From grief to hope: Can Israel live together amid division? - opinion

In Israel, few weeks in the year capture the full weight of national life quite like this stretch of days: a compressed journey through grief, memory, identity, and fragile hope.

The Counting of the Omer is the period between Passover and Shavuot, marked by daily counting and, in many communities, a tone of partial mourning. That sombre note stems from an ancient tragedy recorded in the Talmud: thousands of students of Rabbi Akiva died during this time, a loss attributed not to war or persecution, but to a failure of mutual respect.

This year, that ancient story feels less like distant history and more like a mirror.

Remembrance Day has never been easy. It forces a nation to stop, to listen to the silence between sirens, and confront the unbearable cost of its existence. This year, that silence feels heavier.

The names are still being added. The grief is still raw.

And yet, as always, the siren fades, and the flag rises. Israel makes its impossible pivot into Independence Day, a day that insists on joy, gratitude, and celebration. The same people who stood moments before in cemeteries now gather around barbecues, and the same hearts that broke now try to sing.

It is a transition that only Israelis truly understand, and perhaps only Israelis can sustain.

This year, however, something feels fractured beneath the surface. The unity we often assume, especially in times of war, feels thinner. The fault lines that have defined Israeli society in recent years have not disappeared, but were merely muted by necessity. Beneath shared grief and pride lies a quieter reality: we are still struggling to live with one another.

The Talmud tells us that Rabbi Akiva lost 24,000 students because “they did not show proper respect to one another.” It is striking not only for its scale, but for its cause. These were scholars of immense stature, yet their intellectual greatness did not protect them from failure in something far more basic: how they treated each other.

They did not fail for lack of knowledge or conviction, but because they could not grant legitimacy to perspectives different from their own.

They were, in a sense, too certain.

That kind of certainty is not unfamiliar to us.

In today’s Israel, deeply held beliefs about politics, religion, identity, and the future shape public life. Disagreement is not only inevitable – it is necessary. A society without debate is not a democracy; it is an echo chamber.

However, there is a line between disagreement and disrespect, and it is one we have crossed too often.

Over the past several years, Israeli society has been defined as much by its internal divisions as by its external threats. Arguments over judicial reform, disagreements about how to prosecute the war, debates about hostage negotiations, and deeper questions of identity and leadership have exposed fault lines running deep through Israeli life.

Families have argued. Communities have fractured. Public discourse has, at times, descended into contempt.

In the early days of the war, there was a sense that these divisions had dissolved: Israelis from all walks of life rallied together. Reservists reported for duty. Volunteers filled every gap. There was a rediscovery of something essential.

But unity born of crisis is not the same as unity born of conviction.

As the war has stretched on, the old divisions have begun to re-emerge – not always loudly, but unmistakably.

This is the challenge of our moment.

Remembrance Day reminds us of what we lose when we are forced to fight together. Independence Day celebrates what we have built together. However, the Counting of the Omer asks a more difficult question: can we actually live together?

The story of Rabbi Akiva’s students suggests that shared purpose is not enough. They all studied the same teachings. They all followed the same teacher. They were united in mission, and yet divided in spirit. Their failure was not in what they believed, but in how they related to those who believed differently.

That is a lesson we cannot afford to ignore.

Respect does not mean agreement. It demands something harder: that we recognize the humanity and legitimacy of those who see the world differently.

It means listening when we are certain we are right, speaking with humility when we feel justified in anger, and remembering that the person across from us is not an enemy.

In a country as diverse as Israel, this is not a luxury. It is a necessity.

The threats we face from outside are real and immediate. The soldiers we remember did not fall in abstract battles. They died defending a nation whose survival is never guaranteed.

However, history has shown that internal division can be just as dangerous as external enemies.

The destruction of the Second Temple is attributed, in Jewish tradition, to “baseless hatred,” a breakdown of social cohesion and mutual respect.

A people that could not tolerate its own diversity could not sustain itself.

We are not at that point, but we would be naïve to think we are immune.

As we move through these days – from mourning to celebration, from counting to reflection – we are being offered an opportunity. Not to erase our differences, but to transform how we live with them.

If we are to honor those we have lost and be worthy of the state we celebrate, we must do more than stand together in moments of crisis: we must learn to stand together in disagreement.

We will not all think the same, but we can choose how we treat one another.

Rabbi Akiva rebuilt after loss. Perhaps we can too.

The challenge is not to eliminate disagreement, but to conduct it with dignity, to hold conviction without losing compassion, and to build a society where difference does not lead to division. That is the work of these days.

Are we up to our biggest challenge of all?