Posted on May 16, 2025
“…I’d rather model what it looks like to live in a home that loves Judaism, loves learning, and loves each other. And trust that’s enough.”
I’m Joe (Yossi) Fendel, and I was a Bronfman Fellow in 1990. I was born in Berkeley, California, and have lived here most of my life. I’m a mathematician by training and currently work in data analytics for a healthcare firm.
I first lived in Israel in sixth grade, spending the year in Jerusalem, and have returned many times since. About ten years ago, I brought my wife and three children to Israel, enrolling them in public school as my parents had done with me. We even officially made Aliyah, encouraged by the Jewish Agency. When we returned to the U.S. about a year later, we were characterized as Israelis living abroad and as potential assets to the state.
So a sense of duty has shaped how I’ve experienced the war — specifically as an official Israeli citizen living abroad. I’ve embraced that identity, even though it’s only ten years old, and it has colored how I choose to engage with the conflict. It’s easy to get pulled into distractions — friends posting things on Facebook, writing comments I disagree with — and it’s easy to get drawn into arguments that can become all-consuming. But I’ve tried to have the discipline to focus my efforts instead on three main battlegrounds.
My first battleground has been the fight against antisemitism and anti-Zionism in the Berkeley Unified School District. Last year, my son was a ninth grader in the Ethnic Studies class — a subject I generally support. I like the idea of examining power dynamics, exploring the different ethnic groups that make up California, and recognizing the strength people in various ethnicities draw from their heritage. But unfortunately, Ethnic Studies has had a tendency to veer into antisemitism, and about a year ago, it took a sharp turn in that direction. There was a set of five lessons — not part of the official curriculum, more like an impromptu unit — that Berkeley teachers brought into the Ethnic Studies classes. These lessons demonized Israel in a number of ways. As a result, I’m currently involved in two lawsuits against the district. One is procedural, focused on their refusal to provide access to requested materials, which violates public records laws. The second challenges the antisemitic and anti-Zionist prejudicial nature of the materials themselves.
The legal process has been slow, frustrating, and often isolating — not just legally, but communally. Last year, I attended numerous school board meetings — partly to request access to documents and understand how this material was developed, and partly to try to engage with the people behind it in order to provide them with the Israeli perspective that they seemed to be missing. The atmosphere at those meetings was, at times, openly hostile. The level of vitriol directed at Israel — and occasionally at Jews more broadly — was traumatizing. And among those speaking up in Israel’s defense, it was essentially only Jews.
The second battleground has been my volunteer work with the Israeli Defense Forces. I’ve completed two tours with Sar-El, a division of the IDF that brings in volunteers from overseas. Each tour lasted three weeks, during which I lived on base, worked alongside soldiers, and helped with various logistical tasks — from packing supplies to assembling equipment.
One of my tours was at an officer training base expanding in anticipation of potential conflict in Lebanon. Our main job there was assembling several hundred bunk beds. Later, in Eilat, I worked in the naval kitchen preparing meals, since many of the regular kitchen staff had been transferred to more active bases on the Mediterranean. I also served at a warehouse base in Hatzerim, packing care packages for the front lines, and more recently, at munitions distribution bases near the Kinneret and in the Negev. We were sorting through used munitions containers — figuring out what was still usable, what needed to be recycled, and making sure no live rounds ended up where they shouldn’t.
It was hands-on work, and it allowed me to do what I could to support the military efforts. The time I spent with Sar-El was physically demanding — I used my body more than I usually did back in California, and the sleeping conditions were uncomfortable. But it was also a kind of radical self-care. It was something I felt I needed to do, and I felt fulfilled and grateful to have the opportunity to assist in this war effort. So while it was hard, it was also deeply therapeutic.
The third battleground is my family. My daughter claims she’s been an anti-Zionist for years, though the depth of her conviction hadn’t really been apparent to me before the war. There’s a strong Jewish anti-Zionist contingent here in Berkeley, so it’s not a terrible surprise that my daughter has gone in that direction and I’ve spoken with many parents here whose children have gone in a similar direction. It wasn’t something we discussed much before, but she’s become more emphatic about it since the war started. But although she’s anti-Zionist, she’s also committed to Torah study and is currently living in Jerusalem, having moved there after college to study at a Yeshiva because she wants to become a Jewish educator.
All of this has been very confusing, painful, and emotionally consuming. Thank God, my wife and I are very much on the same page politically, but like with any difficult parenting situation, this conflict with our daughter puts a strain even on our relationship. It’s just another dimension of how the war has impacted family life. So, this has been my third — and hardest — battleground. But we’re navigating this, and have established a kind of truce with our daughter, agreeing not to talk about things that are very important to us, and not to talk about things that are very important to her, in order to maintain our relationship. And that in itself is also hard.
I post frequently on Facebook to share my thoughts and report my experiences. In these posts, I try to contribute something original to the conversation. So even though I am unhappy with many aspects of Netanyahu’s current administration, I’m reluctant to criticize Netanyahu or the Israeli government, as others in my network already voice those criticisms extensively, and I don’t feel I’d help by piling on. But during my Sar-El service, I spent a weekend with my cousin in Tel Aviv and had the opportunity to join him at one of the protests that take place every Saturday night. He was there banging his drum, chanting — and for once, I wasn’t just observing from afar; I was part of it, which felt gratifying. But I hadn’t anticipated how the protest would hit me emotionally. It triggered something like PTSD — the energy felt eerily similar to the anti-Israel protests in Berkeley, which often call for the destruction of my people. I felt my body tense up. It took a moment of meditation to remind myself: these are my people. I actually agree with most of them. The guy next to me is my cousin. I want to be here.
Another thing that caught me off guard at the protest was the open gratitude toward America. There were signs thanking Biden, American flags, even Statues of Liberty. It might’ve been the timing — I was there just after Biden announced a proposed three-phase deal for the release of the hostages — but I didn’t expect to see so much pro-American imagery at an anti-Netanyahu protest in Tel Aviv. When I went back to Israel after Trump was elected, I saw the same thing — this time, signs thanking Trump for the hostages released since his inauguration. He was getting, perhaps rightly, a lot of credit. Now look, I’m a Berkeley liberal. Before the war, I would even be comfortable calling myself a progressive. Eight years ago, Trump’s election rattled me. I was consumed with anxiety over the future of the republic. But this time — even though the current administration is arguably more dangerous and reckless — I just don’t feel that same panic. Maybe it’s because October 2023 was already my personal disaster moment — not just because of the attacks in Israel, but because of what followed. Surrounded by neighbors who had turned against me and my people, I felt like this was the worst it could get. It wouldn’t get darker than October 7.
Last week, I was at a City Council meeting where they were debating a proposed ceasefire and arms embargo resolution. For eight hours, one speaker after another hurled attacks at Israel. After five hours, I was ready to leave. I thought: what’s the point of sitting here just to absorb this hate? But friends urged me to stay — that it mattered for the Council to see we were still in the room. So I stayed. And thank God I did. One by one, eight of the nine council members — all but the anti-Zionist outlier — said they wouldn’t support a resolution that alienates Berkeley’s Jewish community. They refused to be bullied by an antisemitic mob. I was nearly in tears with gratitude toward these adults in the room who stood up to protect us. I hadn’t expected it.
So instead of the proposed ceasefire and embargo resolution, they voted instead for a simple statement: peace in Israel, peace in Palestine, and peace in Berkeley. As they did, the crowd erupted in anger — shouting, screaming — and my friends and I left out of concern for our safety. It wasn’t until the next morning that I read in the paper that the council had adjourned after passing this simple resolution for peace.
That moment gave me real hope. It reminded me not just that eight of those nine elected officials stood with us — but that if they did, their constituents probably do too. And maybe my neighbors, for the most part, don’t actually hate me and my family. Because sometimes, when you’re in the middle of these meetings filled with rage, where you’re threatened with violence for speaking up in your defense, you start to wonder whether this is really a safe place to build a future. But then you step out and remember: these are 200 loud people in a room. And maybe there are even another 200 who agree with them who aren’t here. But they’re not actually the majority of my city.
We’ve still got two boys at home, and we’ll see where they land. Our 15-year-old mostly tunes out politics, while our 19-year-old is at community college, where the atmosphere is more indifferent. When I asked him about how people were talking about the war at school, he told me: Abba, the school bulletin board has a “Free Palestine” flyer on it. And next to that, maybe a little more prominent, is one that says “Free Foosball Table.”
Sometimes I wish my kids were more bothered by all this—but I also see how their calm temperaments will serve them well throughout their lives.
My wife and I have a bit of a reputation here as the freest of the free-range parents. Once, we sent our seven-year-old and four-year-old to buy milk—alone. The police picked them up; apparently a “concerned citizen” was worried about two small children walking around without an adult. The kids were a little traumatized, but they got the milk.
That story captures something about our parenting. We trust our kids to navigate the world. With our daughter, we were deliberate: eight years of day school, a year in Israel, public high school, a wide range of Jewish and non-Jewish experiences. We never imposed our politics on her. It would be easier if she shared more of our views. But still, I’d rather model what it looks like to live in a home that loves Judaism, loves learning, and loves each other. And trust that’s enough.
