I posted concern about Gaza and my feed lost its mind

Last Thursday night, I read The Jewish Independent’s editorial calling for an end to the Israel–Hamas war. It struck a chord. I agreed. So, though I’m more of a “Here’s a photo of my dog” kind of Facebook user, I shared the article with the comment: “I love Israel but surely it’s time for this to end!”

That was it. Eleven words. Less than a tweet. More concise than a café menu. And yet, they triggered a digital firestorm.

My Facebook page exploded. Friends, acquaintances, and vague connections piled on. My motives were questioned. My Zionism, doubted. My loyalty, scrutinised. Someone even suggested I should work for Al Jazeera. Most hadn’t read the article. But the Meta algorithm weaponised outrage at my naïve peacenik post. Likes came in — but so did yellow frowny emojis, sneering at me with jaundiced disdain.

My phone also buzzed with private messages — friends who were supportive, grateful, and afraid to say anything publicly. “Thanks for saying what I couldn’t,” they messaged. “So brave,” as if I’d rescued kittens from a burning house instead of just posting on Facebook.

Messages came from friends in Israel — some supportive, others furious. Apparently, by sharing that article and posting those eleven words, I’d committed the digital equivalent of donning a keffiyeh and chanting “From the river to the sea.” A few said I’d betrayed the hostages. Others questioned the timing — how dare I post the same day two Jews were murdered in Washington?

I get it. Sort of. But this wasn’t a PR move. It was a gut response to an editorial by a publication I’ve made two podcast series for. I was — and am — proud of TJI for publishing a piece that acknowledges the suffering in Gaza without ignoring the horrors of October 7. But I still questioned myself — as a proud diaspora Jewish Zionist, do I even have the right to an opinion?

I know Hamas inflates figures, misuses aid, hides weapons in hospitals. I still feel sick thinking about October 7 —my kids could have attended the Nova festival. I’ve lived in the Negev - these are my people. I grew up in a Zionist youth movement. I love Israel. And I know the IDF tries to minimise civilian casualties. And like many diasporans, I have family and lifelong friends there — people deeply scarred by what’s happened.

But I also can’t ignore the thousands of innocent deaths or the withholding of food meant for Gazans. Who’s to blame almost feels irrelevant now. Something has to shift.

What stays with me from the reaction to my post, isn't just anger or outrage but trauma. Holocaust trauma. Transgenerational trauma. The kind that bubbles just beneath the surface — so potent even 11 words can crack it wide open.

I know everyone who engaged — liking, frowning, arguing . They are close friends, old schoolmates, work colleagues, family, and a few so longstanding they have become “how do I know you?”s. The pile-on was deeply personal.

I’m still a Zionist. I still love Israel. I’m proud of my heritage. And I’m deeply uncomfortable with what’s happening. That doesn’t make me anti-Israel. It makes me human.

I know I’m not alone. There are many of us in this grey zone — wanting the war to end, caring about Jewish life, and unsure how to say “enough” without being branded traitors. I pray for the hostages. I despise chants calling for Israel’s destruction. I also hate the lazy misuse of words like genocide, apartheid and colonisation — tossed around in every activist’s kit bag. I feel abandoned by the progressive side of politics in Australia. I was part of the infamous “Zio 600” whose personal details were leaked online. As a left-leaning Zionist, I feel politically homeless.

My non-Jewish friends are baffled. “How did such a mild post cause this?” Watching it all unfold felt to them like Succession meets Curb Your Enthusiasm — awkward, weirdly funny, and too real.

But I’m left wondering: Why is it so hard to have a nuanced conversation about Israel, antisemitism, and identity? Why are we so quick to pounce, so uncomfortable with internal dissent? Why can’t we support Israel and have empathy for Gazans?

Criticism isn’t betrayal. Being pro-Israel doesn’t mean blind allegiance. Talking behind closed doors about Netanyahu’s stay-in-power-at-all costs or Smotrich and Ben Gvir’s shameful racism isn’t good enough anymore.

In Israel, my peers are protesting, attending peace summits and calling for the war to end. But in Australia, open discussion is being stifled. For every person who questioned my post, just as many messaged, “Well done — I wish I could agree publicly, but there may be  repercussions.”

If eleven words on a random Gen Xer’s Facebook page can cause this much drama — imagine what could happen if we all started listening.