The Stubborn Choice to Keep Showing Up

Israel has been fighting an impossible war for more than 660 days—impossible not only for its duration, but because the enemy is entrenched among civilians, global support is eroding, and mistrust grows between Israelis and their government.

Its goals are seemingly clear: bring the hostages home, secure its borders, and ensure October 7th is never repeated. That means dismantling both the will and the capacity of its enemies while reinforcing Israel’s defenses.

On some fronts, Israel has succeeded—weakening Hezbollah and the IRGC to levels unseen in decades. But in Gaza, the war grinds on with no end in sight.

Meanwhile, Israeli society bears the strain. Reservists leave behind families, jobs, and livelihoods, and the cost of prolonged sacrifice is immeasurable. Internal divisions deepen, stamina wanes, and the suffering on the Palestinian side remains staggering.

Regardless of where one stands in the debate over the war and its aims, the human toll, both on Israelis and Palestinians is undeniable.

This week Israel seemed to reach a breaking point: hundreds of thousands poured into the streets, demanding an end to the war, the return of the hostages, the resignation of the government, and the enlistment of the ultra-Orthodox. The country feels like a pressure cooker with no release valve. How can any nation endure so much?

And outside of Israel, Jews too feel under siege. Antisemitic attacks against individuals, communities, and institutions are rising. Public opinion of Israel is eroding rapidly, with voices across the political spectrum pressing Israel in different directions.

I want to share a seemingly small situation that demonstrates the true enormity of our communal anxiety. A couple of weeks ago, my family and I attended a concert at Red Rocks, the iconic amphitheater carved into stone. As the sun set, the music was perfect—until the singer paused and asked to share some thoughts about the world. Immediately, my wife and I turned to each other, both thinking the same thing: Is she going to say something about Israel? How will we explain it to our three young children? After the wave of antisemitic incidents at music festivals, our defenses were up, alarm bells ringing.

In the end, she didn’t mention Israel—just the brokenness of the world. Even that felt like a strange kind of relief: not because the world’s pain is small, but because in that moment we feared ours would be singled out. And if a passing comment at a concert can rattle us so deeply, kal vachomer (all the more so)—how much more so the impact of real antisemitic attacks.

So what should we in the diaspora do?

We are met with so many questions.

Do we organize demonstrations and petitions in solidarity with Israeli protestors? Is this our role? Is it our place to speak out even though we are not there? Would it even make a difference? What would it signal to the non-Jewish world? How does it impact the discourse in Israel?

For some, there is no question: it is a moral obligation to stand with Israelis.

However, even this presents a question: which Israelis should we stand with? Those in the streets demanding change? Those who support the current government?

Each camp claims moral clarity and justice, often dismissing the other as naïve—or far worse, casting them as the enemy.

In this increasingly polarized world, it is tempting to choose a side. It almost feels like a requirement. In helpless moments, any act that restores a sense of agency feels like relief—a post, a petition, an argument at the dinner table. In chaos, we crave control.

In the diaspora, the urge to find clarity by “choosing a side” comes with much greater consequences.

Although it appears like Israelis are also “choosing a side”, Israelis don’t have the luxury of truly separating themselves. Israel is a tiny country and during such difficult times every member of society, whether they agree or disagree, is holding one another up. They argue bitterly, but they also share buses, beaches, offices, and Shabbat tables.

Although it appears this tension will lead to rupture, it actually is what breeds more strength. This proximity forces relationships. It tempers polarization with the resilience of daily contact.

That is why our responsibility is different. It is not enough to simply care about Israel over there. We must also actively recreate proximity here. We must build spaces here where Jews of every view come together and sit with one another—not despite disagreements, but because of them.

Our future as a people will not be built on agreement, but on the stubborn choice to keep showing up for each other.