Toronto Susan retweetledi

Exile
My skin is thick, but last week in Israel was too much even for me.
People see the shiny dress, the big smile, the glamorous pictures from the Tel Aviv Stock Exchange where I received a prestigious award while people showered me with love and respect. What they do not see is that I went through some of my lowest moments since October 7th, precisely because some of those who hurt me most are supposed to be on my side.
An Israeli friend who attended the ceremony left before I even received the award. No congratulations, no message afterward, nothing. People later told me he was jealous.
Jealous of what exactly?
Believe me, in my life, there is nothing to be jealous of.
A few days later, I went for dinner at a friend’s house in Jerusalem. He told me he had bought a bottle of Lebanese arak made in Chtaura, the town where I grew up.
I do not even drink arak, yet holding that bottle sent shivers down my spine. I was holding a piece of home.
Unconsciously, he had invited me to mourn. He is a convert himself, also cut off from parts of the Arab world and from family. On October 7th, his estranged brother messaged him asking if he was still alive. For one brief moment, he thought sympathy had motivated the message. Then another message followed:
“I wish you and your filthy family dead.”
I showed him the message I received from my younger sister on October 8th. She insisted the massacre was Israeli propaganda. Her sympathy was entirely with the Palestinians. The conversation ended with “shame on you” before she blocked me.
I still do not know what was worse: the first conversation I had with my mother after October 7th or the last.
How does one process such hatred from one’s own family? The answer is that you do not. You simply absorb it while trying to remain sane.
At dinner, I sat across from my friend’s daughter. Her partner had recently been injured in Lebanon. She would not greet me, barely looked at me, and when our eyes crossed by accident, she rolled hers.
That moment stayed with me because it captured something painful and difficult to explain: exile does not always happen between enemies. Sometimes it happens among people who should understand you best.
A religious convert in Jerusalem once told me that even if I converted a hundred times, I would never become a Jew. A family member told me years ago that they wished I had died of cancer before seeing the day I visited Israel.
My son has paid a price too. In Modiin, teenagers called him a Nazi because he lives in Germany. When I missed his high school graduation because of my work, I watched the ceremony from afar wondering whether his teachers thought I was simply a terrible mother. The truth is that I wanted nobody to know he was my son because I wanted to protect him from the hatred directed at me.
And still, despite all of this, I cannot betray what I know to be true.
I do not do what I do for money, applause, or awards. If anything, the higher I rise publicly, the lower I fall in the eyes of many people I once loved or expected solidarity from.
I do what I do because Israel is worth it to me.
Israel, the project that materialized. The model that defies the hatred, tribalism, victimhood, and fatalism that destroyed so much of our region.
Every Israeli or Jew whose heart becomes consumed by darkness after October 7th is a victory for the axis of evil. I cannot allow that. Even when I am exhausted. Even when I feel humiliated. Even when I feel completely alone.
If you are ever jealous of pro-Israel activists, especially those who came from the Arab world, remember this:
Many of them are living in exile.
And sometimes friendly fire hurts more than the enemy.
#israel #october7

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