Part One: A Week in Israel That Changed My Life
We live in a time that rewards certainty. But what if the real power lives in our questions?
An Invitation to Witness
I feel immensely grateful that I was invited to Israel with REALITY@itrek, a leadership journey created by the Schusterman Family Philanthropies. It brings Jewish and non-Jewish changemakers to this land not to hand them a narrative, but to offer them an opportunity. A deeply embodied one. To see, to listen, to feel, and to sit in the complexity of a place that’s been turned into a symbol but is, at its core, just people. Families. History. Land. Life. And all the things that make us human.
That it’s not about knowing everything or being able to argue your position better than someone else. It’s not about choosing a side or broadcasting certainty. It’s about remembering what it means to be in relationship with the world, to witness without needing to fix, and to stay curious when it would be so much easier to shut down. We live in a time that rewards certainty. But what if the real power lives in our questions?
Over the course of seven days, our group traveled through Tel Aviv, Jaffa, Jerusalem, Ramallah, and down to the Gaza border to Kfar Aza. We met with survivors of war and genocide, artists, politicians, professors, and everyday people just trying to live their lives. We walked through the quarters of the Old City and stood in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. We touched the stones of the Western Wall, tucked in prayers, and felt the weight of generations press into our palms. We danced with the Ethiopian Jewish community. We ate the best hummus of our lives. We heard bombs in Gaza while standing inside a devastated kibbutz that once housed children and now stands hollowed by grief. And we sat in silence, holding one another’s pain like it was our own, because it was.
But the thing that struck me most, more than the heartbreak and the history, was the joy. The people of Israel. Their warmth. Their hospitality. Their commitment to living life fully, despite it all. In Israel, death is not an abstract idea, it’s a neighbor. A friend. A moment embraced by children in the army and every loved one. And because of that, life is cherished. There’s color everywhere. Laughter. Passion. Movement. Music. The belief in human goodness is palpable, and it’s not naive, it’s resilient. It’s earned.
That’s something I need people to understand. Yes, Israel and the Middle East as a whole is complicated. Yes, there is pain. Yes, there is injustice. But that’s not the whole story. It is also a place of wild joy and deep-rooted community. Of humans doing their best to stay soft in a world that so often tries to harden them. And if I learned anything, it’s that staying soft is the real strength.
I’ve always been deeply connected to my Judaism. I’ve grown up celebrating this part of myself. Hosting Shabbat dinners. Connecting with my Jewish community. I’ve lit candles with my ancestors in my heart. And this trip, I walked the streets of Tel Aviv and felt something unspoken in my bones. This land, this lineage… it lives in me. But my pride in being Jewish doesn’t mean I’m blind to other people’s pain. I’m also pro-Palestinian. Pro-Muslim. Pro-peace. Pro-human. I believe you can hold multiple truths at once. I believe you must.
I don’t believe governments should use their people as pawns in endless cycles of violence. I don’t believe pain should be politicized or exploited. And I don’t believe that the internet or the media is where we find truth. Because the truth doesn’t live in a headline or a post. It lives in the faces of people who are actually living it. The father who just wants to protect his children. The grandmother who still lights Shabbat candles after losing half her family. The young woman in Ramallah who wants nothing more than to be free, to create, to live a full life on her own terms. The stories are endless. And none of them fit neatly into a soundbite.
One of the biggest issues I see right now is that people are generalizing entire populations. Entire cultures. We’re collapsing individuals into categories. We’re absorbing narratives that serve someone else's agenda and forgetting to ask, who is actually benefiting from this story being told this way? That’s why I’m not here to tell you what to think. I’m just here to remind you to ask. To keep your heart open. To be discerning, yes, but also compassionate. Curious. Human.
So no, this isn’t a post with political takes. It’s not about proving a point or winning a debate. It’s about remembering what it means to listen. To stay in relationship with grief and beauty at the same time. To love wider than your opinions. And to make space for all the questions that don’t have neat answers.
If I could ask one thing of you, it would be this: be brave enough to ask. Be soft enough to listen. Be willing to feel uncomfortable. Because that’s the work. That’s the bridge. That’s the path to healing.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s the whole point.
Walking the Streets of Tel Aviv
After the trip ended, I decided to stay in Tel Aviv for a few extra days. I wasn’t ready to leave. My body was still processing everything I had witnessed, and I felt like I had just scratched the surface of this city’s spirit which I had yet to truly experience as an adult. My last time in Israel was 10 years ago and I am a completely different woman now than I was then. It was time to really feel this place that I know is a home away from home.
I checked into the Vera Hotel, a quaint and cozy spot in Neve Tzedek, a neighborhood that feels like the love child of Soho and Miami. The air was warm, the streets full of boutiques and cafes, and my body started to exhale in a way I hadn’t even realized it needed to. I found a gym just a few blocks away and returned to my lifting routine. I wandered down to the beach every afternoon to catch the light. I made Neroli my second home, aka Tel Aviv’s answer to Erewhon, stocking up on overpriced adaptogens and drinking smoothies that reminded me of home. But not because I missed my former definition of home, but because this place was becoming a new one.
I was reconnecting with friends, moving through the city with curiosity, and was even set to teach yoga on a rooftop on Friday morning. I felt aligned. Energized. Alive.
My flight was booked for Sunday night (1am Monday, technically.) And in the meantime, I was going to spend Shabbat and the weekend with my cousin Riki and her family a little outside of Tel Aviv. Even though we had never met, I felt instantly connected to them and was welcomed in as family truly does.
The Moment Everything Changed
Thursday morning started like any other. I went to my local café, journaled after my workout, and wrote this:
“Things can change instantly without any reasoning. Just like remembering you are worthy.”
I had no idea how prophetic that line would be.
Later that afternoon, I had a hair appointment with Lior, my stylist of 10 years from New York, who had moved back to Israel during the pandemic. He hadn’t done my hair in years, and being in his chair again, in his presence, felt grounding. He’s not just my go-to for hair; he’s a dear friend who’s been with me through so many powerful moments in my life. After the appointment, we planned to grab dinner.
As we walked through the streets, the city buzzed with energy. It was the night before Shabbat and Gay Pride. Tel Aviv was glowing. Vibrant. Alive.
That’s when the texts started. First, in my REALITY group chat: rumors that a war between Israel and Iran was imminent. Then Lior got a similar message from a friend who seemed concerned. But in Israel, rumors fly often, and life rarely pauses for them. We shrugged, laughed it off, and kept moving forward, just like everyone around us.
I got home around midnight, set my alarm for my rooftop class, and climbed into bed.
At 4am, the siren went off. And this one felt different than all the others, like the air itself had shifted. My body knew before my mind could catch up. Something had changed…
subscribe for Part Two coming soon…
