About 500 days ago, I went to my first boxing class. 

At the time, I was furious at large groups of people, namely Hamas, antisemites, and college kids yelling antisemitic tropes. Humankind lost its moral compass, so I needed to make sure I was ready to defend myself and my morality. 

I figured boxing would protect me from physical harm, the type of blatant violence students on other college campuses faced. I had always thought of boxing as an exercise utilizing self-defense, so I thought I would try it. 

But I needed protection from far more than just physical harm. I needed to defend myself against the misinformation and accusations that barraged me on college campus. I needed to arm myself with facts.  

So, I worked on my skills. I practiced my uppercut and right hook. I memorized numbers: 251 hostages and more than 1200 men, women, and children killed. I felt my glove hit the bag over and over, until my nails broke. I memorized years: 1948, 1967, 1973, 2005, 2014, and so on. I punched until my gloves were wet with sweat. I memorized terms and their definitions: annex, occupation, apartheid, West Bank, Houthis, Gaza Strip, intifada, Hamas, Hezbollah, Palestinian Authority, and the list went on. 

I learned to punch and internalize opinions of the left, right, and center. I was prepared to respond to every physical and political direction. 

As I began to feel more confident in my array of knowledge, I began volunteering on campus for the “Accuracy in Education” table, a table on campus open for student questions on Israel and the Middle East. I responded calmly and factually to loud, aggressive accusers, and informatively to impartial or uninformed students who were eager for the truth amidst a world of conflicting rhetoric and aggressive echo chambers. 

However, while I had become well read on the conflict in the Middle East, as the weeks went by, I became increasingly frustrated. It didn’t matter what fact or proof I brought to a fight, students still chanted for intifadas on college campuses and continued to call Hamas, “a group of freedom fighters.” Students were getting harassed, hostages were held in Gaza, the Houthis and Hezbollah continued to send rockets, and there was nothing I could do about it. No matter my efforts, I would not change anyone’s mind and the War would continue.  

I felt helpless. 

In the same vein, as the longevity of the war began to sap my drive to defend my morality against aggressive accusations that I, as a Zionist, was a “supporter of Genocide,” I became increasingly disheartened each time I approached the punching bag. The repeated experience of approaching the bag and feeling the pugnacious weight as it swung back in full force overwhelmed me with defeat. Slowly, I began to just let the uncontrollable swing of the bag hit me. 

While I passively watched the bag boomerang back with full force, I let the false narrative thrash me in the chest. I began believing that this was more complex than terrorism and a violation of human rights. I stopped making the hostages the topic of conversation, because it was uncomfortable. 

Everyday I walked into another policy class and awaited the punch. I always responded impartially, as if I had no opinion or “skin in the game.” I spoke the truth, but prefaced every response with, “it’s complicated.” I left every class feeling like a deflated fraud. 

And, as my drive to defend dwindled, the War raged on. 

Suddenly, it was 2025. 

I could feel my heart racing as I sat with bated breath watching the live news broadcast of the three young women coming home from 15 months in hell. 

As I watched the news, I cried. 

I cried seeing how much weight these women had lost in captivity. I cried for Emily’s lost fingers. I cried for Hersch’s family, because Hersch never came home. I cried for the bereaved families, whose family members’ killers were sent free in this deal. I cried because I was so profoundly sad for so many people, for so many reasons. 

Suddenly, I realized: for some people, it will always be 2023. 

The next day, for the first time in months, I went back to the bag. I stared at my gloves and everything felt different this time. I wasn’t angrier than I had been 15 months ago. I wasn’t physically stronger either. I suddenly realized that for so long, I had it all wrong. 

As my gloves hit the bag this time, I realized how in a world where everyone else gets to play offense, I have been forced to play defense. And, I was simply exhausted. 

Void of energy, but full of anger, I slammed a punch to the bag attempting to release the weight of the war. 

Thousands of years of persecution for being “different.” Forced to arm myself in middle school with a weaponry of information to prepare myself for the threats of the “real world.” 

With each punch, I wanted to scream. 

Why did I have to work tirelessly to combat myths and defend my people’s right to exist? 

How did Shiri not come home? 

How will the people of Kibbutz Nir Oz continue to live? 

How will Yarden live knowing that his children and wife will never come home? 

How will the Jewish people live after experiencing so much death and tragedy?

With each punch, my heart broke a little more. 

There is nothing in this world that could bring Kfir and Ariel home. Nothing. 

And, no, this is not about which group of people has experienced more oppression. This is about growing up in a world where blatant, barbaric hatred and terrorism is not “all bad,” because it is “complicated.” And, to all the anti-semites out there, this terrorism is in fact not just about hatred for the Jews, Zionists, or Israelis. 

I told you, I memorized numbers: 15 Argentinians, 12 Germans, 12 Americans, six French, six Russians, 54 Thai, and more. 

When I walked away from the bag this time, I made a promise to myself. I promised that I would start playing offense, not instigating, but educating and starting the conversation. I looked down at my gloves and told myself that the next time my professor asked for current events discussion points, I would not shy away from discussing the hostages, asking uncomfortable questions, and adamantly expressing the need for the world, not just Israel, to destroy Hamas. I would facilitate uneasy and contentious conversations to help people have conversations about morality, human rights, and peace. 

In a world where I am forced to defend my people, I must make a conscious decision to play a part in creating a world where my children will build a repertoire of facts about their past, instead of an arsenal of defensive information.   

Everyday as I approach the bag and the threats of the “real world,” I remind myself that I am a strong advocate for morality, security, human rights, and peace. Soldiers were killed fighting for the State of Israel and the future of the Jewish people. I will honor their memory by wearing my values on my sleeve. In their memory, I will not be afraid to stand up and fight for what I believe in. 

And, as said every shabbat in the prayer for the memory of martyrs, they “… were loved and valued in their lives, and… in their deaths are not abandoned.” To my heroes, you will not be forgotten. I will, with God’s help, continue to fight for all that you proudly stood for.