Stories We [Don’t] Tell: Why Israel Activism Fails

If we want to change the story being told about Israel, we must first confront the stories we’ve learned not to tell about ourselves.

This isn’t a rhetorical flourish—it’s a psychological necessity. Because before we can connect with others, we have to uncover the unconscious barriers that keep us from connecting with ourselves. And those barriers—etched into our communal nervous system through centuries of trauma—are now quietly undermining our ability to be heard.

Blindspot #1: The Tyranny of Facts Over Feelings

For generations, Jews have survived by clinging to facts. In a world that repeatedly denied our suffering and erased our history, facts became our shield and sword. We built entire advocacy strategies on the premise that if people just knew the truth—if they only understood the history, the context, the undeniable facts—they would change their minds.

This strategy isn’t just failing—it’s becoming obsolete.

We live in a post-truth era. In this cultural landscape, how people feel determines what they’re willing to believe, not the other way around. Emotional resonance precedes intellectual openness. And yet, the Jewish community continues to bring historical archives to a psychological battlefield.

Even when we acknowledge this intellectually—saying things like “you can’t bring logic to a feeling fight”—in practice, we fall back on the familiar. We produce fact sheets, documentaries, timelines, and statistics. And when those efforts don’t move hearts, we stand stunned, asking: How can anyone support Hamas, knowing what they know?

But the brutal reality is—they don’t support Hamas because of what they know. They support Hamas because of what they feel.

This is not a rational battlefield. It’s an emotional one. And we are fighting it with the wrong weapons.

Why Is Emotion So Difficult for Us to Lead With?

The answer is buried in our collective trauma.

For centuries, vulnerability was a liability we could not afford. To survive, Jews learned to suppress emotion, lead with reason, and mask their fears behind strength. This was not weakness—it was adaptation. A survival strategy forged in the fires of persecution.

But survival strategies often become outdated long after the threat has passed. And while our intellectual sharpness has carried us far, it now works against us when emotional attunement is required.

Trauma doesn’t just leave emotional scars—it calcifies entire communication styles. It tells us that to cry is to crumble, that to admit pain is to invite danger. So we speak through the safer language of intellect. We try to prove our pain rather than express it.

But you cannot persuade someone to care about your suffering through evidence alone. You must let them feel it.

Let them hear the break in your voice. Let them see the grief in your eyes. Let them feel the heartbreak, not as a distant historical event, but as a present and living wound.

This is what moves people. This is what breaks the trance of propaganda.

And yet, my research found that Israelis, speaking from a place of national trauma, are widely perceived by Americans as “cold,” “entitled,” and “uncaring.” This is the tragedy of trauma: it suppresses vulnerability, robs communication of warmth, and makes emotional resonance nearly impossible.

We cannot hope to be seen as fully human if we refuse to show our humanity.

Blindspot #2: Confusing Activism with Catharsis

The second blindspot is even more insidious because it masquerades as strength: the conflation of activism with catharsis.

Trauma demands emotional release. And understandably, when we’re overwhelmed by fear, pain, and rage, we want to do something—anything—to discharge that unbearable energy.

But too much of what we call activism today is really an internal release valve. We correct. We scold. We shame. We deliver monologues of moral outrage that feel powerful in the moment—but do little to create connection or change minds.

This is not activism. This is emotional self-soothing.

Why do we choose this path? Because outrage is easier than grief. Indignation feels powerful. Grief feels helpless. And catharsis lets us avoid the terrifying vulnerability of actually feeling our pain.

But here’s the hard truth: what feels good to express is often the least effective at creating change.

If we’re honest, much of our advocacy is designed to make us feel morally superior rather than strategically effective. We aim to win the argument instead of winning hearts.

But persuasion isn’t about proving how right we are—it’s about helping others see themselves in us.

Effective Activism Is Audience-Centered, Not Advocate-Centered

True activism asks a much harder question:

• Who is the audience? 
• What do they fear? What do they long for? 
• What emotional language do they speak? 

If you don’t know the emotional ecosystem of your audience, you can’t meet them where they are. And if you can’t meet them where they are, they will never follow you to where you want them to go.

We speak in a language rich with meaning to us—words like antisemitism and Zionism—and expect others to feel their weight. But most Americans don’t. These words sound abstract, political, even alien.

So why not translate?

• Instead of antisemitism, talk about exclusion, fear, and erasure. 
• Instead of Zionism, talk about belonging, safety, and continuity. 

These words tap into universal human experiences. They evoke the emotional landscapes that Americans already understand—the fear of being excluded, the yearning for belonging, the instinct to protect what is ours.

Even our slogans reveal this misalignment. Stand with Israel sounds tribal and transactional. Free Palestine feels urgent, emotional, and rooted in America’s own revolutionary identity.

Pro-Palestinian activists have mastered emotional strategy. When America grapples with its legacy of racism, they cast themselves as brown victims versus white oppressors. When distrust of power rises, they become rebels against the system. They don’t just tell their story—they tailor it to the emotional currents already swirling in the culture.

And because they meet America where it is, they are heard.

The Courage to Do What Actually Works

The most effective strategies rarely offer the immediate emotional gratification that trauma-trained instincts crave. Real progress is slow. It rustles before it roars.

It sounds like this:

• “I still don’t like what Israel is doing, but I guess it’s more complicated than I thought.” 
• “I didn’t realize Israelis struggle with these things too.” 
• “It’s not really about all Israelis—it’s their government I have a problem with.” 

For those who have spent years immersed in advocacy, these concessions may feel hollow. But they are not. They are the cracks where light begins to enter.

We must learn to measure success not by the thunder of applause or the satisfaction of “winning” the argument, but by the quiet shift in perception.

That small moment when someone pauses, hesitates, and begins to see Israelis not as a symbol, but as a people.

Conclusion: Tikkun Olam Begins with Tikkun Atzmi

The greatest obstacle to more effective pro-Israel advocacy is not public ignorance. It’s our own resistance to vulnerability.

The most effective antidotes to anti-Zionist propaganda require a kind of emotional attunement that the Jewish community, for all its strength and resilience, has long struggled to access.

That struggle is not a failure of conviction. It is the heartbreaking legacy of trauma.

But if we are truly committed to Tikkun Olam—the repair of the world—we must first embrace Tikkun Atzmi: the repair of ourselves.

This is the hardest work. It asks us to sit with our discomfort. To risk being misunderstood. To soften the armor forged in the fires of our history and let ourselves be seen—not as a cause or a case to defend, but as human beings carrying grief, hope, and a longing for connection.

And in the end, that may be the most powerful form of activism there is.

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The full report can be found at AttuneNow.org