Six and fourteen

“I’m a visiting scholar in the International Program in Conflict Resolution and Mediation at Tel Aviv University,” I tell her. “I’m doing a PhD in War Studies back home.”

It is December 3^rd, 2024—a little over a year after the October 7^th attack; and I am in a taxi with a young Israeli woman I’ve only just met.

“In Israel,” she sighs. “After—‘what is your name?’, they ask you what you did in the army. [Talking about war] is like talking about the weather.”

And so, as one does with someone they’ve only just met, we speak of war like it is the weather.

She eventually mentions Gaza so I ask her if she has Palestinian friends. “My boyfriend is actually Palestinian…” she says. My head cocks to the side, as I take in this information.

I am tired from the flight, but it is an encounter I never forget—as it didn’t take time to be submerged in the kaleidoscope of conflicting identities that is Israeli society.

Though the violence has clearly deeply polarized the rest of the world, I am hit with nuance and ambiguity like a cold shower.

The following weeks I am there feel like a whirlwind of contentious conversations. Every day is one stark truth after the other. On a sunny Thursday, I am sitting with an academic for lunch. He tells me of a survey about dehumanization scales post-October 7th, asking both Palestinians and Israelis.

“0 being ‘the other side is non-human’, and 100 being ‘the other side is highly / very human”. He says stoically before he tells me to guess the scores.

I guess 45/100 for Palestinians and 38/100 for Israelis.

I note the alarming grief in his eyes as he tells me the most recent scores are at 6/100 for Palestinians and 14/100 for Israelis.

At a store in Florentin, a worker restlessly pours me a glass of water: “Honestly…I understand why the world hates us…” she shrugs. “If what is happening in Gaza was happening to my family I would hate, too.”

‘Nuance’—I think.

This word keeps coming back over the following weeks as I’m talking to people in Ramat Gan about what is taking place in Gaza and I feel my fists clench at the extreme spectrum of opinions. Some say “they deserve it” and others express contrite compassion and solidarity—stressing that “they are people [too]”.

When I tell people I study war, some of them frown—as if to say “Why?”…Some immediately tell me of their political opinions, while others’ eyes fill with shame and grief. Some heartily defend they have the ‘most moral army in the world’ while others have been caught in court cases against those same armed forces for years.

Walking through Tel Aviv exacerbates this dissonant experience.

On one hand, you could argue that it is nothing like what we often picture a ‘militarized society’ to be. Some days, it reminds me of the Montreal streets I grew up on with its many hipster cafés and vintage stores. 

On the other, you can’t go anywhere without seeing off-duty soldiers carrying Kalashnikovs like they are water bottles.

Interacting with some of them feels like I’m in a video game, as their weathered gaze doesn’t always match their youthful faces. As my research interests primarily engage with the questions surrounding religion and modern militaries, initially, I’d often asked soldiers if they were religious. Interestingly, though many would identify as decidedly secular, it is clear that most still observe traditional Jewish customs and in the words of a reserve duty officer: 

“in the end, everyone prays…In war, it doesn’t matter if you believe…you will pray.”

This sentence encapsulates the coexistence of two truths tautologically explored in war studies literature: the tenuous interaction between religious convictions and war-time violence. The fabric of Israeli society has seemingly woven Judaism and military defense in a visually striking manner, in a way many academics have not yet fully grasped.

Asking a young religious soldier about how his beliefs help him process the violence around him, he says: “People say: ‘Where was [your] God on October 7^th?’” His confident response: “God was the reason [we only had] 1000 [deaths] and not more.”

That being said, even a year after the attacks, a video call with my parents is abruptly interrupted by a siren alert—forcing me to seek shelter. The explanation we get on the app: “Ballistic missiles from Yemen”.

A few days later, another alert in the middle of the night. As we gather where the walls are thick, I note the different reactions in the room: some, nonchalantly—annoyingly scroll on their phone until it’s safe to go back to sleep. Others, frantically call their mothers…

Lying awake afterward, I begin to understand why so many young Israelis lace their cigarettes with marijuana. 

During my visit, I met with an organization primarily focused on ending the occupation. I asked one representative to define ‘Zionism’ in response to growing anti-Zionist rhetoric in the West.

“That’s a good question,” he said stressing the term’s polarizing nature and fading relevance. He gestured to colleagues on their lunch break, noting that each would define Zionism differently—and therefore, have a unique relationship with the term. What united them, however, was a shared commitment to ending systemic injustice. And so, disagreements on ideas, he argued, wouldn’t derail their fight for justice.

“Why [do people have to] be anti-Zionist?” he asked. “Why not a-Zionist or post-Zionist?”

While he immediately recognized the term’s appropriation by Israel’s far-right, as well as events like the Nakba through Israel’s polemical history, his perspective struck me: rejecting dialogue with groups we disagree with, outright risks burning bridges with those who may prove essential to future peace conversations.

And so, in a way, by refusing to engage with quarrelsome questions (and people), we are also doing the very thing, Israeli society is often condemned for.

Yet alas, nuance persists on a rainy day in Ramallah.

Asking Palestinians if they think it’s important to know about ‘the other side’, some nod insisting it’s crucial to try, while others earnestly reject the idea, refusing any interaction.

A woman, noticing I’m a foreigner, tells me she’s from Gaza.

All I can muster is, ‘I’m sorry’.

She nods slowly, offers a faint smile, and later returns to find us breaking down in tears, speaking in Arabic.

The translator explains she is mourning her mother’s death in Gaza.

This moment cements another conclusion I had the week prior:

“In war, everyone is a loser,” tells a young Israeli refusenik, cigarette in hand. This sentiment is later echoed by a Palestinian activist I meet in Hebron.

Those who reach this conclusion often know firsthand the volatile mix of fear, trauma and anger that drives people to violence. Incongruously, those who despise it often find themselves on the frontlines of combat to manage their fear, to fight their own helplessness. 

Regardless of religious beliefs, ideologies, or backgrounds, this cocktail compels baristas to cancel their Shabbat plans, and take up arms on a Saturday afternoon; just as young Palestinians prepare for armed resistance. 

Violence sobers, but it also blinds us to the humanity of those we see as our enemies. This is a common human blind spot I note in all of us; where we sometimes forget (or choose to overlook) that we are dealing with people. 

People we wholeheartedly disagree with—sure, but people nonetheless.

With these ‘stark truths’ in mind, you can imagine I’m not exactly ‘optimistic’ when I find myself in Jerusalem, speaking with a young Palestinian merchant about whether he still believes in peace.

“Maybe.” he sighs deeply.

“Maybe?” I reply, contrite.

“Inshallah.” He says after a pause, smiling.

“Inshallah.” I smile back.

We keep talking and he asks me how Israelis feel—What they are saying on ‘the other side’.

I tell him they’re afraid.

“Afraid of what?” He asks me, genuinely.

“Of war…Of violence.” I shrug. “The same things you’re afraid of.” He frowns. After a while, he looks up and nods slowly.

“What do you think?” I ask him.

He shrugs.

“I think you are right.” He lets out, tired.

And just for a moment —as a young man acknowledges that his enemies feel fear too, the numbers 6 and 14 rise, however faintly.