Letter From Rachel
Dear Friends,
I am writing to you in the midst of a complex and painful reality. We are several days into a fragile and unusual ceasefire. We are experiencing a tense quiet, not knowing what tomorrow will bring.
The month of April, which typically symbolizes spring, growth, and renewal, also carries deep layers of memory and identity. It is a time when we reflect on the meaning of freedom through challenging and often painful lenses: the Holocaust of the Jewish people, the establishment of the State of Israel grounded in the principles of the Declaration of Independence, and the commemoration of the Nakba from the perspective of our friends who identify as Palestinians. This complex, multi-layered reality has always been part of the experience of the Galilee Dreamers, yet over the past two and a half years, it has intensified into a prolonged reality of war—one that has been imposed on all of us, without our ability to truly influence it.
Some of our alumni are currently serving in the military, others have begun or are continuing their academic journeys, and some are choosing to contribute to Israeli society through social engagement and civic action. In this reality, our primary concern is for the physical and emotional well-being of our young people—both high school students and alumni—many of whom find themselves in situations of profound moral complexity, striving to uphold values of ethics and compassion even in the most difficult circumstances. We continue to stay in close contact with many of our alumni, including those currently serving outside Israel’s borders. In our conversations and correspondence, we witness their ongoing commitment to the moral principles we explored together in Galilee Dreamers—principles of human dignity, responsibility, and care for others. What stands out most is their desire to act with integrity, and to work as part of a team in service of the greater good, even in the most complex and challenging realities.
Earlier today, I spoke with one of our Galilee Dreamers, and the conversation stayed with me long after it ended. He is currently working at a kibbutz in the north, in a region still living under the shadow of uncertainty and danger. During his shift, a guest arrived—from Philadelphia. What might have been a brief, ordinary encounter quickly became something else entirely.
With visible excitement, he began to share his experience as part of the Galilee Dreamers delegation to Philadelphia—the second journey, the shared encounters, and especially the nights spent together in the homes of Jewish host families, where Jewish and Arab students lived side by side. He spoke about how meaningful that experience had been for him, how deeply it shaped his sense of belonging and possibility.
He told the guest how important the Galilee Dreamers program is to him, and how much he longs for the war to end so that they can meet again. Then his voice shifted. He spoke about the present—about the long days, the uncertainty, and even the boredom of not being able to attend school or gather as a group. “We just want to meet again,” he said. “We need it.” And then, almost quietly, he added that of course, everything depends on whether their parents will allow it—because the roads are still dangerous.
It is almost unimaginable that our graduates are experiencing the loss of close friends in combat, while at the same time being called upon to show compassion toward civilians on the other side, who are also experiencing loss and grief—different in context, yet deeply similar in human pain. At the same time, many of our high school students find themselves confined to their homes or immediate surroundings, unable to attend school or meet one another, longing simply to be together. This reality shakes the very foundations of our teens' and educators' identities and invites us to ask: what does freedom mean in times of conflict?
Freedom in peace education is not merely the right to choose or express an opinion, but the deeper capacity to hold complexity—to carry multiple identities, emotions, and narratives without losing our shared humanity. In the spirit of the song “Et Heruti” (“My Freedom”), “I have guarded you, my freedom, like a star in the storm,” freedom is not detachment, but an inner stability within a turbulent reality. In constructive civic dialogue, it is expressed through the ability to truly listen, to hold differences, and to choose dialogue again and again, even when it requires effort and the surrender of comfort or certainty.
One of the most troubling questions we face is how to teach about freedom in a reality shaped by war, fear, and hatred in which many feel that their freedom is diminished or even denied. Perhaps the answer is not to ignore or soften this reality, but to recognize that freedom is not only an external condition but also an inner space. Even when external circumstances impose harsh limitations, individuals still retain the capacity to choose how to respond, how to see the other, and how to act within complexity.
Precisely in times of conflict, freedom takes on a deeper meaning—the ability to resist hatred, to preserve one’s humanity, and to continue imagining a different future. This is the freedom we seek to nurture within the Galilee Dreamers: a freedom rooted in listening, shared responsibility, and the belief that even within a storm, we can choose a path of humanity and hope.
Warm Regards,
Rachel