israel – Jill Szoo Wilson

One Root. Many Branches. Paul’s Answer in Romans 11

By Jill Szoo Wilson

“I ask, then, has God rejected his people? By no means” (Romans 11:1).

When Paul the Apostle writes those words, the covenant God first established with Abraham remains fully alive in the life of Israel. The temple in Jerusalem still stands. Torah is still read in the synagogues. Pilgrims still travel to the appointed feasts. Families still preserve the memory of tribes, ancestors, promises, exile, and return. Yet something historically unprecedented is unfolding. The message that Jesus of Nazareth is Israel’s Messiah is now moving beyond Judea into the nations, and Gentile believers are entering a covenantal story that began long before Rome, long before Caesar, and long before the first page of the New Testament was ever written. Within that moment, one question rises with unavoidable force: Has God rejected his people?

The force of Paul’s question depends upon the meaning of the phrase his people. In the language of the Tanakh, the phrase refers to the people of Israel, the descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob who were brought out of Egypt, gathered before God at Sinai, instructed through Torah, and preserved through centuries of war, exile, return, and covenantal remembrance. The covenant shaped worship, law, ancestry, land, calendar, and the hope of Israel’s future restoration. When Paul asks whether God has rejected “his people,” he is speaking about Israel in the fullest historical and covenantal sense. The people who received the promises in Genesis remain fully in view.

Paul rejects the conclusion immediately. The Greek phrase is mē genoito, an expression he uses throughout his letters when rejecting a conclusion he considers fundamentally incompatible with the character and faithfulness of God. English translations render the phrase “By no means,” “Certainly not,” or “God forbid,” though each only approximates the sharpness of Paul’s response. The question itself carries enormous theological weight. If God has rejected Israel, then the covenant promises given to Abraham, reaffirmed through Isaac and Jacob, and carried through the history of Israel, would stand broken. Paul rejects that conclusion immediately because the faithfulness of God to his covenant remains at stake.

Paul then offers himself as evidence:

“For I myself am an Israelite, a descendant of Abraham, a member of the tribe of Benjamin” (Romans 11:1).

This is more than autobiography. Paul grounds his argument in covenant identity. In the first century, tribal ancestry still carried historical and theological meaning within Jewish life. By identifying himself as a descendant of Abraham and a member of the tribe of Benjamin, Paul places himself firmly within the covenant people of Israel. His faith in Israel’s Messiah does not remove him from that identity. It confirms that the covenant promises given in Genesis remain alive within the apostolic age itself. Paul presents himself as evidence that the story continues. The risen Christ has not erased Israel’s story. That story is continuing, but now, Gentiles are given the opportunity to step directly into it.

Paul then points to the days of Elijah, when the prophet believed he alone remained faithful in Israel. Yet God answered:

“I have kept for myself seven thousand men who have not bowed the knee to Baal” (Romans 11:4).

The reference comes from 1 Kings 19, where Elijah looks across Israel and believes he alone remains faithful to the God of Israel. Large portions of the nation have turned toward the worship of Baal, and covenant loyalty appears to be collapsing. Yet God reveals that thousands within Israel still remain faithful. Paul uses that moment to explain his own generation. Even when large portions of Israel appear spiritually divided or uncertain, God continues to preserve a remnant within his covenant people. The promises first given to Abraham remain alive because the faithfulness of God has not failed.

By the middle of Romans 11, Paul the Apostle turns from remnant to imagery. Israel becomes an olive tree. In the agricultural world of the Mediterranean, olive trees often survived for centuries and became part of a family’s inheritance across generations. Their deep root systems allowed them to endure drought, war, political upheaval, and changing empires while continuing to produce fruit. Paul chooses this image with extraordinary care because it communicates continuity, ancestry, nourishment, and permanence all at once. Some branches have been broken off. Wild branches from the nations have been grafted in. Yet the tree itself remains the same.

Paul describes Gentile believers as “a wild olive shoot” grafted into “the nourishing root of the olive tree” (Romans 11:17). The image carries theological weight far beyond agriculture. Gentile believers are not planted into a second tree with a different root system. They are grafted into an already living covenantal story shaped by the promises given to Abraham, carried through Israel’s history, preserved through exile and return, and now proclaimed through Israel’s Messiah. The nourishment sustaining the branches comes from a covenantal root that existed long before Gentile believers entered the story. Paul’s imagery depends upon continuity. The tree remains alive because the covenant promises of God remain alive.

Paul’s warning to Gentile believers follows immediately:

“Do not be arrogant toward the branches” (Romans 11:18).

The warning only makes sense if Israel remains central to the covenantal story Paul is telling. Gentile believers are entering promises that existed long before their arrival. The patriarchs, the covenants, Torah, the prophets, the worship of the temple, and the hope of the Messiah all emerge from the history of Israel. Paul’s concern is not merely interpersonal humility. He is protecting the memory of the covenant itself. Arrogance becomes possible when later branches begin to imagine that the root no longer matters, or that the story began with them instead of with Abraham and the people of Israel. Paul refuses that conclusion entirely. The nations are being welcomed into an already existing covenantal story shaped through centuries of promise, exile, preservation, and hope. The root sustains the branches, not the branches the root.

Paul’s warning becomes even sharper as the passage continues. Some branches were broken off because of unbelief, while Gentile believers stand within the tree through faith rather than superiority. The covenantal root does not exist to affirm arrogance or triumphalism. Paul warns Gentile believers to remember both “the kindness and the severity of God” (Romans 11:22), because the covenantal story still unfolds under divine judgment, mercy, and faithfulness. Even the branches that were broken off remain capable of being grafted in again, “for God has the power to graft them in again” (Romans 11:23). The image remains one tree, one root, and one continuing covenantal story governed by the same faithful God.

Paul’s argument reaches its climax near the end of the chapter:

“For the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable” (Romans 11:29).

The Greek word is ametamelēta, meaning unregretted, unrevoked, incapable of being withdrawn. Paul chooses the term carefully. The covenant promises first spoken to Abraham and carried forward through Israel’s history, including Egypt, Sinai, exile, return, and the prophetic hope surrounding the coming Messiah, still remain under the care of the same faithful God who first spoke in Genesis. Paul’s point is clear. God has not abandoned the promises he made to Israel. The covenant continues because the faithfulness of God continues.

Throughout Romans 11, Paul describes Gentile believers as entering an already existing covenantal story rooted in the promises given to Israel. The olive tree remains rooted in the covenant promises first spoken to Abraham and carried forward through the history of Israel. Gentile believers now share in that nourishment through Israel’s Messiah, yet the root itself remains unchanged. The God who called Abraham continues to preserve his people, fulfill his promises, judge with holiness, and extend mercy to the nations within the same unfolding story. The New Testament repeatedly builds its theology from the Scriptures of Israel because the covenantal world of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, the prophets, exile, restoration, and Messiah still remains fully in view. Scripture reveals one God, one unfolding covenantal story, one kingdom, and one Messiah through whom the promises given to Israel continue to stand.

One Story. One Covenant. One Messiah.

How the Tanakh shapes every page of the New Testament

By Jill Szoo Wilson

For the past two years, I’ve been studying God’s covenant with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. That journey has brought me to the following summary. Over the next several months, I’ll be writing more about what I’ve learned.

The faith of Jesus of Nazareth and his earliest followers was never intended to create a new religion separated from Israel, but to reveal the long-awaited fulfillment of the story God had already been telling through the Torah, the Prophets, and the Writings, collectively referred to as the Tanakh*. This conviction is rooted in Second Temple Judaism** and in the apocalyptic imagination of the first-century Jewish world, where the writings of the New Testament introduce no fundamentally new theological categories, but instead reach back into the Tanakh with extraordinary density, depth, and intentionality. Nearly every covenant, feast, sacrifice, kingdom motif, wilderness narrative, prophetic vision, temple image, priestly act, messianic promise, and apocalyptic expectation in the Hebrew Scriptures finds its echo, expansion, or unveiling in the New Testament. Scripture is one unified, divinely authored story in which the later writings constantly hyperlink back to what came before, not to replace it, but to reveal its fullness.

There is no theological dividing wall between Judaism and Christianity, nor has the Church replaced Israel. Through Israel’s Messiah, the nations are grafted into Israel’s covenantal promises, sharing in the rich root of the olive tree described by Paul the Apostle in Romans. The promises remain Israel’s promises. The covenants remain Israel’s covenants. The Messiah remains Israel’s Messiah, now extending mercy to the nations.

Jesus of Nazareth is the Jewish Messiah promised in the Tanakh. The New Testament does not replace Israel’s story; it reveals its ongoing messianic fulfillment. Gentile believers are grafted into Israel’s covenantal promises through Israel’s Messiah. And that story reaches its climactic fulfillment on the Day of the Lord, when Jesus returns to reign from Jerusalem exactly as the prophets anticipated.

From beginning to end, Scripture reveals one God, one covenantal story, one unfolding kingdom, and one Messiah bringing that story to its appointed fulfillment.

*For readers unfamiliar with the acronym Tanakh:

T = Torah (the law): Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy

N = Nevi’im (the Prophets): Joshua, Judges, Samuel, Kings, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and the Twelve Minor Prophets

K = Ketuvim (The Writings): Psalms, Proverbs, Job, Song of Songs, Ruth, Lamentations, Ecclesiastes, Esther, Daniel, Ezra–Nehemiah, Chronicles

**Second Temple Judaism refers to the period of Jewish history between the rebuilding of the Temple in Jerusalem after the Babylonian exile (c. 516 BC) and its destruction by Rome in AD 70. This was the theological, cultural, and apocalyptic world of Jesus of Nazareth, his disciples, and the earliest believers. To read the New Testament through the lens of Second Temple Judaism is to read it as a thoroughly Jewish document emerging from Israel’s already existing covenantal, messianic, and prophetic worldview.

Faithfulness in the Face of Antisemitism

By Jill Szoo Wilson

Author’s Note:
This is not an essay about forgiveness. I have written about Eva Mozes Kor, Holocaust survivor and forgiveness advocate, for years because I deeply respect her message. I honor her legacy here while condemning antisemitic violence without qualification and calling Christians to action in the present moment. Nothing in this piece is meant to soften, spiritualize, or diminish the reality of antisemitism today.

Nearly seventy years after the Holocaust, Eva Mozes Kor still looked at the world and saw a painful truth: antisemitism had not disappeared. The lessons of history, no matter how horrific, were not enough to prevent hatred from resurfacing. As a survivor of Auschwitz and a Mengele Twin, she carried both the burden of memory and the wisdom of experience. She often asked a simple but haunting question: What has changed since Auschwitz?

Eva often spoke about how Adolf Hitler rose to power not as an anomaly, but through a series of orchestrated events designed to achieve a singular goal, the extermination of the Jewish people and the establishment of an Aryan-dominated society. Hitler and his regime promoted the belief in Aryan racial superiority, claiming that Germans of “pure” Nordic descent were destined to rule over other groups they labeled as inferior. These ideas, rooted in eugenics and extreme nationalism, fueled policies that targeted Jews, Romani people, disabled individuals, Slavs, and others deemed unfit for their vision of a racially “pure” society. This ideology was systematically enforced through propaganda, education, and legislation, including the Nuremberg Race Laws of 1935.

The Nuremberg Race Laws consisted of two primary statutes:

The Reich Citizenship Law: This law declared that only individuals of German or related blood were eligible to be Reich citizens, effectively revoking Jews’ rights as citizens. It stated: A Reich citizen is a subject of the state who is of German or related blood, and proves by his conduct that he is willing and fit to faithfully serve the German people and Reich. (Source)

The Law for the Protection of German Blood and German Honor: This law prohibited marriages and extramarital relations between Jews and citizens of German or related blood, aiming to preserve the “purity” of German blood. It also forbade Jews from employing German females under 45 years of age in their households. (Source)

Germany, one of the most advanced and cultured societies of its time, fell under the influence of a leader who manipulated public fears and desires, offering promises of restoration and prosperity in exchange for obedience. Step by step, ordinary citizens became participants in a deadly machine, one that required gradual compromises until they found themselves complicit in atrocities. This transformation is hauntingly explored in the book Ordinary Men, which details how average individuals became executioners not out of inherent evil, but by following orders, rationalizing their actions, and failing to resist the system that consumed them.

Eva witnessed this transformation firsthand and spent decades ensuring people understood how easily it could happen again. She often emphasized that Hitler’s rise was not inevitable, nor was it the result of a single event. It was a gradual process, shaped by economic hardship, propaganda, and the willingness of ordinary people to accept small injustices until they became monstrous realities.

Five Factors That Allowed Hitler to Rise to Power

The Holocaust was not an accident of history. It was the result of a carefully constructed plan, built on a foundation of economic despair, propaganda, and the gradual erosion of moral resistance.

Economic Devastation: Germany faced severe unemployment, with rates soaring to 30 percent in the early 1930s. This economic turmoil created fertile ground for extremist ideologies. (encyclopedia.ushmm.org)

Scapegoating the Jews: The Nazi regime capitalized on existing antisemitic sentiments, blaming Jews for Germany’s economic and social woes and uniting the populace against a common, innocent enemy. (encyclopedia.ushmm.org)

Propaganda and Control: Through relentless propaganda, the Nazis dehumanized Jews, portraying them as subversive and dangerous, which facilitated public acceptance of discriminatory laws and actions. (encyclopedia.ushmm.org)

Apathy and Inaction: Many Germans and international observers remained passive or indifferent as antisemitic policies escalated, allowing hatred to fester unchallenged.

The Allure of Power: Hitler’s strategic political maneuvers, including exploiting democratic processes, enabled him to consolidate power and implement his radical agenda.

These historical conditions are not confined to the past. Alarmingly, antisemitism has seen a resurgence in recent years. A 2024 report highlighted a 340 percent increase in global antisemitic incidents compared to 2022. (timesofisrael.com) Furthermore, a 2025 Anti-Defamation League survey revealed that 46 percent of adults worldwide harbor significant antisemitic beliefs. (adl.org)

Despite comprising a small fraction of the global population, approximately 15 million Jews worldwide, many continue to advocate for oppressed communities, even when it entails personal risk. Eva marveled at this enduring commitment to justice and empathy.

The Ultimate Power: Forgiveness

Eva often said, “Anger is a seed for war, forgiveness is a seed for peace.” To her, forgiveness was never about excusing harm. It was about breaking the cycle of hatred.

Forgiveness does not take place on the battlefield. It is not something that happens in the midst of conflict, nor does it excuse or prevent the necessity of justice. Forgiveness comes later, when the dust has settled and when the victim is free to reclaim their own power. It is not about surrender. It is about refusing to let the past dictate the future.

While Eva never shied away from confronting the past, she was equally passionate about what came next. She believed that dwelling in anger, no matter how justified, only gave power to those who inflicted harm. “Forgiveness,” she said, “is the only power a victim has to heal, liberate, and reclaim their life.”

Eva was careful to say, “I forgive in my name only.” She never claimed to speak for other survivors, nor did she suggest that forgiveness was a requirement for healing.

Eva Mozes Kor often emphasized this declaration, reflecting both her personal journey and a deep respect for Jewish principles regarding forgiveness. In Jewish tradition, forgiveness, or mechila, is a profound process that hinges on sincere repentance from the wrongdoer. Maimonides, a preeminent Jewish scholar, outlined that true repentance (teshuva) involves the offender’s acknowledgment of wrongdoing, genuine remorse, and a committed effort to rectify the harm caused. Only after these steps is the victim encouraged to offer forgiveness.

This framework underscores that forgiveness cannot be granted on behalf of others. It is an intimate act between the victim and the penitent. In the context of the Holocaust, where six million Jews were murdered without any expression of remorse from the perpetrators, the notion of forgiveness becomes even more complex. Jewish law maintains that offenses against an individual require that individual’s forgiveness, making it impossible for survivors to forgive on behalf of those who perished. (utppublishing.com)

Eva’s careful articulation, that her forgiveness was solely her own, respected this principle. She did not presume to speak for other survivors or the deceased. Her act of forgiveness was a personal liberation, a means to free herself from the grip of anger and victimhood, without contravening the collective memory and enduring grief of the Jewish community. (candlesholocaustmuseum.org)

This distinction highlights the delicate balance between individual healing and communal responsibility. While Eva chose forgiveness as her path to peace, she acknowledged that such a choice is deeply personal and may not be appropriate or possible for others, especially when traditional avenues for repentance and atonement are absent.

Forgiveness, in her view, had nothing to do with the perpetrator. It did not condone, excuse, or endorse their actions. It was not about justice. It was about reclaiming control over one’s own life. “I call forgiveness the best revenge,” Eva said, “because once we forgive, the perpetrator no longer has any power over us, and our forgiveness overrides all their evil deeds.”

This idea was radical and not always welcomed. Many survivors could not accept it, and for good reason. Even outside the context of the Holocaust, many struggle with the idea that forgiveness does not mean forgetting or allowing injustice to continue. For Eva, forgiveness was deeply personal. It was about reclaiming power, not about absolving the guilty. But within Jewish tradition, memory itself is sacred: to remember is to bear witness, to demand justice, and to ensure that history does not repeat itself.

Am Yisrael Chai: The People of Israel Live

Throughout history, the Jewish people have faced oppression, displacement, and genocide, yet they have endured. The phrase Am Yisrael Chai, meaning “The People of Israel Live,” is more than just words. It is a declaration of survival, resilience, and hope. It is an anthem of defiance against those who have sought to erase Jewish existence and a testament to the enduring strength of a people who refuse to be defined by their suffering.

This phrase has been spoken in times of both devastation and triumph. During the Holocaust, Jews whispered it in ghettos and concentration camps, affirming that even in the darkest of times, their spirit remained unbroken. In the aftermath of World War II, it became a rallying cry for survivors who rebuilt their lives, many of whom found refuge in the newly established State of Israel in 1948.

Today, Am Yisrael Chai continues to hold deep significance. It is proclaimed at Holocaust memorials, sung in celebrations, and carried forward as a reminder that survival is not just about existing. It is about thriving, growing, and refusing to let history repeat itself. In the face of rising antisemitism, the phrase remains an unshakable affirmation that the Jewish people will continue to live, to contribute, and to stand up for justice, not only for themselves but for all who face oppression.

Remembering is an act of justice. It ensures that the past is neither erased nor repeated. Forgiveness, when chosen, does not diminish remembrance. It follows it. It does not mean forgetting, nor does it replace accountability. Instead, it allows individuals to reclaim the power to shape their own future, free from the weight of bitterness.

We’re on the Battlefield Again

We are on the battlefield again.

Now is the time to fight back. Antisemitism did not end with the Holocaust. It did not disappear with memory or education or vows of “never again.” It has returned openly and violently, and it is targeting Jewish people simply for existing. This is not abstract. It is not theoretical. It is happening now. Those of us who are not Jewish do not get to watch from the sidelines. I serve the God of Israel, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and I will stand with my Jewish brothers and sisters until the bitter end, or as long as God allows breath in my body. Silence is no longer neutral. To remain quiet is to abandon them on the battlefield.

Recent Antisemitic Attacks (2023–2025)

Below is a concise, verifiable list of documented incidents illustrating the resurgence of antisemitic violence and hate in recent years:

• Bondi Beach Hanukkah Shooting (Dec 14, 2025):
Gunmen opened fire during a Jewish “Chanukah by the Sea” event in Sydney, Australia, killing at least 11 and injuring dozens in what officials condemned as an antisemitic terrorist attack targeting Jews during a holiday celebration. (AP News)

• Timeline of Australian Antisemitic Incidents (2023–2025):
Jewish communities in Australia faced multiple threats including synagogue arsons, graffiti, and escalating antisemitic violence leading up to the Bondi incident. (The Forward)

• Manchester Synagogue Attack (Oct 2, 2025):
A vehicle and stabbing attack at the Heaton Park Hebrew Congregation in Manchester, England, resulted in three deaths and several injuries, confirmed by police as a terrorist targeting of Jews. (Wikipedia)

• Antisemitism Surge Worldwide (Post–Oct 7, 2023):
Global reports documented thousands of antisemitic incidents worldwide, including threats, harassment, and violent attacks in many countries, since the escalation of the Gaza conflict. (Combat Antisemitism Movement)

• Synagogue and Community Vandalism (2023–2024):
Multiple bomb threats, arson, and intimidation against synagogues were reported in Australia and elsewhere, part of a broader pattern of anti-Jewish hate following geopolitical tensions. (Wikipedia)

• Antisemitic Incidents in the UK (2023–2024):
The Community Security Trust documented thousands of antisemitic incidents in the UK, marking sustained high levels of anti-Jewish hate in recent years. (CST)

• Antisemitic Acts in the U.S. (2024):
The Anti-Defamation League’s audit reported record-high antisemitic incidents in the U.S., including harassment, threats, and violent acts occurring across all 50 states. (Congress.gov)

• Berlin Holocaust Memorial Stabbing (Feb 21, 2025):
A man attacked a person at the Holocaust Memorial in Berlin with a knife, injuring the victim in an incident with an antisemitic motive, according to police and press reporting. (Wikipedia)

Christians, What Will You Do?

For Christians, the connection between the God of Israel and the Christian faith is not symbolic, philosophical, or historical alone. It is covenantal and continuous. The God Christians worship is the same God who revealed Himself to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, who said, “I will establish my covenant between me and you and your offspring after you throughout their generations for an everlasting covenant” (Genesis 17:7). Scripture never records that covenant being revoked.

As Joel Richardson, a Christian author, Bible teacher, and filmmaker whose work focuses on biblical prophecy and God’s enduring covenant with Israel, has taught repeatedly, Christianity does not represent a departure from Israel’s story but its unfolding. The New Testament itself insists on this continuity. Paul writes that Gentile believers are not the root but the branches, grafted into a tree they did not plant, sustained by promises they did not originate (Romans 11:17–18). The Church, according to Scripture, does not replace Israel. It depends on her.

John Harrigan, a Christian writer and filmmaker who has examined the theological roots of Christian antisemitism, including through the documentary Covenant and Controversy, has argued that Christian antisemitism is not merely moral failure but theological collapse. Scripture bears this out. To sever Jesus from His Jewish identity is to sever Him from His genealogy, His Scriptures, and His covenantal mission. Jesus did not erase Israel’s story. He entered it. “Salvation is from the Jews,” He said plainly (John 4:22). The apostles did not preach a new God, but the fulfillment of what had already been spoken “by the mouth of all the prophets” (Acts 3:18).

Christianity does not make sense apart from Israel. The Messiah Christians proclaim was Jewish. The Scriptures they read were entrusted first to Jewish hands (Romans 3:2). The covenant they appeal to was never revoked. Paul is unequivocal: “The gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable” (Romans 11:29). Any theology that distances itself from Jewish suffering, or treats the Jewish people as spiritually obsolete, stands in direct contradiction to the very text it claims to honor.

This is why the present moment is vital. Scripture does not allow Christians to retreat into abstraction when the people of Israel are targeted. The call is older and clearer than modern politics: “I will bless those who bless you, and whoever curses you I will curse” (Genesis 12:3). Silence, in this light, is not neutrality. It is a theological choice.

Standing with the Jewish people is faithfulness to the God Christians claim to serve. It is obedience to Scripture. The God who keeps covenant does not abandon His people, and those who bear His name are called to stand with them.

So the question is no longer theoretical.

Where do you stand?

Danger sign in Auschwitz — I took this photo in Auschwitz in 2013.

Trapped in the West Bank: Eva Mozes Kor’s Harrowing Encounter

In 2015, Holocaust survivor and Mengele Twin, Eva Mozes Kor sent me an email recounting one of the most harrowing experiences of her later years: an encounter in the West Bank that left her feeling vulnerable in a way she hadn’t since Auschwitz. The email was raw, unfiltered, and deeply personal.

As I revisit her words, I have chosen to write this piece in her own voice, staying true to the way she described the events to me. It offers a glimpse into the complexities she faced, not only as a Holocaust survivor and educator but as someone who, even decades after her liberation, found herself in situations that tested her sense of safety, trust, and resilience.

This is her account.

In July 2005, I traveled to Israel as part of the filming process for Forgiving Dr. Mengele, a documentary about my journey as a Holocaust survivor and my philosophy of forgiveness. The trip was filled with emotional moments: revisiting the agricultural school in Magdiel where I lived after Auschwitz, reconnecting with my sister Miriam’s family, and filming an interview with fellow Mengele Twin survivor, Jona Laks, at the Jewish Heritage Museum. But nothing prepared me for one of the most harrowing experiences I had since liberation.

Bob and Cheri, the filmmakers, had arranged for me to meet with a group of Palestinian educators to discuss a book written collaboratively by Israeli and Palestinian teachers. The book aimed to help students from both sides better understand each other’s histories. It seemed like an interesting and worthwhile project, and I was open to hearing their perspectives. But as the meeting approached, I found myself increasingly uneasy.

I had been under the impression that we would be meeting these teachers in Jerusalem. Instead, we suddenly arrived at a border checkpoint, where we were told we had to cross into the West Bank on foot. I had no idea this was part of the plan, and panic set in. Refusing to cross would cause problems, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was walking into something dangerous.

On the other side, a Palestinian professor named Sami met us, surrounded by a group of young Arab men speaking in Arabic. It was clear that they were discussing me, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. That alone made me feel incredibly vulnerable. I had dressed modestly out of respect for their customs, wearing a long skirt instead of my usual pants, but that did little to ease my growing discomfort.

Sami took me to a bombed-out building and told me, “See, this is what the Israelis did to us.” I had seen the destruction before; it had been there for three years. “Why haven’t you cleaned it up?” I asked. Sami said they didn’t have the money. “You don’t need money to clean up a site,” I replied. “You need strong young men, and you have plenty of them.” I saw what he was doing. He assumed I was a naïve, bleeding-heart liberal who would unquestioningly accept his victim narrative. But I had been an Israeli soldier. I knew the conflict was far more complicated than he wanted me to believe.

The real ordeal began when I was taken to an Arab school in Bethlehem, where I was introduced to eight Palestinian teachers and one Israeli professor. The Israeli professor, the one who had convinced Bob to set up this meeting, never showed up. I felt abandoned, surrounded by people who saw me not as a Holocaust survivor, not as an individual, but simply as an Israeli and a Jew.

I took this photo of Eva Mozes Kor outside Block 10 in Auschwitz I.

As we began filming, the conversation had nothing to do with the book I had come to discuss. Instead, the teachers launched into a four-hour tirade about how Israel had made their lives miserable. I wanted to ask why the restrictions they complained about had been put in place, but I was afraid to say anything. I was in their hands. Bob and Cheri had no power to protect me. The fear was paralyzing. I felt like a hostage, unable to speak, unable to defend myself, unable to leave.

Eventually, I ran out of the room, sobbing uncontrollably. I hadn’t felt so trapped and powerless since Auschwitz. Bob and Cheri were apologetic, but it was too late. My goodwill had been exploited for a political agenda, and my trust had been shattered. The final humiliation was sitting down to eat with the teachers. I pretended to take a few bites so as not to offend them, but all I could think about was escaping.

It was nearly 10:30 p.m. before I was finally back on Israeli soil. Only then could I breathe again. Only then did I feel safe.

This experience reinforced something I have always believed: Many Holocaust survivors who live in Israel are still on the battlefield every single day. Their war did not end in 1945. The trauma of persecution never truly fades when you must still fight for your right to exist.

As for me, I survived yet again. But I will never trust so easily again.

Read more by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack.