Stranger in My Own Country
For many of my friends in the United States, Israel has become an increasingly contested subject. Some see it as a democratic society struggling to survive in a hostile region. Others see a country gradually losing its moral character. The images emerging from Israel – settler violence, racist incitement, extremist politicians, and attacks on democratic institutions – make it difficult for many American Jews to distinguish between the government and the state, between violent actors and Israeli society as a whole.
Yet one essential truth is often lost in this conversation: millions of Israelis are looking at those same images and experiencing a profound sense of alienation. Not merely concern, and not merely criticism, but deep shame. At times, it feels as though they are living in a country they still love, yet increasingly struggle to recognize as their own.
The title Stranger in My Own Country is borrowed from the German writer Hans Fallada, who described the sense of estrangement he experienced as Germany changed before his eyes. There is, of course, no place for simplistic historical comparisons. Yet the underlying idea remains relevant: a person may continue to live in their homeland, speak its language, and love its landscapes, while feeling that something essential in its spirit and character is being transformed before their eyes. This feeling is familiar to many Israelis today.
These Israelis do not see themselves as opponents of the state; quite the opposite. They regard themselves as heirs to a different tradition – a tradition that believed a Jewish and democratic state must also be a state governed by law; that military power must remain subject to moral constraints; that human rights are not a liberal luxury but a necessary condition for a decent society; that Judaism cannot be reduced to nationalism alone; and that love of one’s country does not require blindness to its flaws.
When these Israelis witness violence by settlers against Palestinians, they feel no pride but shame. When government ministers engage in racist rhetoric, they do not see political courage but moral failure. When public figures facing serious criminal allegations seek to weaken the rule of law and undermine public institutions, they do not applaud; they are deeply alarmed. And when Itamar Ben-Gvir rises from the political fringe to a senior ministerial position, they do not see a triumph of democracy but evidence of its fragility.
The problem extends beyond any particular policy. At its heart lies a broader shift in cultural and social norms. Any democracy can survive a period of poor governance. It is far more difficult to withstand a situation in which behavior once regarded as unacceptable becomes normalized. When violence fades into background noise, when incitement is met with indifference, and when the degradation of public life no longer provokes outrage, the danger is not only political. It threatens the moral character of society itself.
At the same time, it is important for American readers to understand something else. Israel is not only what appears in the images that reach them. Israeli society also includes thousands of human-rights activists, scholars, scientists, educators, and public intellectuals who continue to defend liberal and humanistic values. It includes the hundreds of thousands who filled the streets to protect democratic institutions. It includes civic organizations that fight racism and violence, and Jewish and Arab citizens who continue, despite everything, to work toward a shared society.
These voices are not marginal. They are sometimes pushed aside by louder and more aggressive political forces, but they represent a deep and longstanding tradition within Israeli society – a tradition of debate, self-criticism, and moral responsibility. This is the Israel that believed power should serve values rather than replace them; the Israel that understood democracy as more than a mechanism for majority rule; the Israel that recognized that the true test of a society lies in how a strong majority treats a vulnerable minority.
This is precisely why so many Israelis experience such profound pain today. They are not observing events from a distance. They are not detached spectators. They love this country deeply, and for that very reason they find it difficult to accept the direction in which it is being pulled. Their criticism is rooted not in alienation, but in belonging – in the belief that Israel can be better than it sometimes appears today.
For those watching Israel from afar, it is important not to mistake the most extreme voices for the entire story. Behind the troubling headlines there is another Israel: a concerned Israel, a self-critical Israel, a humanistic Israel. An Israel that does not recognize itself in acts of intimidation, racism, or the glorification of power. An Israel that looks at current events and asks, sometimes with anxiety and sometimes with sorrow: How did we get here?
The struggle over Israel’s character has not yet been decided. It unfolds every day – in the courts, in universities, in the press, in the streets, and in countless homes. Anyone seeking to understand Israel today must be willing to see both of its faces at once: the Israel that inspires concern, and the Israel that continues to fight for hope; the Israel that appears to be drifting from its values, and the Israel that refuses to abandon them.
Many of us – perhaps more than it appears from the outside – still live between these two Israels. We love one, and find ourselves feeling increasingly estranged from the other.
