I was born and raised in Netanya, Israel, as the firstborn daughter of parents who arrived in the land as children after the Second World War. The two names I was given were deeply symbolic: “Hadasa,” after an aunt who perished in the Holocaust, and “Iris,” the name of a local flower.

These two names crystallized my identity, our identity—the story of the Jewish people.
The world wanted us gone; those who survived built a small country. Even there, we were surrounded by enemies—Arabs—who sought to kill us and throw us into the sea. We had to protect ourselves.

As a child, in my family, kindergarten, school, scouts, and community, I never encountered a different narrative. I never met an Arab, nor did I hear words like “Palestinians” or “Occupation.” They simply weren’t part of my world.

The story I knew was one of a continuous, bloody conflict: “We want peace, but they want the entire land for themselves.” To be brutally honest, I hated hearing Arabic and was afraid of Arabs. This fear wasn’t baseless—it was ingrained in me from a young age. I was told to beware of suspicious objects in the streets that might be bombs or suspicious people who might be suicide bombers. Reality supported these warnings: in buses, cafés, beaches, and even at home.

With a mother who was a Holocaust survivor and a father who served as an army officer, stories of Nazis and Poles intertwined with tales of Arab terrorists.
But as I grew older, small cracks began to appear in my narrative.

I met Israeli Arabs at work and university, and my younger sister shared stories that offered glimpses of a different perspective—the Palestinian narrative. Then came the wars in Lebanon and Gaza, and the loss of friends in what felt like aimless wars. Still, looking back, I didn’t have the needed emotional availability or motivation  to truly confront, and understand what happens over “there.”

The 2014 Gaza War (Operation Protective Edge) created a significant crack. By then, my sons were serving in the army. Later joining the Women Wage Peace movement felt natural—peace was something I had always valued and been taught to pursue.

In 2017, my youngest daughter, Noa, told me she was refusing to serve in the army. My first reaction was to shout: “How dare you? It’s the law—everyone serves! Your brothers did, your grandfather did. How dare you?”
The shock was mutual—I had never yelled at her before. But moments later, I realized something. As a mother, teacher, and school principal, I had always emphasized critical thinking, encouraging my children, students, and colleagues to question and reflect. I had to respect the conclusions my daughter reached, even if they were different from mine.

That was the beginning of a shared journey. Eventually, Noa was imprisoned for four months in a military prison. While supporting her, I began my own journey to truly understand what was happening “there.”

I wanted to learn. I wanted to see the unfamiliar reality with my own eyes.
I joined tours in the West Bank with organizations like “Ir Amim,” “Breaking the Silence,” and “Combatants for Peace.” Through them, I became involved in activist groups that protected Palestinian shepherds from settler violence and participated in Israeli-Palestinian joint activities.
Through Women Wage Peace, I met my first Palestinian friend—something I had never imagined possible.

The tours and personal interactions forced me to confront the harsh reality of life under occupation. I witnessed injustice, cruelty, and suffering. Once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it—and I couldn’t stay silent.

I began writing and sharing my experiences on social media. I believed that if people knew what was happening “beyond the walls,” it would have to stop.

As a school principal, I was summoned multiple times for hearings at the Ministry of Education. Some close friends severed ties with me. I was labeled a “radical leftist,” and even now, I struggle to understand what is so radical about wanting freedom, justice, and safety for all people.

I believe most people want the same things: a roof over their heads, food on the table, and a safe place to raise their children.
Between the Mediterranean Sea and the Jordan River live 14 million people. We have the capacity to create space for all of us to live together. We must—and I believe we can.