How visiting Israel changed my perspective about the war 

I keep returning to the moment I saw the kalaniot – the blood red poppies – sprouting defiantly from the ruins of what was Kibbutz Be’eri. 

The contrast was almost too much to process in real time. Vibrant petals swaying in the Negev breeze, pushing up through land scarred by massacre. Less than a year and a half earlier, this was the site of unfathomable horror. Among the twisted ruins and the fresh construction sites, the flowers declared something wordless and powerful: life will return here. 

What struck me most in that moment was the quiet truth that Israel’s land holds history older than any war. These fields have seen empire and exile, joy and heartbreak. Yet every season, the poppies come back. This land does not forget. It endures, not because of politics or borders, but because of something deeper. Something rooted. 

A question began to form inside me: Is this where I’m meant to be? Is this where we’re all meant to be? 

Being a Jewish university student in Australia post October 7 has been a confusing, isolating experience. The sense of safety and belonging that I once took for granted feels compromised. It’s in the way conversations shift. In the silence of friends. In the graffiti on walls. In the posts online that feel like erasure. You feel as if you have to justify your grief and prove your humanity. 

In Israel, I didn’t feel that burden. I didn’t have to explain myself, defend my existence, or hide my Jewish identity. I could breathe. There, I wasn’t a minority. I wasn’t on edge. I was just me. That doesn’t mean things were easy or uncomplicated – far from it – but there was a peace that I hadn’t experienced in a long time. 

On the ZFA Youth Leaders Mission, we travelled from the north to the south, from Jerusalem to the Gaza envelope, meeting survivors, soldiers, activists, and ordinary civilians. At every stop, we encountered pain. But also something else: resilience. 

In the Otef Aza, the area most directly impacted by October 7, I saw homes being rebuilt. Farmers were replanting crops in soil still wounded by rocket craters. And in between it all – poppies. Fragile, fiery bursts of red reclaiming the landscape. 

The poppy, or kalanit, has long been a symbol of memory in Israel. But now, it carries something deeper: a symbol of refusal. A refusal to surrender beauty. A refusal to let death be the final word. 

Everywhere we went, we were thanked simply for being there. People refused to let us pay for lunch. Complete strangers told us, over and over, “just the fact that you came here means everything.” And they meant it. In a time when so many have pulled away – tourists, volunteers, even some diaspora voices, showing up meant more than words ever could. 

But it wasn’t just the warmth or the gratitude. It was the sense of being part of the story, not a spectator to it. 

That’s what’s so hard back home. In Australia, it can feel like we’re watching our people’s trauma play out through a screen and no-one around us seems to notice. Or worse, they do notice, and they look away. It creates a distance not just geographically, but emotionally. The kind that makes you wonder where you really belong. 

And yet, this isn’t a simple story of being called home. It’s more complicated than that. Because as much as I felt at home in Israel, I also saw a nation that is raw, divided, and still in deep pain. In Jerusalem, the fear between Jewish and Arab communities is palpable. The wounds, political, spiritual, and physical, are on the mend but far from healed. 

It’s important to say this too: you don’t have to agree with every political decision to love this country. In fact, one of the most frustrating things today is how little nuance there is in the global conversation around Israel. Too often, support or connection is treated as absolute alignment. But the truth is, loving Israel doesn’t mean ignoring its flaws. It means engaging with it fully – with open eyes, and an open heart. 

So what now? 

I’m not standing here with an answer. I haven’t made aliyah – not yet, at least. But I am carrying the question with more urgency than ever before. 

Should we be showing up, not just as tourists or volunteers, but as citizens? 

Frankly, I don’t know what the right path is for everyone. Aliyah isn’t for all. After all, Israel’s strength is deeply intertwined with the strength of its diaspora. But what can we do as Jews outside of Israel? 

We have to show up, not just physically, but emotionally and intellectually. We have to visit Israel, to learn, to connect, and to see beyond the headlines. We have to volunteer, donate, and educate others about the richness of our culture. We have to be unapologetically proud of our Jewish identity. And in this moment especially, we can travel not just to support – but to understand. 

The poppies don’t wait for perfect conditions. They turn up anyway. 

So should we.