Telling Israel’s Story in the Community of Nations: A Conversation with Tal Becker

Jul 24

Abigail Pogrebin

Tal Becker is Vice President of the Shalom Hartman Institute. He previously served as Legal Adviser of Israel’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and as an Israeli negotiator in successive rounds of peace negotiations.

Abigail Pogrebin is the author of four books including My Jewish Year: 18 Holidays, One Wondering Jew. She has been published in The New York Times, The Atlantic, Tablet, and the Forward, and she moderates public conversations for the Streicker Center and the Jewish Broadcasting Service.

Referring to the world’s states as a “community of nations” recognizes how they are interconnected: a country’s claim to sovereignty and delineation of its borders, for example, mean little if other nations do not acknowledge them. It also implies a shared set of norms for how nations will behave toward one another and a shared set of standards for judging what is just and what is right.

For this issue’s Conversation, journalist Abigail Pogrebin sat down with Shalom Hartman Institute Vice President, Israeli legal thinker, and veteran peace negotiator Tal Becker to discuss Israel’s place in the community of nations. Their dialogue begins with the question of whether Israel should want to be part of a community of nations and examines how different schools of Jewish and Zionist thought might answer; they then consider the feeling of abandonment by the community of nations that many Israelis and Zionists experienced after October 7 and throughout the Israel-Hamas War, and the recognition the country received from some allies during its much briefer war with Iran earlier this summer. With reference to Jewish values and Jewish history, Tal argues that despite the challenge of not being fully or truly seen or understood by other members, being part of the community of nations remains not only a national security imperative for Israel but also a core moral obligation.

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Abigail Pogrebin: Tal, I want to start with something I remember you saying other times we’ve talked: “Israel is a country established by people who were abandoned by the world.” Right now, it feels like Israel has been abandoned again. You’ve also said that being part of a community of nations means that Israel has to show up for the world. The idea of being obligated to the greater whole when others don't feel obligated to us is complicated for many Jews, especially since October 7.

Tal Becker: That acute feeling of aloneness tends to fluctuate within Israeli society. The isolation during the Gaza war has, I think, been intensely felt, but it’s interesting that we have also felt some measure of understanding and support during the recent conflict with Iran. There was this sense of pride in Israel being seen internationally, at least in some circles, as having the courage to address a profound concern about the threats posed by this Iranian regime that was shared by many countries in the region and across the world.

We go up and down. We feel our isolation, sometimes in an exaggerated way, as if it’s inevitable or even noble, but many of us also seem to hunger for the isolation to be alleviated, and we rejoice when it is. There are those times when we win the Eurovision song contest, for example, or we are celebrated as excelling in some international sphere and feel not just vindicated but elated that we are part of the community of nations. And then there is the double standard at the UN, for instance, that grabs the headlines, and we descend again into a narrative of unavoidable aloneness.

But to get at the deeper way this issue of abandonment or isolation plays out, I think we need to start with a tension that exists within Zionism itself and in Judaism as well. On the one hand, yes, you have the Jewish experience of abandonment by the world. The State of Israel, in this framing, is primarily seen as a country established by refugees from persecution (both in Europe and in the Middle East). It is a product, at least in some ways, of the conclusion many Jews reached that the world cannot be relied upon to ensure our safety. This sort of Zionism doesn't intuitively see being part of the community of nations as an inherent value. Instead, it says: we are on our own, and we need to do what we have to do to survive, and hopefully thrive, in a world that often is viewed as largely indifferent, if not hostile, to our welfare. This view also taps into those parts of our tradition and heritage that see Judaism and the Jewish people’s story through a very particularistic and lonely lens.

On the other hand, there’s a different Zionist argument that views the goal as not just having a Jewish homeland but having that homeland secured by public law. This is the way the Jews return to world history; this is the way we become part of the family or community of nations. This view was encapsulated, for example, in the Basel Declaration of 1897 from the First Zionist Congress. This Zionism is not a shield against the world, it is a return to it.

Among Zionists who think the larger world matters, there are at least two explanations of why it matters. There's a more instrumentalist approach that argues that caring what the world thinks, and being in relationship with it, may not be a value in and of itself but matters to the extent that it helps us achieve our objectives. We might want to do everything on our own, but the reality is that we need friends and alliances, we need support to be able to advance our interests and minimize the threats we face. That’s a view that many states have about their own engagement with the world, and how they understand this concept of “community.”

And then there's a second, deeper view that is also informed by Jewish texts, which is that a central objective of Zionism and the State of Israel is for Jews to become contributors to the world: to be part of a universal, human mission and to stand for certain big ideas. And by being a light unto the nations, by being in partnership with like-minded states, or simply by doing statehood well and morally, we will be able to improve not just the state of the Jews, but the state of humanity. In this view, our particular mission is connected to a universal one, or perhaps we can say that that Jewish particularism inherently has a universal dimension. These very different sensibilities are in competition with each other in Israeli society and with special intensity since October 7.

Abigail: Let’s stay for a minute with the question of whether being part of the community of nations is a value in and of itself. Do you think we should step back and ask if a community of nations is a realistic goal?

Tal: Being part of a community of states is connected to a worldview that believes states can be a vehicle for enhancing the broader good, and not only a vehicle for achieving political goals or enacting harsh realpolitik. This worldview holds that there is a set of values by which, through our actions and partnerships on the world stage, states can improve humanity as a whole, even as we advance our narrower interests. Israel wants to show, for example, that power and morality can coexist. We value individual life. We value the pursuit of peace, diversity, and self-preservation. We value self-determination. And we understand ourselves to be champions of that—not just for ourselves but for all of humanity.

As always, Jewish texts point in different directions, and you can find texts that don’t sit easily with this. But many of our foundational texts do speak to a relationship between our particular identity and our capacity to advance greater, universal values. Historically too, perhaps more so since the Enlightenment, Jews have wanted to contribute to the societies in which they live. Were they seeking to contribute to their societies in order to prove their worth so they could survive and not be discriminated against? Or did they think that looking beyond yourself is part of their Jewish identity and exceptionalism? Perhaps both. In a sense, the internal discourse around Israel’s place in the world is that same issue at the sovereign level.

Abigail: It feels now like we're in a bit of a bunker mentality, and survival is in the foreground , maybe to the point of obsession. But we come by this anxiety honestly. How does our focus on Jewish security distort the framework that says our particularism has a universalist purpose?

Tal: I think there was, and is, a way to frame the war with Hamas, and our inevitable focus on our physical security after October 7 in ways that could resonate more broadly, and not just in particularistic terms. At some level, this war is about denying the enemies of peace the ability to dictate the future of the Middle East for all its peoples. We are confronting Iran, Hezbollah, and Hamas because they seek to condemn Jews and Muslims, Israelis and Palestinians, to an endless conflict. We want to take away their capability to do so, and we want to take away the appeal of their extremist and barbaric agenda for the Middle East. We want to offer an alternative to that ruthless zero-sum paradigm. In fact, after the war with Iran, and the severe setbacks to Hamas, Hezbollah, and the fall of Assad’s regime in Syria, this vision is even more compelling and the potential for a more secure and peaceful Middle East for all may be within reach, despite all the costs and the suffering that has been endured.

We could have done a better job communicating that this is a war about a broader vision of enabling peace and hope, and that we are engaged in it in order to advance a future of coexistence for the region as a whole. We could also perhaps have been clearer about how this war is inextricably tied to a bigger war of ideas taking place across much of the world. That is critical to appreciate. And yet, I think that, for very understandable reasons, Israeli society and many in the Israeli leadership found it hard to present these concepts effectively on the international stage. That is partly because some segments of Israeli society, and of this Israeli coalition, fundamentally don’t share these views. But even the many who do were, in some ways, paralyzed.

Although the word “trauma” is overused, it's hard to avoid. Israeli society was just not in a position to communicate effectively because it was overwhelmed by the trauma of October 7 and the ongoing anguish of the hostages and their families. It was essentially too preoccupied with its own security and with responding to the onslaught it faced. Our fundamental story—that Israel is a place where pogroms don't happen to Jews—was also shattered. In the desperation to get our agency back and in light of the sheer imperative to defend ourselves in the face of an unprecedented seven-front war, it was not easy to focus on our engagement with the community of nations. When you're backed in a corner, when you're traumatized, your ability to lift your head up and look around is challenged. The very thought that you need to explain, contextualize, and justify what for you is a self-evident and existential necessity to defend yourself does not come naturally. It didn’t help, of course, that many in the community of nations were so quick to criticize and pass verdict, so shamefully unsympathetic to the atrocities we suffered on October 7. That contributed a great deal to a sense of isolation, and a feeling that engagement with the world was kind of pointless.

Abigail: And that, in turn, empowered those in Israel for whom engagement with the world is not a priority in the first place.

Tal: Right. For those with the ethos we talked about before, this view that Israel is alone in the world, there is a basic skepticism about the attempt to be in community or to engage with the world. Quite a few Israeli Jews have a kind of underlying assumption that if you're not with me, it's not because I haven't communicated well or engaged effectively, and it's not because I'm doing something wrong; it's because you're antisemitic and/or irredeemably hostile. That assumption limits communication and relationship. And it is an assumption that was reinforced by too many of the responses we saw across the world—by the failure of the UN Security Council, for example, to condemn October 7 to this day.

Beyond this general ethos, there are two other powerful factors that I think have limited our impulse to effectively communicate—especially to the West—during the war. The first is that we necessarily spend a lot of our time communicating to our enemies. We want the West to love us, but we want the Middle East to fear us. It can be seen as more important to affect the mindset of your enemies than the attitude of your friends. If we need Iran to think that we are unpredictable and fearsome, we may want to prioritize that, and in the process we may alienate some for whom that harsh face is hard to sympathize with.

The second factor is that when you are in war, your own public does not necessarily want to hear the things that would be important for your engagement with numerous audiences across the world. It doesn't necessarily want to hear about the constraints placed on your soldiers or your humanitarian initiatives, for example, even if emphasizing that may serve your relationships with other liberal democracies. They want to hear about freeing the hostages and defeating our enemies. And political leaders are naturally sensitive to what the public is focused on, even if that produces “less effective messaging.” That's not unique to Israel; societies in war tend to be that way. But it does have an isolating effect.

Above all of these factors that impact how Israel engages with the world, there is a bigger overarching issue that we can’t avoid: Israel's idea of itself is being contested at the moment in a very significant way within Israel. One might argue that the dominant story of Israel was once the story of the Declaration of Independence, and the argument within Israeli society was about how to implement the Declaration of Independence. I think it's harder to say that about Israel today. We don’t seem to be arguing about how we implement the vision of the Declaration. We're arguing about the vision itself. There are forces, including illiberal forces, pushing in multiple directions. And as a result of that, our ability to create that connection with others outside of Israel is, of course, made more complicated, especially because many of the countries we are in relationship with—including the US—are themselves engaged in an intense debate about their own dominant story.

Abigail: You just laid out how different stories about Israel are getting told by opposing forces. Who gets to tell Israel’s story to the world? Netanyahu and the current government have one version while many Israeli citizens might want to tell a different one. How can we manage to listen to their story when Netanyahu is the one with the microphone?

Tal: So much of the effectiveness of the story you tell has to do with the sensibility and heart of the listener. If all someone wants to hear is Netanyahu and the Israeli government—and there are important audiences for whom this government’s message resonates—that's all they’re going to hear. If someone wants to see Israel as a complicated, nuanced place, with such an incredible concentration of diverse talent and quality, they will have their ear open to other voices. There are noisy illiberal voices in Israel today, shaping at least some policy and taking up a lot of the oxygen in the room. But I don't think they really reflect the intricate and rich tapestry that is Israeli society as a whole. We saw this very powerfully during the judicial reform demonstrations in 2023.

The best chance we have to be heard, at least in our interpersonal relations, is to be people who listen well. It's just a good way to live. It's also a good way to build community, to build a society. You have to be the person you want others to be, without expecting that they will necessarily live up to that hope that you have.

Abigail: You have spoken openly—I think, courageously—about moving beyond zero-sum thinking, and building the capacity to really hear and understand the Palestinian story. But how can we develop that muscle while we feel our own story is being misunderstood, diminished, or delegitimized?

Tal: It’s very hard. There's a beautiful midrash about why Isaac became blind (Genesis Rabbah, Vayera, par. 65:10). The midrash says that while Abraham was binding Isaac, the angels were crying, and their tears fell into Isaac's eyes. And as a result of that, he later lost the ability to see. The way I read that midrash is that Abraham's inability to see his son at that moment produced the son who was unable to see. When you are not seen, you become less capable of seeing—this dynamic is so prominent in the Middle East, and probably around the world now, too. We are having a hard time seeing the Other, especially after October 7 and after the dehumanization of Jews in all different kinds of ways.

But refusing to see the Other in turn produces a difficulty to be seen. And we go around and around. We have to break that cycle, which is very hard to do. It requires a kindness and a tenderness that is not encouraged by the moment we're in , especially because at the same time we must forcefully confront and defeat implacable enemies that threaten us.

But even without making the case that seeing the Other can help our own goal of being seen, we need to be true to ourselves. We need to ask: who do we want to be, regardless of how or whether we're seen? Perhaps we will not be seen, but if we are a people that believes that every human is created in the image of God, that what is hateful unto you do not do unto others, we need to strive to have these values shape us and the way we interact, even as our self-defense remains a supreme moral obligation.

Abigail: In this interview and in other conversations I have had with you, you constantly remind us that empathy has to be part of the equation. But right now, a lot of the rhetoric I am hearing says that empathy is not only naive, but it represents disloyalty or betrayal. Where does compassion fit into the community of nations as you see it, particularly when Israel is a chief concern for many Jews around the world?

Tal: I want to respond in a few ways. First, I think we should aspire to be a people for whom compassion for suffering is an inherent trait, a value in and of itself. The Talmud says that one of the ways to tell if someone is Jewish and a descendant of Abraham is to see if they are compassionate. If someone is not compassionate, that gemara suggests they are not descendants of our people (Beitzah 32b). That’s a very interesting statement. There is, of course, also another statement in the midrash that carries real weight, which is that someone who is compassionate to the cruel will end up being cruel to the compassionate (Tanhuma, Metzora, par. 1). I'm not suggesting that our impulse to compassion dilutes our obligation to confront those who seek our destruction; we must take away their ability to kill us. If that means targeting them and being relentless in protecting our security within the limits of the law, then that is what is necessary, and that too is a moral imperative. I am also not suggesting that insisting on reciprocity and demonstrating real toughness and self-respect aren’t critical components of effective statecraft and diplomacy. They are. But I don't understand why, even when doing all that, you can't also have compassion for the human cost that is being paid. For many, showing compassion at this moment is understandably really hard, given the reprehensible enemy we are fighting, given the hostages, and given the suffering we have endured, but I think it is important even if it is really hard.

You can believe you're doing the right and necessary thing and also acknowledge that there is a real cost to doing that thing. You can feel a moral obligation to reckon with that cost. In some ways, acknowledging and having empathy for the cost does not diminish the justness of your cause, it enhances it. The action is justified not because it is without cost, but even despite the cost. And here I am not talking about the costs that can’t be justified, such as those cases in which violations or crimes have taken place or unjustified means have been used. These require their own moral reckoning and accountability. I am talking about the costs associated with justified and necessary action. It is possible to hold both things. Believing that this is a just war need not be in tension with seeing the destruction and human suffering that this war is causing and thinking that that suffering requires both genuine empathy and an ongoing commitment to take every feasible measure to minimize it, whether or not you are responsible for it. Insisting on that, despite all the difficulty, is, I think, truer to who we are meant to be as a people.

But there is also the separate question of whether demonstrating empathy serves us better internationally. For me, the discussion could end at the moral obligation itself, and it is somehow diminished by coming up with additional arguments. But for those who need it, I think there is also the question of how we want to be seen and understood in the world. Our interests are not well served if we are perceived by the people we want to be in relationship with, by the world community we want to be a part of, as though we have turned off our moral muscles for empathy because of October 7. I'm excluding antisemites who will criticize us no matter what we do and others who are deliberately ignorant and hostile. There are audiences and forums where what we do and what we say have no influence.

But I do feel that many people who are more fair-minded and potentially more sympathetic—especially in the West, but also some in the region—are basically saying to us, “Please explain your objectives and your means in moral terms so that we know you haven't left our community of shared moral values.” Engaging with these audiences in this kind of moral conversation has been hard, as I said, because of the scars and trauma of this war and what we're dealing with. It is also hard because there is so much ignorance and misinformation about the nature of this war and the excruciating moral dilemmas it has presented, that many in the world don’t appreciate. We are dealing with an enemy with no respect for life or law who wants to use our own moral commitments against us. But that doesn’t absolve us of those commitments. It does not remove the need to ensure that both our objectives and the means we employ are legitimate, or the need to frame what we are doing in a morally compelling way both for our own society and for those around the world with whom we want to be in relationship. Our power and military prowess is a key component of our security, and of our standing in the world and in the region, but so is our legitimacy, and how we are perceived. Enhancing our legitimacy is a core dimension of enhancing our national security.

Abigail: The accusation that Israel does not have a moral compass encapsulates part of the global isolation or judgment that Israel has experienced over the last 19 months. It predated October 7, but it has now been heightened. How should we, as a member of the community of nations, respond to the accusation when it turns into wholesale delegitimization? I imagine, knowing you, that you will say it is not to build the walls higher or to say, “It's just us alone for ourselves, so we might as well stay focused just on ourselves.” But the claim that Israel is immoral and illegitimate is destabilizing, and it’s causing some Jews to opt out of public Jewish life altogether.

Tal: I struggle with this because I myself find it hard to get over the selective outrage directed at Israel. The bias and hostility behind it can be overwhelming and disorienting. There can be such a fundamental unwillingness to put yourself in our shoes and look at the moral dilemmas we are facing. It can make you not want to engage.

When it comes to the demonization of Israel, I struggle and I wonder: Who are we talking to anyway? Who is left to talk to? Who is still persuadable? But then I go back to the point I’ve made before: it's about who we want to be before it’s about who we want to talk to.

I think we want to legitimize and champion the Jewish soldier who is a supreme warrior, but who also carries the terrible burden of balancing the moral obligation to protect themselves and their country with the moral obligation to protect the innocent Other at the same time: the soldier who is trying to figure out how to carry that burden in this impossible reality. That's who we want to be. That’s who we want Israeli society to valorize, and then that is who we want to present to the world. And if we assume that there's really no one to talk to, no one whom we could connect with if we really explained the moral dilemma and how we're dealing with it, then we are pushing away even those people who are open to be persuaded. I don't think that's something we can afford.

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Abigail: So how much should we internalize or take seriously the critiques of Israel from our allies?

Tal: At some theoretical level—and maybe this is naive of me—I have trouble understanding why the source of a critique affects whether I need to examine it on its merits. If some absolutely horrible person said that I had a stain on my tie, would I say to them, “Who are you to say that I have a stain on my tie? You're a horrible person!” What if someone who themselves has a stain on their tie points out to me that I have a stain on my tie? Would I say, “Well, I'm not looking at my tie, because of the stain you have on your tie”? Now, I don't want to empower Israel's enemies or give legitimacy to them. And I believe that reciprocity is inherent to genuine relationships, including at the international level. We need to highlight double standards and not be exploited. And yet, if someone is telling me that I am not being sensitive enough to a humanitarian concern, I still don’t think my knee-jerk reaction should be limited to asking, “Who are you to say that?” or engaging only in whataboutism.

There is, of course, a place for that reaction. It’s what you need to do sometimes on the world stage, when you're at the UN, and you're trying to protect yourself, maintain self-respect, and empower and support your own side. The bias at the UN is outrageous and should be called out as a matter of principle. But I’m not sure how effective pointing it out is at changing those minds that can perhaps be changed.

And, not less importantly, if our preoccupation is also with the moral health of our own society and making sure that we are asking ourselves moral questions, we have to create space and legitimacy for examining a critique on its merits. We can say to those who made the critique, “I don't think you have a lot of legitimacy. You are a hypocrite who needs to engage in your own moral reckoning.” But I'm not sure that means we should just dismiss the question. There is a space we can occupy between rejecting the double standards that Israel is so often subjected to and, at the same time, making sure that we hold ourselves up to the necessary standards and are genuinely open to critique.

It’s interesting that, as a rule, when Israel's military justice system investigates claims of wrongdoing, it treats the source of the claim as irrelevant. Whether it's a New York Times piece or an accusation from an anti-Israel NGO or a Palestinian organization, if someone claims clear wrongdoing, the justice system has a fact-finding mechanism it uses to see if there is any validity to the claim.

Abigail: I’ve heard you say in the past that sometimes those who are wrestling with Israel’s actions are really asking you, “Why is it so hard for me to explain Israel to my friends?” Does Israel have an obligation to not make it harder? Is Israel giving its allies and friends a much heavier lift right now?

Tal: I think those who are struggling with this most are Jews and our friends around the world who really value their relationship with Israel but also feel that their acceptance in their own societies is endangered as a consequence of the relationship. They are often the ones saying, “Why is your PR so bad? Why is the story you're telling so hard to communicate?” And yes, what they often seem to really be saying is not just that they care deeply about us, but also, “Why are you making my life difficult? I want to be accepted by my friends and colleagues, and now, because of how your actions are being perceived, I feel like my social standing and place in my own society is in jeopardy if I stand with Israel.”

Do we, Israel, have an obligation to be easier to “explain”? We certainly have an obligation, yes. We have an obligation to speak and, of course, act in moral terms. We have to be able to explain—in a way that resonates—what we are doing and why we are doing it. And to hold accountable those who violate their obligations and—critically, in my view—to condemn and confront those within our society who advocate for obviously immoral or illegal conduct. That is so hard in war, and in a society that is reeling from both a multi-front assault and a kind of anti-Israel frenzy that has taken hold. But it is critical to our moral well-being, and in my mind it is also a component of our victory in this war, it is also a front that we need to fight on.

At the same time, we also need a little bit of deference and understanding from our friends around the world about the dilemmas we face and about the extraordinary nature of the challenge. Israel is in a really tough neighborhood, facing numerous powerful and irreconcilably hostile forces, and the picture will inevitably be distorted if we are viewed through a lens that does not recognize that. Much of the critique of Israel in this war that I have heard comes from people who know little about urban warfare. The Gaza war is being fought in an incredibly complex urban environment, deliberately built over 16 years by an enemy that wants to maximize the suffering of its own civilians as an inherent part of its war strategy, and that is using humanitarian aid, for example, to remain in power, advance its terrorist agenda and deny both Israelis and Palestinians the possibility of a better future. It is also a uniquely difficult situation because Hamas and regional Arab States have denied civilians the option to leave the war zone and seek refuge, as happens in almost every other war I can think of. It’s never going to come across easily because war is always tragic and horrible, even more so when facing an enemy like Hamas. Suffering is sadly unavoidable, even if you are obligated to minimize it. And sometimes there just isn’t an easy answer to the moral dilemma you confront. Beyond all that, one needs to know the facts and the law in order to respond intelligently to what is happening on the ground. But so often, that is contested and unclear, and people are too impatient to have an opinion, or they assume an expertise they do not have. It’s never going to be simple to explain all this to people far away who lack this perspective and experience. None of this diminishes our moral or legal obligations, but it does create the context in which those obligations need to be understood and assessed.

The same need for perspective applies, by the way, to the conflict with Iran. In some of the coverage I saw, the conflict was portrayed as one between two states with a history of hostility towards one another. When that is the lens, the analysis will by definition be distorted, and Israel’s actions misrepresented. There is a basic moral asymmetry in the conflict with Iran that must be appreciated. The Iranian regime is dedicated to the destruction of Israel. Israel, by contrast, is dedicated to not being destroyed by Iran. It has no conflict with Iran or with the Iranian people. That core difference needs to be appreciated. When it isn’t, everything becomes warped.

Abigail: Critics argue that Israel wants the privileges of belonging to the international community—things like economic ties, diplomatic, legitimacy, cultural exchange—without fully embracing the responsibilities that come with global norms, particularly around human rights and the use of force. How do you respond to the charge that Israel seeks exceptionalism rather than integration with all the obligations attached to that?

Tal: I don’t find that to be a particularly persuasive position. First, many countries with truly abysmal records enjoy international legitimacy and integration. If membership in the club was measured by commitment to norms, Israel should have been elected to the Security Council many times over and before many other states, when in fact it is still waiting for its first turn. The discrimination against Israel on the world stage has, in my view, more to do with the cynical way power politics is played, than with Israel’s conduct.

It’s also worth saying that almost every country naturally looks not only for relations and acceptance but also an appreciation of the unique nature of whatever their predicament may be and the difficult choices they need to make.

I am not sure any other country committed to the rule of law and facing the dilemmas we face would have many better answers than we do. Maybe. The fundamental challenge relates not to the commitment to the norms, though that is critical and must be sustained. It relates to the huge challenge any country would face in implementing those norms when dealing with the scale and scope of brutality and disdain for life and law that Hamas represents. That doesn’t mean there isn’t need for real criticism, soul searching and accountability. We need to ask ourselves hard questions. Violations need to be reckoned with. But I am not persuaded that the dilemma and threat Hamas presented had some kind of obvious response that other, more “enlightened” countries would have been able to effectively and cleanly implement while protecting their core national security interests.

Abigail: I know I likely won’t ever see it on a T-shirt, but I love your idea that there is always hope because of the “permanent possibility of the presently unimaginable.” When so many of us are feeling ground down, it’s so important that we be able to imagine something better.

Tal: Just the other day, I found myself asking: why is it so difficult for us to have hope right now? Despite everything, we're still better off than most Jews have been throughout most of history. We have had some major military successes in this war. And the dramatic setback to Iran may prove to be a real turning point. And yet collectively we seem to be really struggling to have hope. There's such a gap, in my view, between the strategic opportunity we have in the region and how we're feeling about our predicament. There are painful problems, but there are also some very significant opportunities. We have a real chance to diminish the power and reach of Israel's enemies for the long term and to translate military successes into an empowerment of the more moderate or pragmatic forces in the Middle East.

Part of this feeling, I think, is the result of our military achievements having come at significant cost and not just in terms of casualties and suffering. There is unfortunately a real tension, perhaps an inevitable one to some extent, between success on the battlefield and legitimacy in the court of public opinion, especially in the West, given the reprehensible strategy that Hamas and other terrorist groups have adopted. We feel more isolated and unwelcome, and that has also been a casualty of this war that many feel palpably.

Another reason I think we struggle to feel hopeful is because before October 7, we thought we had it good. And then that was shattered. We have been overwhelmed by a profound sense of loss, uncertainty, and our own precariousness.

But I think the truth is that there was plenty of uncertainty and precariousness on October 6, but we didn't know it half as well. We didn't see it accurately. We deluded ourselves into thinking that, in fact, we had a kind of certainty. But widespread antisemitic sentiment existed on October 6, not just October 8. Iran and its proxies were a massive threat before this war, too. Maybe now we are in a healthier, if scarier, place, at least on some level, because we are forced to cope with the uncertainty and danger. We can no longer deny it. And that's where the permanent possibility of the presently unimaginable comes in—an idea that I think has shaped much of Israeli and Jewish history. Because what do you do in the face of profound uncertainty once you are forced to look at it head on?

You can shrivel and become paralyzed by fear. You can become obsessed with mere survival. But you can also choose to define your aspirations and set a course towards them. It becomes a moment for growth and positive change. Because everything is uncertain, everything is also possible. I don’t rule out the possibility that in a few years we will say that this war, for all its costs and for all the pain and suffering it caused, was an unavoidable part of creating a Middle East where integration, prosperity, stability, mutual respect and, yes, peace became genuinely possible.

Iran, Hezbollah, Hamas, and other extremists were never going to allow that kind of Middle East to emerge without a serious fight. And they will likely seek to continue that fight, though with severely diminished capabilities. If we don’t discount the possibility that a hopeful vision of the Middle East has become more likely, we can begin to make it a reality. And if we don’t discount the possibility that Israel’s place not just in the Middle East, but also in the community of nations, can be increasingly elevated and that Israel can be seen by more and more people, despite our flaws, as an indispensable force for good, we can demonstrate that and work towards it.

I love the saying, “You can't win the lottery if you don't buy a ticket,” or to put it differently, Waze won’t help you get you anywhere if you don't put in a destination. This war is overwhelming. It risks making us lose our capacity to have aspirations. It risks taking us to a place of just wanting to breathe, just wanting things to be quiet. But Jews and Israel have faced much worse challenges than what we're facing now, including, for example, in 1948. We have to be able to put a destination in Waze, and we have to be able to say what we aspire to. We are obligated to not let this war define the limits of our aspirations. And, in a way, it is precisely because things are uncertain and undefined that we can imagine and work towards something truly better.