humanity between us. The mothers and fathers in Lebanon who are desperate to protect their children, the families displaced from their homes, the overwhelming sense of uncertainty that hangs over them like it does over us—all of it feels so painfully familiar.

This isn’t about politics. It’s not about who is right or wrong. It’s about human beings, about the value of life. It’s about recognizing the suffering of others, even when they are across a border, and understanding that their pain is real, too. War tends to strip us of our empathy, but I refuse to let it take mine. My compassion for the innocent people in Lebanon does not make me any less proud of my country or any less committed to our right to defend ourselves, perhaps quite the contrary. It just means that I see the human toll, on both sides, and that matters to me. It matters to me because I’m human.

It’s especially hard to hold these feelings as we near the one-year anniversary of some of the most devastating memories of my life. The scars of loss and trauma are still so fresh, and the grief feels endless. In these moments, it’s hard not to let the bitterness consume me. But as much as those memories hurt, they also remind me of the value of life—of every single life. That’s what drives my compassion, and it’s why I can’t ignore the suffering of innocent people, no matter where they are.

It’s easy, in the fog of war, to lose sight of that humanity. To get wrapped up in an “us versus them” mentality, to see the other side only as a threat. But I believe that compassion is more important now than ever. Compassion for our own people, of course, for all we are enduring. But also for the innocents on the other side who are suffering because of choices they didn’t make. This war, like so many before it, was not started by the average citizens of Israel or Lebanon. It was ignited by brutal, ruthless individuals who neither know nor want to live in peace. Their goals are driven by hatred and violence, far removed from the hopes and desires of ordinary people who just want to live their lives in safety and dignity.

And yet, here we are—paying the price for the actions of extremists and leaders who seem all too willing to sacrifice lives for their own agendas.

It’s not easy to hold both of these truths at the same time: to feel an overwhelming sense of continual pride for our soldiers defending us, and at the same time, to have at least a drop of compassion for those suffering across the border. But I believe it’s necessary. If we allow war to harden our hearts, to make us forget that there are innocent people suffering on both sides, then we risk losing something far greater than this battle—we risk losing our own humanity.

The path forward isn’t clear, and I know peace feels like a distant dream. But maybe, just maybe, if more of us—on both sides—can hold onto that compassion, we can start to carve out a way toward a future where we don’t see each other solely as enemies, but as people. People who love their families, who want safety and peace, and who deserve to live without fear.

For now, I will continue to stand high and be proud of my country and our soldiers. But I will also keep my heart open to the pain of the innocent people suffering in Lebanon, just as we are suffering here in Israel. Because in the end, compassion is not a weakness—it’s the very thing that might, one day, help us find our way out of this darkness.

May peace come soon, for all of us.