The Israeli Peace Movement

by Meir Margalit

June 24, 2025

In this age of barbarism, the peace movement is going through the most critical moment of its existence following the tragic attack of October 7. Such dramatic circumstances have led us to wonder whether the time has come to surrender, to give up, to acknowledge that the right has defeated us and raise the white flag. Many have long argued that we must abandon the struggle for peace—now seemingly more distant than ever—to focus instead on preserving democracy—or what remains of it—against the insidious forces threatening it from within. This is a tangible and, apparently, achievable goal, given the support it garners from a broad sector of Israeli society. The fight for democracy is indeed worthwhile in itself, but it cannot be sustained alone, as democracy and peace are deeply interconnected. Israel cannot maintain a genuine democracy as long as the occupation persists. Democracy and militarism do not go together—this is Israel’s structural problem. Therefore, fighting for democracy in a country committed to perpetuating conflict is akin to a quixotic battle, a cause doomed from the outset. Faced with such a bleak outlook—where the struggle for peace seems already lost, and the struggle for democracy is futile as long as the occupation remains—what remains is to retreat and await better times.

And yet, despite the exhaustion and frustration, the mere thought that surrendering is exactly what the Right expects of us urges us not to give up. We will not grant the right-wing hardliners the satisfaction of seeing us fold. This is not just about pride. An inner voice calls us to keep fighting—not to change government policy, but to ensure that politics does not change us. And we will keep fighting because we cannot live any other way. This choice—forced, visceral—demands that we continue without respite, while also compelling us to reflect seriously on our own mistakes: our inability to engage in constructive dialogue with our peers, our reluctance to forge alliances with forces we do not fully agree with but still share common ground, the dogmatism that has reduced us to a minority group, and the pressing need to redefine our role in these dark times—guided by Gramsci’s call to combine the pessimism of the intellect with the optimism of the will.

Perhaps the most accurate definition of our role in this age of anguish is to tend the embers: to be guardians of hope. Keeping the embers alive in stormy times is an act of resistance, of community, and of commitment. It is a vital task because the day will come when the winds shift and the pendulum of history swings in the opposite direction—then these embers will glow again, lighting new paths and giving rise to new possibilities. The right-wing conformists seek to extinguish the few embers still burning because they understand that as long as they flicker, domination is impossible. We will not stop fanning them. This task consists of countless small acts which, however modest, contain the DNA of a new era that will eventually arrive.

How does this process of humanist revitalization begin? It begins by dreaming. Every social conquest was once someone’s dream. To dream and to aspire to the impossible—because, as Max Weber said, “It is a proven truth of historical experience that the possible is only achieved if, time and again, one reaches for the impossible.” And in the words of Noam Chomsky: “It is of crucial importance to know what impossible goals we want to achieve if our intention is to accomplish any possible ones.”

But we do not remain in dreams. Israeli society is stuck in a state of denial. Against all evidence, it refuses to reflect on how we have come to this point, and what the consequences of its conduct are. We have entered a perpetuum bellicum. A sociological analysis of the causes that have led us here reveals a fatal knot in the combination of three nefarious factors that plague Israeli society: fear, militarism, and messianism -- fear accumulated over generations of persecution and extermination; militarism, which emerged as a way to confront that fear but gradually became the dominant force in Israeli society; and messianism, the mark of those who have lost control over their own lives and place their future in the hands of a “messiah” yet to come. Primitive and superstitious passions govern our lives.

Against these three pillars of Israeli identity, the task of the peace movement is to present new ideas that gradually penetrate the psychological fabric of Israeli society. The Israeli sociologist Daniel Bar-Tal argues that, to achieve real change in Israeli thought structures, we must offer “an alternative ideological repertoire”—a set of concepts, ideas, and innovative approaches that challenge the dominant narrative. These alternative proposals accumulate until, at a given moment, they break the vicious cycle in which the Israeli narrative is trapped.

Michel Foucault, in Discipline and Punish, wrote that the invention of a new “political anatomy” occurs gradually through “a multiplicity of often minor processes, from different origins, scattered locations, which coincide, repeat, imitate one another, support one another… converge and gradually sketch the outline of a general method.”

Paradigm shifts do not imply a sudden transformation of the entire system of thought. It is enough to change just one component of the system, one element of the narrative, to set off a dynamic that will eventually lead to transformation. The collapse of a single premise can provoke a chain reaction, a psychological landslide, that transforms the foundations of the structure. All premises are interconnected, and as the erosion of previous assumptions begins, the longed-for shift in paradigm will eventually come. In other words, this is not about “change” but about “restructuring”—one that considers past legacies, transforms some, eliminates others, and dissolves all of them into the “infinite intertextuality” of competing discourses.

Until that moment arrives, we work tirelessly to undermine the foundations of the system that sustains the occupation. Our mission is to prevent apathy from numbing the people, to break silences, to foster introspection, to shatter conformity, to provoke discomfort over injustices occurring just a few kilometers away. To disturb the comfort of those who don’t want to know—and those who know but choose not to understand. To stop people from hiding behind the impunity of the phrase—one you yourselves know all too well—“I didn’t know what was happening.” To prevent people from losing their sense of shame. To ensure the official voice is not the only one that prevails. To deny people the luxury of evading responsibility for the atrocities their government commits in their name. To hold up a mirror before society—so that it may see how the occupation deforms it. A magic mirror that enables self-awareness. Against the vulgar excuse that “there is no partner,” we are living proof that there is someone to talk to, that there is something to talk about, and that peace is possible. Our task is to stir the filthy waters of political lies, to unmask the false premises of Israeli right-wing discourse—the one that insists survival in the Middle East depends solely on weapons. Our goal is to expose this internal contradiction, to break the sterile and vicious circle of crude state policies, to destroy the perverse dialectic of nationalism, and to recover what is still ethical and moral within us. If the occupation needs silence, passivity, and stability to rule with impunity, then our task is to destabilize the system—to prevent the government from trampling freely.

“All States and all social orders owe their strength and duration to submissive minds.” As Martin Luther King said: “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.” The occupation thrives on silence and passivity. We refuse to be submissive. We raise our voices where the state demands silence and wave a black flag as a sign of protest against expansionist policy. In a country like Israel, where everyone wants to be a soldier, we are swimmers—in the metaphorical sense used by Zygmunt Bauman when he wrote: “Swim, if necessary, against the current, and keep swimming for as long as it takes until others join the effort, and together we can change the direction of the flow.”

Following this line of thought, we are the civil society that will enable the transition to a peaceful society and generate the conditions to adopt wiser paths once circumstances allow. We are here to open new horizons—because when caught in endless conflict, the first things to disappear are horizon and hope.

Our work is, above all, a human imperative—but also a Jewish commandment. I refer to true Judaism, not that of right-wing settlers. “Where there are no men, strive to be a man,” said the wise Rabbi Hillel. Judaism demands that we fight against idolatry—to shatter all false idols. And we are engaged in that sacred task: to smash the nationalist idol.

To conclude, let me invoke Edgar Morin, who wrote that humanism must be constantly regenerated; otherwise, it degenerates. Democracy must be constantly reinvented. To think about barbarism is to contribute to the rebirth of humanism—and therefore to resist it.Some may say all this is utopian—and perhaps it is. But let us be clear: utopia is not something that does not exist, but something that has yet to be realized. And we deeply believe that the day will come.

History ebbs and flows, folds and unfolds. Where tempests rage—there hope is born. The Middle East is enduring a tempest, and in its face, we—faithful to human rights, precisely in an age where human life is increasingly cheap—offer a coherent and comprehensive alternative.