I filled out my application for Columbia University during the last few months of my regular army service.
Between missions on nights off and even in the field, I pondered the essay questions, messaged my high school teachers for references, and, more than anything else, debated the idea of leaving Israel.
I had spent the last few years building myself a life and a community. I had spent countless hours trying to make my dream come true and trying to make Israel, my homeland, also feel like my home. The idea of leaving all of that to attend my dream university seemed irrational.
And then the war started, and I felt more Israeli than ever, balancing work, school, and life with rounds of reserve duty. While the war has been hard, I was mission-driven and thankful to be fighting alongside fellow Israelis.
Both in the North and the South, our objective was simple: to protect Israel’s borders from an existential threat. Our enemy was clear – those who openly declared that their goal was to destroy us – and while no one would ever call guard duty or patrols enjoyable, they were a clear means to an end; they kept us and the civilians around us safe.
When I could, from my phone screen, I watched the protests and encampments swamp Columbia’s campus. This was like a third front of the war.
And that trip to the third front in my personal war was fast approaching. With every round of reserve duty, I found myself more uncertain as to why I wanted to go to Columbia in the first place. That plan seemed like it was from a past life.
Like everyone else, I wanted to go home (and to feel safe in my home) and live my life. I could seamlessly finish my education here in Israel, surrounded by the community I had worked so hard to build, in the home I had been dreaming of for so long.
My friends, fellow soldiers, colleagues, and acquaintances all questioned my decision, and I found myself constantly reflecting on my reasoning.
But ultimately, I concluded that, similar to showing up for reserve duty when called, I had a duty to go to university in the US, although it seemed to be the harder and less obvious decision. I felt that the presence of Jewish students on campus was more important than ever.
I watched others decide to pursue their degrees in less hostile climates, and of course, I understood their choices.
We must stand with fellow Jewish students on US campuses
I ALSO realized that it was students like me who had the ability to stand up for themselves. Now, more than ever, we need to stand with our fellow Jewish students and show that we won’t cower in the face of hate.
It had been universities like Columbia that, for generations, had opened the doors of success to all. Jewish students who were backing away from the opportunities that Columbia and other institutions provide because they felt unsafe would just lead to a generation of Jews who had missed those opportunities and who had to fight even harder to make their professional dreams come true.
Columbia, like other top US schools, isn’t just a university. It’s a stepping stone where future leaders, policymakers, journalists, and activists are shaped. The conversations that take place in its classrooms will go on to influence public discourse across the world.
If Jewish and Israeli voices aren’t present in those conversations, the narratives will be written without us, and we will grow further away from any chance of being understood.
So to me, choosing to attend university in the US won’t be about agreeing with everyone on campus. It will be about insisting that we have a place at the table. About making sure that our experiences, our complexities, and our humanity are not erased by the chants or caricatures of a loud antisemitic minority.
It will also be about claiming the right to be fully myself in spaces that may challenge me. I’m not going to Columbia to argue with every protester or to change everyone’s mind. I’m going to learn, to grow, and to engage, to be a university student and to gain all the knowledge and experience I dreamed of.
That said, I’m also going so that future Jewish and Israeli students will know they don’t have to choose between their identity and their education. We deserve both. And the more of us who show up, thoughtful, open-minded, and unafraid, the more we will reclaim what it means to belong in places like Columbia.
I know that when I get to Columbia, the third front of my war, it won’t be like the other two fronts. There won’t always be a clear enemy, I won’t be in uniform, and I will have to find a new community.
But I will still be fighting for the future of the Jewish people and our right to exist and excel as we are. More importantly, we need opportunities like these to build bridges. You can’t build a bridge unless you’ve been to the other side.
So I’m packing three bags over the next few weeks. One for what I hope will be my last round in reserve duty. Like all Jews, I want the hostages home, this war to end, and for there to be a better and safer future for us all.
I am packing a second bag to take to university in New York at the end of the summer. And I’m packing a third bag that will be waiting here for me when I return home with my diploma in hand.
The writer is a 22-year-old from Hong Kong. She made aliyah in July 2020 and served as a combat soldier in Isuf Kravi.