What a Coffee Shop Has Taught Me About Zionism Right Now

As Jews living outside Israel, many of us are asking the same question — quietly, urgently, sometimes painfully:

How do we support Israel in this moment without reducing our love to slogans, rage, or despair?

Since October 7, Zionism has felt heavier. More complicated. More morally demanding. It is no longer enough to say, I stand with Israel. The question is how we stand — and whether our support strengthens real people living real lives under unbearable pressure.

Earlier in this war, I came across a small coffee-and-pastry business called Oryosss. It has two locations in Israel’s south, in communities along the Gaza Envelope. The owner, Or Shukron, is a pastry chef, a reservist, and a single mother of two daughters, living in Kibbutz Erez, barely 300 meters from Gaza.

Since October 7, Or’s life has been repeatedly disrupted. Her community was evacuated. Her cafés in Kibbutz Erez and Sderot were shuttered. She has been called up several times for reserve duty, even as she tries to care for her children and keep her business alive. Like so many Israelis, she is living with layered trauma — personal, economic, and national — while trying to hold together the fragile threads of normal life.

I learned about Or through SparkIL, a peer-to-peer micro-lending platform created with the support of the Jewish Agency for Israel. I encountered SparkIL through my work on the Jewish Agency’s Board of Governors, where I am involved in conversations about Israel’s resilience, recovery, and the relationship between Israel and world Jewry. Those discussions often take place at the level of policy and strategy. SparkIL reminded me that resilience is ultimately built one human life at a time.

What struck me about Or was not only her resilience, but the quiet dignity of what she was trying to do. She wasn’t asking for pity. She wasn’t asking for charity. She was asking for a chance to keep her business — and her sense of agency — alive.

Making the loan was simple. No bureaucracy. No layers of institutions. No waiting. I saw her story. I made the loan. That was it.

And that moment clarified something essential about my Zionism right now.

Zionism, at this moment, is not theoretical. It is not performative. It is not exhausted by political talking points or social-media declarations. Zionism is about responsibility for the people who are holding the line — emotionally, economically, and morally — so that Israel can still exist as a society worth defending.

I care deeply about Israel’s security. I believe unequivocally in Israel’s right — and obligation — to defend itself against Hamas and those committed to its destruction. I also believe that sustaining Israel means more than military strength. It means ensuring that civilians, small business owners, parents, teachers, and reservists can rebuild lives that are livable.

SparkIL made that tangible.

Months later, I was notified that Or had repaid the loan. I had almost forgotten about it — which, in Jewish terms, is precisely the point. Maimonides teaches that the highest form of tzedakah is helping someone become self-sufficient: to support another through a loan, a partnership, or an opportunity that allows them to stand on their own feet.

This wasn’t charity. It was solidarity.

One of the great challenges facing world Jewry right now is a sense of helplessness. The scale of suffering, the polarization, the moral noise — it can leave people frozen or disconnected. SparkIL does something quietly radical: it restores agency. It reminds us that even small acts, done directly, can matter.

You don’t need to be wealthy to participate. You don’t need to navigate institutions. You don’t need to agree on every political question. You simply need to believe that Israel’s future depends on Israelis being able to rebuild their lives with dignity.

For me, that is Zionism in this moment.

Not blind. Not naïve. Not detached.

But relational. Grounded. Demanding. Human.

And sometimes, it begins with a cup of coffee.