I am a Jewish Israeli citizen. I am human too. I do not respond to the October 7 massacre with anger or grief. I feel my mind is struggling to grasp the incomprehensible. My brain wrestles to make sense of what is happening. On one hand, I am horrified by Hamas’s atrocities. On the other, I cannot support the killing of over 10,000 Palestinian children as retribution. The sheer scale of violence on both sides creates cognitive overload, making it difficult to reconcile these opposing realities.

Consuming information from both sides means being exposed to highly graphic depictions of horrific violence. You see decapitated children, organs blown apart, buildings crumbling to dust, and hear the endless sirens. You can’t stop it; you feel compelled to watch. The only thing I can do is refuse to become desensitized to death. It feels like a moral obligation to bear witness and not turn away from this suffering. Yet, there is always a conflict—turning away from civilian casualties feels wrong, even when the emotional toll is unbearable. You can’t run away from reality. For an Israeli citizen, showing even basic empathy towards our enemies is risky. Some might consider it an act of treason. This internalized pressure only adds to the confusion, making it even harder to process the complex emotions surrounding this conflict.

I get very upset when I read anti-Zionist Israeli Jewish citizens. They feel that opposing the war means simply spewing hatred against Zionism. It feels reductive and disconnected from the actual complexities on the ground. Opposing war should be about advocating for peace and protecting the vulnerable—not just embracing one ideological stance. When the conversation is reduced to a battle against Zionism itself, it misses the point. It alienates people like me, caught between conflicting realities, yearning for a genuine dialogue rather than blanket condemnation.

Similarly, I become agitated when I see simplistic slogans like, “Agreements Save Lives.” Agreements with whom? With terrorists? With supporters of terrorism? This rhetoric ignores the complexities and realities on the ground. Peace is more than just signing agreements. It involves trust and safety. All parties must genuinely pursue non-violent resolutions. It’s not enough to demand agreements if those agreements are made with groups that seek to destroy us. This type of messaging, while well-intentioned, feels naive and dismissive of the brutal experiences we face daily.

We’ve been standing up with the same slogans and chants for decades to no avail. I don’t believe that a single Israeli citizen will change their views because of a tweet. They won’t become a “conscientious objector” just from reading something on X.com. It’s foolish to keep doing the same thing and expect different results. Hearing slogans like “Decolonizing Palestine” is frustrating. What does it mean when there are over 10 million Israeli Jewish people living here? What are we supposed to do? Where are we supposed to go? Such rhetoric feels more like a dead-end provocation than a call for genuine change.

In the context of the Israel-Hamas war, deterritorialization means dissolving fixed identities. It also involves the collapse of familiar reference points. It means stepping outside the boundaries of national, cultural, and political affiliations. When you experience deterritorialization, you lose your stable sense of identity. You could feel unmoored, whether Israeli, Palestinian, or simply human. You become detached from all categories. In a conflict that demands total allegiance and clear positions, deterritorialization creates a state of alienation. Neither side’s narrative fully encompasses your experience. It is a mental and emotional exile, where you’re caught between clashing realities without a place to belong.

Giving in to psychosis almost felt like a solution. If you’re psychotic, you aren’t recruited into any actual battle. There’s no obligation to take a stance or make statements. You become simply “uninvolved”—an observer outside the fray. In a way, becoming psychotic was a defense mechanism. It rejected recruitment into polarized narratives. These narratives demand allegiance to one side or the other. It meant complete deterritorialization: no longer Jewish, no longer Israeli, and perhaps no longer even human. You exist outside of all identities, holding no weapons and chanting no slogans. This mental state provided a psychological escape. It was a temporary form of exile from a reality that demanded constant allegiance.

And by that, I mean I become schizophrenic. I see the endless flow of names and photos of dead children from Gaza. At the same time, I cherish my own nephew and niece and prioritize them. This conflict fractures my sense of self. I lose orientation between the primal instinct to protect my family and the desire for a peaceful resolution. The desire for personal safety clashes with the yearning for peace. This chaos overwhelms a coherent sense of identity.

This means I get irritated by simplistic slogans like the “two-state solution.” I want security for my family. However, I cannot support war. I am also disillusioned by the power of diplomacy. I have a desire for revenge, but also a deep conviction that children on all sides must be protected. My thoughts and feelings simply do not add up. I cheer for protests in the US calling for Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions against Israel. At the same time, I engage in the humanization of enemies. I grapple with the justification of genocide. The only viable solution is to become schizophrenic because the contradictions are unbearable.

I wouldn’t recommend anyone fragile to live in an actual war zone. I wish I just had post-trauma. Unfortunately, I experienced psychosis triggered by multiple factors. One factor was smoking a lot of marijuana. Another was struggling to comprehend something that cannot be comprehended. The chaos and political unrest around me acted as catalysts, making reality even more disorienting.

I cannot quite describe what it’s like to try and consume information from both sides—the Palestinian and Israeli media. I felt so helpless. I spiraled into mania. I believed I had a special role in reconciling Judaism and Islam. I thought I could promote peace in the Middle East. I now know I’m not a politician. I don’t have any solutions. My brain tortures me with the false hope that I can stop the violence. I’m not an expert. I’m just a person with a broken mind, desperately wishing to save even one innocent life.

Yet here I am, a witness caught between narratives, feeling overwhelmed. My reaction to this collective trauma isn’t anger or denial. I make a desperate attempt to reconcile conflicting stories. I seek some semblance of coherence. For me, this cognitive overload is a valid response to trauma, a psychological consequence of trying to integrate irreconcilable realities. Feeling overwhelmed, confused, and mentally exhausted when facing such immense tragedy does not indicate apathy. It shows that you are human.

Conclusion: I hung a yellow t-shirt on my balcony. It is a sign of support for returning the kidnapped individuals from Gaza. I identify myself with their suffering and the hope for their safe return. I feel so alone because I am deterritorialized. My own existence feels disoriented, and I am desperately seeking like-minded individuals. Yet, everyone around me seems to hold strong convictions, while I have none—just a sense of being cognitively overwhelmed. The yellow ribbon is supposed to symbolize solidarity, but right now, it just amplifies my isolation.