A spectrum of identity, resilience and hope

Last month, I returned home from Israel as part of a delegation of queer Australians. Organised by the Israeli Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the trip invited mostly non-Jewish participants to experience the country’s remarkable diversity, engage with local changemakers, and experience the reality of a country that is chronically misunderstood. Our experience was meant to culminate in Tel Aviv Pride – the only such celebration in the Middle East.

We never made it to the parade.

Instead, we spent our last nights in bomb shelters, woken by sirens and missile alerts, before being evacuated by the Israeli government. And in those terrifying days spent in shelters, we learnt more about unity, identity and resilience than we ever could from a parade.

The program officially began in Jerusalem, but the first classroom was the drive from the airport. Looking out the window, first-time visitors were struck by the vibrant ethnic and cultural diversity on the streets. Within minutes, the simplistic and harmful portrayal of Israel as a “white ethno-state” began to crumble.

In Jerusalem, we walked through ancient streets layered with history and present-day tension. The functional coexistence of secular Jews, ultra-Orthodox communities, Muslims, Christians, and Armenians was undeniable. In that sacred and complex place, witnessing such everyday multiculturalism made it all the more difficult to reconcile the divisions and lack of social cohesion we see back home.

Our next stop was the South, visiting communities near the Gaza border and hearing firsthand from families who lost loved ones and still have relatives held hostage. In Kibbutz Be’eri, the group met Danny Carbone, whose sister Galit – an Australian citizen – was murdered by Hamas on October 7. Her name remains unfamiliar to most Australians, her murder insufficiently acknowledged by our government. It was a sobering reminder of how some lives are honoured and others conveniently ignored.

We then travelled to the site of the Nova music festival massacre. The group stood on the scorched land where hundreds of young people were slaughtered by Hamas terrorists. What compounded the grief was the setting itself – eucalyptus trees, dusty paddocks – indistinguishable from Meredith or Pitch, the music festivals many in our group attend back home. The parallel was chilling. “It happened to people just like us”. And yet, many of the voices we trust to stand up for human rights either stayed silent or, worse, justified it as “resistance”.

We then arrived in Tel Aviv, known for its progressive, queer-friendly culture – expecting a change in tone, and a chance to let our hair down.

On the same day that new laws restricting women’s dress were imposed elsewhere in the Middle East, we found ourselves at a drag queen party in a public park in the heart of Tel Aviv. It was loud, proud and outrageous – and full of scantily dressed people of all identities. The irony wasn’t lost on us: this, too, was the Middle East.

But just as we began to exhale, war broke out with Iran.

Over the next few days, we were jolted awake by missile sirens at 2am, 4am and 6am. Most of the 400-plus ballistic missiles were intercepted by the Iron Dome – but not all. Around 40 broke through, tragically killing 24 innocent people.

Those days will be seared into our memories. We won’t forget what it felt like to sprint to a shelter and wait, helpless, for whatever would come next. The missiles weren’t just headlines – they were overhead, indiscriminate and terrifying. In our darkest moments, we clung to our phones, desperately searching for updates – only to find social media flooded with posts calling for our deaths and celebrating the Iranian regime. But we could see the truth with our own eyes – civilian homes and infrastructure, neighbouring our building, reduced to rubble.

For many in our group, even travelling to Israel was taboo. But being there showed a reality far different from the oversimplifications that make it to their screens: Israelis who want peace, many who openly criticise their government, multicultural communities that live side by side, and resilience that we can all learn from.

It was a brave and forward-looking decision by the Israeli Ministry of Foreign Affairs to run this trip – to open the country’s doors, and trust that showing its complexity firsthand to progressive circles would speak louder than any headline. And we are grateful to the diplomats who worked tirelessly to get us home safely when the time came.

The trip didn’t go to plan. But the group left with something powerful. Not persuasion – that wasn’t the purpose. But clarity. A clearer understanding of Israel’s complexity, humanity and resilience. They’ll carry that with them.

And on a personal note, this trip also forced a painful realisation: that I had to travel to a war zone to feel fully seen, as both Jewish and queer. After 18 months of feeling unsafe expressing my Jewish and Zionist identities in queer spaces – or abandoning those spaces altogether – being in Israel reminded me what it means to live proudly.

Amid the sirens and stories – what emerged for all of us wasn’t simplicity, but a spectrum of identity, resilience and hope – all in full colour.

Lexi Kowal is Vice President of Zionism Victoria.