It has officially been over a year since the devastating attacks of October 7th, and I’ve spent this time grappling with something unexpected: how the conflict has changed my relationships with those around me. Over the past year, I've found myself surrounded by people with beliefs that oppose mine, especially when it comes to Israel. Whether these people are my peers, teachers, or people I look up to, the war has been a challenging topic in my relationships. Even before the war, I had to grapple with how to approach friendships when the Israel-Palestine conflict came up, but this has become even more frequent since October 7th, 2023. So, when someone you care about has a different viewpoint than you, how do you separate the person from their values, and when does this difference of beliefs begin to interfere?

Throughout my life, I have had many situations where I have been one of few Jews or the only Jewish person. From 2021-2022, I lived in New Zealand, where the Jewish population is less than 10,000. No matter where I went, it was almost guaranteed that I would be the only Jew. This meant that, for many of my friends, I was the first Jew they had ever met, and it was, therefore, my responsibility to educate them. When I had my Bat Mitzvah there and invited many of my classmates, none of them had ever heard about a Bat Mitzvah, and it was an honor to teach them about my traditions.

However, not all of my experiences in New Zealand were as positive, and some left me questioning my Jewish identity. As I was living there, the Israel-Palestine conflict seemed to be gaining “popularity” on social media, and many people began reposting infographics about a topic they were not educated on. One day, as I was scrolling through Instagram, I landed on one of my closest friend’s stories, where she had reposted a “Free Palestine” infographic with some very antisemitic content. Seeing that post shook me. It was more than just a misunderstanding—it felt like a rejection of my identity. That day, I approached her about it, asking if she knew it was antisemitic. She proceeded to ask me, “What’s antisemitic,” because she had never heard that word before. After I explained it, she apologized, but it got me thinking about how so many people unknowingly perpetuate antisemitism.

October 7th worsened this to a degree I did not know was possible. At this point, I was back in America, attending a Catholic school where I was, once again, one of very few Jewish people. After the October 7th attacks, it became clear that the Israel-Palestine conflict would be an even more frequent topic of conversation, especially in such a politically charged time. Being in a Catholic school, where my peers come from different religious and cultural backgrounds, posed additional challenges. While many of them were supportive in some ways, others held perspectives shaped by their faith or influenced by popular social media narratives that seemed to oversimplify the conflict. It’s a difficult position to be in when the people around you don’t share your lived experience or connection to the history and reality of being Jewish.

In the days and months following the attacks, I found myself having to choose between engaging in dialogue or staying silent to avoid further alienation. At times, I was unsure if educating others would make a difference. It was exhausting to repeatedly explain the difference between being critical of a government’s actions and making sweeping statements that harm an entire people or religion. These conversations became increasingly emotional and personal as they often veered into areas that questioned the legitimacy of Israel, the Jewish right to self-determination, or even Jewish history itself. One day, directly following the attacks, my school decided to bring up the topic at one of our assemblies. They simply said, “Those affected by the war are in our prayers,” and then proceeded with other scheduled events. As I sat there, surrounded by my classmates, I felt an overwhelming sense of isolation. I wanted more than just vague words of sympathy—I wanted a real conversation, something that acknowledged the depth of what was happening.

It’s difficult to separate the politics from the personal when you feel that your identity is under attack. But I also began to understand that, for many people, these were just abstract ideas—they didn’t carry the same weight they did for me. For some of my friends, it wasn’t necessarily about being anti-Jewish or even anti-Israel; it was more that they didn’t realize how their comments and reposts could make me feel unsafe or unwelcome in a space where I was already in the minority.

As the months passed, I had to navigate how to maintain these friendships while standing firm in my beliefs. There were times when I had to step back and evaluate whether I could continue being close to someone who refused to acknowledge the validity of my perspective. I found myself asking hard questions: Was this just a difference of opinion, or was it something deeper that was affecting how they saw me as a person?

For me, the answer often came down to whether the person was willing to listen and engage in a meaningful conversation. I didn’t expect everyone to agree with me, but I did hope for understanding and respect. I also learned that there’s a fine line between disagreement and disrespect. It’s one thing to have a difference of opinion on policy or politics, but it’s another thing entirely when someone dismisses or invalidates your experiences as a Jew or your right to feel connected to Israel. I was lucky to have many friends who were open to this discussion, and although we did have different opinions on the subject, I felt seen and heard that these people were willing to listen to my views.

The war brought these issues to the forefront in ways I hadn’t anticipated. I had to come to terms with the fact that not everyone would see things the way I do. And while that’s always been the case, the stakes feel higher now. It’s not just about debating politics anymore—it’s about my identity, safety, and the future of my community.

I’ve learned that it’s okay to draw boundaries. It’s okay to step away from a friendship if the other person isn’t willing to respect who you are. At the same time, I’ve also realized that some people are open to learning, and those are the relationships worth investing in. In the end, navigating these challenges has strengthened my sense of self and deepened my connection to my heritage, even as it has made some relationships more complicated.