I used to work for an Israeli NGO promoting peace with Palestinians. Was it worth it?

This First Person article is written by Randi Sommerfeld, a Canadian who lived in Israel for five years. For more information about First Person stories, see the FAQ.

Update: This column was originally published on Nov. 10. On Nov. 13, the family of peace activist Vivian Silver confirmed her death.

Until recently, the most terrifying exposure I've ever had to war was during the 2014 conflict between Israel and Gaza.

At the time, I was working in Tel Aviv with an Israeli NGO that helps critically ill children access life-saving cardiac care. Every Tuesday, the clinic at Save a Child's Heart (SACH) is reserved for Palestinian children from Gaza and the West Bank. I loved watching the tireless collaboration between Israelis and Palestinians. But that Tuesday was different. I was busy co-ordinating volunteers when I heard sirens shrieking, warning us that rockets had been fired from Gaza and were headed in our direction. I ran to the bomb shelter and huddled with 20 others — a mix of medical workers and patients, some Palestinian and some Israeli.

As I heard the loud booms of impact, I clasped hands with the Gazan mother and grandmother next to me. When it was safe, we all grabbed our phones to check in with loved ones. I was struck by how absurd the situation was: Jews and Muslims running together for safety from rockets and worried sick about our loved ones dotted throughout Israel and Gaza.

I never wavered in my belief in SACH's mission, nor did I see any of the staff members and volunteers do so. I've cried at memorial services for Israeli victims of suicide bombers and then woken up the next morning to greet Palestinian families at the hospital entrance. It was peculiar and heartbreaking, but it wasn't hard. I was propelled by my conviction that every child deserves a chance at life and that this collective belief can bridge political and religious borders.

However, the current war between Hamas and Israel is making me see just how privileged I was to have maintained such an unwavering sense of hope for the future.

After Oct. 7, and the polarized reaction to the Israel-Hamas War around the world, I feel like I'm walking around with a giant gaping wound.

My husband's 17-year-old cousin, Ofir, was kidnapped by Hamas, and there has been no word of whether he's alive or dead. He is a high school senior who was visiting his girlfriend in Kibbutz Be'eri when he was violently abducted from a safe room. His family is barely hanging on. Peace advocate Vivian Silver, another acquaintance from my time in Israel, has also been assumed kidnapped by Hamas.

When I think of these friends and family members who are missing, I can't help but feel bereft and oddly humiliated by my previous idealism. For the first time in my life, I'm terrified of being Jewish. I'm scared to send my kids to school in B.C. I'm even scared to talk about my involvement with SACH because it associates me with Israel and Judaism, both of which put targets on my back.

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The fear I experience daily now is far greater than any fear I felt in the bomb shelters in Israel, and it's a fear I realize is rooted in history.

My grandparents were Holocaust survivors from Hungary. Some of my earliest memories of my grandfather involve drawing hearts and doodles around the Auschwitz tattoo on his forearm. While I have heard the stories of the unimaginable loss and suffering that they endured, it was only through the recent atrocities that I realized I'd internalized every detail they'd shared. 

When families were slaughtered in their homes on Oct. 7, I recall the details of my grandmother's first husband being shot on the Danube. When my friend who worked at a Jewish support hotline received a call from someone in Vancouver offering to hide Jews if need be, my mind recalled the stories of my grandmother desperately trying to keep her infant daughter hidden in a storage cellar. As I remember how they spoke of their neighbours withdrawing from them in Budapest, I have to fight my irrational fears that our neighbours in Canada will do the same.

I must remind myself of perhaps the most powerful lesson my grandparents gave me: They rebuilt their lives in peace after the Holocaust — without hate and a need for retribution.

In my worst moments, it feels impossible that the seeds of peace that activists and organizations like SACH have worked so hard to sow will make any difference in the face of the seeds of hate that have been spread — both in the form of the horrific actions of Hamas and the aggressive retaliation from Israel. If I'm not crying, I'm vibrating with rage. I want to hold and nurture the children on both sides of this conflict whose lives have been irrevocably changed and who are living in fear. I wish I could do more.

For now, though, I am trying to focus on returning to my values and belief that peace is possible through communication and connection.

My Palestinian friend in Canada sent me this quote recently, and I have been returning to it like a prayer: "Safety is not the absence of danger; it is the presence of connection."

She and I have been messaging each other daily since Oct. 7. She prays for our relatives and friends who are murdered and kidnapped, and I pray for her relatives who are seeking refuge and safety in Gaza. We hold one another in our thoughts and remind one another to keep hope while also keeping space for the very real grief of this terrible reality.

And so I will stay safe by staying connected through this nightmare. I will strive to add nuance and humanity to the narrative of the Middle East conflict, and I will fight against despair to keep a small candle of hope lit for a peaceful resolution between Israelis and Palestinians. I've seen it. I've lived it. I know it is possible.

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