Yaakov Rotblit once wrote a lyric that has taken on a life far beyond its origins as a love song: “You took my hand in yours and said to me, ‘Let’s go down to the garden… Things we see from there, we can’t see from here.’” In Israel, that final line “Things we see from there, we can’t see from here ” has become a kind of shorthand for perspective. It reminds us that where we stand shapes what we understand.

To grasp the Israeli experience today, one must try, however imperfectly, to see “from there.”

For many Israelis, daily life includes realities that would feel surreal elsewhere. A 3 a.m. alert signaling a Houthi missile launch. Instructions from the Home Front Command interrupting ordinary routines. Navigation apps like Waze doubling as tools for emergency awareness. Young people scrolling dating apps while sitting in bomb shelters. A dark humor that turns the weather forecast into: “Sunny with a chance of missiles.”

But beyond the irony lies something far more serious. Families have entered reinforced safe rooms – mamadim –  dozens, even hundreds of times. Children’s school schedules, mostly on Zoom,  shift constantly. The threat of weapons that target civilian populations, including cluster munitions, hangs in the background. Over time, the emotional toll accumulates: exhaustion, anxiety, sadness, and a persistent sense of vulnerability.

And yet, in the midst of this strain, something remarkable has emerged: a renewed sense of unity. After years of deep internal divisions, Israelis have found themselves bound together by shared experience. In October, hundreds of thousands gathered in what has come to be known as Hostages Square. There was music – most memorably, a lone piano played in the open air – serving as a communal language for grief, hope, and solidarity. When hostages have been released, the response has not only been relief, but a profound expression of collective gratitude and a recognition of shared fate.

There is also a broad consensus within Israel about the dangers posed by Iran, particularly the prospect of a nuclear-armed regime. Intelligence assessments from multiple sources suggest that Iran has accumulated significant quantities of enriched uranium and could move to weapons-grade material within days if it chose to do so. For Israelis, this is not an abstract geopolitical concern; it is widely perceived as an existential threat.

Again, “things we see from there, we can’t see from here.”

In the United States, distance provides a kind of insulation. Americans may feel the ripple effects of global instability, fluctuating gas prices, unsettling headlines, but rarely the immediacy of physical danger. Israelis, by contrast, live within close proximity to those threats. Geography shapes psychology, and psychology shapes judgment.

At the same time, there is something we must confront about what we are seeing “from here.”

In just the past weeks, there have been deeply troubling incidents: synagogue shootings in Toronto, a synagogue bombing in Liège, and an attempted attack on a synagogue in West Bloomfield, Michigan, where 140 preschool children were present. In Florida, a member of Congress was named on a suspect’s target list alongside Jewish institutions. In New York, antisemitic graffiti openly called for violence, while authorities arrested an individual accused of threatening a rabbi and Jewish communities nationwide. At a Quds Day rally, chants of “Death to America” and “Death to Israel” were accompanied by open support for terrorist organizations.

These are not isolated events.  They are part of a broader and deeply concerning trend. Jews make up less than three percent of the U.S. population, yet are the targets of roughly seventy percent of religion-based hate crimes. The Anti-Defamation League has documented a dramatic rise in incidents in recent years, with a sharp escalation following the events of October 7 and the conflicts that followed.

Historian Deborah Lipstadt has offered powerful frameworks for understanding contemporary antisemitism. She likens it to a virus, dormant at times, but never fully gone. It often “punches up,” targeting Jews who are perceived as having power. And, as described by the “horseshoe theory,” it can emerge simultaneously from the extremes of both the political left and right, converging in dangerous ways.

So how do we as Jews respond?

First, with solidarity, across borders, across communities, and across perspectives. We must strive to understand not only what Israelis see “from there,” but also what Jews in communities around the world are experiencing “from here.”

Second, with vigilance. Security at Jewish institutions is no longer optional; it is essential. The presence of trained personnel and physical safeguards is a sobering but necessary reality.

Third, by speaking out, clearly and consistently, against antisemitism in all its forms, regardless of where it appears on the political spectrum.

Fourth, by building alliances. The fight against hatred cannot be waged alone.  It requires partners of conscience from every background.

And finally, by telling our story, not as an abstraction, but as a human narrative. We are not symbols. We are people!

The author and attorney Dahlia Lithwick recently reflected on the attempted attack in West Bloomfield: “The attack did not win. Those 140 children went home to their families. The security personnel, the heroes, ran toward danger and did their jobs. And tonight, on this Shabbat, we are here. We are studying. We are naming. We are refusing, one more time, to be symbols. We are people. Am Yisrael, the people who wrestle with God and survive the night.”

To this, I would add: we are also the people who greet one another with the word for peace, Shalom.

We will never stop dreaming of peace. We will never stop hoping for peace. We will never abandon the vision of two peoples, Israelis and Palestinians, living side by side in dignity and security. We will never stop imagining a future in which Arabs and Jews meet on soccer fields instead of battlefields. We will never stop striving for a peace built on cooperation, prosperity, and mutual respect.

We will sing of peace. We will write of peace. We will greet one another with peace.

And when we gather on Shabbat and say that ancient word – Shalom – we are not only offering a greeting. We are declaring a hope, a commitment, and a promise.

Yes, we will never stop praying for peace!

Oseh shalom Bimromav –  May the One who causes peace to reign in the high heavens, cause peace to descend upon us and upon all of the world!

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)