The cycle of trauma and violence is failing us - opinion

When we first arrived in the Palestinian village of Turmus Ayya, a man shouted at us with a kind of passion that stopped me in my tracks.

“You steal our olives, burn our homes.”

My heart shattered.

I found myself wondering what this man had experienced in his life. What pain, what loss, what fear had brought him to a place where a group of Jews arriving in his village could represent, to him, everything that had gone wrong?

I don't know his story. I won't pretend to. But I couldn't stop thinking about it.

The cycle of trauma and violence between Israelis and Palestinians has become so entrenched that we've started treating it as inevitable. It isn't. And it is heartbreaking, infuriating, and profoundly unhelpful to those of us who are genuinely trying to build a better future for both peoples.

Today, I witnessed just how dangerous that cycle has become.

I agreed to join a public relations trip to several Palestinian villages organized by Regavim, an organization whose values and political outlook I do not share. I made that clear when I accepted the invitation.

I'm a liberal Zionist, an educator, and an activist. My work is to help people understand Israel, its complexities, and the realities facing Israelis and Palestinians. I take that responsibility seriously. And I believe that if I'm going to speak about a place, a conflict, or a community, I have an obligation to see it for myself.

How can I educate people about something I haven't made an effort to understand firsthand? What credibility does my voice have if I'm only willing to visit places that confirm what I already believe?

Throughout my career, I've accepted invitations to visit places around the region that are complicated, uncomfortable, and sometimes dangerous. I've visited Rawabi and Kalkilya and pre-October 7 would go to speak to Gazans on the border as they cross in and out for work. I've spent time in Jewish settlements. I've spoken with people on different sides of the conflict, listened to their stories, and tried to understand the realities they live with.

That is the job. Not to agree with everyone you meet. Not to endorse every organization that invites you. And certainly not to abandon your principles at the door. It's to look, listen, ask questions, and learn enough to speak honestly about a reality that is rarely as simple as any one political camp would like it to be. But nothing about my commitment to understanding this conflict prepared me for what happened next.

Our second stop was in Area B of the West Bank. It is important to make that distinction: we were not in Area A. We were in Area B. Initially, nothing seemed particularly alarming. A couple of teenagers were riding bikes nearby. Then they pulled out their phones. They appeared to be making calls.

A few minutes later, we reached a point where a car carrying Palestinians blocked our way. The people inside began yelling at us, asking if we were Jews. Several people were on their phones, apparently telling others that Jews had arrived.

We were traveling in three cars. Fleur Hassan-Nahoum was in the first car with Cindy Seni and Jessica Cohen. I was in the middle car, and Bellamy Bellucci and Golda Daphna were behind us in the third.

The people blocking us told us we couldn't be there. We didn't argue. We didn't try to push our way through. We agreed to turn around. But more people began arriving. Cars, people on foot, teenagers on bikes. It felt as though word had spread and people were converging on us. The car blocking the road had cut off our way forward, so we turned around and started to leave.

People were shouting at us as we drove away.

Then, perhaps 30 seconds later, they began throwing what I can only describe as boulders at our cars. These weren't little rocks. They were enormous chunks of concrete.

Our guides and security personnel, who were driving us and were armed, told us to duck and cover our heads. We did exactly what they said. There was no point in stopping to get out or drawing a weapon; that would only have escalated an already dangerous situation. We needed to get out safely.

I could feel the car shaking as the concrete slammed into it. In the first car, a chunk came through the window. Cindy was injured.

It was terrifying.

We soon made it back into Israel proper and pulled over to the side of the road. We called Magen David Adom and the police. Baruch Hashem, we were all okay. But we had just experienced something I struggle to find the right words for.

Our presence had been identified, our way forward had been blocked, and when we turned around and tried to leave without confrontation, people began hurling enormous chunks of concrete at our cars. One came through the first car's window, injuring my friend Cindy.

I don't use those words lightly. We were trying to leave peacefully. We were told to duck and cover our heads as concrete slammed into our vehicles. We were terrified, and we were fortunate to get out safely.

Whatever one believes about the politics of the organization that brought us there, none of that justifies what happened to us. No disagreement over land, no political grievance, and no history of suffering makes it acceptable to target people for being Jewish.

And yet, I keep returning to the man who shouted at us when we first arrived in Turmus Ayya.

I keep thinking about his anger, and about the possibility of the pain and fear behind it. I can acknowledge that Palestinians have experienced profound suffering without excusing an attack on Jews. I can condemn violence against Palestinians without minimizing violence against Israelis. These principles are not mutually exclusive. They have to coexist if we are ever going to move beyond this.

That is precisely why what happened today makes me so sad. The cycle of trauma and violence is not making either people safer. It is deepening the fear, anger, and mistrust that make a better future harder to imagine.

I went on this trip because I believe that seeing things firsthand matters. I still believe that. I will not allow a frightening experience to convince me that looking, listening, and learning are mistakes. Nor will I allow my disagreement with an organization to prevent me from examining the realities it wants to show me.

But bearing witness also means telling the truth about what happened, even when that truth is uncomfortable. It means refusing to look away from Palestinian suffering, and refusing to look away when Jews are attacked. It means being honest about the people and organizations we disagree with, without surrendering our own judgment.

I am a liberal Zionist because I believe Israel can and must be a country committed to democracy, human rights, and equality. I believe in Israel's future, and I believe that future requires taking the lives and dignity of Palestinians seriously, too.

That doesn't mean ignoring the threats Israelis face, excusing violence, or pretending that good intentions are enough. It means being willing to confront uncomfortable realities, including the ones that challenge our own worldview.

I went to these villages because I believe you cannot understand this conflict from a distance. What happened to us today will not make me stop asking questions or listening to people whose experiences differ from my own. But listening cannot mean looking away when people are hurt, and understanding someone's pain cannot mean excusing what they do with it.

I left Turmus Ayya thinking about the man who shouted at us. I left the West Bank thinking about the concrete that came through the window. Both experiences matter. Neither cancels out the other. And if we cannot hold both truths at once, we will keep repeating the same cycle and wondering why nothing changes.

The writer is an activist and content creator. A third-generation IDF veteran with over a decade in Israel advocacy, she has created and executed content for dozens of major organizations. She is an associate at the Tel Aviv Institute.