The months since October 7, 2023 have changed something in the world as well as something in me.

The barbaric attack by Hamas on Israeli civilians shook Israel to its core. Families murdered. Women assaulted. Hundreds taken hostage. I spoke almost daily with friends in Israel. The grief in their voices was raw. The fear was real. The anger was overwhelming. I felt it too.

What followed was a war that has devastated Gaza. Entire neighborhoods destroyed. Tens of thousands killed. Images of injured and displaced children broadcast across the world. As the war unfolded, something else happened. The world polarized.

Israel was condemned in capitals and on campuses. Protesters filled streets in Europe and America. In some places, criticism of policy blurred into something darker  hostility toward Jews as Jews. Antisemitism reared its ugly head once again. Jewish communities far from the battlefield were treated as extensions of a government they did not elect and may not support. I found myself reacting defensively.

When people accused Israel of genocide, I rejected the claim. Words matter. Genocide has a definition. I do not believe this war, however tragic, meets it.

Some spoke as if October 7 had not happened. In some cases, that it was even justified. Hamas targeted civilians deliberately and in the most despicable ways. It knew Israel would respond militarily. It knew civilians in Gaza would suffer. It prepared for both the military confrontation and the public relations battle. Israel was prepared for one of those and not the other. I disagreed with aspects of how the Israeli government handled the war. But I understood the trauma that shaped its response.

Then somewhere in the outrage, the arguments, and the rising antisemitism, something shifted inside me. I stopped being empathetic.

I still felt deeply for Israelis. I felt anguish for the hostages and their families. But when I saw images of children in Gaza, injured, frightened, displaced, I noticed something unsettling. I felt little to nothing. That realization disturbed me more than any argument on social media ever could.

Half of Gaza’s population is children. They did not plan October 7. They did not choose Hamas. They did not vote for war. They were simply born into a geography and a history they did not create.

I do not believe Israel has deliberately targeted children. I believe Hamas bears responsibility for embedding itself among civilians and turning Gaza into a battlefield. I can hold those beliefs firmly. But I also came to see that my anger  and the surge of antisemitism in response to the war had narrowed my empathy. That is not who I want to be. That is not who I am.

One of the things I value most about being Jewish is our insistence on moral responsibility. Our history does not grant us immunity from empathy; it demands more of it. If hatred directed at Jews makes me incapable of mourning Palestinian children, then hatred has taken something from me, something essential to my Jewishness.

I refuse to allow that.

I can reject antisemitism.
I can reject simplistic accusations.
I can disagree with the Israeli government.
I can condemn Hamas.

But I can still grieve for the children of Gaza.

The world is becoming more polarized. Nuance is treated as betrayal. Empathy is framed as weakness. We are encouraged to choose a side and surrender the rest of our humanity to that cause.

I will not allow antisemitism to harden my heart.
I will not allow anger to silence compassion.
I will not allow war to strip away the values I hold dear.

The victims of October 7 deserve mourning. The people of Israel deserve security.
The children of Gaza deserve a future.

So I reclaim my humanity.