Thou shalt advocate for Israel.

I love Israel not because she is flawless, but because she is ours. If we're not advocating for our Jewish state, we're letting others write her story.

photo: Nils Huenerfuerst/Unsplash

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This is a guest essay by Adam Hummel, a lawyer in Toronto.

You can also listen to the podcast version of this essay on Apple Podcasts, YouTube Music, YouTube, and Spotify.

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The unthinkable happened on October 7, 2023.

Approximately 250 people were torn from their homes and communities in Israel, dragged across the border into Gaza, and hidden in tunnels and cages. Many have been returned to us, though far too many remain out of reach.

For nearly two years now, the faces of those captives have become etched into our collective consciousness, reminders of an utterly upside-down world. Many of us begin each day by donning our silver hostage dog tags or yellow pins, the absolute least we can do to show solidarity with our captives.

But here’s a thought: Many of these hostages became known to us not solely because of who they are/were, but because of the extraordinary people who refused to let the world forget them. Their advocates — mothers, fathers, siblings, children, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends — became louder than governments, more persistent than institutions, and more courageous than the silence that too often surrounds Jewish suffering.

Take Hirsch Goldberg-Polin. Hirsch was a vibrant, remarkable young man. But it was his mother, Rachel, who carried his name to the very heart of world power. She and her husband Jon sat with presidents, spoke before parliaments, and even brought Hirsch’s plight to the Pope. Her voice became Hirsch’s voice. Her relentless determination ensured that the world could not look away.

Or think of Matan Zangauker, whose name might have faded into the long list of the disappeared were it not for the ferocity of his mother, Einav. She has become a fixture in Israel, unafraid to confront leaders directly, unwilling to let anyone forget that her son’s life matters. Through her strength, Matan’s story has travelled far beyond Israel’s borders.

What these families demonstrated, like so many others too, is as profound as it is painful: In a world drowning in noise, silence is not neutral. Silence is consent. Visibility is survival. Advocacy is not a side detail, but the story itself. Without advocacy, injustice festers in a dark, damp, terror tunnel. With advocacy, even a single determined voice can shake governments and stir consciences.

The lesson is critical: Advocacy is everything. Advocacy transforms victims into symbols. Advocacy makes stories matter. Advocacy forces governments, leaders, and publics to face what they might otherwise prefer to avoid. Without advocates, the hostages could have slipped from memory into oblivion. With advocates, they became unforgettable. We still fight each day for their release.

In many ways, it has not only been the individuals held hostage since October 7th. Israel itself has been a hostage.

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Israel has been held hostage by Hamas, which seeks not only to murder and abduct Israelis, but to create as high a death toll as possible of Palestinian civilians, and paralyze an entire nation with fear. Every rocket, every tunnel, every false ceasefire promise is a chain around Israel’s neck.

Hamas wants Israel to cower, to feel that life cannot continue, that the Jewish People could once again be made to live at the mercy of others. The war Hamas is waging is hard for Israel to decisively win precisely because Hamas — not Israel — does not care about the Palestinian people.

Israel has been held hostage by the so-called international community, which has weaponized its double standards against the Jewish state. Countries that wage wars without consequence lecture Israel on “proportionality.” Institutions like the United Nations look away from Syria, Sudan, and China, yet they spring into moral indignation only when Israel defends herself. The world ties Israel’s hands and then demands that she fight fair.

And Israel has been held hostage, tragically, by some Jews themselves. There are Jews who, instead of loving Israel, have turned their backs on her. There are Jews who stand in protests demanding her destruction, who lend their voices to the very forces that would see her erased.

These “anti-Zionist” Jews are not critics from afar but family who abandoned their own. Their betrayal is a knife twisted deeper, because Israel is not just another state; Israel is the very real modern home of the Jewish People on the ancestral land of the Jewish People. To reject her is to reject our shared history, our shared destiny, and the sacrifices of generations who prayed and bled for her.

When family members are taken hostage, we move heaven and earth for their release. We cry, we march, we demand action. Why should Israel — the living, breathing family of the Jewish People — deserve anything less?

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It is not enough to believe that something is important. Importance must be earned, defended, and sustained.

Israel is not just a country with an army and a flag; Israel is the rebirth of a people. It is the answer to 2,000 years of wandering, persecution, exile, and genocide. Israel is the voice that rose from the ashes of the Holocaust and declared that Jewish life would not end in the gas chambers, that Jewish history would not be written in the blood of victims.

Israel is the greatest act of collective defiance in history: a nation reborn on its ancient soil, against all odds, in the face of enemies who vowed time and time again that it would never survive.

But miracles cannot defend themselves. Israel’s significance cannot exist in a vacuum. Just as Hirsch and Matan needed their mothers to advocate for them, Israel needs us — her people, her family, her lovers and defenders — to speak for her. Without our advocacy, Israel’s story will be told by others. Their version will not be kind.

Advocacy, then, requires relentlessness. Rachel Goldberg-Polin did not stop after one interview; she pursued every leader and every platform until her son’s name was known. That is what Israel demands of us. Not just Hasbara (public diplomacy of Israel). Not one speech. Not one rally. But an unending drumbeat that says, “This matters, and it matters to me.”

That is why the position of “anti-Zionist” Jews is so destructive. Their abandonment is not passive; it is its own form of advocacy. Every time they denounce Israel publicly, they hand our enemies a weapon. Every time they sneer at Zionism, they tell the world that Israel is not worthy of love, even from her own children. Their voices amplify hatred and lend credibility to lies. It is shocking.

Their betrayal cannot then be louder than our loyalty.

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History is filled with the terrible price of silence. In the 1930s, Jews in Europe begged the world to notice. Instead, ships filled with desperate refugees were turned away from safe harbours. Canada’s infamous “None is Too Many” policy summed up an era of cold indifference. These tragedies were made possible because there were not enough advocates, not enough voices to shatter the silence.

We cannot repeat that mistake. We cannot stand quietly as Israel is vilified, isolated, and delegitimized. We cannot let the story of Israel be written by those who hate her, or who are even indifferent to her.

Silence is complicity. Complicity is not an option.

There is a temptation to soften our voices, to make them more acceptable, to dilute our pride in order not to offend. But Israel’s enemies are not softening theirs! They are not choosing their words carefully. They are shouting their hatred as loud as they can, throwing lie after lie at the social-media-wall until they find something that sticks.

The only answer is to speak louder, to be stronger, to be unapologetically proud.

To advocate for Israel is to take risks. It means writing letters, joining protests, confronting lies at universities and workplaces. It means awkward conversations, uncomfortable debates, and sometimes the loss of friendships. But what is the alternative? The alternative is to risk Israel itself. The alternative is to hand victory to those who want us silent.

When I saw Rachel Goldberg-Polin sitting across from the Pope, I saw not just a mother fighting for her son, but a reflection of my own duty. When I see Einav Zangauker, whose son remains in captivity, demanding action from leaders and storming the halls of power, I see love that refuses to die. They are models for how we must fight.

I love Israel. I love her not because she is flawless, but because she is ours. I love her because she is the culmination of centuries of yearning, the beating heart of the Jewish People, the living proof that we have not only survived history but triumphed over it.

And because I love her, I will advocate for her. With my voice. With my time. With my courage. With my pride. Without us, she remains a hostage, shackled by Hamas and others. With us, by our efforts, she will be free.

So must you.

If you love Israel, you cannot be silent. Advocacy matters as much as the cause. And Israel’s advocates must be us.

Not tomorrow. Not eventually. Now.

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