What Is the Role of American Jews After October 7?
Balancing Hope and Harsh Realities
“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
courage to change the things I can,
and wisdom to know the difference.”
This timeless prayer—attributed to American theologian Reinhold Niebuhr—offers a steady compass for navigating turbulent times. It reminds us of the delicate tension between staying rooted in reality while striving toward something better. It feels particularly resonant now.
If you’re unfamiliar or want to explore its meaning further, this short video offers a thoughtful analysis of the Serenity Prayer, unpacking why it resonates so deeply in moments of personal and collective crisis.
When I hear our rabbi suggest a prayer for peace, or for the innocent in Gaza, I feel a surge of anger. What kind of peace are we praying for? Are there truly any innocents left? Where is it written that I need to pray for people who hate me—who openly call for the destruction of my people?
Why propose an approach that feels like sticking one’s head in the sand? Is there evidence that your enemies share your love for life? How long can one keep stiffening the neck to believe so? At what point does it become naïve? Or worse—arrogant?
I am struggling.
I recite the Serenity Prayer several times a day. Sometimes, I think I should scream it. Or sing louder. Or dance harder. I try to hold it together. But the last eighteen months have tested every fiber of my being.
How do I stay grounded in faith, hope, and love while facing brutal facts? How do I hold these values alongside the ongoing conflict between Israel—my homeland—and the Palestinians? It’s not just difficult. It’s heartbreaking.
On one hand, my faith compels me toward peace. I still carry hope—for coexistence, for mutual respect, for safety on both sides. I believe in love—not just for Israel and my people, but for the larger human story. These values aren’t abstract. They live inside me. They form the foundation of the world I long to help build.
And yet, reality is harsh. Unforgiving. The facts on the ground resemble two parallel worlds—like something out of The Matrix (the movie). Two narratives, running side by side, unable to meet.
In one story, Israel is a sanctuary—a home built in the shadow of genocide, ready to compromise but rooted in its right to exist. On the other, Israel is seen as a colonial oppressor, a temporary occupant of land awaiting full liberation “from the river to the sea.”
These stories do not speak to one another. They clash. And since October 7, they’ve only hardened.
Religion plays a role on both sides, but with different emphases. Israeli society, while rooted in Jewish tradition, is largely secular—concerned with the here and now, with building, improving, surviving. In contrast, Palestinian culture often centers on religious ideals, with its gaze fixed on the afterlife. This difference creates a divide that goes deeper than politics.
We need to acknowledge these truths. But true dialogue? True reckoning? It feels further away than ever.
I spent time on a kibbutz not far from the Gaza border just days after October 7. That experience—what I witnessed, what I felt—reshaped something deep in me. I wrote about it here: October 7, Nahal Oz: A Reflection. Sometimes, the only way to process grief is to put your boots on and step into it.
I recently read a Jewish newspaper editorial urging the American Jewish community to support a Palestinian state. I also heard a prominent entertainment figure call—during an awards ceremony—for Israel’s Prime Minister to step down.
These aren’t easy conversations. But this moment, right now, is not the time for such calls—regardless of your position on a two-state solution or Mr. Netanyahu’s leadership. This isn’t about policy or political figures. This is about timing. This is about resilience and unity.
As American Jews, this is not our moment to step into Israel’s internal debate—a debate that’s often toxic, marked by deep anger and division. Instead, we must focus on a singular, unwavering message: support.
Amos Oz once said, “To be a Jew means to feel that wherever a Jew is persecuted for being a Jew—that means you.”
This is such a moment.
We cannot afford to look away.
This is a time for solidarity—not criticism. For presence—not politics. For courage—not commentary. Let us be clear and steadfast in our commitment to the dignity, safety, and future of the Jewish people—and the soul of Israel itself.
April 2025