“Abby, this is ridiculous. Why go into a war zone? You’re sick, your kids are sick, and you’ve been traveling like crazy for work. This really isn’t necessary.”
Those were reasonable concerns from two family members. Leaving your children to volunteer in a war-torn country across an ocean is an unconventional choice. Despite understanding their worries, my mind was made up. I had never felt more certain about anything. I was boarding that plane to Israel. The country needed witnesses, but this journey was also crucial for my own survival.
It may sound dramatic, but I believe my literal life depended on this trip. My light, my purpose, had been extinguished.
When you are lost, what do you do? You go home.
Am yisrael chai.
You see, my entire concept of humanity shattered last October. Since then, the depression and pain have been palpable. Before that month, I was optimistic. I had launched an EMF campaign to raise awareness about a cancer-causing inconvenient truth. If you had asked me how I was doing on October 6th, I would have enthusiastically spoken about the world’s amazing technological advancements. I was even confident that cancer could be cured within a decade.
Some might find my optimism surprising, considering I had survived two family members battling rare cancers. Doctors had told me neither would live at points. I witnessed countless children succumb to cancer, a disease they did nothing to deserve. (There are no three year old serial smokers). Yet, despite the darkness I lived through, I maintained great hope for the world. I even believed I would contribute to making it a better place. I built a school to help our youth find community and devoted my time to studying physics to advance novel cancer treatments. I saw solutions. I saw light.
Then came October 7th. However, it was October 8th that extinguished all light for me. While I don’t need to detail why October 7th could rob me of my hope in humanity, it was the following day that stripped away not just my hope, but my community, my people. I lost my “label,” my place at the table, and a core “tribe” in my life. Even my political identity became uncertain, including how I would vote in the next election. The word “progressive,” which I once used with pride, now feels foreign in my mouth. I literally stumble over its syllables. I began to question: Is this still my group? Can I trust them with basic beliefs, even a simple one- like the right of my children to exist?
It wasn’t clear anymore. Their answers seemed to require mental gymnastics and extensive context to even answer.
Communities and struggles I identified with disappeared overnight. My own history was rewritten. I was labeled an oppressor. I saw my friends of color abandon Jews and even see us as the problem, which is crazy because of our shared history. Being a class casted as “dirty” or even “tainting the white race” is a history Jews know too well. This is not a black only thing. We know its realities can be lynching or even gas chambers.
But by supporting Israel’s right to defend itself, I was cast as complicit in genocide from those very friends. I was branded a ‘dirty Zionist,’ and some even implied the massacres on October 7th were justified. You know context!
(For those who have followed me for years… ‘context’ is now tied with the ‘e’ word, lol. Following closely behind in second is ‘patience,’ another word I despise.)
I lost my liberal tribe overnight. I became the enemy, seen as evil for protesting a ceasefire that only benefited a terrorist group intent on slaughter. By challenging the use of public school walkouts for political causes, I was accused of being unsympathetic to Palestinian children. This accusation was particularly hurtful, considering my life’s work in education.
I was broken. Hope in humanity, my identity, my work – all vanished.
So, going to Israel was not a choice. It was a necessity.
I had nowhere else to go.
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