sole-e-acqua - Tumblr blog

sole-e-acqua · 3 days ago

Text

Sometimes I feel like diaspora Jews don’t hate Israelis — they just don’t see us.

They see headlines. Governments. Conflicts. Big moral debates. But they don’t see the people who stand in line at the post office, argue about football, bring each other soup when they’re sick, and vote in chaotic, exhausting elections because we actually believe it matters.

So I want to debunk a few of the things I keep hearing about Israelis — things that flatten us into a stereotype instead of a people. Not for the antisemites or the Twitter mobs — they’re not my audience. This is for us. For Jews who need to be reminded that we’re still family, even when we disagree.

Disclaimer: This post isn’t an ‘us vs. them’ thing. I don’t think diaspora Jews are stupid or malicious. Most of the time, they just don’t have the full picture. And how could they? They’re not living it. I pray I'll be able to present a fuller picture, as a Jew, as an Israeli, as someone who loves diaspora Jews so much, and gets hurt by the unconscious assumptions.

“If Israelis really wanted peace, there would be peace.”

I know — this comes off strong for a first one. But I see this assumption constantly from diaspora Jews.

Not always word-for-word — sometimes it hides behind things like:

– “I’m more pro-coexistence than most Israelis.” – “Palestinian violence only feeds the Israeli radicalization cycle.” – “Israelis just want safety, not peace.”

The implication is always the same:

That we, the ones living here, don’t want peace badly enough. That if we just cared more, or tried harder, or voted differently, or gave more — it would all be fixed.

And that hurts. Because it erases what we've already done. What we've already lost.

We have wanted peace. We do want peace. But peace doesn’t mean self-destruction. It doesn’t mean pretending October 7th didn’t happen, or ignoring decades of broken promises, or walking into another Oslo with our eyes shut.

Peace is not something we can manufacture alone. We tried. We pulled out of Aza. We signed agreements. We buried the cost.

Wanting peace doesn't mean surrendering our right to live.

As an Israeli friend of mine said: "The chance for peace burned in the Gaza Envelope on October 7th."

There’s only so much you’re willing to give — to sacrifice, to uproot, to hope — before you realize that it takes two to tango.

Between 1993 and 1996, after the Oslo process began, 256 Israelis were murdered in terror attacks. Thousands, or even tens of thousands, were injured.

We called them “victims of peace.” As if that's not an oxymoron.

Not because we didn’t want peace. But because we wanted it so badly, we were willing to bleed for it. We walked into the fire believing there was another side.

And what did we get? Suicide bombings on buses. Cafés. Bat mitzvahs.

You can only live through so many funerals before “just try harder” stops sounding like compassion and starts sounding like cruelty.

And yes, many Israelis have been disillusioned with the illusion of peace. But not because we don't care, but because for many years now, some have been careful to remind us that the other side, in its current form, does not want peace. Does not want coexistence. Does not want us to exist here.

Peace is a noble value. But peace requires concessions and agreements from both sides. Not one side that is willing to give up, and another side that sees it as an all-you-can-eat buffet.

So don’t say we’ve given up on peace. Say you don’t know what it’s like to want something so badly, and still live in fear because the other side doesn’t want it back.

“Israelis are bigoted / cold / racist.”

It’s easy to throw this one around. But most of the time, what people really mean is this:

✦ “Israelis think they’re better than Palestinians — that’s why they don’t want peace.”

That we see ourselves as more civilized, more advanced, more worthy of life. That we dehumanize the other side so badly, peace was never on the table to begin with.

Like some BBC host asked Eylon Levi: "I was speaking to a hostage negotiator this morning, (...) He made the comparison between the 50 hostages that Hamas has promised to release as opposed to the 150 prisoners that are Palestinians that Israel has said it will release. And he made the comparison between the numbers and the fact that does Israel not think that Palestinian lives are valued as highly as Israeli lives?"

Back then, we laughed at the presenter's silly assumption. But the sentiment remained bubbling secretly, even in the psyche of our Mishpacha in the Diaspora.

And honestly? That’s a very comfortable assumption if you’ve never lived here.

It spares you from having to ask harder questions. Like:

– What if we wanted peace and got stabbed in return? – What if we taught our children to believe in coexistence, and they came home in a coffin? – What if fear isn’t the same as hatred?

Israelis don’t reject peace because we think we’re better. We reject fake peace because we’ve already paid for it in blood.

And we don’t dehumanize Palestinians. We just don’t have the luxury of pretending we’re not human, too.

“Most Israelis hate the government — so it’s not legitimate.”

I hear this one all the time, usually from people who want to distance themselves from Israeli actions without seeming anti-Israel.

“Even Israelis are against Netanyahu.” “The Israeli public doesn’t support this war.” “This isn’t a real democracy anymore.” Even "The Israeli government is fascist."

But here’s the thing: Israelis disagree with our government constantly. We protest. We argue. We mock. We vote again. And again. And again.

Disagreement isn’t a sign that democracy is failing — it’s a sign that it’s working.

I don’t agree with everything this government does. Most Israelis don’t, whether from the right, the left or the centre. That’s normal. That’s healthy.

But when people say “Israelis hate the government,” what they’re usually trying to say is:

✦ “This government is illegitimate.” ✦ “Its actions don’t count.” ✦ “Resistance against it is justified.”

That’s not critique. That’s erasure.

Israel has a flawed, loud, chaotic, vibrant democracy. You can disagree with us. You can argue. You can protest. We do it, too.

But don’t pretend that disagreement = invalidity. That’s not how democracies work. And it’s not how family treats family.

The Israeli public is reacting the way any public would — or should — after a security failure, a massacre on Simchat Torah, and an ongoing war.

But the fact remains: for the past 30 years, Israelis have gone to the polls again and again — and voted right.

Likud didn’t seize power. It was elected. And even after October 7th, it remains the largest party in Israel.

And I think that’s what really unsettles some people.

It’s not that this government doesn’t represent Israelis.

It’s that it does.

That even after everything, even after tragedy, fear, and failure — many Israelis still believe in strength first. In security first.

Not because we’re cruel. But because we’ve buried enough people to know what happens when we’re not protected.

And if that doesn’t sit well with your values — that’s okay. But don’t pretend we’re undemocratic. Or brainwashed. Or passive.

Israel isn’t America. It’s not a two-party system. Every coalition is a compromise — an argument in motion.

It’s loud. It’s messy. It’s imperfect.

It’s also democracy. And it’s ours.

And the fact that we argue with our government doesn't mean it's illegitimate. It means we're Jews and we're doing what Jews do best.

“Israel acts in my name, so I have the right to criticise it.”

This one’s complicated.

Israel is the Jewish state. And yes — the world often holds Jews everywhere responsible for what Israel does.

But just like you wouldn’t hold every Muslim accountable for Iran’s actions, or every Christian for what the Vatican does, you shouldn’t hold every Jew accountable for what Israel does. Not even “as a Jew.”

You’re allowed to care. You’re allowed to have an opinion. I’m not trying to shut anyone up.

But if you’re going to scream your opinion into the internet, at least make sure of two things:

1. Base your opinion on facts — not clickbait. Using Al Jazeera or Middle East Eye as your source is sloppy. If you’re going to throw your siblings under the bus, do it with facts in hand.

2. Don’t talk about Israelis without talking to us. Ask your Israeli friends for clarity. For context. For disagreement, even. I happily volunteer my inbox and DMs. And if you don’t — and an angry Israeli reblogs you and calls you out — that’s not an attack. That’s accountability.

You’re not a victim for being corrected. You’re not silenced just because someone said, “Hey, we’re human too.”

If you want to talk about Israelis — talk with us, too.

“Israelis are obsessed with the military. They glorify soldiers and love war.”

From the outside, it might look like we worship the army. We post photos of soldiers. We cheer at ceremonies. We cry at national anthems.

But what you're seeing isn’t warmongering. It’s not a thirst for violence. It’s something much deeper:

🟠 We’re proud of them. 🟠 We’re protective of them. 🟠 We’ve been them.

Everyone in Israel knows a soldier. Has been a soldier. Loves a soldier. The 19-year-old standing at a checkpoint isn't a symbol of oppression. He's your nephew. Your classmate. Your neighbor's son.

We don’t glorify war. We glorify service. The willingness to put your body between danger and your people.

We post their pictures because we’re scared we might lose them. We stand still during the siren because we remember who we already lost.

And yes — we’re proud. Because in a world where Jews were hunted for centuries with no one to protect them, we finally became strong enough to say: never again.

Don’t mistake that for obsession. Don’t mistake that for cruelty.

It’s love. It’s grief. It’s survival. And it’s ours.

You don’t have to love soldiers — but stop treating us like we’re monsters for loving our own.

“Israelis think they’re better than diaspora Jews.”

I know some diaspora Jews feel like Israelis talk down to them.

Like we don’t take them seriously. Like we think you’re soft, or distant, or not “really” Jewish.

And yeah — maybe you’ve heard Israelis say things that sounded harsh, arrogant, or dismissive. But it’s not because we think we’re better.

It’s because we’ve been separated for so long, and we've been fighting different battles.

You’ve faced exile, terror, pogroms, antisemitism, synagogue shootings, cultural erasure.

We’ve faced rockets, wars, kidnappings, and funerals of kids in uniform.

Sometimes, in the exhaustion and fear, we forget that both of those stories are real.

We don’t think we’re better than you.

We just wish you’d stop talking about us like we’re a shameful cousin you have to explain away at the dinner table.

You’re not lesser. And neither are we.

We’re family. And we’re hurting.

Maybe if we remembered that more often, we’d fight each other less — and love each other more.

“Israelis are rude and blunt.”

Sure. We are.

We cut in line, interrupt mid-sentence, and tell you exactly what we think even when you didn’t ask.

But it’s not hate. It’s not arrogance. It’s just... Hebrew.

In a country where you can’t afford to waste time or words, you learn to say what you mean.

If that feels rude to you, I get it. But here, it’s just Tuesday.

We yell because we care. We argue because we think it matters. We show love by offering unsolicited advice and giving you watermelon you didn’t ask for.

Don’t mistake bluntness for cruelty. Don’t mistake noise for disrespect.

This is how we speak to people we love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I didn’t write this to make anyone feel guilty. I wrote this because I’m tired.

Tired of being spoken about like a country, but not like a people.

Tired of hearing strangers analyze my pain like a chessboard.

Tired of feeling like, to some of you, I’m an embarrassment — a problem to explain away instead of a sibling to listen to.

You don’t have to agree with everything Israel does. Most Israelis don’t either. But please — if you’re going to talk about us, remember that we’re not concepts.

We’re people.

Flawed, passionate, traumatised, loud, stubborn, warm people — who have been through hell and are still somehow standing.

We’re not your project. We’re not your shame.

We’re your family.

So talk to us like you still remember that.

And if you’ve made it this far — thank you. I still believe we can talk.

57 notes · View notes