As a British citizen who chose to make Israel my home, I read this week’s public letter—signed by several members of the UK Board of Deputies—with disbelief, disappointment, and growing anger.
The letter accuses Israel of extremism. It condemns the war in Gaza. It is written as if from a place of moral elevation. But to me, it reads as something else entirely: the sound of distance disguised as virtue.
You speak as though your voice carries moral weight, as though you see more clearly from across the sea. But clarity without presence is not wisdom. And critique without consequence is not courage.
I live here. I made the choice to live here—not because it’s easy, but because it’s mine. Because I wanted to stand with my people, not just in the sunlight of independence, but in the shadow of threat. My sons serve in the army. Their lives are not theoretical. They do not exist in the realm of think-pieces and panel discussions. They are out there—every day—carrying the burden that your letter so casually critiques.
I drive them to their bases. I look them in the eyes. I know what it costs. You don’t.
And that matters.
You have every right to care. But caring does not equal knowing. And certainly not judging.
Upholding democracy
You say Israel’s democracy is under threat. But democracy is not upheld by publishing a letter in the Financial Times. Democracy is upheld by participation. By showing up. By standing with your brothers and sisters in grief, in fear, in aching uncertainty. By engaging with the real and messy truths of a country that is fighting for its life.
The truth is this: we didn’t choose this war. On October 7, the ground was ripped out from under us. The massacre wasn’t a headline—it was a shattering. And what followed has been grief, yes, but also the unbearable burden of necessity. We are not fighting because we want to. We are fighting because we must. And while we argue fiercely amongst ourselves—about government, policy, future—we do so from within. From here. From the middle of the storm.
To criticize from within—from pain, from shared cost—that is legitimate. But to raise your voice from a place of comfort, without carrying our weight, is something else. It’s moral posturing. And it helps no one.
If you wish to help—come. Come live it. Come stand beside us in our cemeteries and shelters, in our waiting rooms and war rooms. Come hold the wounded. Come feed the soldiers. Come, and be with us in the rawness of this moment.
And if not—then perhaps, with respect and humility, be quiet.
Because from where I stand, it is not your name on the call-up orders. It is not your sons at the gates of Rafah. It is not your home emptied by terror.
And so no, you do not speak for me.
Not in my name. And certainly not in yours.