In the past year, Lisa Feit from Commack, New York, has witnessed the gradual ending of long-standing friendships. Meanwhile, Joy Metzler in Atlanta decided to quit her military career, feeling unable to express her true self around her family.

Since the events of October 7 last year, a wave of antisemitic remarks, anti-Muslim attitudes, and close calls with violence have swept across the nation. Parents are withdrawing their kids from schools, professionals are resigning, and college students have faced suspensions or lost their degrees.

All of this stems from their identities or their opinions on the ongoing conflict elsewhere.

It has been a year since Hamas launched an attack on southern Israel, resulting in the deaths of 1,200 individuals and the kidnapping of 250 others. This October 7 assault reignited long-standing animosities and provoked an Israeli military reaction that, according to reports from the Hamas-run Health Ministry, has led to over 40,000 Palestinian deaths in Gaza. Nearly 100 hostages of Israeli nationality are still held captive, according to the American Jewish Committee.

The repercussions of this conflict have also deeply affected lives in the U.S., disrupting and reshaping them: people have lost loved ones and witnessed relatives’ homes being destroyed from a distance. Friendships and family ties have frayed or been completely severed as unbridgeable tensions arise among Americans who perceive the conflict—and those aligned with either side—as morally unacceptable or a threat to their safety.

Nationwide, individuals are left feeling shocked or betrayed by the social media activities and advocacy of their friends, leading to frustration over their perceived lack of support.

Nidal Ibrahim, a Palestinian-American from Atlanta, fled with his family as refugees after the Six-Day War in 1967 when he was just an infant. He is dismayed that old friends refuse to denounce what he and many others see as genocide, which has led to a significant shrinking of his social circle over the past year.

“I find it shocking that people are silent,” stated Ibrahim, who once directed the Arab American Institute, a Washington, D.C.-based nonprofit. “It’s tough to sustain long-term relationships with individuals whose beliefs are so misaligned with what I believed them to hold.”

Others feel endangered or neglected by communities they once regarded as home. Jews who show empathy toward the Palestinian cause have distanced themselves from family, while Muslim students have found discord with their university administrations.

Some individuals have changed their everyday routines or moved entirely to ensure their safety.

Anna Keiserman, a 41-year-old former music professor at a community college in New Jersey, left her position and relocated to Georgia to escape what she perceived as a hostile environment.

“The atmosphere at the college was intolerable,” Keiserman said, referencing what she described as “pro-Hamas propaganda” and a “pro-Palestinian narrative” fostered by the school’s DEI initiatives and student services.

In the three months following the October 7 attack, incidents of antisemitism surged almost fourfold compared to the same period last year, according to the Anti-Defamation League. During this timeframe, the Council on American-Islamic Relations reported that anti-Muslim and anti-Palestinian complaints nearly doubled.

Keffiyehs, traditional Palestinian scarves, have taken on multiple meanings—some view them as a sign of pride or support for Palestine; for others, they have become a symbol of threat linked to the recent violence. People now navigate their identities and everyday lives with caution, pondering questions such as: Should I wear my Star of David? Am I safe going to my mosque? Is it safe to share my location online?

For many, this past year has ignited feelings of resilience and determination. Numerous individuals have felt inspired to engage in activism, express their identities, or adjust their careers to align more closely with their values.

Marjorie Cohen, a 70-year-old retired nurse from Norfolk, Virginia, resolved to choose books on antisemitism or the Holocaust as the sole Jewish member of her 12-person book club.

“Not once has anyone from the group asked me if I was okay,” Cohen reflected on her conversations this past year. “Maybe these women don’t know how to respond…. So, I decided that good historical fiction should represent my voice, one book at a time.”

Sixteen-year-old Zayna Elkarra, a junior at a high school in San Francisco, has experienced the loss of over 100 family members in Gaza within the last year, having only visited them last summer.

“Just getting out of bed and going to school feels incredibly unjust,” Zayna, who has co-founded a Palestinian youth organization in the Bay Area, explained. “You walk into school and everyone else seems to think everything is fine, while you’re left wondering if your family is even safe.”

In Commack, New York, 56-year-old retired attorney Feit has taken part in a weekly walking group advocating for the safe return of Israeli hostages. Meanwhile, Melinda Thaler, a 61-year-old attorney in New York City, has started attending pro-Israel demonstrations and has spoken out in favor of Jewish civil rights.

Cole Parke-West, a trans activist from Durham, North Carolina, dedicated six years to fighting antisemitism as a supportive ally in the Jewish community, but recently left their position with a Jewish organization to form Christians for a Free Palestine to inspire fellow Christians to engage with the cause.

“I’m taking action publicly as a Christian to rally others who are horrified by the situation in Gaza and who want to own up to the ways in which the Christian community has contributed to the conflict,” Parke-West, 41, stated. “Many are beginning to realize the reality of what’s happening, and once they see it, they can’t unsee it.”

Although the conflict may rage thousands of miles away, its impacts are deeply felt by U.S. citizens grappling with the associated political turmoil and suffering. As the year anniversary of the conflict nears, here are some personal stories.

A community that feels less like home

Attorneys Rebecca Feigelson and Isaac Safier were thrilled to call their Oakland, California neighborhood home, particularly because of its rich cultural diversity, a year ago.

“We felt a sense of pride and belonging as a Jewish family in our community,” Feigelson, 40, shared. “But everything shifted dramatically after October 7.”

Their eldest child had just entered school in the Oakland Unified School District. However, following the attack, Feigelson found the teachers’ union making statements she characterized as “anti-Israel” and creating a curriculum that she believed vilified Jews. “Some statements offered outright support for the attack and implied that Israel has no rightful place in the world,” she recounted.

When several teachers conducted a pro-Palestinian event in defiance of district directives, Feigelson and Safier felt they were facing a significant challenge.

“The teachers’ union’s approach to the conflict was fostering an environment that encouraged hostility toward Jews,” added Safier, 42.

After numerous attempts to persuade the district for a more balanced approach, the couple decided to move their 6-year-old son to a neighboring district that they believed would be friendlier toward Jewish students. Even at such a young age, they noticed he was already hesitant to embrace his identity.

“He mentioned that he didn’t want to wear his menorah sweatshirt because it felt ‘too Jewish,’” Feigelson remarked. “It’s heartbreaking that a six-year-old feels such pressure.”

Meanwhile, the parks they had once enjoyed for family celebrations were now marked by antisemitic graffiti. They felt uncomfortable with Palestinian flags displayed in their neighborhood and signs supporting Palestinian resistance in local cafes. The couple noticed an increase in individuals wearing keffiyehs, which they associated with support for violence against Jews.

After a stranger confronted them by shouting, “Stop bombing Gaza!” in front of their children during a public menorah lighting event at Lake Merritt in Oakland, Rebecca became more reserved about wearing her Star of David openly.

“We were shocked that in a city acclaimed for its inclusivity, we now felt fearful about expressing our religious identity,” Safier concluded.

said. “There’s an overarching sense of isolation.”

Struggling Amid Profound Grief

For Mama Ganuush, a trans Palestinian drag performer and community advocate based in San Francisco, there is no term for “conflict” or “war.” Ganuush, who reports losing over 200 family members in Gaza, views it simply as genocide.

At the age of 42, Ganuush filed an amicus brief supporting a November lawsuit led by Defense for Children-Palestine and others, accusing the U.S. of complicity in the ongoing killings. Despite enduring immense trauma and dealing with multiple sclerosis, they have escalated their activism throughout the past year.

“The U.S. is complicit in the genocide of my people,” Ganuush expressed. “My cousin was brutally shot in front of his family. Almost all our family homes have been demolished.”

Ganuush shared that they sometimes hesitate to wear their keffiyeh due to the verbal and physical assaults they’ve faced this year from those opposing their perspective.

Being a drag performer has been integral to Ganuush’s journey as a trans individual, using the art form as a means to cope with their disabilities and suffering. They noted that in the face of recent events, there’s been little time for grief, stating their resolve to become a voice for their community.

In December, Ganuush joined over 3,800 queer artists in a pledge to refrain from performing in Israel “until Palestinians attain freedom. My support lies with Palestinians in their quest for safety and liberty,” they affirmed.

‘I Feel Like We’re Foreigners’

During a family trip to Washington, D.C., Joy Metzler, then a 10^th-grader, was deeply inspired by the national war monuments and quickly applied to the U.S. Air Force Academy. After graduating as a second lieutenant, she was in graduate school at Georgia Tech on her way to becoming an Air Force engineer when the October 7 attacks happened.

Metzler’s perspective began to shift significantly following the self-immolation of 25-year-old Air Force serviceman Aaron Bushnell outside the Israeli consulate in Washington, D.C. last February. Bushnell made a statement before igniting himself, declaring he could “no longer be implicated in genocide,” dying later in the hospital.

“It struck me that if someone could feel that deeply about it, there must be more to understand,” shared Metzler, who is now 23.

She began delving into the long-standing history of the conflict, realizing she not only opposed Israel’s actions but also America’s backing of them. Grappling with her military role and the associated responsibility, Metzler re-evaluated her beliefs and eventually applied for conscientious objector status driven by pacifism. She has completed the required essays, interviews, and hearings, now waiting for the Air Force investigating officer’s final decision on her application.

“I couldn’t stand by and let things unfold without taking action,” she noted. “I don’t believe violence is the solution in achieving peace.”

When Metzler shared her views condemning both Israel’s actions and the United States’ involvement during a Christian group’s YouTube video, her conservative Christian relatives—who staunchly support Israel—responded negatively. The reaction shocked and hurt her deeply.

“These role models of mine from my Christian upbringing exhibited such a lack of empathy, and that really pains me,” Metzler reflected.

She and her father have had intense disagreements, and while her family remains in communication, discussing the conflict has become a sensitive subject.

“This moment has been pivotal in my life, but it’s not talked about—even though I’m eager to discuss it due to its significance in my life right now,” she said. “It feels like we’re living as strangers.”

A Feeling of Disillusionment

Michelle Steinberg, a 64-year-old small business owner in Phoenix with ties to friends and family in Israel, noted that the recent increase in antisemitism feels more pronounced.

“Every time a significant event occurs connected to the Jewish community, it painfully reminds us of our daily reality,” she said. “While the events of October 7 were devastating and heartbreaking, this isn’t an entirely new experience for us.”

Steinberg recalled a recent issue of her neighborhood association’s magazine that featured a Q&A with a local entertainer. When asked if he wanted to add anything, his reply included an expletive aimed at Zionists.

After Steinberg and another neighbor voiced their concerns to the association, the officials offered apologies. Still, she was surprised that such a statement was published so casually.

Over the past year, a series of unsettling incidents have contributed to an uncomfortable atmosphere. A friend’s heated argument over a pro-Palestinian bumper sticker in Tucson and seeing keffiyehs in local coffee shops are among the examples that make her uneasy.

“They seem harmless, but whenever I encounter them, my sense of safety diminishes,” she remarked.

For Steinberg, the rising anti-Israel sentiment has sparked a renewed sense of Jewish pride. She has started volunteering with Jewish organizations and frequently dons a Star of David necklace.

What frustrates her the most is the lack of response from her progressive friend groups, their unwillingness to condemn the severe discrimination and violence directed at Jews.

She expressed, “It seems that the Jewish community is always ready to advocate for basic human rights, yet now that we need support – where is everyone? We feel abandoned and let down.”

Discussions that took place before October 7 have transformed from simple debates into personal matters.

“I have removed several people from my social media,” she shared. “I used to be very close to one friend, but now I find it hard to connect with her.”

She now views this friend as someone who supports Hamas.

“It’s incredibly difficult to sustain a friendship when someone who is meant to be in your corner is endorsing those who wish to harm you and your loved ones,” Steinberg remarked.

Caught in a battle not for her beliefs, but for her identity

Anat Ronen, who was born in Israel and moved to the U.S. in 2006, became a citizen in 2022. Primarily, she identifies as an artist. As a muralist based in Houston, she often works in public spaces and previously shared her locations for those interested in watching her create.

However, she has stopped doing so.

“Being Jewish or Israeli was never something I flaunted,” remarked Ronen, 53. “I see myself as a human being.”

In the past year, she has realized that for many, her Jewish and Israeli identities take precedence; they overlook her desire for peace and her critical view of the Israeli government, not to mention her friendships with Palestinians abroad that she has tried to assist.

With Jews making up only 1% of the population in greater Houston, Ronen feels like an easy target for pro-Palestinian activists who once were part of her community.

She has received antisemitic slurs. One of her commissioned murals featuring flowers was vandalized with hateful graffiti. Additionally, some have reached out to her clients, attempting to deter them from working with her by spreading false information.

“Many of my relationships have deteriorated because it seems their activism has become more significant than anything else,” she noted. “Now, they are on a mission to target anyone in their way and demolish the so-called Zionist enemy. They are bullying me in a ludicrous manner.”

Ronen felt it necessary to disable comments on her Instagram, overwhelmed by the constant stream of hostility. She has also stopped disclosing her location, apprehensive about who may come looking for her. Moreover, she has ceased applying for public art projects, worried that her identity would jeopardize the opportunities.

“Honestly, as Israelis, we’ve been conditioned to downplay our Jewish identity,” she admitted. “We thought we could blend in like everyone else, but that illusion has shattered.”

Eroding friendships pave the way for meaningful connections

Following the rise of the Black Lives Matter movement, Kafia Haile from Atlanta began exploring the history of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. After witnessing the Israeli military’s response to Hamas’ attack on October 7, she felt it was crucial for the U.S. to be held accountable for the loss of Palestinian lives.

The 44-year-old activist and filmmaker reached out to numerous friends, encouraging them to contact their elected representatives to call for a ceasefire. Knowing many had taken action during the 2020 Black Lives Matter protests, she shared images showing the suffering of Palestinians in Gaza.

“I told them, if you stood up for Black lives back in 2020, this is your moment to do the same,” Haile recounted.

Haile reflected on her education about the Holocaust and felt that her entire life had prepared her for this critical moment. It frustrated her that only a few responded to her plea for action.

“I came to understand that some people simply do not care,” she said. “Fear seems to be the primary obstacle.”

“There are times when people apologize, but soon after, they stop putting in the effort.”

Haile has seen some of her long-standing friendships weaken, struggling to handle her strong beliefs. When she talks about the ongoing war, many of her remaining friends tend to switch topics.

Instead, she has developed fresh, cross-generational friendships with fellow activists who resonate with her views.

“Now, I have friends who are completely different from anyone I’ve ever known before,” Haile explained. “What sets us apart is our understanding that we are individuals ready to use our resources at a moment’s notice to protect one another’s lives. This is something I truly value.”