Over the past two years, particularly since October 7th, an important conversation has been developing regarding the perceived growing gap between Israeli and Diaspora Jewish communities. For me, this discussion has been shaped in part by powerful articles from Dr. Erica Brown and Mrs. Shayna Goldberg, and others. This conversation helped give language to sentiments I had been feeling but struggled to articulate.

Although I made Aliyah nearly nineteen years ago, I have always maintained a strong connection to the American Jewish community. Much of my family still lives in the United States, and I continue to feel a deep sense of belonging there. And yet, something has shifted since October 7th. Until recently, I could not quite define what had changed. This ongoing conversation has helped me begin to do so.

A comment from an American colleague added another layer to my thinking. He had recently returned from a solidarity mission to Israel.  With both surprise and disappointment, he noted that while many native Israelis expressed genuine appreciation at his support and encouragement, his interactions with the Anglo community were markedly different. Those who seemed, on the surface, most similar to him—those with whom he felt a natural connection—often responded with indifference, or even a degree of disdain. He observed that the more “American” someone’s background, the less receptive they seemed to these gestures of solidarity. This struck him as counterintuitive. Shouldn’t those who share his cultural background be the most appreciative of such support?

Although this conversation has been unfolding for the past two and a half years, it has taken on renewed urgency in light of the most recent round of conflict with Iran, known as Operation Roaring Lion. Many have noted that the gap feels especially pronounced this time—perhaps due to war fatigue, internal pressures, or a range of other factors.

Yet to my mind, there is an aspect of this conversation that has not received sufficient attention—one that helps explain why this particular gap in experience feels fundamentally different from others we encounter in our lives.

The Gap We Cannot Escape

Generally, we understand a fundamental truth: we can never fully comprehend another person’s experience. Human perception is inherently subjective; even two people who live through the same event will experience it differently. Although Pirkei Avot teaches, “Do not judge another until you have reached their place”— in truth, we can never fully occupy someone else’s place. There is an element of existential solitude in the human condition that cannot be bridged.

This becomes even more pronounced when there is a clear gap in lived experience. Someone who has never struggled with infertility, for example, cannot truly grasp the pain of a couple facing that challenge. One can study about fertility, and even dedicate their lives to supporting and advocating for those going through the struggle—but full understanding remains out of reach. That limitation is simply part of reality.

While we may accept this intellectually, it does not eliminate the emotional weight of that distance. Life’s most difficult experiences are often isolating, and the pain of that isolation is felt most acutely specifically with those we love most. We expect those closest to us to understand us deeply; when they cannot, the resulting gap feels especially painful.

At first glance, the divide between those living in Israel during this prolonged conflict and those living abroad might seem no different from other experiential gaps. And yet, many on both sides will tell you that this one feels different.

Those in Israel often feel a sharper frustration, a heightened sensitivity to the distance. At the same time, those in the Diaspora generally feel deeply connected to what is happening in Israel—more than Israelis may realize—yet sense that their connection is not fully recognized or appreciated. On both sides, there is a shared perception: something about this gap is different.

I believe this is true for two primary reasons. And if we can acknowledge them honestly, we may begin to bridge the divide.

The Element of Choice

In most cases of differing life experiences, we accept that gap as beyond anyone’s control. A couple struggling with infertility does not blame others who have not faced that challenge. There is an implicit understanding that life circumstances are not chosen, and that recognition softens potential resentment.

But in the case of Israel and the Diaspora, the gap can feel different because, at least on some level, it appears to stem from choice. Those living in Israel may feel—consciously or not—that their friends and family abroad could have chosen to share this reality by making Aliyah. The fact that they did not can make the gap feel less like fate and more like a divergence born of decision, which can intensify the emotional response.

It is important to emphasize that this is not a critique, nor an argument for Aliyah. I feel deeply privileged to live in Israel, but I am fully aware that such a decision entails many challenges, and is both complex and deeply personal. There are countless valid reasons why individuals and families choose not to move, and those decisions deserve respect.

At the same time, the perception of choice—even if incomplete or inaccurate—can subtly shape how this gap is experienced. This may be felt particularly strongly among Anglo olim, perhaps even more than among native Israelis. Having personally navigated the challenges of Aliyah and all that it entails, we may find ourselves—consciously or subconsciously—more critical of those who did not make the same decision. In turn, that dynamic can deepen the sense of distance and contribute to this gap in experience.

And yet, those of us in Israel, must actively resist this line of thinking. As in all areas of life, we must focus on our own paths and refrain from judging the choices of others, recognizing that we never have full insight into their circumstances. What may appear to be a choice from the outside may, in reality, be far more constrained.

Ultimately, we are each living the reality that is meant for us. Accepting that can help soften the edges of this divide.

Eretz Yisrael Belongs to All Jews

There is another, deeper reason this gap feels unique: the profound truth that Eretz Yisrael belongs to the entire Jewish people.

For those raised in Modern Orthodox communities in the Diaspora, Israel is not a distant concept—it is central to identity. In schools, Shuls, and homes, Israel is woven into the fabric of daily life. Its celebrations are shared, its challenges deeply felt. The safety of Medinat Yisrael and the IDF is a constant concern, reflected not only in emotional investment but also in significant financial and political support.

For many, spending a year or more in Israel is a formative experience. Frequent visits, close relationships, and ongoing engagement create a powerful sense of connection. Israel is not just a place they care about—it is, in a meaningful way, their home as well.

This perspective is not merely emotional; it is rooted in deep religious consciousness. The idea that “כי מציון תצא תורה ודבר ה׳ מירושלים”-that Eretz Yisrael is the spiritual epicenter of the Jewish people, reinforces this bond.

Moreover, many in the Diaspora have personally experienced life in Israel during times of conflict. They have lived through periods of fear and uncertainty, even if only temporarily. In times like these, they follow the news closely, reach out constantly, and immerse themselves in the reality as much as possible. In their hearts, this war feels like their war too—and in some sense, it is.

But this very connection can sometimes blur an important distinction. It may lead to the feeling that they fully “get it”—that their experience parallels that of those living in Israel. And while their empathy, concern, and investment are real and deeply meaningful, the lived reality is fundamentally different. Connection is not the same as lived experience.

No amount of connection can replicate what it means to raise young children who are afraid to leave the miklat, to structure daily life around the possibility of a siren, to endure sleepless nights, disrupted routines, and the constant strain of uncertainty. It cannot fully capture the experience of having loved ones called to the front lines with no clear timeline for their return.

This is not a criticism—it is simply the truth of lived experience. And the more clearly we recognize that truth, the more compassionately we can relate to one another.

As Israel continues to navigate an uncertain and complex reality, the love and support from the Diaspora remain invaluable. At the same time, the gap in experience is real, and it is no one’s fault.

Perhaps the goal is not to eliminate that gap, but to acknowledge it honestly. For those in Israel, that means resisting the instinct to attribute distance to choice or lack of understanding. For those in the Diaspora, it may mean recognizing that even the deepest connection has its limits.

And for all of us, it means holding both truths at once: we are deeply connected—and we are not living the same reality. If we can do that, we may not erase the gap. But we may begin to bridge it.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)