During the workshops I attended at the conference, each participant was asked to share the central historical narrative of their country regarding World War II. I arrived with a prior assumption: most European nations had been active players in the war—some as aggressors, others as collaborators—and therefore, it seemed unlikely that they would view themselves as “victims.” Yet reality struck me differently. Almost every young person I encountered emphasized victimhood as the foundational narrative of their national identity. Europe, divided into many nation-states, still carries deep within it a sense of injustice, loss, and fractured identity stemming from the war. In contrast, as an Israeli, I was raised with a different narrative: the Holocaust as a defining trauma that claimed millions of Jewish lives—not only at the hands of the Germans, but also through the complicity of many others: Ukrainians who participated in massacres, Poles who informed on their Jewish neighbors and later looted their homes. Within the Israeli-Jewish ethos, very little attention has been given to the fact that we were not the only people persecuted. This was a blind spot I had never recognized until then.
As the descendant of a Jewish family raised on testimonies of horror, cruelty, and even the enthusiasm some showed for harming Jews, "It was somewhat unsettling to hear Europeans describe their countries in terms of victimhood rather than responsibility. Some briefly touched upon their nations' roles in the crimes, but the dominant tone was one of suffering endured.
This experience opened a broader perspective for me: many countries, even those with well-documented histories of aggression, have built their national identities around a narrative of pain. Israel does this too—and perhaps rightly so. But there is a price. The more dominant the victim narrative becomes, the easier it is to suppress or overlook moments in which one’s own nation has also been the aggressor, even partially. In some cases, it allows for the denial of actual crimes. I began to realize that embracing a victim's identity is not merely about historical memory, it is also a collective psychological mechanism.
One of the most meaningful conversations I had during the conference was with Héloïse:a young Franco-German woman who had spent six months volunteering in Israel. Not only had she come to know Israeli society intimately, she had also visited Bethlehem and several Palestinian villages in the West Bank. From this dual perspective, she opened my eyes to something I had never fully grasped: many Palestinians encounter the State of Israel only through soldiers at checkpoints or through settlers, and very rarely, if at all, through peaceful, civilian Israelis who make up the majority of the israeli population. What we view as necessary self-defense often appears to others as occupation or oppression.
Moreover, meeting Zeynep Karaosman—a Palestinian peace activist—made a strong impression on me. It was the first time I met a Palestinian who openly identified as a peace advocate. She was not hostile; she was, in fact, remarkably similar to many of my Israeli friends. She did not hate me. She did not hate Jews. Our conversation was a first step in understanding that perhaps we carry a national trauma so heavy that it becomes difficult for us to trust that not everyone on the other side is out for our blood.
I began asking myself: does the Israeli narrative of the Holocaust and the historic injustice done to us sometimes serve as a kind of veil? Are we, out of authentic pain, failing to make space for Palestinian suffering—part of which we are responsible for? Is it possible that this fear, deeply rooted in our history, drives our leaders to make aggressive decisions out of a sense that if we cease to be victims, we risk becoming victims once again?
The experience of attending a conference in Berlin—eighty years after Germany embodied some of the darkest chapters in human history—was emotionally jarring. And yet, alongside the pain, it also gave me hope. I saw young people from countries that had once persecuted and murdered one another now engaged in honest, heartfelt conversations. Héloïse herself is the daughter of a French mother and a German father—something almost unimaginable just a few decades ago.
If Europe managed to recover and forge a shared vision out of the rubble of war, perhaps there is hope for the Middle East as well. The conference not only caused me to question many of the political and social assumptions I had long taken for granted, it also exposed me to the possibility of imagining a different future. One in which we can see the other as someone who suffers too, recognize the aggression within ourselves, and above all, choose partnership over hostility.
This publication does not represent an expression of opinion by the Federal Agency for Civic Education. The author is responsible for the content.