An Israeli-American Perspective: The War in Israel and Its Ripple Effect

By Shahar Masori

SAN DIEGO — When I think about the war in Israel, it’s like a dark cloud hanging low, but its impact is different depending on where you stand. In Israel, it’s instinctive—it’s everywhere. When the sirens sound, it’s not just a distant signal; it’s real, immediate. People rush to shelters, families huddle together, and that fear? It’s profound—you can’t escape it. The streets are emptier, conversations quieter, and that heavy sense of uncertainty lingers in every corner.

I remember a time during my high school years when Israel was attacked by Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein.  It was early 1991, and schools closed down, sending us all home for protection.  My brother cut his trip to the US short to come back and be with the family.  Those first few days were filled with constant news warnings about possible chemical attacks, and the preparations felt overwhelming.  I vividly remember us huddling together in a makeshift “sealed room” during that first attack.  The uncertainty weighed heavily on all of us, and I can still hear the “what if” questions we asked ourselves and each other.  Did I seal the door and windows properly? Did I place the gas mask on my elderly grandmother the right way? These weren’t just fleeting thoughts—they were constant.  Beyond the sense of togetherness was an all-encompassing fear that hung in the air, and it affected everything and everyone around us.

Here, in the U.S., it’s a different kind of weight.  There’s no running to bomb shelters or physical disruptions of war, but the tension is still there.  For those of us who have deep ties to Israel, it becomes a constant ache.  Our phones buzz with news updates, messages from family, and friends’ statuses on social media.  We are watching from afar, feeling both powerless and guilty for being in a place of relative peace.  It’s like living in two worlds—one where life carries on as usual, and another that’s unraveling.

For Israelis, there’s this unspoken unity in times of war.  The sense of shared fate, of a collective battle for survival, is ever-present.  People rally together, and there’s a spirit of resilience that rises above the fear.  But at the same time, there’s exhaustion.  These wars, these conflicts—they come in cycles, and with each one, the toll gets heavier.  It’s not just the lives lost; it’s the psychological scars that everyone carries, whether they’re on the front lines or at home with their families.

In the U.S., the emotional toll is different.  There’s a sense of disconnection for those who don’t have direct ties to Israel.  They see the news, hear the stories, but it’s distant.  For American Jews and Israeli expats, it’s more personal, more pressing.  But even then, there’s a contrast—here, you’re not surrounded by the war.  You can step outside, go to work, grab coffee, and for a moment, forget.  And that’s where the guilt seeps in.  How can we go on with our lives when our loved ones are under threat?  That’s the emotional divide—living in relative safety while your heart is thousands of miles away, caught between peace and war.

And then there’s the political side. In Israel, wars reshape everything—politics, society, the national conversation.  It’s a country built on the idea of survival, and that seeps into every decision made during times of conflict. There’s less patience for political divisions when lives are at stake. But in the U.S., wars in Israel become a point of debate—an issue that divides opinion. Conversations about the war here often focus on who’s right or wrong, who’s at fault, and what the U.S. should do about it.  It’s more ideological, less personal, for many.

But for us who straddle both worlds, the experience is deeply personal.  We’re constantly balancing that tension between supporting Israel and navigating the political complexities of American dialogue.  You feel the pressure of having to explain, to justify, to defend—not just Israel’s actions, but your own identity as someone connected to both places.

In Israel, the war is about survival.  In the U.S., it becomes a question of diplomacy, alliances, and public opinion.  And for those of us with a foot in both places, it’s a balancing act between these two realities, one where we are trying to protect what we hold dear and the other where we’re trying to make sense of how it fits into the broader global narrative.

But one thing that has grown more intense since October 7, 2023, is the surge in antisemitism in the U.S.  The war has sparked protests, debates, and, in some cases, open hostility toward Jewish communities here.  It’s as though the conflict in Israel has given rise to a new level of tension in America, where being visibly Jewish can make you a target.  Hate crimes are on the rise, synagogues are on higher alert, and the feeling of being caught between identities—Israeli and American, Jew and U.S. citizen—has become more tense. It’s not just about distant support for Israel anymore; it’s about navigating a growing sense of unease in your own neighborhood.

What stays with me, and I think with many of us who are connected to both Israel and the U.S., is this duality of experience—the physical reality of war in Israel and the emotional, political, and psychological reality of war here in the U.S., now mixed with the growing undercurrent of antisemitism. It’s a heavy load to carry, no matter where you are.

But as heavy as it feels, we must carry it.  The conversations need to happen, the solidarity needs to continue, and we must remain vigilant—not just in defense of Israel, but in defense of the peace and safety we seek for all communities, Jewish or otherwise.  Because in the end, the path forward is not just about survival.  It’s about finding a way to protect the lives we value and the future we hope for, both here and in Israel.
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Shahar Masori was raised in Hadera, Israel, and immigrated to San Diego in 2000, where he helped build a balloon decor business and raised two sons.