As many of you have probably heard before, From Here Forward, in one sentence, is an attempt to assist the effort to “slow things down on the ground, speed them up at home.” Having arrived back in the West Bank a few days ago, it is incredibly easy to spot how important this work is. The number of settler outposts is growing daily, land confiscations from Palestinians are constant and varied in their tactics, and for at least the next three months, until the Israeli elections, this will continue. Settlers, like the rest of us, are watching polls that leave Ben Gvir, Smotrich, and likely Netanyahu out of the coalition and out of power. They are seeing discussions of Yair Golan, far from a fan of the settlement movement and settler violence, being talked about as a possible administrator of the West Bank, and know that while things could change and anything is possible, the free rein they currently have could feasibly be coming to an end soon. This will motivate them to take as much as they can, be more aggressive, and consolidate their extensive gains before any real pressure is put on them to change. Families and communities are being targeted, and incursions are constant, with the goal of removing as many Palestinians in Area C (Israeli controlled) from their land as possible and forcing them into Areas A and B (Palestinian Authority-controlled, though even those are being attacked now) or abroad. Whatever we can do that is effective and does not endanger Palestinians, in order to fight back against this until government power changes hands and can shift the macro conditions, we must do so.

For me, that looks like nonviolent resistance and community organizing. Over the next year, I’ll be spending more than half of it in the West Bank, interacting with different communities and hearing their varying stories, doing what is possible to help them stay on their land. Whether that is solidarity presence, assisting in the olive harvest, helping to establish soccer fields and clubs, building, fundraising, or whatever else is requested, I will do what I can for those experiencing the occupation in different ways. All of this is short-term-focused and more individual. Where the work becomes scalable and long-term-focused is back in the US, which I see as the place where we have meaningful power and the country is more likely to be willing and able to create real change on the ground. I am one of many Jewish Americans who have gone and spent time in the West Bank. Many of us have witnessed injustices and horrors, and at the very least have heard the stories of them from people we call friends. Many of us grew up in major Jewish institutions and have close connections with their leaders, rabbis, or politicians, all of whom, in different ways, are enabling things to get worse. We have both the responsibility and the ability to push them. We can tell them our stories, link these tragedies and horrors to their decisions, and implore them to live up to the values they taught us as American Jews: equality, freedom, and a pursuit of justice for all. We must demand that our institutions, leaders, and politicians spend, vote, and advocate differently, in order to move toward the end of the occupation and a fair and just solution for everyone between the river and the sea. Whether that is through laws, sanctions, repurposing spending, or internal community education will depend on where we are coming from. My Reform Movement background enables me to advocate there effectively, but I am not built to, nor do I have the necessary understanding, to know how to move Orthodox communities and leaders. However, someone out there is, and their story will mean more to their district, synagogue, and rabbi than mine will. When not on the ground in the West Bank, I will be traveling around the US, sitting with those who just returned home, and thinking through how they can be the best advocates, storytellers, and activists possible. A powerful story from time on the ground, told only to those who already agree, does not create meaningful impact or change. Many of us have given up on our old institutions and would prefer to build new ones instead. In some cases, I agree with this strategy, but this will take time, and for now, the power, influence, and money remain primarily in the hands of legacy institutions and older leaders. These stories need to be heard by those with their hands on the levers of power, and if they refuse to change, the new institutions will be there. But until that happens, we must continue to try and push.

I cannot expect that everyone reading this will decide to come spend time in the West Bank and engage in solidarity presence work. Our world is not short on pressing issues, and our focus and time are inevitably split. If you are able to do so (and ideally, with the Protect the Harvest campaign!), that is wonderful, but there are plenty of other ways to plug in. If you are here, there is a good chance you find my story to be meaningful. Help me spread it. I would love to come speak at your synagogue or in your community. I would be honored to help you think about what you have lived and seen, and about who to share that story with and how, so that it matters. From Here Forward is currently on Instagram, and over the next few weeks will be on more social media platforms as well. Please follow along! I will also be sharing updates here, which likely won’t feel too different from what I was posting before. I am in an incredibly privileged and special position to be able to do this work, which has called to me for a long time. If you would like to donate to support this work, the link can be found here. Any and all support is greatly appreciated, and at the very minimum, thank you for reading this far. More updates soon.

As I was planning how to announce this project, I realized I had written far too much text for an Instagram post, and decided it would be sent here instead. While I have spent many hours thinking about this project, so much will only be determined and decided when the work truly begins (this summer, after I finish my current job and the World Cup road trip I have planned for years). If you, the reader, find something unclear, have questions, or just have thoughts, please send them to me! This is very much a work in progress, and there is a pretty good chance your question will help me think of something I hadn’t yet considered. Below is an extended version of what those of you on social media have already seen.

We cannot wait any longer. Not for Israel. Not for our institutions. If we care about the future of the Jewish and Palestinian peoples, from here forward, words are not enough. It is time to take action.

After two years of genocide, the State of Israel has not stopped killing Palestinians in Gaza, continues to prevent the entry of the required amount of aid, and is now forcing Gazans into an even smaller area, while settlers, with government support, lay claim to the land seized by the army. In the West Bank, the de facto annexation is nearly complete, with the occupation fully entrenched, apartheid the law of the land, and the ethnic cleansing of the Palestinians happening village by village, day by day. As this has gotten worse and worse in front of our eyes, far too many of our Jewish institutions and their leaders around the world have still not found the courage to speak up, and have stood somewhere between tacitly approving and fully supporting the Israeli government’s actions. For the sake of humanity, the Palestinian people, and the Jewish future, we cannot wait on these institutions any longer.

There was antisemitism long before Israel existed, and even if Israel didn’t exist, antisemitism would not disappear. But in the reality we live in, Israel does exist, and the policies and actions of the Israeli government are a massive factor in the growth of antisemitism worldwide. When our symbols are associated with war crimes committed by laughing and smiling Israeli soldiers as seen on TikTok and Instagram, they become more dangerous to wear and display in public. When our religion is used as a tool to justify murder and displacement and then delegitimize criticism that is valid and deserved, we should not be surprised to see the reputation of something we hold dear tarnished. Either we stand proudly as Jews against these atrocities, or we leave Judaism to be defined by them.

For decades, we have watched as so many Jewish institutions and leaders worldwide have prevented any legitimate criticism of Israel from being heard, and built out massive educational and political networks to allow Israel to do what it wants. They have told us over and over that the end of the occupation and peace will only come when the Palestinians finally are ready to work with an Israeli public and government desperate for peace. Meanwhile, these institutions and leaders refuse to acknowledge the growing fascist tide amongst young Israelis, the increasing governmental power of the settlers and nonstop takeover of land by Israel. The average Israeli is at best apathetic, and at worst supportive of Palestinian suffering. This lack of empathy is borne out in study after study and poll after poll. While I have tremendous respect for and have worked with incredible Israeli Jewish activists, they are a small minority. The future of the Palestinian people must not be contingent on an awakening in Israeli Jewish society, because we cannot continue to wait for a day that is not coming.

In Pirkei Avot, it is written: It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you at liberty to neglect it. The question, therefore, is: as Jews worldwide, what is our work? In one sentence: slow things down on the ground, speed them up at home. As individuals, we cannot stop ethnic cleansing. But when standing with and supporting Palestinians on the ground, we can slow it down and use our bodies and our privilege to keep Palestinians in their homes and on their land for as long as possible. When we return home, we must share what we witnessed and experienced with our communities, and push them towards an understanding of how support for the policies of this state is bad for our own safety, bad for the future of Judaism, and most importantly, enables a horrific reality for Palestinians. One board meeting, one conference, one election at a time, we will push and drag our community towards the pursuit of justice, peace, freedom, and equality for all.

In 1972, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote in The Reasons for My Involvement in the Peace Movement, “The more deeply immersed I became in the thinking of the prophets, the more powerfully it became clear to me what the lives of the Prophets sought to convey: that morally speaking, there is no limit to the concern one must feel for the suffering of human beings, that indifference to evil is worse than evil itself, that in a free society, some are guilty, but all are responsible.” We were not present for the failures of previous generations. We were not in power when the decisions that brought us here were made. We do not, and will not ever have the ability to change the actions our ancestors took. We are not guilty of their mistakes. We are, however, responsible for fixing them.

From Here Forward is a project where we will leverage our bodies, words, experiences, privilege, and connections to slow ethnic cleansing and push the global Jewish community to live the values it proudly claims.

We will work alongside Palestinians on the ground who are resisting apartheid, and we will return home to push our communities to stop enabling it—by changing how and for whom we spend, vote, lobby, and protest. We will not hesitate to call out antisemitism, and we will not stand by while those who seek only to prevent legitimate criticism of Israel ultimately weaken it.

We will no longer accept the platitudes and weak statements of the past. We will be known for and judged by our actions. We will be realistic, honest, and unflinching in our assessment of the reality we have inherited, and we will be hopeful, confident, and determined in our ability to create a better one.

I do not think it is too late for us to turn the tide. I certainly don’t think I or this project will be the difference. But this is the hill I have chosen, and I think it’s the right one for me to fight on. I believe we can keep Palestinians in their homes in the West Bank, change Jewish communities in New York, London, Buenos Aires, and around the world, and ensure safety for Palestinians and Jews, all at the same time. It is both in our self-interest and our moral duty, because the perception of Judaism and Jews for the foreseeable future will be determined by this battle. I intend to raise Jewish children, and I want them to grow up in a community and religion that clearly and unequivocally stands for freedom, justice, and peace. I want them to feel safe and proud wearing our symbols, celebrating our holidays, and sharing their history with their friends. I want them to be able to sit with the children of my Palestinian friends as equals, to join an iftar and host a Shabbat dinner in Jerusalem, or Masafer Yatta, or New York City, and know they can make it. There is a lot to be done to bring that reality into existence, but the arc of justice only bends when you pick up the hammer and start swinging. The iron is hot, and the work is calling our names.

If you would like to donate to support my work or read more, links for both can be found here. If you would prefer to donate through bank transfer, please reach out. Thank you again for reading, critiquing, questioning, donating, and believing.

My twenties end on Monday. I was going to post this then, but I decided I was going to walk 30 miles that day and make some #content, so here it is. I lived on four continents (and Europe was not one), drove across the country and back three times, worked in and as a soccer coach, personal assistant, line cook, farmer, trip counselor, bike taxi driver, canvasser, union organizer, research assistant, construction worker, weed trimmer, Jewish educator, data entry worker, childcare provider, and then some other fun stuff. My time as a grandchild ended, and my time as an uncle began. I knocked on thousands of doors for candidates and causes, did some activism here and there, and contributed to meaningful changes, including keeping people in their homes. I also went to jail for a night in two countries, went to rehab, lost a dear friend in front of my eyes, and each of those experiences shaped me. I made some terrible decisions, and I got lucky more times than I deserved to. I intend to make all of that mean something.

These were 10 years spent making beautiful memories with the people here and so many more. I will cherish the ones with those who are gone, and look forward to creating more with those whom I am blessed enough to spend the next 10 with.

As you read this, most likely I am somewhere around the perimeter of Manhattan, occasionally recording myself opining on some combination of the current debates around Israel and Palestine, antisemitism, and longstanding thoughts I have on private schools, Greek life, sneaker culture, dark chocolate, and the brilliance of Eddington. I originally thought I would share an opinion for every mile, but after some reflection with my roommate on the list I put together, we decided a tight 15 would be much better content. As I am writing this, my two major hopes for things I would be announcing on my birthday are unfortunately still a few days or weeks away, and I have no desire to jinx anything. But if all goes as planned, in a sea of despair, I will soon have some driftwood of hope and joy to hang on to. What I can say is that come August, I will be moving toward working in the Palestine and Israel space full time, and spending good chunks of my time on the ground, primarily in the West Bank. I am quite excited to be doing something that means so much to me, and very thankful to the people who are helping make this possible. It is very possible that for other people in my life, this felt inevitable, but I think the Instagram caption shows that the road to this point was quite windy and certainly did not seem to have a clear endpoint. Hopefully soon, I will be sharing the updates that I have been working on for months. For now, I wanted to stop for a second and reflect on how this became my reality.

I started my 20s convinced that I was going to join the Israeli army. At that time, I was both very enamored with my ex-girlfriend from my gap year program in Israel, and surrounded by friends from that program who were soldiers. I felt guilt that I had left them to serve while I returned to America to go to college, and above all, I was already thinking about where I could have the most impact. Israeli society was still comfortable for me at that time, obviously much smaller, and while the rightward lean was clear, it did not feel inevitable. I believed, as so many claim within Israeli society, that serving, ideally in an elite combat forces unit, would be the best way to legitimize left-wing views that often get others labeled traitors in Israel.

Yet as the years went on, I engaged in more discussions with Palestinians on my college campus, watched my friends finish their army service and saw the importance of it in their lives rapidly decrease, felt disgusted by repeated operations in Gaza, and became more engaged in US politics as the first Trump era found new ways to shock me daily. My desire to join the Israeli army all but disappeared. What became clear to me during that period were two principles that continue to guide me in this work.

The first was that nothing I could do in Israel would legitimize the views I held to much of Israeli society. Even when those same views were held by generals or elite combat soldiers, it still did not matter. They were marginalized, with new ways constantly found to ignore their points and instead focus on why they themselves were not legitimate messengers. I realized that most of the time, these were not good-faith arguments, especially when coming from people whose job it was to do hasbara. It was never about who I was. It was always that what I was saying was already out of bounds for the majority of Israeli society, and given the direction the society was moving, that was only going to intensify.

The second principle was the one that allowed me to combat the opposing feelings of young love, which was the last element keeping me considering a return. It became clear that while Donald Trump, or at that time any Republican, was president, Israel would be able to do what it wanted, with no US push to return to the negotiating table. I decided that I needed to take part, in whatever small way I could, in getting Donald Trump out of the Oval Office, both for the sake of any progress in the Middle East and because I continued to feel more American and less Israeli with each passing day. I was confident that I wanted to build my life primarily in the United States, and it was clear we were moving in a dangerous direction, which in the context of the first year of the second Trump era and everything that has happened since, feels like an understatement. My ex-girlfriend was not interested in waiting an additional year for me to move to Israel once I told her I wanted to help Democrats take back Congress and the White House. When she unfriended me on Facebook and blocked me on WhatsApp, the last string that kept me attached to moving back there finally snapped.

As I was finishing college in 2019, I was laser-focused on the Senate, where I felt that whoever won the crowded presidential primaries would determine whether an agenda lived or died. I narrowed my picks for who I wanted to work for down to Mark Kelly and Raphael Warnock (impressive political instincts, if I do say so myself), and ultimately decided to drive to Arizona and try to get a job on Kelly’s campaign. Not long after I arrived, COVID hit, organizing went fully virtual, hiring froze, and I drove home. The election played out the way it did, and when it became clear that Ossoff and Warnock were going to be the difference between anything passing or not, I packed my car, drove to Georgia, and spent two months knocking doors. It was an incredibly meaningful experience where I primarily worked with hotel and casino workers from across the country, hearing all their stories about what this election would mean for them, and how COVID had impacted their lives. It felt like a momentous moment when we won, despite the results being confirmed on January 6th. More than ever, I felt like part of the project of building multiracial democracy in the United States, and what was happening in Palestine/Israel had been relegated to a distant second as the focus on rebuilding the US after the first Trump term began.

I remained locked into US politics for the first year and a half of the Biden administration, but by late 2021, I was thinking about my next real step after a string of odd jobs. I felt a desire to return to studying Arabic and to reengage with Israel and Palestine after years away. I reached out to my cousin, whose Arabic I knew was terrific, and she told me that she was leading an Arabic and activism program in the West Bank that I should join. I deliberated between that and moving to the Bay Area, and ended up buying the plane ticket.

I spent four months primarily on the ground in Masafer Yatta, and what had previously been things I knew existed under occupation became things I saw happen with my own eyes to my friends living under occupation. I had gone from planning to join the army four years earlier to standing against Israeli soldiers with my Palestinian friends, and it quickly became hard for me to conceptualize how I had ever thought I would do what the soldiers I met there were doing. I left not long after being in Umm Al Kheir when Hajj Suleiman Al Hathaleen was run over and murdered by a settler’s truck. I attended his funeral and spent a night in Israeli jail with other activists. I was forever changed, and over the next few years, each time I returned, more and more of each visit was spent in the West Bank. It was a place that 95 percent of my Israeli friends, many of whom I was slowly losing relationships with and becoming too radical for, had never been outside of uniform.

When I returned to the United States, I was posting, writing, and thinking about Palestine and Israel, but I was far more worried about American midterms than Israeli elections. At the same time, I was trying to figure out my path to New York City. In the summer of 2023, I returned to Israel for a friend’s wedding. The first night I was there, I attended one of the mass protests of the time with the anti-occupation bloc, and for the first time in years, it felt like saying the word occupation was returning to the zeitgeist. Even centrists seemed to be starting to consider the impact it was having on their society.

In my final days there, I received news that I would be starting an internship with a labor union in New York City. While I left for home considering more seriously than at any point since 2019 that I might move to Israel for an extended period, I was excited to finally be moving to New York and to be doing work that I found similarly important, meaningful, and cool. I spent the first few weeks of my time in New York City working out of LaGuardia Airport, learning the basics of organizing, and immediately looking for a new sublet after moving into my first one. I liked what I was doing, and since I was not working night shifts yet, I was starting to build out my life. Things were moving in the right direction.

On the night of October 6, a group of my best friends were in town, and we were out when I checked my phone at around 1:00 a.m. on the 7th and understood what was happening on the ground. I went home and barely slept. On October 9, I had my first day at JFK, where I would be trying to prove to the union that I deserved to continue with them. Most days, I arrived at JFK around 3 or 4 p.m., stayed until 10:30 or 11:00, and got home around 11:30. I did not have much of a life beyond work, the gym, and posting my anger away online. Every day involved attempting to do a job that is already incredibly difficult, while constantly opening my phone to new reports of horrors and atrocities. This lasted throughout my time at JFK, until I was eventually sent to Philadelphia International Airport as a final test before being offered a full-time job. I lived in an airport hotel, worked a split shift, and after being told I would be there for a month, stayed almost three months. I wrote the first post of this blog during my final week there, having decided that whether or not they offered me the job, this was not the life I wanted to live. I loved being a union organizer, and there were definitely parts of it that I was good at. But I was never able to focus on it fully, not for a single day during my entire time doing it. Whether or not I was willing to acknowledge it then, even without October 7, Palestine and Israel inspired the most passion and action from me. The union passing on me allowed me to start fully accepting that, and for that, along with so many other meaningful lessons, I cannot thank them enough.

I found a job working as an educator at a synagogue and spent a year writing and thinking about the conflict and genocide, but not much beyond that. Protests felt largely meaningless and devoid of impact to me, and I was not in charge of any of the education around Israel at the synagogue. My job gave me nearly a three-month summer vacation, and relatively early in the year, I decided that I wanted to spend it in the West Bank, reengaging with the reality on the ground and continuing my Arabic studies.

I reached out to Awdah Hathaleen, whom I had worked with on the soccer field in Umm Al Khair for years, and once I confirmed my dates, asked whether he wanted me to make content while I was on the ground. In the years since I had last spent meaningful time there, short-form video content had dramatically increased in popularity. While I had minimal experience with it myself, I had at least one idea for a video that I thought would do well.

On my first day after arriving, I posted my first-ever Instagram reel talking about my experience arriving in the West Bank and how it would have been different if I were Palestinian. A week later, I had gone from 1,000 followers on Instagram to 10,000, and I kept growing. I spent much of the summer thinking about what that meant for my future and how to turn something that was constantly growing into something meaningful. While not entirely related to one of my hopefully soon-to-be announcements, I believe I have an answer.

What comes next, in many ways, is far beyond my control. Death in Gaza continues. Trump appears to have no interest in preventing the continued suffering of Palestinians, and far more interest in securing beachfront property for his future hotels. In the West Bank, illegal Israeli settlements expand weekly, while Palestinian villages grow smaller and less populated. Israeli elections loom large, and in the United States, the discussion around Palestine and Israel rages, with likely huge implications for the 2026 and 2028 elections. A small following on social media is not meaningless, but I, along with so many of my allies, Israeli, Palestinian, and otherwise, am still very far from having any meaningful ability to grab the wheel of the ship and steer it in a positive direction. I hope that when I write an update to this post in a few years, that has changed. For at least the next three years, my mission will be to do the work to make that more likely. For now, thank you to everyone reading, whether or not you were part of this journey. I hope to be back in the near future bearing good news, including both something to smile about and something to invest in and participate in. I wish you all a happy New Year, and may we find the courage and strength to make 2026 the year things changed for the better.

My name is Mattan. I am a Jewish New Yorker, and on Saturday, I voted for Zohran Mamdani. I want to talk about why.

I firmly believe that New York City is the best place to be Jewish in the history of our religion. It served as a safe haven for so many of our ancestors fleeing oppression and searching for opportunity, and our roots here are generations deep. My grandmother was born in East New York, Brooklyn, to immigrant parents in 1930. We have been safe, become economically prosperous, and politically powerful. We are spoiled for choice in styles of prayer, cultures, and opportunities to build community.

I would love to raise a family here, and Zohran’s proposals for free childcare, investment in public education, and more affordable housing would allow so many New Yorkers to continue living here and give their children the experiences they themselves love so much. What I hear from parts of the Jewish community is that they fear for their safety because of Zohran’s beliefs around Israel and Palestine and have made claims of antisemitism.

Let us be clear: the Israeli government’s current actions make us far more unsafe than anything Zohran Mamdani has, will, or even can do. The Jewish state is blowing up hospitals, schools, and relief centers in Gaza, sending its army to protect and support violent settler terrorists trying to ethnically cleanse the West Bank, and burning and painting our symbols on destroyed Palestinian buildings and tortured Palestinian bodies. Videos of these things come across the screens of New Yorkers every single day. Being associated with this and supporting it is what makes us unsafe. A plurality of Jewish New Yorkers overall and a majority of young Jewish New Yorkers know this.

Jewish New Yorkers supporting Zohran are not self hating, we are not kapos, we are not antisemitic. We refuse to turn a blind eye to occupation, apartheid, blockade, or genocide. We believe in equality, safety, affordability, and freedom, and we will support candidates who agree, no matter the color of their skin or the god they pray to. I refuse to let fearmongering, ethno supremacy, and Islamophobia win. I choose solidarity, shared prosperity, and hope instead.

For longtime readers and those with whom I speak frequently, this might feel like a greatest hits of the months since I returned from the West Bank. It received many of the same comments that many of my videos received, with very few surprises. I was told repeatedly that I was not actually Jewish, that Israel’s existence is what has allowed me even to speak this way, that Mamdani would soon be bringing sharia law to New York, and we would see how I felt about him a few years from now. Right now, I am not interested in responding to any of these absurd claims, though perhaps a future post might. I want instead to talk about safety, what that actually looks like, and what we as Jews can do to ensure that we and our communities are safe.

One way to explore this issue is to focus on the mayoral race where antisemitism took center stage over the past year. Andrew Cuomo constantly claimed that Mamdani was an antisemite, and that his denial of Israel’s right to exist as a Jewish state was antisemitic. His repeated attempts to convince New Yorkers that Mamdani’s opposition to Jewish supremacy implied Jew hate failed, as Mamdani made it clear that he was opposed to apartheid and inequality, and when not being demanded to speak on a foreign policy issue, focused on affordability. During his final months as mayor, Eric Adams decided, perhaps in some sort of fuck you to Zohran Mamdani, that he would visit Israel. Yesterday, he posted about his visit to IMI Academy, which he described as “a leader in training military counter terrorism and law enforcement forces,” while wearing an NYPD hat. This felt particularly ironic given the clamor and outrage over the unearthing of a statement by Zohran that “when the boot of the NYPD is on your neck, it has been laced by the IDF.” Just a few hours ago, Mayor Adams visited the City of David, which is part of a larger ethnic cleansing project to remove Palestinians from East Jerusalem, specifically the neighborhood of Silwan. Perhaps most tellingly, while in Jerusalem yesterday, he was quoted saying that “I wanted to come back here to Israel and let you know that I served you as the mayor.” Not only is this an absurd thing for him to say, and particularly so in the face of the pressing issues facing New York City and its residents on a daily basis, it is actively bad and dangerous for Jews in New York and everywhere outside of Israel. We must call this out. In Israel, this might fly, because Jewish supremacy is the law of the land. But here, we are part of the collective. That is our safety. We benefit from being one minority among many and largely being perceived as white in America. This has allowed us to blend, assimilate, and succeed in a manner denied to many other minority groups.

Interestingly, while most members of the ultra Orthodox communities of Brooklyn did not vote for Mamdani in large numbers, their leaders met with him, did not endorse Cuomo, and came out strongly against claims that Mamdani was antisemitic. If any community is likely to suffer the ramifications of growing antisemitism, it is this one. Ultra Orthodox Jews are the most visibly identifiable members of our community. They, unlike many rabbis around the country, did not feel the need to release a unique letter claiming that Mamdani was dangerous. Nor did they announce they would be tracking his movements and appointments after his victory was announced, like the ADL. Ultra Orthodox Jewish leadership in Brooklyn largely recognized the difference between policy disagreements and bigotry. Many others in our community are failing to do so, and this puts our safety at risk. It should not be too hard to understand why becoming the community who cried wolf would put us in serious danger.

It is, without a doubt, important for us to speak up when we witness or encounter antisemitism. When we do so, we should remember that people are not born bigots. They are taught these beliefs or pick them up from their experiences. Whether someone picked up their hatred of others from being persecuted, victimizing themselves, or simply absorbing what their parents and community believed, any violence that stems from it has the same impact. If a Palestinian living abroad, whose family was violently removed from their home and who is angry about the ongoing genocide in Gaza, were to attack a Jewish community center hosting a Yom Haatzmaut event celebrating the State of Israel, or a white nationalist who has never met a Jew, hates Muslims and Arabs as well, and was taught online that the reason they are unemployed and unpartnered is because of Jewish control of banks and society, were to attack an openly anti Zionist synagogue, the result is the same: Jews will be hurt, potentially devastatingly so. Our goals must be threefold: 1) be prepared to defend ourselves in case of attack, 2) minimize the number of attacks, and 3) unfortunately, limit such attacks to those by individuals, not larger forces. There are, unfortunately, many bigots, some who prioritize their hatred of Jews, many who do not. Many of them consider Jews particularly evil. More often, however, we are simply another group that is not them, that threatens their way of life. Because of that, we deserve less.

I do not believe that antisemitism is a uniquely dangerous evil. It has existed for a long time, long before the modern movement of Zionism and the founding of the State of Israel. It has taken many different forms and iterations. But it is a bigotry not dissimilar to many other forms of bigotry. I do believe it is important to approach the fight against antisemitism in a way that is grounded in realism and our current situation. Much in the same way that I believe that analyzing Zionism as an ideology is less important than analyzing the reality that the Zionist project has created, when it comes to antisemitism I believe we must focus on how things actually are, not how we would like them to be or imagine them. The antisemitism we face today is not the antisemitism Jews faced generations ago in Europe, or the Arab World. For me, that means recognizing that during my lifetime, antisemitism will almost certainly continue to exist. Its power may wax and wane, but it will not altogether disappear. What we must focus on is preventing antisemites from gaining power. Individual attacks are hard to predict and hence difficult to prevent. But their threat pales in comparison to the impact targeted state power can have. It is a lot easier, or at the very least will demand fewer casualties and less violence, to fight back one man at the doors of a synagogue or Jewish community center than a militia or, G-d forbid, the military or police.

Accepting that this is the reality, we must focus on what we can do to prevent the growth of antisemitism so that state institutions and forces are not controlled by people who intend to use them against us and almost certainly other minority groups. Any good organizer or political campaign figures out who they need to speak to, and who is at the moment beyond their reach and not worth their time. We too need to focus on what one might describe as the “antisemitism curious” population.

If you believe that people are not born as antisemites, and that there are antisemites, then you must accept that at some point, people become antisemitic. This can occur for many different reasons, but it is clear that some people in our society are more susceptible to becoming antisemites than others. Perhaps they are conspiracy-minded, or they see patterns that may or may not exist. One of the interesting things about antisemitism is that throughout history, it has been spurred by the beliefs both that “Jews are undermining society” and that “Jews are controlling society.” There are also not that many Jews, and we tend to be congregated in very specific locations, as well as industries. It is simply very clear that there is no shortage of people who might not currently be antisemitic, but could be convinced to be. If “why” is largely unanswerable for so many, the questions then becomes: how can this be prevented as much as possible, & what is in our control?

We, the Jews, are not a large people. Two thirds of our total population around the entire world would equal just the dues paying members of Christians United For Israel in the United States. There is only one state that claims to fully represent us, where our symbols are used, and our holidays are celebrated, and our history and holy books are part of the public school curriculum. When that state acts, especially when it claims to represent all of us, there are consequences for Jews throughout the world. This is not right, or fair, or just. But it is true. And pretending otherwise will do us no good. We must talk about antisemitism with an understanding that saying something is true or real does not mean you are happy about it or support it. It is just an acceptance of what exists. So when a water treatment plant is destroyed in Gaza by Israeli soldiers, and a massive Star of David is painted on it, that symbol becomes associated with those actions. When “liberal” Israeli newscasters claim that they would support Mamdani because they want there to be more antisemitism and for all the Jews to come to Israel, we become even more affiliated with Islamophobia and hatred. When verses from the Torah are inscribed on missiles that are used to blow up hospitals, refugee camps, and entire families, our holy book becomes synonymous with those actions. When American Jewish institutions hold events where occupied land in the West Bank can be purchased, and hoist Israeli flags and banners claiming that they stand with Israel, even as the evidence for what is happening on the ground becomes increasingly damning, we become linked with these actions, even as we are not Israeli. And when this happens, it should not be surprising that the overall estimation of the Jewish people falls around the world, regardless of how many people actually made the decisions to take these actions or support them.

Two and a half years ago, many people were antisemitism curious. A large fraction of those are likely now antisemitic. I do not believe global Jewry, or every individual Jew, is at fault for what occurred in Israel over this period. It is unfair to place the blame entirely on us. There might be causes for the hate, but the hate is not reasonable. Unfortunately, fairness and reasonableness do not matter in the aftermath of violence that changes people’s lives. And if we are playing realpolitik, and recognize that we do not want to have to move neighborhoods or cities, much less countries, we need to flip the script and think about ourselves first, not Israel. We cannot be happy, as rumors of secret Jewish control of our institutions run rampant, that a mayor went to Israel and told them he represented them, or that a senator from Pennsylvania seems more concerned with sending weapons to fascists and convicted terrorists abroad than ensuring his constituents access to healthcare. We should be able to recognize that a mayor elect’s hesitance to condemn saying “globalize the intifada” cannot compare to the real horrors millions have watched for over two years daily on their phones. I have barely addressed the growing tide of antisemitism in the Republican Party here, both because I always assumed that was there and because I see no way to stop it. But as neo Nazis are platformed and listened to there, we need to abandon institutions like the ADL that claim to be fighting antisemitism but are preoccupied with policing speech about Israel and seem uninterested in the rise of real, genuine antisemitic speech. Hate is rapidly spreading, and instead of combating it, they are weaponizing fear and false narratives to push a completely different agenda that does nothing to keep us safe. As the murders in Gaza continue and settler violence accelerates, public opinion about Israel will only trend more and more negative, and Jews around the world will only suffer as we continue to be linked with a state maintaining an occupation and enforcing apartheid. A genuine interest in combating antisemitism coupled with action would look like separating and differentiating ourselves from the state, and, even if it comes from a place of love and care, demanding that things on the ground dramatically change before we can return to supporting it. It would also involve our institutions, like the ADL and AJC, not cozying up to fascists in America who endanger us in order to maintain Jewish supremacy abroad. We are not safer in Israel as Jews, and what we have created here deserves to be cherished and maintained. I maintain hope that one day there will be something to be truly proud of between the river and the sea. But I refuse to let that hope blind me to the danger that betting on Israel to keep me safe creates.

What has been on my mind more, and what I would like to talk about here, relates to the statements many Israeli government ministers have made and the actions Israeli settlers are taking. In both the West Bank and Gaza, for many years there have been large chunks of Israeli society with a strong desire to remove, one way or another, the entirety of the Palestinian population and settle the land. For the majority of that time, most Jews elsewhere and the rest of Israeli society dismissed or ignored them and treated them as radicals. What I want to explore in this piece is what it would look like for us as diaspora Jews to treat them seriously, and what we can and must do if they succeed in their goals.

Some of my first memories of “red lines” come from Barack Obama’s tenure as president. In 2012, he stated that any use of chemical weapons by Syrian President Bashar al-Assad would lead to U.S. military intervention. When the crossing of those red lines did not lead to the promised actions and consequences, the Obama administration was derided and declared weak. I am not here to argue whether or not there should have been U.S. military intervention in Syria. That is very far outside my wheelhouse. What I was absorbing at the time, with the fallout of those decisions playing heavily into the politics of my high school and college years until today, is that when actions don’t have consequences, and you set boundaries that you don’t enforce, you will be exploited and taken advantage of. Without straying too far into therapy speak, setting boundaries without enforcement of incursions past them, on a personal and political level, is the fast track to not being taken seriously and being ignored.

When talking about the American Jewish community and setting red lines, everything needs to be premised on this: we are too late. We had ample time, many years, to be, or at least be perceived as being, proactive in doing this. That time has passed; everything is reactive, and we will be living with our choices and failures for the rest of our time in this country. Looking at the foreseeable future, the best day to be an American Jew for the rest of our lives is the day you are reading this, because from here on out it is only going to get worse. The state that claims to represent the Jewish people, which uses our symbols and our stories, becomes more of a pariah state every single day. It is perpetrating a genocide, ethnically cleansing Palestinians from their homes, and continues to bomb and control land in Syria and Lebanon. This happened for many reasons, but one of the most important ones was that the majority of American Jews who claim to be opposed to these actions spent years enabling them. Our institutions and leaders shut down criticism, ostracized community members who spoke out, and continued sending financial and political support to Israel regardless of what its government said or did. Platitudes about a two-state solution and a negotiated solution were plentiful. Loud, forceful critiques of the continued building of settlements, specifically placed to prevent territorial continuity for Palestinians, were nowhere to be found. Much was said about Gilad Shalit and every other Israeli hostage or dead body that Hamas held. The thousands of Palestinians in administrative detention, many minors and even more never charged with a crime, were not brought up. Israelis wanting to make peace but lacking a partner for it was a common refrain. Palestinian leaders like Marwan Barghouti, with the ability to unite the Palestinian people and work with Israel toward a solution, being locked up and assaulted in jail, did not get comparable air time. It was never difficult to find time to explain to us what the Palestinians were doing wrong and how our current situation was their fault. Creating a space to honestly reflect on Israel’s actions, what it was doing, and how it was actively working against all the things we were told it wanted, was a struggle and, unfortunately, quite often led to the search for a space outside our institutions to keep having the conversation.

It is hard to know what percentage of the community was actually in support of all these actions while claiming not to be, and what percentage truly was opposed to occupation, apartheid, and ethnic cleansing but could not find the courage or will to take a step forward and speak out beyond the bare minimum our institutions and leaders gave us. It would be easy to get caught up in grievance here, to take shots at specific people and institutions that failed us, lied to us about their intentions, and exploited the power they held to undermine democracy and prioritize furthering ethnic cleansing on the ground over our safety. That is not the point here. These things happened and are still happening. Given where that has brought us, and the futility of words in the face of actions, it is long past time for us to take a step back, recognize where we have brought ourselves, and set some hard lines for what happens next. It is incumbent on us to right as many of these wrongs as we can, for the sake of the Palestinian people, the moral standing of Judaism, and our safety as Jews across the United States and the world. The first step is acceptance. After that, we can begin in earnest.

Recently, as I have been planning out my next steps, I have been having conversations about what it means to make sure there are consequences for actions, especially for friends, family, and places that you care about. I have many incredibly important relationships in Israel and no shortage of family members I love and care about. Simultaneously, I see what is happening every single day there, and even more than that, I listen to what the people in power are saying they want to happen. The main question that emerges from those thoughts when I speak with family and friends here who remain primarily supportive of Israel is: what is your red line? I want it to be clear that this is not a question about your feelings. This is about your actions in response to what actions Israel takes. It quickly becomes a list of questions with perhaps different answers depending on the person, and I myself am still figuring out what I intend to do if we are unable to stop some of these things from occurring. But it starts here.

• What are you doing right now?
  

• If Israel returns to intense bombing of Gaza, what will you do?
  

• If Israel continues to limit aid into Gaza, what will you do?
  

• If Israel does not return to intense bombing, but it turns out hundreds of thousands of Palestinians were killed, what will you do?
  

• If Israel goes ahead and fully builds the E1 settlement, what will you do?
  

• If Israel formally annexes the West Bank, what will you do?
  

• If Israel ethnically cleanses the West Bank and Gaza, what will you do?
  

• If Israel does none of these things but just maintains apartheid, occupation, and a blockade for another 5, 10, 15, or 20 years, what will you do?

Obviously, some of these are far more realistic than others in our current state. But every single thing here is something Israeli government officials have either approved or advocated for. Israeli society has only become more right-wing and fascistic, and more left-wingers and liberals are choosing to leave yearly. Even most members of the opposition have either supported these ideas or refused to buck against them. This brings me no joy to report, but it is simply the truth. That is the direction Israeli society has been heading in for a while, and older American Jews averted their eyes and dreamed of the kibbutz they spent time on in the 1970s and 1980s. That could change, but that happening is not something I can afford to wait and pray for. And while that is happening, and some of these things are happening, what will you do? Will you choose to keep going to Tel Aviv Pride? To send your child on Birthright? Will you keep going to a JCC that sends money to a federation that sends money to the JNF? Will you keep going to a synagogue that has an Israeli flag on the bimah? Will you accept Israeli shlichim, fresh off their army service enforcing an occupation or blockade, or maybe even carrying out a genocide, at your summer camp? Will you continue purchasing Israeli products? What actions will you advocate for our community and government to take? What will you do to differentiate yourself from Israel? Because this is not about whether it is fair or not that Jews are associated with the actions of Israel. They claim us, they use us, and we either accept that, cozy up with them, and deal with the consequences, or we actively make decisions and take action to separate, in the eyes of the world and our ideal allies for our fights at home, Israel and Judaism. Right now, Israel does far more to make diaspora Jewry unsafe than vice versa, and certainly post-October 7, it has no good argument that Jews moving there would be safer than where they are right now. I want to believe that there is something to be saved there, regardless of what happens in the upcoming Israeli election. I want to believe in a global Jewish community that recognizes the humanity of Palestinians and others. I want to believe in an Israeli society that recognizes what it has become, and takes the necessary steps to end the occupation, give Palestinians equality, freedom, and safety, and fulfill its supposed mission of keeping Jews safe. But if that turns out not to be the case, I intend to be prepared.

Today, after all of that, I am sitting down, very medicated, to try and put together something that feels important to me. I have talked about Awdah’s life and death in depth, including in Moment Magazine, given a more bird’s-eye take on my activism and the region on Beyond the Pale FM, and posted incessantly on Instagram, so I will do my best to express something even slightly original here. Thank you for bearing with me.

In the days after Awdah was murdered, I was repeatedly asked by many other activists, friends, and family how I was doing. While there obviously wasn’t really a good answer to give, I settled on, “I’ll deal with myself when I get home.” I had around two weeks left at that point, and all that seemed important at the time was to do every interview I could to share his story, combat the Israeli settler narrative, and make every trip to the hospital or city to ensure people were fed, had cigarettes and water, and the medicine needed to push through the misery of the period while waiting for Awdah’s body to be returned to his family. I took two trips back to Tel Aviv just to drop off one rental car and pick up another, and because of the second one, I was not in Umm Al-Khair the morning the village’s lawyers and the Israeli police and army finally came to an agreement to return his body. Because of that, I and so many other activists and Palestinians were prevented from attending his funeral.

Much of that period already feels like a blur, with small markers of special conversations, new relationships formed, old ones strengthened, and a whirlwind of emotions splattered across a canvas of exhaustion. One thing that remained constant throughout was rage. Rage at our loss, at our powerlessness and impotence, at the injustice and continuing assaults on the community, and at the celebrations and apathy of the settlers. I was stewing in sweltering summer heat, fielding inconsiderate questions, reliving the period before he was killed and all my decisions throughout it, and just simmered for days. I smoked hundreds of cigarettes, teared up writing posts and during interviews, and refused to say no to any request. I went to Yatta dozens of times, picked up kilos of chicken, rice, coffee, and dates, and spent the entire time swallowing my frustration, trying to maintain the calm that the village needed during the turbulence.

I spent my last two days in Tel Aviv and my flight home worried about being stopped by border security and having my phone searched, though I ended up going through in 30 seconds. I spent a day running errands and having a bunch of New York conversations and experiences, glad to be home, before I headed to North Carolina, spent some time on the beach, and came back the day before my first day of work with stomach pain. The next day it was revealed to be an ulcer, and after some very lucky appointments with a gastroenterologist, my regimen of four different pills, some taken four times a day, began. A friend I saw before I left for the wedding remarked that it was kind of like getting kicked in the shins to forget about a headache, and that felt very apt, though it wasn’t the sort of focusing or dealing with myself that I had imagined while sitting in the community center of Umm Al-Khair.

I am starting conversations with therapists and preparing myself for strange experiences, struggles, and grief that will not come when expected and will impact me in ways I cannot predict. That process will continue for the foreseeable future, and I do not imagine that it will be pleasant or particularly enjoyable. But every day has been a little bit easier, and I am inspired by the resilience of my friends in the village, many of whom spent the days after Awdah was killed being tortured and imprisoned by Israel, then returned to their far-from-comfortable life and continued their work. The occupation has not ended. Therefore, the work must continue. Therefore, I have work to do. So I will focus on that now.

My Instagram posting had gained me tens of thousands of followers even before Awdah was killed, and something I was spending a lot of time thinking about was how to maximize that to help support efforts both on the ground and throughout the diaspora to fight against the occupation. I would often get messages dramatically overstating my bravery or importance, and my go-to response became: “just doing my little bit.” Being on the ground and documenting is hard, but it doesn’t require much thought. It’s reactive. The videos I made, the posts I shared, and many of the takeaways I have from the situations I experienced this summer are also neither particularly creative nor unique. They are reflective of an honest appraisal of the situation after listening to Palestinians and Israelis and taking them at their word.

My identity allows my perspective to seem more interesting or special, and of course my opinions are shaped by my experiences and don’t line up exactly with anyone else’s, or with what most people are expecting when they see me. But while there are plenty of people I draw from who I think are far more deserving of a platform and who live this reality nonstop, that is not the way the cards have fallen. I am no longer on the ground with daily content being handed to me by the occupation. I am not watching settlers move and destroy property with impunity. I am not taking Palestinian families through checkpoints to get medical coverage. I do not have IDF soldiers entering into the rooms I am sleeping in at gunpoint and taking Palestinians for multiple days.

The daily reality of Umm Al-Khair and Masafer Yatta is so intense that much of my travel plans were often canceled by situations I felt uncomfortable leaving the village for. It feels like ancient history now, but there was a war between Israel and Iran during which I spent most of the time in the village, without a bomb shelter. I’m now writing from my apartment in Brooklyn, with the air conditioning blasting, likely about to order dinner again. The disconnect is so huge, the whiplash so intense, that processing feels like a distant possibility and planning feels far more like a necessity.

I decided quickly that I needed to figure out a path forward. Some sort of game scheme, a way to continue contributing to the cause and leveraging the voice I did little to earn but that matters because of an apartheid system. Some of the last conversations I had in Umm Al-Khair were just depressed and desperate attempts to figure out some way out of the misery they were living, and trying to think of anything possible that could be done on the ground in the face of increasing violence, and in the diaspora in the face of increasing repression. I don’t know exactly what steps to take from here on an individual level, but there is at least one takeaway that has solidified itself in my mind.

For many years, I debated between living in Israel and the United States, unsure where I would have more of an ability to make change and help move the levers of power in the right direction. The last year and a half have hardened a belief that the Joe Biden presidency, in its entirety, helped mold: the change will not be coming from Israeli society. Each day, settler terrorists and radicals hold more and more power in government, cultural institutions, and the army. The polling around public opinion on Gaza is incredibly depressing, with huge majorities of Jewish Israelis either apathetic or openly supportive of genocide and famine. No politician with any serious chance of becoming Prime Minister currently offers an alternative that amounts to more than a different face on the same policies. The subjugation and ethnic cleansing of Palestinians will continue regardless, with only the pace varying. With that as a baseline assumption—and one I would gladly celebrate being wrong about—I believe that, in the short-term future (say, the next 20 years), either the United States, and to a lesser extent the global community, will force the occupation to end, or it will not end at all.

The primary institution with the power to stop the genocide in Gaza and the ethnic cleansing of Palestinians is the office of the President of the United States. Therefore, the single most important political event that will determine the future of the region is the 2028 Democratic Primary Election. Obviously, the general election holds even greater significance, but if the choice is between someone like Josh Shapiro and a Republican who will just as happily support the status quo on Israel and Palestine, then the differences become irrelevant. And while the Republican primary electorate is also trending away from pro-Israel sentiment, it is doing so while embracing antisemitism and anti-democratic values, so I will not be betting on them to deliver the change that is needed.

If the Democratic electorate—which is moving rapidly in a pro-Palestinian direction—chooses to nominate someone willing to take strong stances, like banning weapons sales to Israel, sanctioning Israeli government members and companies (or perhaps even the entire state), freezing Israeli investments, and prosecuting soldiers who participated in the genocide, that would mark a massive policy shift. The reverberations from such a decision would shake the region. That is the thesis I am working with: that this moment hinges on whether Democratic voters are willing to push their party where it needs to go. So the question becomes, how do we get there?

Right now, Israel is doing a lot of the work itself to bring us to that tipping point, without us having to push very hard. With daily war crimes being broadcast directly to our phones, I feel confident saying that support for this war will have political consequences similar to those of the Iraq War, which famously played a significant role in Barack Obama’s path to the White House. What needs to happen here, on American soil, is a clear, organized effort to defeat AIPAC. Supporting them or receiving money from them must become a political death sentence in Democratic politics. They need to lose the majority of the primaries in which they spend. Their long-standing conservatism and unwavering allegiance to Israel—regardless of its actions—must move from being an open secret to a publicly acknowledged liability. Lip service to a two-state solution, especially in the wake of the E1 plan being approved, can no longer be accepted. U.S. politicians must either explain how they will forcibly remove hundreds of thousands of settlers from the West Bank or begin talking honestly about equal citizenship and rights for everyone between the river and the sea.

Supporters of Palestinian liberation must make strategic choices in who they vote for. We need to back candidates who can win both primaries and general elections, even when hit with a barrage of misleading attack ads that may not even mention Israel or Palestine. We need to be knocking on doors, making phone calls, and most importantly, raising millions of dollars to spend directly against AIPAC-backed candidates. Grassroots tactics alone will not be enough to counter the hundreds of millions of dollars AIPAC and aligned groups are spreading across dozens of races. On top of that, we must ensure that politicians like Jon Ossoff, who while far from perfect, have begun to vote against Israel, win reelection in 2026. We need to set the table in advance, make it crystal clear to every would-be presidential candidate that support for Palestinian freedom is non-negotiable if they want to secure the nomination, and then deliver a candidate who is ready to represent the will of their voters in the White House.

Where do I fit into all of this? That is something I am still figuring out. I will continue to share my opinions, return and spend time on the ground, and do what I can to slow the grinding process of ethnic cleansing. But one thing must be made clear: if the status quo does not change, it is only a matter of time. As much as I wanted to avoid returning to the electoral world and the world of political organizing, both are essential to forcing Israel to change course. My friend was murdered. His children no longer have a father. His wife no longer has a husband. There is no more time to wait.

I will not sit around and patiently hope that some future Israeli generation wakes up and does what is necessary to secure the long-term future of the Jewish people and the safety, self-determination, and freedom of the Palestinian people. That is not how change happens. They will be dragged—kicking and screaming—into that future. And we will either do the work to drag them, or nobody will. So it’s time to start pulling.

For those interested in donating to Awdah’s community and family, the link can be found here. Thank you.

Since then, I’ve returned to Umm Al-Kheir at least once every year, bringing with me more than 50 different soccer jerseys. The village has become a second home for me—and likely the slice of land that most informs my beliefs about Israel/Palestine. I’ve been here for some of the worst days in the village’s history and have seen firsthand the resilience of its residents in the face of what feel like insurmountable odds.

In my last piece, I described the circumstances facing the children of the village. And as I write this, I’ve just watched settlers drive rapidly through the village on their way back to their nearby settlement of Carmel, nearly running over a two-year-old boy I adore. Every day brings the fear that something terrible is just over the horizon.

But this past week, something incredible also happened. An opportunity arose—one that could fulfill a dream long shared by many of the villagers and myself. A dream that could fundamentally change the reality of the children of Umm Al-Kheir for generations to come.

I had the great good fortune of being put in contact with someone who wanted to do something concrete to help the village. You may already know from my prior posts that the soccer fields where the children and adults of Umm Al-Kheir play are made of dirt and strewn with rocks—uneven and often littered with trash tossed over the fence from the adjacent settlement of Carmel. Dust flies into players’ faces, and the ball rarely bounces as one would expect or hope. The list of injuries from these fields is long.

Still, every day, the love of the game brings the residents back—ready to tear up their feet and knees and have a blast doing it. From my first time playing on the soccer fields in Umm Al-Kheir as the sun set behind the mountains of Jordan, to seeing children proudly wearing their favorite team’s jerseys, to being constantly bombarded with “Barcelona or Real?,” to staying up late to watch matches and slowly beginning to understand the banter around me—it was evident that this village lives and breathes the Beautiful Game.

These are children who dream of going pro. Who can’t wait to grow old enough to join the older kids watching the games. Who sneak into the village office to watch highlight reels from the night before until they’re old enough to watch on their own smartphones. Even though I came to love the game much later in life (for me, it was the 2010 World Cup when I was 14 years old), and even if my favorite team doesn’t mean much to them—I get it. I get it because I feel the same way.

Few things bring me more pleasure than a goal, a piece of turf or grass, and the competition and freedom that soccer brings—both as a player and as a viewer. I’ll play anywhere, but I still remember the thrill of stepping onto my high school’s turf or a smooth grass field—how free and safe I felt to express myself, to move without fear. For the children of Umm Al-Kheir, that feeling is largely unattainable.

How could one possibly feel safe and free living under military occupation? How could one ever feel truly free to express oneself? It would be easy to say that the situation does not afford those possibilities. But I have seen these children play on some of the worst fields imaginable, and their passion is unchanged. A creative pass, a clever move, the thrill of a goal—all bring joy. The freedom of movement they experience within the lines of the field exists nowhere else in their lives.

What a new field—one that is safe, smooth, and soft—would allow them to feel is something that has excited me since the first time I imagined it.

The village has long dreamed of renovating its soccer fields, and I quickly became involved, hoping to help advance the dream into reality. During the summer of 2023, when I stayed in the village for a month, I began recording videos of my friends speaking about what a new field would mean to them. Plans were in motion, and I returned to the U.S. thinking it might be completed by the following summer.

Then October 7th happened.

Many in the village lost their jobs, as they were no longer able to enter Israel to work in construction. Those who worked for the Palestinian Authority—teachers, engineers, nurses—began receiving only a fraction of their salaries, after Bezalel Smotrich froze the transfer of funds. Settler violence increased dramatically. Settler-soldiers became a constant presence. The army was ever-present. The village experienced two large-scale demolitions, destroying multiple homes.

When I first arrived here, the circumstances in Umm Al-Kheir were already incredibly harsh. Since October 7th, they have become dramatically worse. People continue to struggle financially. I arrived this summer with donations to help cover bare necessities—just hoping to get people through a period without work that, hopefully, will end soon. But now, through the incredible generosity of a new partner, there is an opportunity to create something meaningful and long-lasting—and to support people day-to-day at the same time.

Building new soccer fields in the village of Umm Al-Kheir is not only about giving the villagers a place to play their favorite sport. It’s a chance to offer consistent, paid work to parents who have gone more than a year without it. Many of them once labored to build structures and institutions inside Israel that they are not even permitted to use. Now, they can build something in and for their own community.

This project would allow them to reclaim a level of dignity, support those they love, and beautify a place that means everything to them. The project could attract attention, visitors—maybe even tournaments and post-completion work in coaching or hosting camps.

But more than anything, it is a statement of resilience. It says to the settlement of Carmel, to the settlers of the larger region of Masafer Yatta, and to the Israeli government:

We are here.
We are not going anywhere.
We are investing in this space.
You will see us laugh and play here—and we will do so loudly and joyfully.
You cannot stop us from doing something we love in a place we love. If you tear it down, we will rebuild.
This is our land. This is our home. And in this home, we love the beautiful game of soccer. So get ready to watch us ball.

The generous donor has offered to match funds up to $33,000. With their help—and yours—the people and village of Umm Al-Kheir will have beautiful soccer fields. We will invest in the children of this community. The fields will be flat and safe, perfect for trying something new, falling, and getting up unhurt. The turf will be smooth and soft—a place to play even without a ball. There will be lights for warm summer nights and cold winter evenings, benches and bleachers for those who want to watch. The goals will be sturdy. The nets will be tight. The balls will be inflated and plentiful. The games will go on and on—for years and for generations to come.

It will be a community space—a safe haven—and a symbol of the resistance found in joy.

Whatever you can help with, it will matter.

The link to donate is here. Thank you.

It is only later in life—how late depending on our privilege and luck—that we learn about the real evils of the world and come face to face with humans and institutions we find to be monstrous. Something that has become clear to me in the month and a half I’ve been living in Umm Al-Kheir is how lucky I was that my monsters were supernatural. The children around me don’t have that blessing.

For those who read my writing here but aren’t seeing the videos I am posting on social media, the monster I am referring to is named Shimon Attia. He lives in the nearby outpost of Chavat Shorashim (Roots Farm). If you go to their Facebook page, you will see no trace of the Palestinians living nearby. You’ll see visits from second-grade girls from the local school in Susya, Members of Knesset from the most right-wing parties, and holiday celebrations. There are sheep, settler youth under Shimon’s command, and his wife and children—along with renovations likely intended to make the farm a tourist destination one day. Their bio reads: “We came to establish the farm with great love. We love the country, the nation, and together with God, the Blessed One, who sent us on this mission. Be with us.” What has become clear from the reactions to our videos—on my social media, other activists’, and even some Israeli outlets—is that while the vast majority of the world is not with him, the institutions that hold power in this area are. For Shimon, who is clearly a radical extremist and couldn’t care less what anyone not Jewish and settler-aligned thinks about him, that is all that matters.

Read more

This piece will be published at a crucial juncture, where the possibility of escalation is clear and evident. Still, it is possible to make a case for each of the different parties involved that now would be the best time to get their final shots off and start talking again before the situation spirals further. I will leave the rest of the war analysis to the people who do it for a living, as my daily predictions have been hit or miss—clouded by my own hopes and perhaps misguided optimism for a quick end to hostilities and a return to negotiations. What I want to focus on is my experience so far during this period, which has been almost evenly split between Tel Aviv during the first few days of more intense bombings, and Umm Al-Kheir in the West Bank for the second half. With the exception of a few other similar activists, I would reckon that very few others have lived both the Israeli and Palestinian experience of this war, and the conflicting feelings that come with evaluating what is best for my own safety and the lives of my friends—where there is guilt when I leave, even when there aren’t rockets overhead.

Read more

There have been a few nights spent in different villages with Palestinians worried about settler attacks after incidents during the day, but so far, the vast majority of my time has been spent sitting around, hanging out in Umm Al Kheir. I do not have many exciting tales from this time to share and have seen videos of far more intense and horrible events occurring in other parts of the West Bank (and certainly Gaza, and even Los Angeles!) while I’ve been here. However, after catching up with an Israeli friend who was here with me years ago—and who has been perhaps the most consistent non-Palestinian activist in the area over the last five years—this time was put into context: how I remembered my previous experience, how I had imagined returning for a long period would feel, and what the reality actually looks like now.

Read more

I've played soccer, helped shear goats and grill in the village, visited old friends in Susya and Tuwani, been on two protective presence overnight shifts, waited on watch for bulldozers coming for house demolitions, met new activists, and had wonderful conversations. But throughout and between each of those experiences, a refresh on Instagram has brought a barrage of new notifications. It would be easy to say “log off” or “just ignore it,” but I’m terrible at not engaging. I’ve found the responses to run the gamut from infuriating to beautiful, offering a potent mix of rage bait and heartwarming encouragement. On top of all that, having been so engaged with the online discourse around the conflict while in the U.S., it has been fascinating to finally compare that engagement with what I’m seeing on the ground. I want to run through some of the main genres of comments I’m seeing and respond to them—hopefully in a more thoughtful way than I have while annoyed and overwhelmed on Instagram.

Read more

At this point, most of the people who are going to vote have already done so. Those who are eligible but haven’t could be split into three main categories. The first, and by far the largest, given the size of the Jewish community, is people who have not heard about the election or don’t care enough. The current election had as many voters as the 2020 election (123,575) halfway through the voting period. There have now been over 25,000 more, but that total number is still just a small fraction of the American Jewish community.

The second group of non-voters, and a rapidly growing one, are those choosing to boycott. More and more American Jews are identifying as anti-Zionist and categorically refuse to associate with anything that would demand they normalize or recognize the State of Israel as legitimate.

This post is not actively going to try and convince the first group to tune in and participate, or the second group to put their qualms aside and grab hold of a lever of power. If more people learn about the existence and power of this institution, that is wonderful. But the primary thought behind this piece is to focus on the third group—likely the smallest one, and the one I currently sit in: those who feel uncomfortable voting but have not ruled it out, and are looking at the levers of power the WZC controls with a mixture of temptation and unease.

There are three days left to vote as I write this, and I have had enough conversations with friends and acquaintances (and an Instagram poll) to know there are plenty of potential voters who cannot decide whether or not paying the $5 required and acknowledging the belief requirements for voters is something they can stomach. When trying to do the mental gymnastics required to vote, they have stumbled at different obstacles. Some have faltered at just legitimizing the institution, others at the rules and demands on voters, and some at simply finding a party with a platform and vision that aligns closely enough with theirs (and with over 20 slates running this year, that speaks to the moderate/conservative bent of most of them). I understand it all, and yet have the ingrained American Jewish liberal war cry of “VOTE” on the other side of my brain, beating me up. So I’m going to try and work that out in real time here.

Read more

The genocide in Gaza is ongoing, with mass starvation imminent and the lack of aid and hospital rooms increasing daily, yet I have never seen less posting about it since it began. Itamar Ben-Gvir is in the US, and there have been protests, while the encampments on college campuses have returned, but they are smaller than in the past and commanding far less media attention. The hostage protests have not stopped, but there is nothing to indicate the Israeli government is interested in another ceasefire and bringing them home, with Bezalel Smotrich making it pretty clear that was far from his priority. There is little hope that any will be home anytime soon, and even the most consistent protest attendees seem to have lost hope in a resolution.

The insanity of the Trump administration’s attacks on due process, immigrants, and foreign students, and its tariff agenda have swallowed up the conflict’s news coverage and relevance—despite the use of Israel and “anti-Semitism” to pursue the former. Much like the first Trump years, the relevance of foreign affairs has decreased for many who feel more able to focus on them when a Democrat is president and/or the economy is good. Trump’s first four years were certainly chaotic, but the economy was doing very well until COVID hit, and many Americans were entirely focused on that and therefore nonplussed by the exterior drama and bluster. This time around, that does not appear to be the case. The ramifications of this administration’s decisions on our country will be extensive, and if the economy continues to collapse, it seems likely that little else will matter too heavily to voters.

All in all, for those still able to give any attention abroad, what has been happening for the last year and a half in Israel/Palestine is continuing, albeit with less fanfare and furor. This, just like so much else, primarily benefits the extremists on the ground. Hamas has recuperated and rebuilt its fighting force, while the Israeli government is facing less pressure than ever to not take over and ethnically cleanse parts of the Strip. In the West Bank, I’ll be seeing it firsthand very soon. In less than a month, I’ll be landing in Israel, renting a car, and driving to Masafer Yatta, where I will spend most of the next three months continuing to learn Arabic and documenting what I experience there.

I’ve spent the last extended period planning out the logistics while simultaneously watching videos of friends being assaulted, having their sheep stolen, their houses burned or bulldozed, their friends and family arrested and forced to pay fines. The villages and cities I intend to spend my time in are living in constant fear, knowing nobody will protect them if settlers come with the intention to hurt or kill. Previously sanctioned settlers are now once again free of any consequences and watching as their leaders parade around the US, are celebrated at Mar-a-Lago, and have meetings with Republican (and maybe even some Democrat) members of Congress.

While optimists point to polls in Israel showing a collapse of the current government in the next election, I have both seen those change rapidly in the lead-up in the past, am doubtful about the likelihood the next government chooses to make dramatic changes in regard to policies related to Palestinians, and (just like here, at home) don’t know how much of the massive damage already caused—and the continuing amount building—will be reversible.

My previous time in Masafer Yatta, as I have written about before, was during the “change government,” which took no action to prevent settler attacks or continued settlement expansion, and chose to ignore that issue as much as possible in an effort to not collapse the coalition and keep Netanyahu out of power. Needless to say, that effort failed spectacularly. Each time I have returned to visit, land that used to be Palestinian is now controlled by Israeli settlers or the government, and I will watch as that process continues, unable to do much but document, stand alongside weaponless and defenseless Palestinians, and pray for some good luck.

I do not want to return to well-trodden and perhaps overrun territory over the next month, but I also recognize many of you pay for this, and I want to respect that, as it means a lot (the rent is only going up for us all). I intend to spend parts of this summer exploring parts of the West Bank and Israel that I haven’t been to before, and hope to meet new people who expose me to their reality and how the last year and a half have impacted them (hopefully playing soccer in each of these places as well). I have had a few pieces suggested by readers, and I am happy to do explainers and help people parse through information they find confusing. If there is something you’d like discussed before I arrive in the Holy Land and have new experiences to write about, I would greatly appreciate your feedback.

I am currently struggling with whether or not to vote in the World Zionist Congress, and intend to have my thoughts laid out on that in the coming days, with the hope that writing it out will lead me to a conclusion. Otherwise, it feels long overdue for me to get back to the ground, stop making guesses about what people are feeling, and start hearing it from them directly. It feels wrong to feel excited about going to spend time experiencing a horrific reality so many are desperate to escape, without the possibility of leaving. I want to think what I’m looking forward to is returning to a place that has shaped me, that taught me a lot about solidarity and being resolute, and to once again be working with some of the strongest humans I’ve ever met. If you know more people like that, I’d love to meet with them while I’m there.

I have trips planned to Ramallah, Bethlehem, Hebron, the Jordan Valley, and a variety of other locations, but will make detours and go to new places for the right reason or person—whether that’s a hummus recipe, a beautiful soccer pitch, or a conversation with someone who impacted you. With that, I’ll be back in your email inbox in a few days, and will be here for any suggestions and requests. I’ll leave you with a request to read the words of the Oscar-winning Hamdan Ballal, a friend and activist, in the New York Times, and one of the first rallies held in Israel that gave me some real hope in a long time.

“A personal request to all 68 members of the coalition in Israel from the father of a hostage who was murdered in captivity in Gaza: Please stop wearing the yellow pin for the hostages. Every time I see one of you with the pin, it adds to the pain.”

Polin’s hostage son was killed, and based on those two statements, it seems quite clear that he places a large part of the blame on the Israeli government for not doing what it needed to in order to bring his son home alive. While many of my previous posts would make it clear I strongly agree with him, that isn’t what this one is going to be about. Hersh should be at home today, alive and having his injuries taken care of. Instead, his parents watch as the same politicians who fought tooth and nail against any deal that would have let them hug their son again parade around with a reminder of their loss on their chests. And it does not stop there. Instagram bios, Facebook posts, all over diaspora synagogues on the walls, and pinned to the clothes of rabbis & Jewish professionals, strewn throughout Israel: the yellow “Bring Them Home” pin or ribbon has been ubiquitous in these spaces for over a year. They are worn by celebrities and politicians at the UN, the Oscars, sporting events, and by my mother every single day attached to dog tags of fallen Israelis. Until the last one comes home, dead or alive, tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of the pins will be worn every single day, and their significance will be clear long after the final Israeli body in Gaza has crossed back over. They have become the symbol of a particularly dark and ongoing era in Israel, and will remain scattered on the ground, blowing in the wind for years to come. Polin and his wife have not stopped advocating for the other hostages; they take no issue with the symbol itself, similar to many others. But the yellow ribbon, like any other symbol, is not a sign of righteousness or good deeds. And when the pin meant to signify a desire to bring them home as soon as possible is worn by someone who has taken every action to keep them there, it is time to consider the hypocrisies we enable, and how we decide what our symbols mean.

Read more

Read more

Read more

Read more

1 week ago, No Other Land became the 5th Palestinian film to be nominated for an Oscar. After a very successful pre-Oscar award circuit, the documentary, focused on the region of Masafer Yatta, is one of 5 finalists for the prestigious honor. The film’s co-directors, Basel Adra and Yuval Abraham, were accused of anti-Semitism by Berlin’s mayor after criticizing “a situation of apartheid” in their acceptance speech at the city’s Berlinale award ceremony. Abraham received death threats from right-wing Israelis, and Adra’s village was increasingly raided and harassed by settlers and the army, including on the night they were nominated. They have still, despite widespread acclaim, not found a distribution deal for widespread viewing in the United States. Both maintain jobs as journalists and are actively reporting on the Israeli government’s turn to the West Bank to appease Bezalel Smotrich during the ceasefire in Gaza, as well as the extensive teamwork between the Israeli army and Microsoft since October 7th. Their success in displaying the grinding and violent daily reality of the occupation to the world has not slowed it down. My Instagram feed is filled with daily updates from the region from friends, some Israelis/Diaspora Jews there in solidarity, and most Palestinians who call it their home. These updates make one of the final points of the movie very clear. Post-October 7th, the already brutal experience of Palestinians in the region has deteriorated and become even more dangerous. Increased settler violence, army raids, road blockades, and demolitions were constants of the last year, and in the short period since the ceasefire, they have increased even more as the Israeli government and army have forces to redistribute, and the settlers have a deal to prevent it from occurring in full. When I stepped outside the theater and sat with a friend to discuss, we were approached by another Israeli who had just seen it as well. I brought up my time there and how much worse it had gotten in recent years in the area, something that was told to me repeatedly by Palestinians and activists, and confirmed by my own eyes on my trips back. Despite having never been to the area, they felt the need to explain to me that actually, it had been quite awful for a while. That night was almost exactly 3 years since I first arrived in Tuwani and spent most of the next 3 months living underneath Basel’s house. I was pretty emotional after leaving that theater and understood what they were dealing with, looking for someone to talk to about the horrors we had just watched. But my subway ride home was spent angry with their certainty, and unwillingness to consider the extent to which things both did and could continue to get worse.

I was never set on Masafer Yatta. I wanted to learn Arabic, and my cousin, one of the credited activists in the movie, had created a program with her good friend bringing Israelis to the area to participate in solidarity activism, sometimes known as protective presence, and learn Arabic from women living in the villages while also developing their own curriculum. I had been thrown for a loop by COVID and had been working odd jobs in the DC area. I was playing chess with friends in DuPont Circle when my cousin texted me confirming they had enough folks to move forward. I told friends in the Bay Area I wouldn't be coming, and had a flight a few days later. I arrived in early September of 2021 in Israel. I was part of the second cohort of this program, with 10 of us between the ages of 21-35 participating. We arrived with very different levels of Arabic, different levels of experience in the area, and a gamut of (left-wing) political opinions. There were both former soldiers and conscientious objectors who had spent time in jail. I quickly learned we were one substantial part of a larger network of activists who spent time in the area. The Center for Jewish Non-Violence ran a similar program for Americans, there were storytelling projects that brought activists to the area to teach English and help Palestinians show their reality to the world, and every Saturday, older activists who had been coming since the early 2000s came from Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. While our base of operations was in Tuwani, Basel’s village, we spent lots of time in Susya, where Hamdan Ballal (another main character of the movie) lives, and Umm Al Kheir, a village that I have written about thoroughly. Throughout this time, Yuval was frequently in the area with Rachel Szor, filming. When we weren’t in the field together, Basel would be there with them as well. The daily routine was always some mix of Arabic lessons and drama. Some days were 90% one and 10% the other, and some days were the opposite. Lessons would often be interrupted with the need for us to go document a house demolition, confront settlers attempting to build a new outpost or encroach onto Palestinian land, or the army entering one of the villages. There would be weeks with minimal interruptions, and there were weeks that felt like we were always short of a camera, car, and a few activists. We would be asked by Palestinians from villages across the regions for rides into Yatta, home from school, and to come spend time with them as their sheep grazed, they tended to their family farm, or to sleep in their village when they had more unpleasant interactions with settlers or the army and were fearing eviction. I wrote extensively on my experiences there upon my return to the US and don’t want to make this about trading war stories. More so, I want to talk about some of the main things I felt watching that movie and reliving experiences burned into my mind.

One of the main themes of No Other Land is the difference between Yuval’s ability to get into his car and drive home, leaving the West Bank through the checkpoints and returning to Jerusalem, where he was not subject to military law the same way Basel was in his home. The guilt and the cognitive dissonance are brutal for the activists going back and forth, and simultaneously pale in comparison to the horror of not being able to escape living on the bottom rung of the apartheid system. The longest stretch I spent in the region in a row was 14 days. As a fellow program member was driving me to Kiryat Arba to take a bus home, and we turned off the stretch of road that marked the boundary of our lives in the area, my body reacted intensely. The tension that had built up in that period that I had repressed being in a constant alert state shot to the surface, and as we left the conflict zone, I felt tightness in my shoulders and back that my body had refused to let me feel. Two weeks is not a long time. I believe in the human ability to adjust, but I do not think that adjusting to a reality that causes this can possibly be good for your physical and mental health. And witnessing what left me sore and in pain was a tiny fraction of the experiences of Palestinians in the area, who are often watching their own homes and belongings destroyed, not just their friends. Where do they sleep? Where is the next meal coming from? What does that unending stress do to you? The struggles of the activists returning home to a family who might treat you badly due to your activism cannot compare, but cannot be dismissed as meaningless either. My family was supportive or at least neutral, but that was not the case for my entire cohort. Regardless of the family situation, the dissonance was maddening. We would begin the day escorting children to school so that settlers would not attack them, rush to a demolition of a house or an incident with the army, then, traffic permitting, would be back in Tel Aviv on the beach two hours later. Most of my friends in Israel were center-left politically, but the occupation was very low on the list of priorities and topics of discussion at the time. While they were occasionally curious, their own lives were unsurprisingly far more interesting and important. It was maddening to witness what was happening so close by and then end the day in a completely different space where it felt as though it was unimportant. The tragedies and injustice I saw daily just did not matter in a real way to them, and did not spur them to any real action, or seemingly any reflection. Almost none had been to the West Bank except in uniform, and the world I lived in felt foreign, not like a piece of land their countrymen lived in and controlled. It was perhaps a little naive to believe someone else’s experience would have shifted their entire worldview or motivated them to do something differently, but in the mind of someone who had already decided the occupation would either be ended or destroy the state and culture my friends cherished and loved, the frustration was difficult to work past.

In interviews and discussions after the movie was released, Basel and Yuval discussed the amount of footage that had not made the movie. They had been shooting nearly daily for years, and creating a clear and concise narrative and story required showing only small parts of a much larger tapestry. Moments of danger and experiences that I will never forget but were not captured or did not fit into the tale did not make the cut, and given the almost immediate escalation after my cohort left and since, I am sure dozens of others can say the same. Three months is not a short period, and I have visited multiple times each time I have returned. There are many activists who have been visiting frequently for years and have made Masafer Yatta their home for just as long, multiple times. Hundreds, if not thousands, have come and replanted olive trees, picked olives, tended to fences and gardens, drank tea, and heard the stories of what was and what is in the highly contested region. The ongoing turf war, where one side is perpetually on offense, never fully loses, and has every advantage, is home to co-resistance that I cannot claim to have heard of elsewhere in the West Bank. Basel and Yuval are stalwarts, living legends, and also just one part of a tragic story. Their friendship is intense and special, but it is not unique. The movie was brilliant, but the bonds that have been formed in Masafer Yatta warrant a multi-season television show to fully capture the complexities of the interactions between the Israelis, Palestinians, and international activists, the internal strife within the communities, and the sacrifices each group makes to work with each other and maintain a partnership during times of particularly intense strife and rage. Many other communities collapsed entirely in 2021 and 2023. While there have been ebbs and flows, the work that now multiple generations have participated in has resulted in a steadfast community. I can only hope the success of this movie inspires more to take that short journey across the Green Line to witness and stand in solidarity. On a short-term scale, the film makes it clear how insignificant some of this activism can be. Maybe this is my naivety or optimism making another appearance, but on the long-term scale, I do believe these connections will be the ones that show us the path forward.

A few days ago, the Palestinian rapper Tamer Nafar posted his thoughts on No Other Land on Instagram. He opens with:

While many Jews have “sobered up” since October 7th, some were never drunk at all. They lived under no illusions and would wake up each day to fight for equality 24/7. Like Yuval Abraham, for one, and the film he made with Basel Adra, Rachel Szor, and Hamdan Ballal, “No Other Land.”

Generally, quips for those who’ve sobered up like, “the leftist in me no longer exists,” or “I believed in peace and was let down,” sound like this joke to me: Someone turns to God and asks, “For years I’ve been praying to win the lottery, why hasn’t it happened?” God answers: “Because you don’t even play the lottery.” So to all those let down by the humane path: Have you even gone down that path? Because Yuval Abraham has.

Something you learn very quickly in Masafer Yatta, and unsuprisingly in No Other Land as well, is if you are going to align yourself with the Palestinians, you are going to lose. The arc of history is not going to bend in the direction of justice any time soon. You might see a brief victory, maybe a settler enclave briefly forced to leave, land temporarily not confiscated, or residents of an abandoned village being allowed to return, but it will almost certainly be followed with violent or legal retribution from the army, settlers, and Civil Administration. Success is holding on for another round, just staying in the ring in a fight where your hands are tied behind your back, fighting an opponent with spiked and weighted gloves. One of the defining moments of the film is Yuval getting excited over an article getting a decent amount of views, and Basel making fun of him, claiming he wants this all done quickly. The Palestinians of Masafer Yatta pride themselves on their steadfastness, their unwavering commitment to pushing through the relentless pressure and force placed upon them to give up and leave. Every olive harvest, every planting season is a brief respite of success in a storm of loss. And yet, year after year, despite their entire society telling them there is no partner for peace, that it’s dangerous, that it’s time they sobered up, the Jewish Israeli and international activists hop in cars and buses and make their way to go weather that storm with their friends and allies. Unlike most Israelis and diaspora Jews, they are frequent entrants into that lottery. Despite the costs of playing, the prizes of peace and justice are worth it. Yuval and Rachel and so many others walk that path, hand in hand with the Palestinians who so many claim are their enemies, despite the endless climbing and the tiring obstacles. One day, the hill will crest, and the view will be spectacular. I just hope that all of those who soldiered along and carried the burdens of their comrades when they needed it are there to enjoy it together.

Read more

Read more