This is the first in a series of brief essays by Northern California high school and college students who describe themselves as pro-Israel. As Yom HaAtzmaut (Israel’s independence day) approaches, J. asked them to write about their experiences since the Oct. 7, 2023, Hamas massacre in Israel that started the ongoing war.
Suiting up before I leave my dorm to walk to class, I fasten a Bring Them Home necklace around my neck — a gift from my mother, who got it while volunteering in Israel as a trauma therapist for lone soldiers who had been wounded.
For her, it was a symbol of healing. For me, it has become a shield, symbolizing a constant fight.
My walk to class at UC Berkeley begins like clockwork.
After 15 minutes, just as I enter campus, I pass by an older man waving a towering Palestinian flag. He screams at me about intifada and genocide. I square my shoulders and keep walking — forcing myself to be fearless and choosing not to flinch.
Three minutes later, adults hand me posters covered in antisemitic conspiracy theories and cartoonish propaganda. They shout about revolution in America, Zionism as fascism and Jews as colonizers. The fire inside me grows three times as large.
Four more minutes. I walk through Sather Gate. Speakers blast pro-Palestinian slogans distorted into calls for violence and erasure. Twisting and turning between their stands about divestment, my necklace stays visible. My pace stays steady.
Two minutes till I get to class.
Finally, I enter the classroom. But even inside, the noise follows me — muffled chants of “intifada,” slogans about genocide. The fire inside consumes me. Still, I sit tall. Still, I keep my necklace out, regardless of fears that it will trigger my professor. I will not shrink.
After class, I head to the heart of it all — a table at the center of campus, where our organization gathers beneath an Israeli flag. We smile. We talk. We answer questions. For one sacred hour, we table solely on the basis of the self-determination of Israel. We hold space for a truth that others try to silence. I feel like I am home.
The next morning, my walk repeats. The fire within me grows stronger. Every walk through campus is a gauntlet. Every step is a choice. With every step, I become closer to my Jewish community. Every day that I choose to walk, I am choosing to become less fearful.
I wear the necklace my mother gave me into battle — not on the frontlines, but through a campus that wants me to stay silent. I won’t.