Recently, someone I don’t know (but who thought she knew me) accused me of having changed my last name to reflect my alleged Zionist values.
The evidence? A few Instagram posts I made soon after the October 7th attacks, where I sought to explore the internal dissonance one must integrate when one is Jewish and pro-human rights and also has family in Israel, implicating the people they love most in the violence. Ironically, my intended message was about building a foundation of empathy for vital discourse about these subjects.
I have long felt that I should carry around a sign that reads, “Yes, Israel. Yes, that’s my real name. Yes, I am indeed Jewish. No, I am not *from* Israel, just my last name. No, I do not speak Hebrew.” As a perpetual traveler (or outsider, or immigrant, or expat—you decide), the questions are a near-daily occurrence.
Now I would add to my sign: “No, I do not support or endorse genocide. Yes, I realize it is happening in my literal name. No, I do not consent.”
Yes, Toby Israel is my real name. I travel regularly to Israel to visit my brother, sister-in-law, and little niece and nephew. On my most recent trip, the immigration officer looked at my passport, looked back at me, and said, “Wow, that’s a very … patriotic name.” She meant it as a compliment, and it’s Israeli immigration, so I kept my face neutral.
However, every time I introduce myself with the “patriotic” name I have carried my entire life, I question what it means to belong to a nation, to belong to a people. I wonder if we can ever truly disown that—or if we should.
I know there are people close to me and many more like them who care about human rights and justice, but perhaps feel that their safety must trump someone else’s. That their survival depends on another’s destruction.
It doesn’t work that way.
As “Jewish Currents” editor-at-large Peter Beinart put it last week on The Daily Show, “Palestinians and Israeli Jews, and in some ways Jews around the world, are bound up in a single garment of destiny. […] In the long term, Israeli Jews are only going to be safe if Palestinians are going to be safe. And Palestinians can’t be safe unless they’re free.”
On October 7th, 2023, Hamas attacked Israel, killing 1,200 people, mostly civilians, and taking more than 240 hostages.
Since October 7th, 2023, as B’Tselem’s new report confirms, “Israel’s military onslaught on Gaza has included mass killing, both directly and through creating unlivable conditions, serious bodily or mental harm to an entire population, decimation of basic infrastructure throughout the Strip, and forcible displacement on a huge scale, with ethnic cleansing added to the list of official war objectives.
“The evidence shows a deliberate and systematic dismantling of Gaza’s healthcare system and other vital systems necessary for the population’s survival,” in other words, genocide.
There is no excuse or justification for genocide. Ever. The actions of the Israeli government in Gaza and the West Bank are unconscionable; this has been true for a long time.
The actions of Hamas on October 7th were also unconscionable.
To be clear, these are not equivalent situations. Israel’s response to Hamas’s attack has killed over 60,000 Palestinians and displaced over 90% of Gaza residents—a disproportionate use of force enabled by decades of military occupation.
When I call both situations unconscionable, I seek to reiterate the simple truth that every life lost is a tragedy.
Certainly, antisemitism is on the rise. The Anti-Defamation League reported a 360% rise in antisemitic incidents in the U.S. since the events of October 7th. The world seems to be regressing; in 2024, ADL reported that “younger Americans are more likely to endorse anti-Jewish tropes” than previous generations. Similarly worrisome trends have been observed with anti-Muslim sentiment.
Certainly, I worry about my family’s safety every day, and I ruminate constantly on the world that my niece and nephew are growing up in and into; it is not the world I want for them or anyone.
However, a genocide will not make me or my family safer. It is time to put that rhetoric to rest.
And, spreading disinformation—about Jews or Palestinians, or anyone else for that matter—or directing our outrage at individuals is not a useful strategy when it is our governments that make, sell, and drop bombs.
I am telling these stories about my name because I think they are indicative of the deepening trend of polarization and flattening of discourse.
A title is not the whole story of an article; a name is not the whole story of a person. In both cases, the content probably didn’t choose its labeling, but rather an editor or a parent. I think we know this, yet how many of us have read an article title and immediately jumped to outrage, or disinterest, or solidarity? We do the same to people. We see their name and decide we know who they are: Palestinian, Israeli, Jewish, Muslim, friend or foe, for or against, victim or aggressor.
A name is an inheritance. So is, for many of us, our religion, culture, history, and trauma. We do not choose these things, and yet, they so often define us—unless we decide to define them.
I grew up hearing my mother on every phone call to the bank, doctor’s office, or school spelling out our family name: “Israel-like-the-country? I-S-R-A-E-L.”
Nowadays, what could I say that is not fraught? “Israel-like-the… well, you know.”
I have considered leaving out my last name in introductions or meetings to avoid discomfort, so heavy it is to carry this inadvertent endorsement in my Zoom calls, my byline, and my daily interactions. Yet, that feels like a cop-out.
No, I am not my government. I can—and I do—denounce the government of the United States for its direct responsibility in Israel’s ongoing assault on Palestinian life and safety as the largest purveyor of arms to Israel. I can and do denounce the Israeli government for its ongoing genocide, as well as its decades-long practice of settler colonialism.
Still, Israel enacts that violence quite literally in my name. They claim me—they claim us, Jews, descendants of survivors—as the justification for their actions.
The truth is, hiding my name would only obscure the most public face of the issue. My inheritance as a Jew and as the grandchild of Holocaust survivors is woven into my DNA, my heart, and my worldview. I cannot change that with the flick of a pen—nor would I want to.
It is precisely that inheritance that informs my sense of social justice, my passion for peace, my deep-seated belief in the sanctity of every human life. Why would I ever want to change that?
We don’t choose our inheritance. We choose what we do with it.
As a Jew born and raised in the diaspora, I believe that “never again” means never again for anyone—or it means nothing at all.
As the granddaughter of Holocaust survivors, I reject the callous and cynical use of my story and my trauma to justify war, apartheid, and genocide.
As the great-granddaughter of Jewish refugees who chose the name “Israel” to begin their new life in the U.S., I decide what my name will represent today.
I am by no means a religious scholar, but in my Judaism, there are many ways to interpret a story, and even a word, not all of them literal.
In Jewish tradition, names carry profound weight. “Israel” was the name Jacob received after wrestling with an angel, literally meaning ‘one who wrestles with God.’
When I refuse to let the Israeli government’s actions speak in my name, I’m not (only) playing with words. I’m engaging in the centuries-old Jewish practice of wrestling meaning from inheritance.
What if the promised land were the safe, hallowed ground where we came together in community—anywhere in the world—to break bread, laugh and cry and pray together, and remind ourselves that we belong to one another?
What if the promised land were not a place, but a state of being: peace and safety for all of us, each of us sacred, whole, and worthy of life and dignity?
We are so far from that land today, but my name reminds me of my ancestors’ hope:
One day, we will arrive.
It may be a luxury to play with words while some are dying, but I believe we must expand our imagination of what is possible if we ever hope to build a different reality.
And, if it reminds me—or you—of our shared responsibility to be a voice for peace, then it has been of benefit.
I hope you remember to read beyond the titles and labels around you. Remember that much of the most important work—listening, educating ourselves, deconstructing the identities we inherited, and having difficult conversations—may be invisible, but it is the foundation of sustained social change.
I stand by my words from nearly two years ago: I do not pretend to know about solutions, but I know empathy has to be part of the puzzle, if not the table the puzzle is assembled on.
