In July 2003, my wife, Karyn, and I brought our children to Israel for the first time. Gillian was 16, Zachary 14 and Max 10. It was a UJA family mission with a couple of weeks tagged on at the end so that we could spend extra time with family in Givat Ze’ev.

And while there had been a temporary ceasefire proclaimed at the end of June 2003, there were nonetheless suicide bombings and retaliations, as sadly seemed to be the norm. Our children were resistant to going at first, understandably frightened, but mustered their courage, and with high spirits, embarked on a trip we have never forgotten.

I reference our 2003 family journey on this Yom Ha’atzmaut to better personally understand my connection to this tiny strip of land fought over by Jews, Muslims and Christians for over 2,000 years.

It is for me a land of emotional contrasts.

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I love the country, but I regularly find many of the policies of the government, especially those that hurt and discriminate against Ethiopian Jews, Eritreans, Arab Israelis and Palestinians in the occupied territories, abhorrent.

I admire the courage of Israeli soldiers and their commitment to the Israel Defence Forces’ “purity of arms.” I detest those soldiers who, as we have seen only recently, abuse this code and even commit murder against unarmed Palestinians. Yes, I know he was an alleged terrorist, but killing a subdued terrorist just “because” is despicable.

I love the people of Israel but detest those ultra-Orthodox who demand that I adhere to their way of life, those who cursed my wife and children because of the way they dressed, those who through their evil words created a time and place where the assassination of an Israeli prime minister became “halachically” possible.

And most especially, I love the Israel that was founded on the concept of democracy, but I question what it may become if we choose not to work toward peace.

Earlier this month, I agreed to be interviewed by a student who was working on his doctoral thesis at the University of Toronto. His thesis centred around exploring and understanding historical collective memories. He was interviewing activists from both the Arab and the Jewish communities of Canada. We spent quite a few hours together dissecting my personal story. It was at once exhilarating and exhausting. It forced me to confront my feelings, even some long-held demons.

At the end, the interviewer asked me the following: despite your reservations about the State of Israel you are still deeply connected and supportive. Why?

This was surprisingly the easiest question for me to answer. For me, Israel remains the only safe place for Jews, in view of human history. As a child of Holocaust survivors, I viscerally understand how fragile we are as a people. Yes, life in Canada is free of the anti-Semitism and genocidal behaviour faced by my parents and grandparents. Nonetheless, with the Shoah as a backdrop for humanity’s possibilities, there can never again be no place for Jews to seek refuge.

And yes, we must rage against Israeli policy that leans more and more away from peace. Progressive Jews must find their voice. Through organizations like JSpace, the New Israel Fund and others this is becoming more of a reality.

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Two weeks ago, my daughter, Gillian, and son-in-law, Adam, returned from a two-week visit to Israel. On her Facebook site, Gillian wrote: “Israel – your beauty literally astounds me. The gorgeous landscapes, stunning beaches, delicious humus and brave soldiers help make this small country so special. And even though on our very last night in Jerusalem, walking aimlessly around the shuk, we stood just five minutes away from another terrorist attack, it only encourages us to be better people. To love, to explore, to support one another and to not live in fear. So it’s not really goodbye, we’ll see you soon, Israel. Lots of love.”

Chag Samayach on this Yom Ha’atzmaut.

Photo: Flickr