Resilience: hope in unexpected places

Just before October 7, “resilient” would not have been the adjective I would have chosen to describe Israeli society. More apt descriptors would have been divided, angry, or even, “on the cusp of civil war”.

A week before the massacre, Israelis were engaged in a crescendo of civil discord surrounding the proposed judicial overhaul initiated by the Netanyahu government. That Yom Kippur, a small mechitza built for an outdoor minyan that comprised a tiny string with three small Israeli flags was torn down by secular protesters on the night of Kol Nidre, as they felt it was a sign of creeping orthodoxy in the heart of liberal Tel Aviv.

For the next seven days, there was almost nothing in the news other than a lengthy panel discussion about whether what they did was correct or not.

A year on, the notion that the whole country was consumed by the placement of a mechtiza seems laughable. I’m probably not the only Israeli who longs for the days when the issues that divided us could be as tiny as a rope with three small flags separating 20 plastic chairs.

Much of the year has been driven by grief. But amid the trauma there have constant signs of resilience.

From protest to unity

London-born Rabbi Joe Wolfson is an intelligent and likeable 38-year-old father of three. He made Aliyah from Manhattan to Tel Aviv in 2022, and along with his wife Corrine, has been the co-director of the JLIC TLV, a community of young olim.

JLIC, short for Jewish Learning Initiative on Campus, is an affiliate of the Orthodox Union that primarily serves students on American college campuses. In recent years, JLIC has expanded its activities to include university students on Israeli campuses and young adults in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv.

Rabbi Wolfson described the Tel Aviv of October 6 as the “epicentre of discord,” he told The Jewish Independent. “On Erev Simchat Torah, the Yom Kippur mechitza story was still front-page news. That whole year of argument about the fate of Israel’s justice system was a highly alienating experience for most olim. They arrive in Israel to live their Zionist dream and discover that everyone bitterly hates each other over an incomprehensible argument they can’t even understand.”

He shared an analogy that the experience of many olim in 2023 was akin to being invited to the home of a couple you dearly respect, only to find they are on the verge of divorce, throwing plates at one another, where both say to you at the end of the meal, “why did you come here for dinner, are you mad?”

As a liberal-minded rabbi who deeply wants to share the beauty of both the Jewish and Zionist story with all around him, Wolfson remembers October 7 as far more than just the horror of the Hamas attack; he remembers it as a turning point in Israeli society.

Within a day, the square that was the site of discord over a mechitza became the location where thousands of young Israelis, from right to left, religious and secular, came together to pack tens of thousands of boxes of goods for soldiers and displaced people across Israel.

Many of the volunteers were organised by a group called Achim LaNeshek – Brothers in Arms – a new NGO of reserve soldiers formed a year earlier to protest the judicial overhaul. Overnight, Brothers in Arms transitioned from a protest group to a social solidarity organisation.

Achim LaNeshek repurposed its administrative structure to support victims and assist in the war effort. They organised logistics to serve soldiers and displaced civilians, running support centres and providing community assistance, such as maintaining dairy farms and aiding displaced families.

This transformation was driven by the immediate need for civilian support in the national crisis, the group's existing organisational infrastructure and a sense of patriotic duty. The unity across Israeli society during the war also facilitated this shift from political activism to humanitarian aid and social solidarity.

Reflecting on the first week of the war, Wolfson wrote, “I have lived 100 years in five days. If there is one thing I know, it's this. If we are like this, we are truly undefeatable.”

He added that his city now felt like it was run by a young couple in love who took nothing for granted and who just wanted to make every guest feel special and needed, as each visitor and new oleh to Israel was keen to do only one thing – volunteer.

For young olim, the shift from alienation over the justice reform, to the feeling that they finally had a role to play changed their relationship with the country overnight.

Thanks to the strong connection many olim have to diaspora communities with established supply chains, within weeks they were able to organise duffel bags filled with everything from socks and toothbrushes to helmets and ceramic vests for soldiers.

A year on, JLIC has raised more than US$500,000 to provide accommodations, food, and childcare for 300-plus displaced families in Tel Aviv, and launched a Family Match Program (to match displaced families with individuals from the JLIC community), among other humanitarian projects.

They have also built strong connections with a Bedouin family in the Negev whose daughter, Amina Husseini, was the only Israeli injured in the massive April 14 drone attack from Iran, after debris from a missile fragment tore through her home in the isolated Negev village of al-Fur’ah. She was placed in an intensive care unit, where she remains, still in a critical condition.

In May, two carloads of JLIC community members travelled to al-Fur’ah, bringing an array of toys, clothes, and essential supplies. The visit also offered an opportunity for cultural and linguistic exchange, healing old wounds and fostering new understandings.

“It is healing to work with Muslims and to speak Arabic again. Over the last few months, those bridges of coexistence have seemed to collapse all around me,” one visitor reflected. “Learning the language a few years back healed me, but this war toppled a lot that was built. Today we got to play, care, and hug wonderful Muslim people whose plight makes empathy so simple and obvious.”

The family’s matriarch echoed a powerful sentiment during the visit: “We are one; Jews and Muslims. I feel that around our story, the Jews have really been holding our hand. And I hope for a future where we can continue being together.”

From unity to protest

In the early months of the war, there was incredible resilience and unity between Jewish Israelis. Now, as we approach the first anniversary of October 7, the country is again torn between two camps.

The first is mainly right-wing and religious, favouring unity, faith and determination as the only way to win the war, and prioritising the total destruction of Hamas over doing a deal with them to bring home the hostages.

The second is mainly liberal and secular, favouring protest and the removal of Netanyahu over his responsibility for not preventing October 7, and favouring a hostage deal to bring home the hostages.

The divide was especially stark on September 2, the day the National Trade Union of Israel (the Histradut) called a national strike following the murder of six Israeli hostages by Hamas.

The strike closed schools, businesses and other essential institutions, including the airport, for a short period. Outraged, a slew of right-wing municipalities declared the strike illegitimate and divisive, with mayors threatening to act against anyone who didn’t show up for work.

The Labour Court ordered an end to the strike by Monday afternoon, deeming it “politically motivated and unrelated to workers’ rights”, and thus illegal, in a rejection of the Histadrut’s stance that the government’s failure to secure a deal was damaging the economy.

Then and now, from Yom Kippur 2023 to Rosh Hashanah 2024, the battle lines were drawn: religious against secular, centre against the periphery, pro-Netanyahu against pro-deal, brother against brother.

Netanyahu responded by saying in a cabinet meeting: “The strike is a disgrace. It’s telling [Hamas leader Yahya] Sinwar – you murdered six people. Here, we support you,” while vowing that Israel would exact a heavy price from Hamas for the murder of the hostages.

On the night after the strike, Netanyahu gave a rare press conference where he spoke at length about all he had done to free the hostages while also affirming the absolute imperative of Israel holding on to the strategic Philadelphi Corridor between Egypt and Gaza, blaming Hamas entirely for the lack of progress in negotiations on this matter.

Opposition leader Yair Lapid castigated his comments as baseless political spin designed to keep his coalition together. Lapid noted that Netanyahu had years to retake Philadelphi and didn’t bother, and only sent the IDF to do so eight months into the current war.

Haaretz ran an editorial about the Prime Minister's response to the killing of the six hostages, writing, “Hamas may have pulled the trigger…but it was Netanyahu who sealed their fate”.

A tent of resilience, grief, and hope

In their grief, Jon and Rachel Goldberg-Polin, parents of Hersh, one of the six hostages murdered by Hamas in August, have become symbols of unyielding strength – fighting for their son with the same grace with which they mourn his devastating loss.

In an Israel often divided, their dignity has united hearts, drawing admiration from every corner – from the Pope in Rome to the Democratic National Convention in Chicago. At Hersh's funeral, there was no talk of Hamas, Netanyahu, revenge, strikes, or the Philadelphi Corridor. Instead, they honoured their son – deeply loving and always seeking peace – who will forever be 23.

I stood among the thousands gathered at their shiva tent near their South Jerusalem home. Strangers became companions as we waited in a line that stretched well beyond the marquee – each conversation a bridge between the old and the new, a testament to shared grief and connection.

I met two old friends, and as Israelis often do, we discussed the hostage deal – me for, them against. It felt almost wrong to talk politics in a place of mourning. And yet, maybe this was the perfect place – where, in the shadow of loss, we wrestled with the question that has gripped a nation.

When my turn came, I sat before Jon and Rachel, their garments torn beneath a sign that read, “may his memory be a revolution”. Their kindness was boundless. The weight of grief did not stop them from offering love and attention to each visitor. It was as though those who came to comfort them left comforted themselves.

Inside that tent, where left and right sat side by side, there were no chants, drums or slogans. It was a moment that stood in stark contrast to the streets outside, where division reigns. It reminded me that in our darkest hours, the resilience of the Israeli people is our greatest strength.

But even the strongest among us have limits, and our leaders fail us when they do not see that resilience should not be endlessly tested.