I’m Jewish and these are my thoughts on Israel and Palestine.

Written By Tristan Katz Creative

originally published June 10th, 2021
CW: state violence, antisemitism, ethnic cleansing, genocide

Growing up, I went to temple for Jewish holidays, Sunday school to learn about the religion and culture, Hebrew school to learn the language, and Jewish summer camp. I studied to be Bat Mitzvah’d—a ceremony to mark the transition to early teenage years, historically considered a transition to “adulthood”, and I was confirmed a few years later—a separate ceremony honoring the decision of young adults choosing to embrace Jewish study in their lives. And I traveled to Israel on a group trip when I was 17. 

When I type all of that out, it lands with me: I’m about to share with people that I’m Jewish. 

Like really Jewish.

And yet...I don't feel really Jewish.

And I'm afraid to share any of this information publicly because of the reality of antisemitism. 

While working to gain a deeper understanding of the identities I embody through my anti-racism and anti-oppression practices, I’ve been reflecting on how little I considered my Jewishness. By now, I’ve named my identities in public spaces countless times—I have consistently acknowledged my whiteness, my queerness, my transness, my able-bodiedness... and it took me years to name my Jewishness. 

Why did it take me so long to claim this part of myself? Why is it continuing to take me so long to feel like I can honor it?

I was taught from an early age to keep it quiet. I was taught to not say the word ‘temple’ in public (people would hear you!), I was taught to not tell clients or professional contacts about my background, heritage, and upbringing. The message I received was, “be silent about it because antisemitism and anti-Jewish violence are real.” 

I’ve come to understand that I was taught to be silent about my Judaism because of the shame and self-loathing so many Jewish folks experience. This self-loathing and shame is internalized oppression—it’s a symptom of historical trauma.

I want to acknowledge that I now understand, in a more embodied than intellectual way, my Jewish identity to be a marginalized identity. Note: My most salient identity is as a white-bodied human. The reality is that dominant U.S. culture, systems, and structures function to filter by racialized identity and specifically according to skin color: I am seen as a white person before I am seen as a Jewish person.

I was also taught to value anti-oppression principles, stemming from the reality of what my Jewish ancestors faced during the Holocaust.

I was taught that Judaism was a religion and culture of people who believed in and advocated for human rights. My own ancestral lineage—the very blood and bones of my body, is the origin of my commitment to social justice. 

The Hebrew phrase, "tikkun olam," which can be translated as "repairing the world," is etched into my mind as part of my early learning. Tikkun olam is a core teaching of the Jewish faith.

To me, to be Jewish is to be committed to the work of social justice. The two are intertwined and cannot be separated. And I believe showing up for social justice and human rights requires showing up for Palestinian rights.

Throughout my Jewish upbringing and education, and even when I traveled to Israel at the age of 17, Palestine wasn’t explicitly acknowledged or explored—I have no memory of anyone mentioning Palestine. For context, at one point I was in Jerusalem—a 45-minute drive from Ramallah. Imagine being in midtown Manhattan with no one mentioning Brooklyn.

I was not taught that an indigenous peoples had existed on the land that became Israel, nor that they were forcibly removed, nor that they were living in as second-class citizens—in refugee camps or confined territories with limited to no access to basic resources, the ability to come and go freely, or have an active and just role in legal and governing bodies. This is not ancient history. It’s all still ongoing. 

When I did learn of Palestine’s existence, I was gaslit into thinking that I had no choice but to support Israel’s occupation and attacks on the Palestinian community and land. I internalized subtle messaging that led me to believe Palestine did not deserve to be recognized as a separate state, that Palestinian people were less-than—that Palestinians were a radical Islamic monolith, had initiated the violence in the region and that the very existence of Palestinian people and lands threatened Israel’s status as a protected Jewish homeland.

Eventually I became aware of the decades long ‘peace process’ and the fact that the United States has been (and continues to be) the primary source of financial and military support in the Israeli occupation. 

When contemplating this, I immediately hear the following words in my head, which I read regularly in the workshops I teach relating to transgender inclusion and advocacy:


The best way to eliminate a group is to demonize them, such that their disappearance is seen as an act of justice, not discrimination.
— Alok Vaid-Menon from their book, Beyond the Gender Binary


This is settler colonialism. Palestinians are the indigenous peoples of what we now call Israel, and under the guise of creating and protecting a Jewish homeland Israel has created the largest forced refugee population in history. The Palestinian people— Christian, Jewish, Islamic, and more, live as displaced or segregated peoples on their historical land, on nearby lands like Lebanon and Jordan, and around the world. This is a refugee population of 5.9 million. For context, that’s more people than the country of Denmark which has a population of 5.8 million.  

When we perpetuate the narrative that Israel has a right to exist at the expense of Palestinian rights, we are contributing to the demonization of the Palestinian people and disappearing their right to exist on their native land—we are contributing to the real-time elimination of these peoples and their culture. 

When we say we "stand with Israel"—a common refrain heard from Jews around the world, we are effectively saying we support military rule, apartheid, state violence, ethnic cleansing, military occupation, and racism. (I also feel compelled to acknowledge that “‘standing’ with Israel” is inherently ableist and therefore harmful in and of itself.) 

As a Jewish person raised to value liberation, I believe the state of Israel must be held accountable for the violence inflicted on Palestinians for more than 70 years. The United States must be held accountable for supporting this violence and perpetuating the narrative that “standing with Israel” is a democratic and just stance. 

This is not a zero-sum equation. We can and must acknowledge the historic, real, and difficult plight of the Jewish people and also hold the Israeli state accountable for its human rights violations. We can believe in and be in favor of both an Israeli state and a Palestinian state.

The experiences of historical trauma and persecution do not excuse you from accountability when you inflict trauma and persecution on others, and that is exactly what's happening. Antisemitism cannot be a justification for violence.

I am not an expert on this topic. I felt compelled to share reflections on my own experience as a Jewish American, and as someone who has gained a deeper understanding of the reality of the Israeli occupation. I also felt compelled to reflect and share because, as someone committed to social justice, it felt harmful for me to not comment on this topic given my personal experience with Jewish identity and heritage. 


For further learning, I recommend the following resources:

Special thanks to Melissa Keeport and Christopher Hirsh for the support in writing this piece.

Tristan Katz Creative https://katz-creative.com
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