Disorderly classrooms, tarps, and paint buckets gave the school that unmistakable neglected look of summer. While the building itself lay dormant, I was there to train a group of educators who were fully awake: animated, thoughtful, and already immersed in planning for the coming year.

Their minds weren’t just on class schedules or supplies. They were wrestling with something far more complex: how their work will intersect with the painful social and cultural realities unfolding both inside and outside the walls of their institutions, and how to navigate the responsibility of mediating between those forces and the needs of their learners. Among the most urgent of those questions was how — or even whether — to talk about Israel.

It happened that this particular training session took place in Jerusalem, but it has become clear to me that Israeli educators are asking the same questions as their Diaspora colleagues in schools, youth groups, synagogues, and college campuses around the world:  

How do we help our learners grapple with the challenges unfolding in and around Israel? 

How much should we allow the outside world to shape the internal curriculum of our institutions? 

What if we say the wrong thing? 

What if we’re not even sure what we believe anymore?

As Jewish educators, we know how charged these questions have become. In today’s polarized climate, it often feels easier to say nothing than to risk saying something that could be seen as divisive or controversial. But that silence comes at a cost. For our learners, who are navigating their own swirling questions about identity, belonging, and what Israel means to them, our avoidance doesn’t feel neutral. It feels like confusion — or worse, fear.

The problem is that in a time of war, division, and rising fear, it is neither possible nor sustainable to ignore the realities of our current moment. That’s why I believe this is exactly the moment for us, as Jewish educators, to start talking — openly and personally — about what Israel means to us. I am not talking about analyzing geopolitics, or giving a learned exposition of the history of the Arab-Israeli conflict, or knowing the ins and outs of what all sides in the conflict are claiming.

Rather, I am talking about exploring and articulating our own personal relationships with Israel — however uncertain or evolving they may be, so that we can model passion, embrace multiple voices, and demonstrate commitment for our learners. Only then can we help them engage with their own questions, build understanding, and develop a meaningful, lasting connection of their own.

This process starts with answering a deceptively simple question: Why does Israel matter to me? What was the emotional memory, the inherited connection, or the Israel story that stirred something in you — even if it was pain, anger or despair?

For some of us, the answer comes easily. For others, it’s tangled, unclear, or still taking shape. Sometimes, the answer is simply, “I don’t know yet.” But asking the question — honestly and without judgment — is the first step toward clarity. And that clarity is what gives educators the grounding we need to support our learners through their own journeys.

I recently saw this approach in action at a conference attended by prominent, deeply experienced Jewish educators and communal leaders. One session brought together five thoughtful, diverse, and inspiring voices — each offering a unique perspective on why Israel matters to them.

One spoke about how her connection to Israel was rooted in the power of family; another reflected on the way his dual identity — as an Israeli and an American — has shaped his understanding of responsibility and power. A third described seeing Judaism and Israel as irrevocably intertwined. Then his colleague shared a powerful story about visiting Israel as a Black Jew by choice, with children who speak fluent Hebrew.

The final panelist shared the story of her Israel activism, which has taken her on a long journey both to and from Israel. Each story was powerful in itself, and — when heard together — they modeled how Israel can actually be a vessel that brings us together in understanding and human empathy, rather than driving us apart through polarization and alienation. 

One educator in the audience, Ariele Mortkowitz from Washington, D.C., and the founder of Svivah, a diverse, grass-roots community of Jewish women, reflected on how listening to all of these voices could serve as a powerful tool in her own teaching.

She learned how receiving something authentic and emotional, even when it feels risky, can open up a different kind of environment for connection. “The personal space allows people to listen better — with more curiosity and empathy — when it’s a story filled with emotion,” she said, adding: “Even if our politics differ, the mutual caring about Israel creates a place of sharing and makes it possible to find similarity.”

When educators go through this kind of process — when we explore what Israel means to us, in our own words and on our own terms — we create a foundation strong enough to hold others. We become role models for how to stay in the conversation, even when it’s uncomfortable.

For example, Yakir Englander, one of the presenters, and an expert in Jewish philosophy who focuses on leadership development for the Israeli American Council, described how the exercise pushed him to confront his own truth.

“There was something about the time pressure that forced me to be honest and authentic with myself — asking what I dare to say in wartime, and what is inappropriate to say,” he explained. “But knowing that beside me were speakers who are each beloved members of the community — people who know how to speak from love — was critical.” 

This process isn’t about reaching consensus or arriving at neat conclusions. It’s about creating the conditions for honest, values-based engagement — first within ourselves, and then within our classrooms and communities. The point isn’t to agree on language or politics, but to practice showing up and expressing ourselves and listening to others with integrity, curiosity, and care.

That’s what allows us to support our learners as they begin their own journeys of questioning and connection. Once we better understand our own convictions — even if those convictions are evolving — we’re better equipped to hold space for others.

This coming year will not be an easy one. Jewish students will continue to face scrutiny, pressure, and painful questions about who they are and what they believe — from themselves, fellow Jews, and non-Jews. Our job as educators is not to hand them answers, but to model what it looks like as we search for our own truths with courage and humility.

So let’s start by asking ourselves: Why does Israel matter to me? Let’s make space for the answers that arise — and get prepared to share them.

Clare Goldwater is the Chief Strategy Officer of M²: The Institute for Experiential Jewish Education.