The Guilt of Peace in a Time of War

Yesterday, I sat in a tropical swimming paradise in the Netherlands. My family was with me, and we shared laughter over french fries and sipped coffee while warm water and playful voices echoed around us. It was one of those picture-perfect days, relaxation, privilege, safety. And yet, a deep sadness clung to me, like a silent fog.

I have a job. I have my loved ones close. I sleep soundly at night, undisturbed by sirens or the panic of rockets overhead. I enjoy the quiet freedom of democracy, and the daily luxuries of Western life. Still, I feel the weight of something far away, something that does not touch me directly, but lives deep inside my heart.

I feel guilty for being sad.

Because when I allow myself to pause, when I stop the scrolling and the busyness, I think of Israel.

I think of my friend who lost her brilliant, sweet, gifted, and empathetic grandson in Gaza. He was a captain in the IDF, a true leader, known not just for his intelligence and bravery, but for his deep love for his soldiers. He died protecting them.

I think of the father who just lost his wife in a brutal terrorist attack. She was on her way to the delivery room. Their newborn son clung to life for fifteen days before joining his mother in death. There are no words to describe the enormity of that sorrow.

I think of Yarden Bibas, who had to live through the unimaginable: his wife Shiri and their two young sons, Kfir and Ariel, taken by Hamas terrorists. I think of Eli Sharabi, who lost both his wife and daughters in another attack. The pain these families endure is beyond comprehension.

And yet, somehow, they carry on.

I am in awe of the strength of the Israeli people. In a nation where every family knows someone affected by terror or war, there is a remarkable resilience. Not a hollow slogan, not bravado, but a deep-rooted, unshakable will to live. A will to endure. To survive. To build and rebuild, again and again.

This is not just perseverance, it is the essence of Israel.

What confounds me further is the world’s response. While Israelis bury their loved ones and try to move forward, I open my social media and see waves of antisemitism. In the guise of political criticism, the ugliest forms of Jew-hatred have resurfaced. I see the delegitimization of Israel, calls for its destruction, the denial of Jewish pain, and the celebration of terror.

It’s a betrayal, not just of Israel, but of truth.

Israel is not perfect. No country is. But Israel is a democracy, fighting to defend its citizens, Jews, Muslims, Christians, Druze, and others, from those who glorify death and dream of annihilation. Israel is a country that mourns every fallen soldier, and never stops praying for peace, even when surrounded by enemies.

When I speak to my Israeli friends about my anguish, about my guilt for feeling depressed while my life remains untouched by rockets or funerals, they respond with hope. With calm. With strength.

They tell me, “We will overcome. We always do. Ein li eretz acheret: We have no other land.”

That phrase echoes in me. Ein li eretz acheret.

Israel is not just a piece of land. It is the ancient homeland of the Jewish people, reborn in the ashes of the Holocaust, and held together by faith, unity, and an unbreakable spirit. It is the only place in the world where Jews govern themselves, where they are not a minority but a people restored.

To support Israel is not to ignore the suffering of others. It is to stand against terror, to speak out against antisemitism, to defend the right of a nation to exist in peace and security. It is to see through the lies and propaganda and recognize the humanity of a people who, despite tragedy, still sing, still give, still hope.

So yes, I feel guilt. I feel sadness. But I will not let that turn into silence.

Because Israel must not stand alone. Not now. Not ever.