Holding Multiple Truths Together After October 7
Street art in the West Bank village of Umm Al-Kheir.
Susan Feit — August 31, 2026
Views and positions expressed here are those of the writer, and do not necessarily represent NJN's views and policy positions.
Like many of us, October 7 shattered the world I knew.
I remember listening to the radio while sirens sounded around us, trying to make sense of what was happening. I wasn't thinking about tomorrow. I was simply trying to get through the day.
After things settled down just a bit, I started to pick up the pieces. And new questions filled my mind: Who am I after October 7? Who do I want to become?
I know that I am not alone. Many people have been grappling with those questions, trying to figure out what it means to love Israel while remaining true to the values we hold dear. Some may even have wondered whether there's still room in our community to hold all these truths together.
Even some of the people who know me best may not realize how deeply fear is woven into my DNA. I’m the daughter of Holocaust survivors, people who survived because others chose to see them as human beings and took extraordinary risks to save them. I grew up knowing both what fear can do and what it means when someone chooses humanity over fear.
I wrestled with my fear in the aftermath of October 7. I knew that I didn't want fear to dictate who I would become. I didn't want to hand Hamas that power over me. I decided that the right next step for me was to recommit to building a shared society with Arabs. But how? Nothing felt easy or obvious.
Sometimes I felt awkward, even wondering whether what I was doing was inauthentic – something I was forcing myself to believe because I needed to do something. Often I felt alone, embarrassed that others might see me as naïve or disloyal. Not really a true Israeli.
Nonetheless, I began to act. Alongside the volunteer work I did inside my own community, I began calling Arab friends in Israel – speaking to some for the first time in months. I wanted them to know that October 7 had not erased our friendships. I wanted them to know that they were not alone. At a time when Arab Israelis were feeling pressure to prove their loyalty, I wanted them to know I would stand by their side. I wanted them to know I still saw them as full human beings.
I became active with Standing Together, where Jews and Arabs volunteered side-by-side – cleaning bomb shelters, delivering aid, and visiting hospitals. Even in the middle of a war, we were showing that another story was still possible.
But nothing seemed enough. I still felt powerless. And powerlessness can become its own temptation – the belief that because we can't change everything, our small acts don't matter. But I have spent my life believing that they do. I didn't want to become a bystander now.
And I realized that I was looking for something bigger than a volunteer project. I was looking for a community of people who share my values and a place where, together, we could make a meaningful difference. That’s when I became part of a group called Mothers Against Violence Israel. Our work with the Palestinian community of Umm Al-Kheir in the West Bank changed me far more than I ever imagined.
I became involved when our group helped establish a library and educational center in Umm Al-Kheir. For months, I worked intensively behind the scenes helping to secure funding for the library. But it still felt abstract.
Then one evening I heard Hanadi speak over Zoom. Hanadi, a 25-year-old widow with three small children, talked about her life, her fears, and her dreams of running a summer camp in the library.
She wasn’t asking for sympathy. She wasn’t making a political speech. She was simply talking mother-to-mother about trying to create something joyful for the children of her village while living in such a volatile situation.
As I listened to her words, I realized that if I wanted Hanadi to know that I truly saw her, then I had to be willing to show up. It didn’t make me less afraid. It simply made the choice clear.
I was going.
When I finally arrived in Umm Al-Kheir, something changed. The library was no longer an abstract project. Umm Al-Kheir was real, filled with people – with women who welcomed us with coffee, with men who showed us where we needed to go, and with children who wanted exactly what children everywhere want.
We could be partners and friends. We could dream about a better future.
After six months of hard work – and another war with Iran, military closures, settler violence, and funding delays – the summer camp in the library opened in June 2026.
I was there that day to see it open. Hanadi couldn’t keep the smile off her face. Children were singing and playing in the library. Outside, mothers sat making art, drinking coffee, talking and laughing while they waited.
Later that day, after camp ended, Hanadi invited us to her house. She showed us the small bakery she was building. It made me happy to know that I could help her realize that dream. A few days earlier, my friend Lobna – an Arab Israeli woman who I first met when she became my Arab tutor – handed me 500 NIS and said, “Use this to help the women.”
Those were the funds that bought Hanadi’s first baking supplies. Now I was looking at Hanadi smiling in the sunshine. “I’m going to be a businesswoman,” she told us. I bought some date-filled semolina cookies. I was her first customer.
Sometimes, I think this is what reconciliation looks like.
Not a treaty. Not an agreement. A Palestinian woman, an Arab Israeli woman, and a Jewish woman joining forces over semolina cookies.
Looking back, I think I finally understand why this project worked. It wasn’t because Israeli women came with answers. It wasn’t because we knew what Umm Al-Kheir needed.
It worked because we listened. The library wasn’t our idea. The bakery wasn’t our idea.
Those dreams already belonged to the people of Umm Al-Kheir.
Umm Al-Kheir has changed me in surprising ways. I was driving home one day and burst out in a smile thinking that I finally feel fully Israeli. It shocked me because I knew that what had changed in me was my work with Hanadi and her small village.
I had found a place where my love for Israel, my connection to the Jewish people, and the values I want to live by no longer felt like they were pulling me in different directions. Along the way, I had become part of an extraordinary community of Jewish and Arab women.
My daughter has a wonderful name for friendships like these: “mission-based friendships.”
Those friendships have grounded me. They taught me that belonging to one community never requires us to refuse to see the other. They didn't pull me away from my Jewish identity. They helped me discover a deeper way of living it.
Susan Feit is an Israeli-American social justice strategist who has lived in Israel for more than two decades. Her work has focused on advancing equity and inclusion, strengthening Israeli Arab and Jewish communities, and supporting shared society initiatives. She currently serves on the leadership team of Mothers Against Violence-Israel. This essay is adapted from a sermon Susan Feit delivered at her synagogue in 2026.
Photo by Indigenous Residents of Umm Al-Kheir - Masafer Yatta Municipal Council, CC BY-SA 2.5, commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=171273094
