Marching for the Silenced: Reflections on Anti-War Activism in 2025

I am like many Israelis. I am grappling with shame and guilt over the actions of the Israeli army in Gaza. I also feel guilt over the crimes against humanity committed by my government. The weight of these events bears heavily on my conscience. They force me to confront complex moral questions about complicity and responsibility. I also ponder what it means to live in a society that perpetuates violence.

Within these emotions, I recall being a non-combatant, an Israeli who didn’t enlist in the army. I wasn’t a conscientious objector either—I chose to do two years of civic service. Remembering this helps me feel less guilty and complicit in the current atrocities. My decision not to enlist was likely influenced by personal, practical, and ethical considerations. I grew up in a religious environment where military service for women was discouraged. Additionally, I grappled with mental health challenges that made military discipline intolerable. I also harbored pacifist tendencies rooted in my early leftist views.

As an Israeli adult of Polish descent, I also carry the weight of Holocaust memory. The question of moral responsibility is deeply personal. It is complex and reflects broader tensions. These tensions exist in how the Holocaust is remembered in both Israel and Poland. I find myself haunted by questions like: Would I have been a “good” or “bad” Polish person during the Holocaust? This struggle comes from historical complexities. It also arises from intergenerational trauma as a descendant of survivors. Additionally, there is the challenge of reconciling the victimhood of Polish Jews with the complicity of some non-Jewish Poles.

Today, I am an anti-war activist in Israel. I face significant personal and social challenges. These challenges mirror the divisions within Israeli society. I fear being alienated from my family, where differing views on the conflict have strained relationships. At home, I navigate daily tension with my right-wing roommate, a microcosm of the larger societal conflict. Professionally, I worry about losing future clients or opportunities. This happens because my activism challenges a society. In this society, military service and support for security measures are deeply ingrained in national identity. Emotionally, I feel alienated from right-wing friends, burdened by the weight of opposing a pro-war climate. The shame, guilt, and frustration are ever-present companions in my journey.

My activism also brings a sense of isolation, especially in how the international left engages with the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. The simplistic “oppressor vs. oppressed” narrative often overlooks the experiences of Israeli leftists like me. Some urge Israelis to “decolonize Palestine” by leaving our homeland. These calls ignore the historical and emotional complexities of our identity. Criticism of Israeli leftists’ efforts fails to recognize the risks and sacrifices we face. This lack of nuance and empathy is disheartening and further marginalizes those of us striving for peace.

Despite these challenges, I made the decision to engage in anti-war activism while prioritizing my personal safety and well-being. I have participated in protests in Jerusalem, signed petitions, and anonymously shared information about Gaza casualties on social media. Joining protests allowed me to publicly voice my stance against the war. Signing petitions and sharing information offered safe ways to help. They allowed me to minimize personal risks in a climate where anti-war activists face hostility and backlash.

I march against the war in Jerusalem. I hold a sign to end the ethnic cleansing of Palestinians in Gaza. During that hour and a half, I lose my personal identity. Who I am as an individual doesn’t matter—I become a living tombstone for the dead children of Gaza. I am not marching for a peaceful future. I march to grieve and commemorate the children. They should not disappear and vanish from this earth as if they never lived. This is not about hope. It is about ensuring that the horrors of today are not forgotten.

In reflecting on Baudrillard’s theory of symbolic exchange, I wonder about the value of this cause. Is it measured by how much I am willing to sacrifice for it? The haunting feeling that my sacrifice is not enough lingers. I remind myself that even small acts—marching, signing, sharing—carry weight. They are acts of grief, remembrance, and resistance in a world that often feels devoid of humanity.

As I navigate these tensions and struggles, I am reminded that activism is not about perfection or achieving immediate change. It is about bearing witness, standing up for what is right, and refusing to let silence erase the lives lost. My journey is far from over. I march on. I carry the pain of the present and the responsibility to remember.

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