To the friends I’ve lost since October 7— my childhood best friend, a high school love, the girl who introduced me to my favorite band, among others.
I never imagined that a day would come when I would have to write these words. From the moment you met me, you knew me as an unabashed Jew and Zionist.
You were never hesitant either—that’s part of why we connected so deeply. I’ve always been drawn to people who live with passion. Art was your heartbeat, your soul. You wanted to attend protests before you could even spell the word. While we shared core values, what we prized most was our willingness to challenge each other. You knew I always acted on what I believed was right, just as I knew you stood firm in what you saw as justice.
In that spirit, I understand you. No human can witness the horrors unfolding in Gaza and not feel profound anguish. Your grief, your horror—those are what drive you to act, and I get that. War is grievous and horrible. With the relentless flood of misinformation on social media and the pressure to perform outrage, you’re responding with the tools that have been placed in your hands.
What I can’t understand is why October 7 became your turning point. As terrorists slaughtered 1,100 Israelis in cold blood—murdering children in front of their parents and raping women until their bodies were unrecognizable—I was desperately scrambling to ensure my loved ones were not among the dead. And yet, at that very moment, you chose to justify, explain away, even cheer on the deadliest day for the Jewish people since the Shoah.
Years ago, you held me as I cried when a swastika was carved into my desk in high school. You know antisemitsm. On my 19th birthday, you gifted me one of my most cherished possessions: a vintage map of Israel. You knew Israel. I could always count on you, but not anymore. On October 8, you celebrated. I screamed, “If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh?” But all you saw was a Shakespearean caricature of a wandering Jew.
You demanded that it wasn’t enough for me to call for a two-state solution—I had to call for Tel Aviv to burn and for Israel to cease to exist. It didn’t matter that I donated to humanitarian organizations in Gaza; I had to cheer for the deaths of the people I loved. No matter what I did, it was never enough. What you knew about my identity before October 7th and embraced has now become something you cast aside simply because you subscribe to an ideology for which compassion for Palestinians and Israelis are mutually exclusive.
And because I care about you and because I still love you, I need you to understand: you will never be enough either. You can bend every knee until your head is buried in the sand. You can give every pound of flesh until you’re no longer able to distinguish between your best friend of ten years and Shylock.
Sure, now it’s the complete abolition of Israel. You’ve pledged your allegiance to that slogan. But it won’t end there. The terrorist group you’ve elevated is a force of evil, bent not only on the mass murder of Israeli Jews but also devoted to the worldwide spread of extreme fundamentalism. First, they come for the Jews. Who will speak out when women want to go outside without approval from a man? Who will speak out when you try to deviate from fundamentalist religious dogma? No amount of intersectionality or postmodernism can justify positioning all Americans and all Israelis as infidels worthy of death.
In the whirlwind of the year since last October 7, the deepest rifts have formed between me and those in my life with seemingly the least connection to Israel and Palestine. You have no family to check on when rockets rain down in the Middle East. You don’t hesitate before wearing a kippa or hijab in the face of an epidemic of antisemitism and Islamophobia. Ironically, I’ve grown closer to my Muslim and Middle Eastern friends over the past year, even as we literally stand on opposite sides of protests. So why do you, a non-Jewish, non-Muslim, non-Middle Eastern person, position yourself as a moral gatekeeper to the most complicated geopolitical issue of our time and regard yourself as a Saint Peter?
You and I are among the most privileged people in human history. We’re American students at elite college campuses. We’re women with the right to vote. You can marry the person you love. We have never lacked food, shelter, or the warmth of family. It’s certainly not a picnic for me as a Jewish student at UCLA: I’ve received threats and lost friends. Yet, any struggle I have encountered here pales in comparison to the nightmare of being held hostage by Hamas or being displaced by the war in Gaza. Using our privilege to sow division is a grave mistake. Instead, we should be bridging the gap to peace, not widening it.
In the year since October 7, I’ve wept trying to explain myself to you. I’ve banged my head against a wall trying to understand your sudden ideological embrace of terrorist groups that would laugh as they murder you.
But I won’t offer you my desperation anymore. What I will offer is my steadfastness—my conviction, my identity, and my love. I am still the same girl you’ve known for years, the one who’s always been ready to talk, to listen, and to fight for what’s right. I’m still here. So if you want to call me, I’ll answer. If you want to talk, cry, or break bread, my hand is extended.
Because despite everything, despite the scars of the past year, the memories of our friendship are a blessing. I believe in the power of friendship, love, and honest dialogue. We can still build bridges, even over chasms this deep.
Yours,
Bella
The views expressed in this post reflect the views of the author(s) and not UCLA or ASUCLA Communications Board.
Image via Canva
