Reclaiming My Israeli Identity
Fighting stereotypes and finding community
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
My identity—as a woman of Israeli descent—makes some people uncomfortable. I have been cast as a heartless colonizer, my North African heritage erased to simplify the narrative. My dad’s side of the family lives in Israel and, growing up, we visited often. But for years, I buried the part of myself that called Israel home. I shifted in my seat when Israel came up in conversation, or I identified only with my Egyptian side. I wasn’t ashamed of Israel, but I was ashamed of my inability to come to its defense. I was devastated by the reality my cousins endured; embarrassed by my own privilege and safety; and confused by the world’s warped perception.
When I was 22, I decided to spend the summer there, hoping to explore the country as an adult. It was 2014, and missiles and sirens were constant. That war started after three religious Jewish boys were kidnapped and murdered in the West Bank. My cousin, who was fighting in Gaza, was unreachable. I tried to suppress my feelings, to immunize myself against fear. My grandparents wanted me to stay safely at home, but I insisted on challenging restrictions. I rode an empty bus until I reached the edge of Tel Aviv, and I walked through the shuttered market to lay defiantly on a desolate beach.
After October 7, with my family’s security once again in jeopardy, I had to face my fear. My grief felt bigger than my body —my heart so heavy, I could hardly hold it. I gathered my courage, and discovered that acts of service could ease my feelings of helplessness. In January, I signed up to volunteer in Israel for two weeks. I was desperate for a way to help, to put my feet on the ground. Distance from the source of my heartbreak had only exacerbated my pain.
I didn’t expect to feel a wave of relief upon entering a war zone, but as soon as I stepped off the plane at Ben Gurion, a weight lifted from my soul. I checked in on my family and friends; listened to survivors’ stories; wrote letters to soldiers. I prayed they would come home safely, that all of this would end and the world would know peace. All of that rinsed my heart, and I finally felt like I could breathe again. Thanks to that experience, I joined a community that shared my need to support Israel. We held space for each other, supported each other. I no longer had to fight for space to mourn.
Some days, back in New York, I’m tempted to succumb to the divisive narrative—to feel either vilified or victimized; to turn myself into “other.” I’m tempted to create enemies out of strangers in the street. Once, blood boiling, I tore down a “Stop Israeli Genocide” poster in my neighborhood. A man shouted at me: “Zionist bitch, war criminal.” My breath caught in my chest and my heartbeat thudded in my ears. Nothing felt real anymore. Nothing felt true.
It’s been over a year of mourning. The experience changes every day, but the weight of grief doesn’t lessen; it only shape-shifts into something new. One day, six hostages were shot in the back of the head, executed by terrorists because their liberation was imminent. The world stood silent, kept spinning. I wanted to shake everyone who wasn’t crying.
“Do you not know?!” I wanted to ask them. “Or does it not matter to you?” On my way home from dinner, I saw people with watermelon clips in their hair , Keffiyehs draped over their shoulders. My eyes glazed over. I couldn’t see anything except Eden’s face.
Sometimes, I want to sink beneath the heaviness. My shoulders shake when I cry. Tears start in the center of my chest, like an earthquake. I remind myself that I am still alive, that I can do something to change this, that I can be all of myself out loud.
I am determined to remain soft and to show up with kindness. By acknowledging my experience and by trading stories rooted in truth, I can honor the pain of everyone affected by this war. I learned the hard way that you cannot shut out the darkness and expect it to go away. I am trying to turn toward the light, to stay firm in my commitment to justice, peace, and a world in which everyone has a safe home.
Nathalie Shushan is a writer and yoga instructor based in New York City. Fascinated by the intersections of of mind, body and spirit, her areas of focus are intimacy and wellness.
Instagram: @shoooshhhh
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
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