May 28, 2025

In the heart of Damascus — a city that has withstood siege, sorrow, darkness, and time itself — I met with Syria’s newly elected president, Ahmed al-Sharaa. Our conversation unfolded in the grandeur of Assad’s former palace, now renamed the People’s Palace — a striking contrast to the modest buildings around it. Damascus is the oldest living city, where history whispers from every wall. It was a fitting setting for a dialogue not about power, but about rebuilding, reconciliation, and the burden of leading a nation long broken.

“We are not starting from zero,” he told me. “We are starting from the depths.”

President Sharaa, who assumed office following the fall of Bashar al-Assad, carries himself with quiet conviction. He is soft-spoken, but every word lands with deliberation. There is no triumph in his voice — only urgency.

“We have inherited more than ruins,” he said. “We’ve inherited trauma, mistrust, and fatigue. But we have also inherited hope. Fragile, yes — but real.”

For decades, Syria was ruled by a regime that confused loyalty with silence, coexistence with hate, and stability with suppression. The Assad dynasty — first Hafez and then Bashar — ruled with an iron grip, using fear and executions to cement control, while the country’s institutions withered and dissent turned deadly.

Sharaa is clear-eyed about the legacy he inherits.

“It would be dishonest to speak of a clean slate,” he said. “The past is present — in the eyes of every person, on every street, in every family. But our duty now is not to repeat it. Not even as a softer version. We must create something entirely new.”

Sharaa’s early moves have been cautious, yet deeply symbolic. He has ordered the release of political prisoners, initiated dialogue with opposition groups once exiled or silenced, and pledged to reform Syria’s notorious security apparatus. His vision is of a vibrant, multicultural, and pluralistic society. He supports the right of return for all Syrians — Jews, Druze, Christians, and others whose assets were seized under the Assad regime.

He has proposed the creation of a Ministry dedicated to addressing the fate of the missing and the dead. To uncover the truth behind Syria’s mass graves, he recognizes the need for partnership with the United States — to provide forensic technology and equipment, from establishing DNA databases to securing cooperation from those responsible for past atrocities.

“If I am the only one speaking,” he said, “then Syria has learned nothing. We are inviting all voices to the table — secular, religious, tribal, academic, rural, and urban. The state must listen now more than it commands.”

But will people trust again? Will they believe the promises of a government that rises from the ashes of dictatorship?

“I don’t ask for trust,” he replied. “I ask for patience — and for scrutiny. Hold me accountable. Hold this process accountable. That is how trust will come.”

When I asked the president what Syrians most need right now, he answered without hesitation:

“Dignity through work. Peace through purpose.”

In towns emptied by war and villages still scarred by conflict, the cry is not for politics but for normalcy — the chance to rebuild homes, raise children, and earn a living in peace.

Sharaa knows this. He is pushing for emergency economic programs focused on job creation in agriculture, manufacturing, construction, and public services.

“It’s not about ideology anymore,” he told me. “It’s about giving people a reason to stay, a reason to live — and a reason to believe.”

He emphasized partnerships with regional investors, microenterprise grants for returnees, and vocational training for youth who have known nothing but war.

“A stable Syria will not be built through speeches or slogans — it will be built through action: in the marketplace, in classrooms, on farms, and in workshops. We will rebuild supply chains. Syria will return as a hub for trade and commerce.”

There’s a deeper insight behind this economic vision: after a generation of loss, Syrians are tired of conflict. They crave peace — not just the absence of war, but the presence of opportunity.

“Every young man with a job is one less soul at risk of radicalization,” Sharaa said. “Every child in school is a vote for the future.”

In one of the more delicate parts of our conversation, Sharaa addressed Syria’s future relationship with Israel — a subject that has haunted the region since 1948 and intensified with each airstrike, covert operation, and accusation of proxy warfare.

“I want to be clear,” he said. “The era of endless tit-for-tat bombings must end. No nation prospers when its skies are filled with fear. The reality is, we have common enemies — and we can play a major role in regional security.”

He expressed a desire to return to the spirit of the 1974 Disengagement Agreement (Dofa Accord) — not merely as a ceasefire line, but as the foundation for mutual restraint and protection of civilians, especially the Druze communities in southern Syria and the Golan Heights.

“Syria’s Druze are not pawns,” he said. “They are citizens — deeply rooted, historically loyal, and deserving of every protection under the law. Their safety is non-negotiable.”

While he stopped short of proposing immediate normalization, Sharaa signaled openness to future talks grounded in international law and sovereignty.

“Peace must be earned through mutual respect, not fear. We will engage where there is honesty and a clear path to coexistence — and walk away from anything less.”

Perhaps most notably, he voiced a bold diplomatic overture: his desire to sit down directly with former U.S. President Donald Trump.

“However the media portrays him,” Sharaa said, “I see him as a man of peace. We’ve both been shot at by the same enemy. Trump understands leverage, strength, and outcomes. Syria needs an honest broker who can reset the conversation. If there is a possibility of alignment that helps bring stability to the region — and security to the U.S. and its allies — I am ready to have that conversation. He is the only man capable of fixing this region, bringing us together, one brick at a time.”

It was a striking statement — not just for its candor, but for what it implied: the new Syria is not afraid to make unconventional moves in pursuit of peace and recognition.

Sharaa does not sugarcoat Syria’s challenges: more than a million dead in mass graves, 12 million displaced, an economy on life support, sanctions still in place, and rival militias entrenched in the north.

“This is not a fairy tale,” he said. “It is a recovery. And recoveries are painful.”

He acknowledges that foreign powers — China, Russia, Iran, Turkey, the UAE, Qatar, and the U.S. — will continue to influence Syria’s path. But he insists that Syrian sovereignty begins with Syrian consensus.

“We will not be a pawn. Nor will we be a fortress. We will be a state that governs with legitimacy, not just control. We want the U.S. to partner with us — in governance, in anti-corruption, in building institutions based on honesty and integrity.”

Many Syrians see Sharaa not as a revolutionary but as a restorer — someone capable of stitching together a nation fatigued by war and fractured by identity. It is perhaps his very ordinariness — his refusal to play the strongman, despite his extremist former life — that makes him a man of the hour.

“I did not seek this position to rule,” he told me near the end of our talk. “I accepted it because Syria must turn the page. And I would rather help write that history — with others — than watch it be torn apart again. We have no option but to succeed. We must make Syria great again.”

I believe his extremist and violent past has taught him how to navigate the future. You can change. You can grow. He has learned from experience, and twenty-twenty vision gives him the clarity to shape what comes next. His history with extremism has made him capable of defending Syria from within — against ISIS and those seeking to topple the fragile progress underway. He has grown from revolution to governance, and I believe he has the ability to lead and impact the real future of this country.

As I left the Presidential Palace, I glanced back at the man now tasked with resurrecting one of the world’s oldest civilizations — where the first alphabet was created. There were no portraits of him on the wall, no slogans, no flags. Just a man trying to unite a map of Syria into a country of equals. He stands tall, firm in his resolve, with the odds set against him — but determined.

He wants to build a future for his people, for the region, and for Syria to come out of the dark and take its rightful seat at the table of the world.

Only time will tell.

In the days following Oct. 7, New York Times columnist Bret Stephens coined the term “the October 8th Jew” to describe those who woke up the next morning with a renewed understanding of Jewish vulnerability. For many, Oct. 7 was a breaking point—an unmistakable signal that the ideological allies they had trusted in academia, activism, and government did not stand with them when Jews were massacred. But what Stephens captured was not just an emotional turning point—it was a call for a political and communal reckoning. And yet that reckoning has been largely postponed or avoided by many major Jewish institutions, especially in the blue cities where they are based.

There has been, of course, talk of a “Jewish realignment,” and some shifts have occurred. Individual donors have pulled back from institutions like Harvard or PEN America. Some communal leaders issued stronger statements on antisemitism from the left. But institutionally? The pivot has been muted, especially among legacy  organizations. Why?

The Politics of Proximity

The ten largest Jewish communities in America are embedded within metro areas that overwhelmingly voted for Kamala Harris in the 2024 election. With a few exceptions (notably Miami and Atlanta, which still went for Harris), these metropolitan regions are deeply blue. Cities like New York, Los Angeles, Washington, Boston and San Francisco not only lean Democratic—they define the progressive political mainstream.

Largest Jewish Communities and 2024 Presidential Vote by Metro Area

Rank	Metropolitan Area	Estimated Jewish Population	2024 Presidential Election Result
1	New York–Newark–Jersey City, NY–NJ–PA	2,109,300	Harris 55.9%, Trump 43.3%
2	Los Angeles–Long Beach–Anaheim, CA	622,480	Harris 63.5%, Trump 34.3%
3	Miami–Fort Lauderdale–Pompano Beach, FL	535,500	Trump 51.2%, Harris 47.8%
4	Philadelphia–Camden–Wilmington, PA–NJ–DE–MD	419,850	Trump 50.1%, Harris 48.9%
5	Washington–Arlington–Alexandria, DC–VA–MD–WV	297,290	Harris 65.3%, Trump 32.5%
6	Chicago–Naperville–Elgin, IL–IN–WI	294,280	Harris 53.2%, Trump 45.1%
7	Boston–Cambridge–Newton, MA–NH	257,460	Harris 60.8%, Trump 37.5%
8	San Francisco–Oakland–Berkeley, CA	244,000	Harris 71.2%, Trump 26.1%
9	Atlanta–Sandy Springs–Alpharetta, GA	119,800	Trump 50.4%, Harris 48.5%
10	Baltimore–Columbia–Towson, MD	117,800	Harris 62.1%, Trump 35.4%

This geographic-political context is essential to understanding why many legacy Jewish institutions have not meaningfully pivoted away engaging progressives and progressive causes, and built new coalitions more manifestly aligned with their interests, even after the Oct. 7 attacks and the surge of antisemitism that followed.

Mainstream Jewish organizations—such as federations, JCRCs (Jewish Community Relations Councils), and large synagogues—are physically and culturally situated within progressive political ecosystems. Their staff, board members, donors, and partner institutions (e.g., universities, interfaith coalitions, city governments) are mostly Democrats. For many, their children attend public or private schools where progressive DEI frameworks are dominant. Their rabbis speak from pulpits located in precincts where a Republican vote is not just rare but also can be seen as morally suspect.

As a result, criticizing progressive norms—whether it’s identity-based ideology or acceptance of antisemitism in racial justice movements—can alienate their base and undermine their perceived legitimacy. Even raising concerns about how progressive frameworks might fuel antisemitism is often framed as “punching left” or “undermining coalition unity.”

High Stakes in the Status Quo

Mainstream Jewish organizations are recipients of government support, including DHS Nonprofit Security Grant Program funds, which have grown to over $300 million nationally; state social services contracts, especially in New York, Maryland, California, and Illinois; and urban partnerships tied to homelessness services, senior care, food distribution, and workforce development. Criticizing the political leadership of cities or governors who sign these checks—or the ideological frameworks embedded in city agencies—can threaten not just public standing, but real revenue.

Turning against the progressive coalition would mean breaking relationships with city councils, school boards, and interfaith partners; losing credibility with younger, progressive Jews; and risking their funding base and social capital. Moreover, many of their own members have not pivoted politically. While concerned about antisemitism, they still support even the most progressive Democrats because of abortion rights, gun control, climate policy, or fear of Trumpism. This creates a tension: Jewish organizations that wish to sound the alarm about antisemitism from the left must do so without alienating their liberal constituents.

Jewish organizations that wish to sound the alarm about antisemitism from the left must do so without alienating their liberal constituents.

Jewish organizations thus remain in political alliances, arguably out of necessity, that no longer serve all their interests—but exiting those coalitions comes at a very high price. Their ideological partners often tolerate or excuse anti-Zionism and even antisemitism. Their financial, cultural and political survival depends on not making too much noise about it. So despite the trauma of Oct. 7, most of the organizational behavior has remained the same. Statements get sharpened. Backchannel complaints are made. But the political alignment holds.

Escaping the Trap

Legacy organizations have good reasons to defend the status quo. Their funding streams, institutional partnerships, and reputational capital are all bound up in the political structures of blue cities and states. Legacy organizations are bound by legacy commitments. But that reality means that many of these institutions will remain constrained in their ability to respond to new and growing threats. If we want to face the challenges of this moment—whether in education, campus culture, or public safety—we need to build new institutions (or old institutions need to develop new vehicles) not bound by these same commitments. These new initiatives must be funded, staffed and scaled to serve as durable alternatives. Over time, they must become as strong or stronger than the legacy groups they sit alongside, not because they are louder or more radical, but because they are freer to speak the truth and act on it.

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David Bernstein is the Founder and CEO of the North American Values Institute (NAVI).

The reality of the past 20 months at California State University, Northridge (CSUN) made me suddenly anxious when I chose to wear a blue and white Jewish star sash over my faculty robes for commencement this year. I was excited to celebrate my students’ successes as I have for the past 27 years of my academic career. However, as I stepped out into the screaming throng on the quad, I felt my heart quicken, just as it did months ago when a keffiyeh-wearing colleague accosted me. I feared insults or worse being thrown down, and the LAPD snipers on the rooftop nearby did little to ease my distress.

The CSUN campus continues to be a place where Jewish students, staff and faculty have not felt welcome since Oct. 8, 2023. So it was not surprising when three out of 800 graduating psychology students refused my handshake at this commencement ceremony in front of nearly 10,000 family members, university administrators and faculty.

These snubs did not occur on the ceremonial grand stage and were not broadcast on the screens on the quad; rather, the refused handshakes occurred unseen, off to the side of the stage the students crossed, after shaking hands with the university administrators who have remained unresponsive to the rampant antisemitism on campus.

Up until Oct. 8, 2023 my freedom to be openly Jewish had never been threatened. Since then, countless Jewish students, staff and faculty members across the globe have learned that universities are not safe places for Jews.

Over the past 20 months, hostage posters on my office door have been repeatedly vandalized.  Other individuals scrawled hateful antisemitic comments on my nameplate and other parts of my door. A colleague in my own department filed an unsupported complaint alleging I had weaponized the word “antisemite” against them. Months later, this faculty member berated me in connection with this frivolous complaint in a meeting while many of my colleagues watched silently. This bullying was later deemed “protected speech” by a university Equity and Compliance officer.

 

So, at commencement, when graduates from the Psychology Department began to cross the stage, I stood up with my colleagues to meet the new graduates as their names were called. As in prior years, I shook hands and shouted, “Congratulations” to our incredibly diverse students who were wearing all types of attire and symbols on their robes and mortarboards.

After dozens of uneventful handshakes, a student walked toward our line of hand-shaking faculty members and clearly caught sight of my sash. He shook his head in disagreement, he pulled his hand away and walked on. I felt anxious again and looked behind me to confirm that this was intentional. His handshakes with my colleagues behind me confirmed the snub. Two other psychology students made similar refusals that night as well.

Oddly enough, the snubs were only briefly distressing. At one point, the distress was replaced by shared joy as a woman with an Israeli flag sewn onto her sash yelled, “Thank you!” in Hebrew when shaking my hand. Four other students commented positively when noticing my Jewish symbols. The six-pointed star is a Jewish symbol, not necessarily an Israeli symbol; it is millennia-old and not Israeli but Jewish in origin. The willful misrepresentation and conflation of the star with Israel—and the war being waged against Hamas—clearly presented a reason for some students’ dismissal of my handshake. Israel hatred and Jew-hatred are conflated these days on campus as elsewhere.

The willful misrepresentation and conflation of the star with Israel … clearly presented a reason for some students’ dismissal of my handshake.

While my anxiety about wearing the Jewish stars never dissipated, I was happy to share moments of joy with so many graduating students at commencement. I was also glad that I could bring comfort to the unseen and constantly threatened Jewish students.

This commencement night was the same night that Yuval Raphael, a Jewish Israeli woman and survivor of the Oct. 7 Hamas massacre, took second place in this year’s Jewish-hostile Eurovision Song Contest. Graduation 2025 was a lot like Yuval’s song, “New Day Will Rise” and indeed, a lot like Israel’s national anthem “Hatikvah,” or “The Hope.” My own hope for the new days that rise is that others in academia will push to create college campus climates that feel safe for Jewish students, staff and faculty.

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Gary S. Katz is Associate Professor of Psychology at California State University, Northridge; a proud member of Matadors Against Antisemitism (MAA); and the incoming International First Vice President of the Federation of Jewish Men’s Clubs.

 

Higher education in fields like medicine and teaching is becoming increasingly out of reach for many due to rising costs and the burden of student loans which can take decades to pay down. Moreover, when people can no longer afford to pursue degrees in these critical areas, the consequences ripple far beyond the student, impacting entire communities and the functioning of society. In essence, a shortage of qualified professionals in healthcare and education threatens to erode the pillars upon which the well-being and future of the nation rest.

The inability to afford degrees in education will lead to fewer people choosing teaching as a career. Schools, particularly in rural and underserved areas, will face increasing difficulties in filling vacancies. Over time, this could result in larger class sizes, diminished student-teacher interaction, and reduced overall quality of education. The long-term effects will likely include lower educational achievement and a less skilled workforce. Similarly, unaffordable medical education will deter aspiring doctors from entering the healthcare field, exacerbating existing shortages. Rural and marginalized communities will be the hardest hit, as fewer physicians will be available to provide essential care. Specialized fields such as primary care and psychiatry, which are already critically understaffed, could face further depletion, leading to longer wait times and poorer health outcomes.

When access to education in these professions is reserved for those who can afford it, socio-economic disparities will deepen. The shortage of teachers and doctors in underserved communities will disproportionately affect low-income households, perpetuating cycles of poverty and limiting opportunities for upward mobility. Further, the decline in educators and medical professionals will place a significant strain on public institutions. Schools may struggle to maintain the quality of education, while hospitals and clinics may experience operational inefficiencies due to understaffing. This can reduce trust in public services and undermine social cohesion.

The regretful erosion of the World War Two era of a collective sense of working towards a common good and shared vision of what America should look like is what is largely responsible for the perpetuation of debt-funded education. Therefore, solutions to the urgent teacher and medical shortages that are fueled by the extreme unaffordability in higher education must be championed by all who value the belief in life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness in its purest form. In practice, what this could look like is expanding access to scholarships and grants for education and medical degrees can help alleviate financial barriers. Specifically, targeted funding for students from low-income backgrounds or those committing to work in underserved areas could address the imbalance. Policymakers, who in theory should represent the interests of their constituents over corporate donors, must focus on reducing the costs of higher education through tuition caps, subsidized programs, and lower interest rates on student loans. These measures can make degrees in education and medicine more accessible, ensuring a steady influx of professionals into these fields.

Moreover, programs like Public Service Loan Forgiveness (PSLF) should be expanded and streamlined to encourage students to enter teaching and medical professions and actually deliver on the promise of student loan cancellation after the ten years of public service has been reached rather than deny borrowers their lawful cancellation due to bureaucratic and profit-driven motives to keep borrowers trapped in repayment far longer than legally required. Such initiatives can help mitigate the financial burden of loans while incentivizing work in high-need areas.

The inability to afford degrees in education and medicine is not just a personal financial failing. Rather, it is a crisis that if left unmitigated, can and will exacerbate the shortage of teachers and doctors and will consequently compromise the quality of life for millions, undermine the economy, and widen existing inequalities. By implementing targeted solutions to reduce financial barriers, society can ensure that these indispensable professions remain accessible, especially as the world of Artificial Intelligence further encroaches on job stability and access to quality healthcare for millions across the nation. 

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Lisa Ansell Schneider is the Associate Director of the USC Casden Institute and Lecturer of Hebrew Language at Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion Los Angeles.

I’ve stood outside Elat Market more times than I can count — grabbing cucumbers, beef for stew or just soaking in the pre-Shabbat buzz. But this time was different. It was late at night, and I was slowly driving down the alley behind the market as a volunteer for the 2025 Los Angeles Homeless Count.

In addition to counting the omer as we do now, leading up to Shavuot, once a year, thousands of volunteers spread out across LA to count how many of our neighbors are living outside: on sidewalks, in cars, in tents, and alleys. This wasn’t my first time joining, but it was my first time counting in Pico-Robertson, the heart of LA’s religious Jewish community. I kept wondering: Would anyone be sleeping outside here? Would any of them be Jewish?

Data from 2021 shows that about 19% of Jewish Angelenos are struggling to make ends meet. New preliminary data from the Jewish Federations of North America shows that in 2025, 29% of American Jews are struggling to make ends meet. 

These families are not outliers. They are single parents in Pico-Robertson choosing between a Hebrew school payment and a mortgage. They are older adults in Encino skipping doctor visits because of copays. They are students at UCLA, quietly picking up free produce from the food pantry between classes. Yet in too many Jewish spaces, economic vulnerability remains unspoken — a taboo hidden behind summer camp fundraisers and reduced synagogue membership options. But that’s starting to change.

Two years ago, I began leading an initiative called Together Ending Need (TEN), a partnership between the Harry and Jeanette Weinberg Foundation and the Jewish Funders Network. TEN brings together funders, agencies and Jewish leaders to ensure that every Jew has access to food, housing, healthcare and the full experience of Jewish life, regardless of income.

We recently released a new study, “On the Edge,” conducted by Tulane University and Rosov Consulting. It affirms what many who are struggling know: Jews experiencing economic insecurity often feel unrooted — or even invisible — in Jewish communal life. One Jewish Family Services social worker put it plainly:

“Shame — it’s shame … I can’t tell you how many people say, ‘I dropped out of the Jewish community because we’re so embarrassed.’ It’s hands down shame that prevents them from being connected to the community.”

As an Iranian Jew, this isn’t hard to recall. Many of our families fled with very little. We received free school lunches and public benefits that helped us pursue the American dream. But we know this dream was never within reach for everyone. In our greater Jewish community, many still benefit from Jewish Family Services of Los Angeles – a longtime safety net now offering over 30 essential programs, or Tomchei Shabbos and the many other Jewish groups showing up every day for vulnerable Jews here at home. 

Something unique the On The Edge study showed was that Jews are often situationally vulnerable. Illness, caretaking responsibilities, and job loss were the three leading characteristics of Jewish people experiencing economic vulnerability. These challenges are heightened with the federal government’s layoffs, budget cuts and the impending cuts to Medicaid and SNAP. And with the rise in antisemitism, more Jews are seeking support specifically from Jewish agencies.

During the homeless count that night, we identified 20 people sleeping outside in Pico-Robertson. I don’t know how many were Jewish. But I do know this: a few months ago, I saw a tallit draped across the windshield of a car being used as a home. A sacred garment, repurposed as a protective shield for someone. That image still sits with me.

So, what can we do? First, sign up and join me in the homeless count next January. This year, the organizers and the Jewish Federation of LA said we needed at least 10 more volunteers. And in the meantime, pay attention when the 2025 Homeless Count data is released. 

Second, find ways to tell the story of Jews that reflects our economic diversity. You don’t need to go very far back in most families’ history to find a poor Jew. It shouldn’t be so hard to believe there are still Jews in our community who need support. It’s our responsibility to bring light to the story. Numbers and data matter. Stories we tell matter more.

In Jewish tradition, we’re taught that every person is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God. That includes those sleeping behind the market. May we count each of them not just once a year, but always, as part of our sacred community and support the programs that make our city one that is more just and fitting of its angelic name.

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Rachel Sumekh is an Iranian Jewish activist. She is the director of Together Ending Need, a community of philanthropies committed to supporting economically vulnerable Jews meet their basic needs and live a thriving Jewish life. She is the Founder and CEO Emeritus of Swipe Out Hunger. 

Last week, social media was ablaze with news that Israel had struck the European Hospital in Gaza. A single interpretation of this event prevailed: Israel, in an act of genocidal sadism, had targeted the hospital for no reason other than to terrorize innocent civilians as they sought medical care.

The IDF told a different story, saying that the target of the strike was none other than Mohammed Sinwar, the brother of the late Yahya Sinwar and the current head of Hamas, but people were skeptical of this claim. As one BBC reporter stated, “The IDF has failed to provide any evidence whatsoever that Sinwar was at the hospital.”

The reason the IDF “failed” to provide this evidence, however, was that they were still verifying it. Unlike Hamas, which makes wild pronouncements about fatalities after every Israeli strike and then quietly corrects the record months later, the IDF tries to confirm information before publishing it. It would take an entire week before the IDF was able to announce that Sinwar had indeed been killed in the strike. Furthermore, new documentation showed that the strike had not hit the hospital building itself, but rather the area outside the building in the hospital compound. 

But by then, the damage was done. Israel had been maligned as a villainous hospital-bomber and what should have been the headline — that Hamas’ top military commander was hiding out in a bunker under a hospital — went largely unreported. 

According to international law, protected zones lose their protected status when used for military purposes. If Hamas uses a hospital for a bunker, or an ambulance for a military transport, or a humanitarian zone to hide hostages — all of which it has done — it can no longer expect such areas to be immune from attack. 

This abuse of protected zones is a key element of Hamas’ strategy, and it is an incredibly effective way to provoke outrage against Israel. We have seen these war crimes for 18 months now, but sometimes I’m still capable of being shocked — and Sinwar’s hospital hideout shocked me.

Consider what you know about Gaza right now. Regardless of what one feels about Israel’s continued war, it’s a fact that the people of Gaza are facing incredible hardships and live in a constant state of fear and uncertainty. Amidst this humanitarian crisis, their leader — the one supposedly championing their cause — nestles under one of their last functioning hospitals, transforming it into a target for a strike. 

I was also shocked in 2024 when I learned that Mohammed Deif, then Hamas’ number two man, was killed in a strike in what had been designated as a humanitarian zone. Then, as now, the story was reported as if Israel was mercilessly raining down fire on innocent civilians for the sport of it. In reality, it wasn’t Israel that had violated the humanitarian zone, but Deif, who clearly saw the civilians around him as cheap and expendable. 

Palestinian-American intellectual Edward Said famously argued that Zionism must be evaluated from the standpoint of its victims, not its beneficiaries. We need not be afraid of such a proposition. Zionism can withstand critique and it can also withstand an honest examination of its shortcomings and missteps, even the crimes that have been committed in its name.

But at the very least, Zionism has beneficiaries. Whatever else Zionism has wrought in the world, it has created a thriving and productive society where people of every race and religion enjoy the benefits of freedom and citizenship. It has welcomed and settled refugees from all over the world. It has created technologies and products that have benefited all of humanity. And it has protected its people from the constant onslaughts, invasions and massacres of its neighbors — with the security failure of Oct. 7 being a notable exception. 

Does anti-Zionism also have beneficiaries? Only a few billionaires in Qatar and a handful of anti-Israel TikTok influencers can claim this title. 

But what happens when we evaluate anti-Zionism from the standpoint of its victims? Here we embark on a tour of human misery almost without end. It begins in 1948, when the Palestinians, aided by the Arab League, rejected coexistence in favor of a “war of extermination” against Israel, leading to the Palestinian refugee crisis. 

It continues with decades of failed wars, shortsighted strategies and rejected offers of statehood. 

As Jews, we are accustomed to thinking of ourselves as the victims of anti-Zionism. We think primarily of the massacres, the kidnappings, the wars and the terrorist attacks. But the people who have suffered the most from anti-Zionism are the Palestinians themselves. 

Look to Gaza — a wasteland of rubble that could have been a thriving society by the sea had its leaders’ venomous hatred of Israel not led them to hollow out its cities with tunnels, build bunkers under hospitals and schools, hide top military brass in humanitarian zones and sacrifice their own people on the altar of their holy war against Israel’s existence.  

Sinwar’s subterranean hospital bunker should make one thing very clear. One can be an anti-Zionist or one can care about the well-being and the future of Palestinians in the Gaza strip, but not both.

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Matthew Schultz is a Jewish Journal columnist and rabbinical student at Hebrew College. He is the author of the essay collection “What Came Before” (Tupelo, 2020) and lives in Boston and Jerusalem.