Posted on May 2, 2025
“...what’s kept me going lately are the Bronfman alumni gatherings. So many thoughtful, critical, and sensitive people who remind me that we’re still here, in the chaos, together.”
I am Zer Vaknin. I was an Amita in 2013 and a mancha (facilitator) in 2020–2022. I live in Haifa with my partner Amir and our son Carmi, and we’re expecting our second child any day now. I am a social worker and lawyer. I interned at the Public Defender’s Office, where I now work as a rehabilitation counselor.
I’m originally from Shlomi, a northern border town that’s always been central to my identity.
When the war began, my family was evacuated along with approximately 90,000 other residents from the north. My in-laws took them in and helped them find temporary accommodation in their kibbutz, Ramat HaShofet. Following the ceasefire in November 2024, my parents finally returned to Shlomi. Eager to go home, they were somewhat in denial about the risks. My sister and her family, however, have remained in Ramat HaShofet, afraid to return despite being in the middle of building their house there. They’re now searching for alternative housing solutions to provide stability for their children while facing an uncertain future.
We are a traumatized country. One of the challenges the Public Defender’s Office has faced since the start of the war is how to address crimes committed by trauma victims who have reached breaking points mentally. On the surface, a crime is a crime. But what do you do with a soldier suffering from PTSD who, fearing terrorists were about to break into his home, pulls a weapon to protect his family? After October 7, many people tried to set up emergency response teams in their neighborhoods, including a client who had prepared stun grenades and Molotov cocktails “just in case.” It’s important to understand that after October 7, everything was in chaos—our sense of security was completely shattered. With terrorists still inside the country on October 8, intense rocket fire and sirens blaring nationwide, people felt genuinely terrified in their own homes.
In the current reality, the number of people suffering from trauma has spiked unimaginably. We’re facing a sharp rise in addictions, property crimes, drug offenses, and domestic violence—all issues clearly linked to stress. This spans many sectors—October 7 survivors, soldiers with PTSD, reservists and their families, evacuees, bereaved families, and the list goes on. All need support, but the state is underprepared and underinvested in addressing these needs.
In my work, I see the war’s ripple effects on the margins of Israeli society. Prisons and detention centers are overflowing, with a sharp rise in arrests of undocumented Palestinians. Policies have shifted dramatically—where it once took three offenses to warrant detention, a first offense can now result in immediate arrest and incarceration. As a result, even “ordinary” criminal defendants face harsher conditions. The High Court ruling on minimum living space in incarceration has been disregarded. People are sleeping on mattresses and metal beds in overcrowded facilities, while welfare and educational services have been stretched thin.
As public defenders, tasked with protecting the rights of the accused, we published a report highlighting these human rights violations. We had to ask: what legal arguments can we make to help our clients avoid being pulled into this broken system?
My job as a rehabilitation counselor is to meet with detainees and identify alternatives to incarceration. Ultimately, the public interest lies in reducing their risk to society by helping them reintegrate into normative, productive life. This is what drew me to the role: working with clients who are classic welfare cases facing multiple charges, lacking family support, and living with poverty, mental illness, and addiction.
Another ethical issue we’ve faced is whether the state should provide legal representation to the captured Nukhba operatives who perpetrated the October 7 attacks. The dilemma was stark: how can the state represent people who had set out to eradicate the state itself? Yet, as public defenders, we are committed to upholding human rights in the criminal process, and if we wouldn’t represent them, who would? While the Public Defender’s Office has grappled with this question, it seems the state of Israel will not represent these operatives, though who will do so is yet to be determined.
The conversation around the rehabilitation of offenders has always been difficult for the “average person.” It’s hard to shift our perspective, to see the broader context in which people acted, and to make space for their struggles, not just their personal agency or the wrong choices they made. When it comes to crime, we often struggle to accept that rehabilitation is more effective and beneficial—not just for the individuals involved, but for society as a whole. Instead, we’re driven by a sense of retribution. This mindset extends beyond issues of incarceration, and since October 7, it has only deepened. I’m not talking about the murderous Nukhba soldiers. But the general attitude toward Palestinians, both within Israel and in the territories, has hardened into deep distrust, with a belief that only a strong hand will suffice. Fear is driving our decisions, and the reality of the past year and a half hasn’t made that fear any easier to manage, especially given the severity of the attacks within Israel since October 7. There’s no doubt that even people who were once nonviolent have now adopted vengeful, nationalistic, and violent stances toward an entire population. I believe that after October 7, we felt so hurt, helpless, and battered as a society that we lost clarity about who we are and how we want to act.
Over the past few months, we have focused our alumni community activities on small forum gatherings by geographic area, profession, interests, or life stage. The idea was to create spaces where Bronfmanim, who share a common language, could come together in ways that feel relevant to our lives today. We now have groups that have met several times, including one for therapists and one for northerners. These have become a great source of strength—especially now, when the need for connection and honest conversation feels more important than ever.
I recently met with my former Amitim from the 2021 cohort. The meeting was incredibly emotional, as they had enlisted just as the war began. As a facilitator, I felt like just a moment ago they were teens in a very different, intimate circle—and now they’re soldiers, carrying the full weight of this intense Israeli reality. Each is involved in a different facet of the war, in sensitive and challenging roles: combat soldiers, a casualty officer, members of the intelligence corps. They are young but feel an enormous sense of responsibility. Their stories were both powerful and painful.
That’s why giving them a “Bronfman embrace” felt so important—offering a space to speak freely about things they can’t always share in military settings: to be critical, to feel sad, angry, and proud. To feel there’s room for all of it. And to know we’re still here, standing with them. That meant a lot.
Another significant encounter for me has been at Oranim College, where I’m studying group facilitation. We’re a diverse group from the north—Muslims, Christians, Druze, and Jews from various backgrounds. Among us are also parents of reservists, bereaved siblings, and an IDF mental health officer who has encountered many war casualties. In this complex mix, a group emerged that could speak honestly and meet one another beyond labels. It reinforced the simple truth that pain is universal, and that we all share concerns for our children and their future. We each feel threatened, both physically and in our identities, while navigating politics and growing mistrust in leadership. Listening to the Arab women speak openly about their fear of authorities during the war, their fractured sense of identity, and family ties to Gaza, I felt their stories were unsettling yet hopeful. These strong women, many of them mothers, and the connections forming within our group, moved me deeply.
I’m afraid of what we’re becoming. Reality here has made us numb, even a little hopeless. I fear for my children, for our democracy, for the values guiding our government, for liberalism and for our humanity. I fear for our ability to hold real conversations without descending into hostility and violence. But then I look at my son. His joy—so free and untouched by the grim reality around us—gives me hope. Raising him has anchored me during this bleak time. I had to shift my mental state to match the needs of a toddler who is curious, excited, and thrilled by life. I also find hope in my work—helping people rise from rock bottom and seeing them choose a new path, even when it seems their stories have already been written. It reminds me that change is possible.
Finally, what’s kept me going lately are the Bronfman alumni gatherings. So many thoughtful, critical, and sensitive people who remind me that we’re still here, in the chaos, together. And that, God willing, we’ll make it through.
