The Cave of Israel

I once lived in a country where thinking differently was dangerous. In Brazil, during the military dictatorship, words were like sharp knives, and the fragmented truth reached us diluted, almost unrecognizable. And now, here in Israel, I see something that brings a familiar discomfort. The news channels don’t just omit—they accept. What hurts is not the silence itself—this passive acceptance, this tired complacency that churns my stomach.

I chose to live here. I wasn’t born under this sky, but I decided this would be the land where I would plant my roots. My love for Israel runs deep, and that’s why I refuse to accept that anyone might question that love because I won’t embrace blindness. To truly love a land is to open your eyes, even when what you see is unsettling. And what I see now disturbs me.

The war drags on in Gaza and Lebanon, but on the screens here in Israel, what we get is a sanitized reality, without the acrid smell of gunpowder, without the sound of pain. Yes, there are faces and voices, but they are only ours. Our story is told, and the others are just shadows. Gaza becomes a blur; the lives lost there vanish into nothingness. The ruins, the muffled echoes among the rubble—all of it seems to evaporate in the heat of a convenient narrative.

Journalism, which should be the lantern that shines into uncomfortable corners, has become another shadow on the wall. It’s not just the Arab commentators who have been pushed aside; the very will to question, to look beyond the immediate, has been gutted. Trustworthy journalism faces the truth head-on, even when it’s painful. It should make us reflect, but what I see on our Israeli channels is an echo that lulls us into comfort.

I understand that, for many, criticizing is like speaking ill of your own family. It’s naturally uncomfortable. But to truly love is to accept imperfections and understand that we are not 100% heroes or 100% villains. It’s part of growing up, part of being an adult. Disregarding what bothers us isn’t love—cowardice.

I love Israel. And it’s precisely because of this love that I refuse to accept the watered-down reality they serve us. The army spokesperson conducts the broadcasts with surgical precision, and any deviation from the official melody is swiftly silenced. Those who could bring light to these shadows have been pushed off the stage. There is a script to be followed as if reality itself could be controlled with a simple camera angle. It takes me back to Brazil when disagreement was subversive, a risk that only a few dared take.

Back then, censorship was explicit, almost brutal. Here, it disguises itself as patriotism, as security. But make no mistake, the effect is the same: what isn’t shown doesn’t disappear. Gaza bleeds, and we look away. We watch the shadows on the wall, comforted by a convenient story. And those who dare to leave the cave are branded as traitors. But since when does loving Israel mean accepting blindness? True love demands that we see everything—the beautiful and the unbearable.

I’ve lived long enough to understand the danger of conformity, of this consenting silence. Here, the shadows have started to merge with what we believe to be accurate. What isn’t said and hidden from us weighs more than the words we hear. Gaza isn’t a distant specter; it’s not a blurred figure on the horizon. It’s a brutal, painful reality that we deliberately ignore. And this choice to ignore, more than anything else, crushes me.

It’s not just the silence that frightens me—it’s this calm acceptance of shadows as if they were enough. This fragile and fleeting life cannot be lived in shadows. I am tired of them. They suffocate; they weigh more than the silence itself. Loving Israel means wanting more than this. It means wanting to leave the cave to face the sun, even if the light burns our eyes for a moment.

Maybe I am like that prisoner in Plato’s cave who dared to leave the shadows and see the light. If that makes me a dissident, so be it because true love is not fearing the light, even when it forces us to see what we would rather ignore.