The signs held at recent mass protests in Tel Aviv capture the pain and disappointment many Israelis feel, one year into the country’s longest war. “Who are we without them?” asks one, invoking the hostages still held in Gaza. Another pleads: “Give me one reason to raise kids here.” These are not just slogans—they are existential questions echoing across a fractured nation.
On October 7, 2023, Hamas launched an unprecedented and brutal assault on southern Israel, killing over 1,200 people and abducting more than 250 others, including children, the elderly, and entire families. The scale and horror of the attacks—homes set ablaze, entire communities decimated—shattered any illusion of security for many Israelis. But while the attack was a moment of profound national trauma, the aftermath has exposed deeper fractures. In the name of retribution and national defense, Israel’s military response in Gaza has escalated into a humanitarian catastrophe, drawing global condemnation. As the death toll in Gaza mounts and the hostages remain in captivity, a second crisis has taken hold: one not of military failure alone, but of a nation at war with its own conscience.
Almost two years after the devastating Hamas attacks of October 7, Israel finds itself in the depths of a national crisis—strategically, socially, and morally. What is the value of a Jewish homeland if it cannot, or will not, prioritize saving its own citizens, abducted from their homes? Will safety ever feel real again? And what kind of future remains if the only vision offered by the country’s leadership is one of perpetual war?
Israel is becoming a diminished version of itself. Tens of thousands of citizens remain displaced from the north and south, while the state wages an ever-expanding war on multiple fronts: against Hamas in Gaza, Hezbollah in Lebanon, the Houthis in Yemen, and under the looming shadow of Iran. The physical threats are compounded by a deeper internal turmoil—a growing fear that the country is not just under attack, but losing its “purpose”.
Throughout this year of loss, grief, and fear, a new fracture has emerged within Israeli society. The trauma inflicted from without is now mirrored by tensions from within. Thousands with the means to do so have already left the country; many more are actively considering it. But others have chosen to stay and resist—flooding the streets week after week in a renewed wave of civil disobedience.
These protests, which began as opposition to Netanyahu’s judicial reforms, have picked up again—now centered on the hostage crisis, urgent calls for early elections, and more recently, demands to end the war. At a protest in Tel Aviv’s Habima Square, The Times of Israel reported that Shai Mozes—whose parents were freed in separate hostage exchanges—told the crowd that Israel’s “real enemy is not Hamas, but Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, who is destroying Israel as a Jewish and democratic state.”
This is no longer just a political crisis. It is a crisis of identity, of purpose, of faith in the state itself. The old narratives—of resilience, unity, and a shared destiny—are fraying. In their place rise urgent, unanswered questions: What kind of country are we? Who are we becoming? And who will choose to remain here if the answers continue to erode?
This is Israel’s existential inflection point. The choice appears clear: a state governed by the rule of law or one gripped by populist strongmen; a society where protest is a civic right, or one where it is treated as a threat. These protests aren’t just about Netanyahu’s on power—they reflect a deeper fear about what Israel could become if things keep heading in this direction.
And yet, perhaps the most troubling part is how this internal reflection seems completely disconnected from the larger context.
The Israeli-Palestinian conflict—its human cost and moral weight—is largely missing from mainstream protest conversations. The voices in the streets demand action on the hostages. They call for elections. They demand democratic reform. But they rarely speak of Gaza. Of over 60,000 Palestinian deaths. Of the erasure of entire neighborhoods, of families buried under rubble, of the humanitarian catastrophe unfolding just beyond the fence, of the deliberated starvation of the all strip since the start of March.
This silence is not incidental. It is structural. For decades, Israeli society has learned to partition its moral concern—to grieve Jewish suffering while remaining largely indifferent to Palestinian pain. Since October 7, this indifference has only intensified. The suffering of Palestinians—whether in Gaza, the West Bank, East Jerusalem, or even within Israel’s borders—simply does not register in most protest rhetoric. As if they do not inhabit the same land, breathe the same air, or deserve the same human dignity.
Even now, as Israelis speak of an existential crisis, there is little acknowledgment that Palestinians are facing a battle not just over identity, but over sheer survival. The asymmetry could not be more obvious. Israeli protesters fear the erosion of their democracy; Palestinians face annihilation. Israeli anguish centers on hostages; Palestinian anguish encompasses occupation, displacement, bombardment, and dispossession.
Recognizing this is not to diminish the pain of Israeli families whose loved ones remain captive. It is to place that pain within a broader moral landscape—one that refuses to ignore whose lives are grievable and whose are not. Since October 7, what’s become disturbingly clear is not just the deep trauma Israelis are experiencing, but also a widespread refusal to acknowledge—let alone confront—the massive suffering of Palestinians. This denial is no longer a side issue; it lies at the heart of the country’s moral crisis.
If this truly is an existential moment for Israel, it cannot be confronted in isolation. The future of Israeli democracy is inseparable from the rights and lives of the millions who live under its control but outside its protections. Until that truth is acknowledged—fully, publicly, and collectively—the reckoning underway will remain incomplete.
It is precisely this pervasive apathy—this conditioned indifference toward Palestinian life—that has allowed the far right, which harbors no such indifference, to seize and shape Israeli politics with near-total impunity. While much of the liberal center agonizes over democracy’s decline and the fate of the hostages, the political right has remained focused, disciplined, and ideologically committed to a vision of Jewish supremacy and permanent control from the Jordan River to the Mediterranean Sea.
The unifying principle animating Israel’s current leadership is not democracy or peace, but domination. The far-right coalition, emboldened and unopposed in its core agenda, openly champions Jewish ethno-nationalism as the foundation of the state. Violence is not a regrettable means to an end—it is the end itself. It is valorized, sanctified, and woven into the fabric of governance.
Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu made this clear in a government meeting in 2024, where he invoked a chilling biblical line: “There are those who ask, ‘Shall the sword devour forever?’” His response: “In the Middle East, without the sword, there is no ‘forever.’” But Netanyahu, as ever, stopped short of quoting the verse in full. The original text from the Book of Samuel continues: “Don’t you realize this will end in bitterness?” In omitting that line, he revealed everything. His doctrine is one of endless war—war as destiny, as identity, as permanence. It is a worldview in which Jewish survival is imagined only through dominance, and where coexistence, diplomacy, and restraint are cast as weakness.
In this paradigm, the enemy must be crushed—not merely defeated, but humiliated, erased, made to disappear. And if that requires sacrificing Israeli lives, unraveling the country’s moral fabric, or isolating it on the global stage, so be it. The sword, Netanyahu implies, is not just a means of protection. It is the instrument of meaning. The state becomes not a refuge for Jews, but a proving ground for Jewish power.
What makes this moment especially dangerous is that this ideology is no longer confined to the margins. It has become mainstream. It informs policy, guides military strategy, and shapes education. The normalization of dehumanizing language, the portrayal of all Palestinians as legitimate targets, and the casual embrace of collective punishment are not aberrations. They are expressions of a deeper, more troubling truth: a state drifting toward permanent militarization, governed by leaders who believe peace is not only impossible, but undesirable.
Still, many in the political center and center-left act as if this is just a temporary crisis—that the “real” Israel will come back soon. But what if this is the real Israel now? What if the country hasn’t taken a wrong turn, but is heading down a new path? Unless people face that possibility—and begin to challenge not just the far right’s actions, but also the moral silence that allows them—the violence will continue without end. And the pain warned about in scripture will be shared by all.
Over the past two years, Israel has accelerated its colonization of occupied land with unprecedented speed—expanding settlements, formalizing annexation policies, and effectively reoccupying Gaza under the guise of military necessity. At the same time, it has once again plunged into confrontation with Hezbollah in Lebanon. What was once described as a policy of “separation” from Palestinians—a rhetorical commitment, at least nominally, to the Oslo vision of two states—has been unmistakably replaced by a policy of erasure. Under the stewardship of Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich, National Security Minister Itamar Ben-Gvir, and Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, the state is no longer pretending: the goal is no longer cohabitation or containment, but domination, displacement, and demographic engineering. The project is not peace. It is permanent control.
This is a government not merely at war with Hamas, but at war with the very idea of Palestinian existence on the land. From the razed neighborhoods of Gaza to the terrorized villages of the West Bank, the message is clear: Palestinians must be subdued, pushed out, or destroyed. The promise of land for peace is dead; what remains is land for power—unilateral, total, and eternal.
Here lies the growing paradox troubling many Israelis. For those who ignored Palestinian suffering, the belief was once simple: keeping Palestinians down would keep Jewish Israelis safe. But that belief is falling apart. The same system that has oppressed Palestinians is now turning against its own people. The same government that promotes Jewish dominance is also failing to protect Jewish hostages in Gaza. This contradiction isn’t just an idea anymore—it’s something people are experiencing firsthand.
What does it mean to live in a country where the lives of Jewish civilians are expendable, not to secure peace, but to prolong war? Where leaders invoke nationalism not to defend their people, but to consolidate power? Where law enforcement protects violent settlers attacking Palestinians, but brutally represses grieving families and peaceful protesters calling for the return of their kidnapped loved ones?
For more and more Israelis, the mask is slipping. They are beginning to understand that this is not merely a conflict with external enemies, but a crisis at the core of the state’s identity. The state’s selective violence—disproportionate, racialized, and politically convenient—has created a moral vacuum. The betrayal of hostages, the suppression of dissent, and the elevation of ideologues whose policies lead only to endless war have revealed the limits of an ethno-nationalist project that promises safety while delivering perpetual fear.
Israel, once imagined by many as a sanctuary, now resembles a fortress under siege from within—one that protects power, not people; land, not life. If the state cheapens both Palestinian and Jewish life in service of messianic expansion and political survival, what, then, remains of its moral claim to exist at all?
In some ways, none of this is truly new. For decades, Israel has built a strong mental separation between its treatment of Palestinians and the democratic image it presents to the world and to its own citizens. This has allowed many Israelis to support or accept harsh policies without feeling they contradict democratic or moral values. But today, this contradiction is becoming harder to ignore, as more people, both inside and outside Israel, begin to question the gap between Israel’s public image and the daily reality of Palestinians.
According to activist Sarah Perle Benazera, this disconnect is not accidental — it starts in early childhood through a process of national education and social conditioning. In Israeli schools, the Palestinian narrative is almost completely absent from textbooks. For example, the Nakba — which means “catastrophe” in Arabic and refers to the forced displacement of over 700,000 Palestinians in 1948 — is rarely mentioned, and when it is, it’s often framed as a necessary part of Israel’s independence, with little or no attention given to what it meant for Palestinians.
Instead, students are taught a Zionist version of history that presents the land as largely empty before Jewish immigration and describes the creation of Israel as a natural and justified return to their homeland. This version of history erases the presence and suffering of Palestinians and shapes how young Israelis understand the conflict from a young age.
The Israeli media also plays a powerful role in shaping public opinion. Benazera explains that Palestinians are frequently shown as threats to security or simply referred to as terrorists, rather than as human beings living under military occupation and fighting for their basic rights. The language used in news reports is often dehumanizing — for example, when a Palestinian is killed, the media may say they were “neutralized” rather than “shot” or “killed.” At the same time, Israeli military actions, including house demolitions, mass arrests, or bombings in Gaza, are rarely questioned and often reported without context.
Israel is often called the “only democracy in the Middle East,” but in reality, freedom of speech and access to information are increasingly restricted, especially when it comes to the Palestinian issue. Journalists who criticize government policies or military actions can be pushed aside, lose their jobs, or face legal action. Human rights organizations like Breaking the Silence and B’Tselem, which document Israeli violations in the West Bank and Gaza, are often accused of working against national interests or being traitors. The government also uses social media and official communication channels to promote its own version of events, especially during military operations.
As a result, most Israelis grow up in an environment where they are rarely exposed to the daily suffering of Palestinians. Checkpoints, military raids, home demolitions, and airstrikes are seen as routine or necessary. This leads to a kind of emotional numbness, where people become used to violence and see it as part of normal life. Anyone who questions this version of reality — especially from within Israeli society — often faces strong backlash.
This is the case for Sarah Perle Benazera herself. Because of her activism and her efforts to raise awareness about Palestinian rights, she has been criticized, isolated, and marginalized by many members of her own community. Speaking out comes at a cost — socially, politically, and sometimes legally.
For years, Israel has used overwhelming military power, enforced occupation through settlements and checkpoints, and launched repeated attacks on Gaza. At the same time, it has tried to protect its image — both to the world and to itself — as a modern, democratic country. I am very sure that you heard about the “only democracy of the Middle East” and “the most moral army of the world” that belongs to it. But this contradiction is becoming impossible to hide. A country cannot keep using so much violence outside its borders without it eventually affecting life inside them. Sooner or later, the force used to control others comes back to shape the society using it.
Over the past year, that return has become obvious. The same tools that were once used mainly against Palestinians — mass surveillance, targeted killings, dehumanizing language, and propaganda — are now being used inside Israel to silence critics. The military is still presented as precise, humane, and high-tech, especially in videos showing clean, targeted airstrikes. But the destruction of entire neighborhoods in Gaza — like Jabalia and Khan Younis — and the images of collapsed hospitals and mass graves, tell a different story. “Precision” now means hiding the cruelty of war behind a clean-looking image.
This gap between image and reality is kept alive not just by the military, but by a lack of political courage. Even opposition parties, who now call for a ceasefire and a hostage deal, don’t offer a real plan for peace. They don’t question the overall system or imagine a different kind of relationship with Palestinians. They still think safety can only come from force — through fences, bombs, and short pauses between wars. They are managing a crisis, not imagining a better future.
Even the left-leaning parties, like the Labor and Meretz (now part of the weakened Democratic Union), no longer fight for an end to the occupation. None of the major Jewish political parties in Israel today talk seriously about coexistence, equality, or Palestinian rights. They all share a militarized view of the world: war with Lebanon is not debated, only how to control it; Palestinian independence is not considered, only dismissed.
It’s becoming clear that the occupation was never just about Palestinians. It was also about shaping what kind of country Israel would become. And now, the same tools created to dominate another people — fear, control, violence — are being used against Israeli society itself. They are being used to crush dissent, to control grief, and to prepare people for a future of endless war. Without a new vision, Israel is not only fighting in Gaza or Lebanon — it is fighting against its own future.
This rupture is radicalizing Israelis who never saw themselves as political. People who had never taken to the streets are now protesting. Those who once believed in the invincibility of the state are now questioning its moral foundation — and even whether they can continue to live within its borders. The grief is real — and so is the awakening.
But what many still fail to understand is that this collapse of safety and trust did not begin on October 7, nor is it solely the product of Benjamin Netanyahu or his far-right coalition. It stems from a deeper, long-standing issue: a distorted national narrative, and the belief that peace can be achieved through military dominance rather than justice and reconciliation. The same applies to those who justify this catastrophic war solely as a response to Hamas’s October 7 attack. While that act of violence is unequivocally condemnable, it did not start the war — it exposed a truth that has existed for decades.
This crisis is rooted in a long history of oppression and violence. It began with the Nakba in 1948, when more than 700,000 Palestinians were forcibly expelled from their homes during the creation of Israel — an event Palestinians remember as a catastrophe, whose impact is still deeply felt today. It continued with a series of wars that brought no lasting peace, only temporary ceasefires and an entrenched military occupation.
Palestinians have lived under this occupation for decades — a daily reality marked by checkpoints, home demolitions, night raids, constant surveillance, legal discrimination, and severe restrictions on their freedom. Illegal Israeli settlements continue to grow on Palestinian land, displacing communities and making the dream of a viable Palestinian state increasingly unreachable.
In Gaza, more than two million people have been trapped under a 15-year blockade, cut off from the world with limited access to clean water, electricity, healthcare, and movement. The territory has been turned into an open-air prison, creating a humanitarian crisis that has only deepened with each passing year.
This didn’t begin on October 7. That day didn’t start the war — it revealed the depth of an already-existing one, for those who had long refused to see it.
October 7 was not the beginning. It was a breaking point.
It is the natural extension of decades of unchecked lawlessness and state violence — first directed at Palestinians, and now, predictably, bleeding into Jewish Israeli society. The police who now arrest hostage families for chanting too loudly, the leaders who dismiss civilian casualties as regrettable but necessary, the prime minister who refuses to assume responsibility even as the state unravels — these are not anomalies. They are products of a system that long ago normalized dehumanization in the name of security and Jewish supremacy.
Mr. Netanyahu’s entrenchment in power, despite his corruption trials and catastrophic leadership, is not just a symptom of dysfunction — it is a reflection of how far the political class has drifted from accountability. His alliance with radical, messianic forces, and his willingness to trade blood for power, has found cover in a global climate of impunity, especially under the near-blanket support from the Biden administration. That support has shielded the most extreme elements in Israeli politics, emboldening them to escalate, not reconcile.
Yet still, many Israelis do not connect their own government’s disregard for their lives with its disregard for Palestinian life. The wall between “us” and “them” remains dangerously intact. And until that wall breaks — until the outrage extends beyond the suffering of Jewish citizens to encompass the suffering done in their name — there will be no path forward. No redemption. No peace. No safety.
This is the part I cannot look away from: that without a shared moral reckoning, this reality is not just desperate — it is irredeemable. Israelis will not begin to carve an exit from this nightmare until they understand that justice must not only be demanded for themselves, but also for those whose lives their state has trampled for generations. Until then, like many others who still have the privilege to consider it, I am not sure I see a future here. Not like this.
