In a country where consensus is as rare as rainfall in August, Israel has long presented itself to the world as a society fractured by internal disagreements—a democracy perpetually at odds with itself.
Political scientists have filled volumes analyzing the fissures: religious versus secular, hawks versus doves, center versus periphery. The protests that roiled the nation throughout 2023 only seemed to confirm what many had long suspected: that beneath the necessity of collective survival lay irreconcilable visions of what Israel ought to be.
And then came October 7.
In the wake of that morning's unprecedented terrorist attack, as the nation slipped into what would become a protracted war, something unexpected emerged beneath layers of national trauma and existential fear. A thin but surprisingly resilient fabric of mutual responsibility began to manifest—not in political speeches or newspaper editorials, but in hospital wards, army outposts, and the quiet decisions of ordinary citizens.
A generation long dismissed as apathetic, raised on social media, and supposedly jaded by patriotic rituals, found itself on the front lines when history came calling. According to official statistics, approximately sixty-four per cent of all Israeli soldiers killed in battle since the war's beginning were under twenty-five years old. These young men and women—the supposed Instagram generation—fought with a clarity of purpose that confounded expectations.
"They were raised amid digital noise and endless political arguments," a brigade commander told me, speaking on condition of anonymity. "And yet, when the moment demanded it, they understood exactly what was at stake."
The calculus of loss has also illuminated parts of society often consigned to what Israelis call the "periphery." Among the fallen are thirteen Druze and ten Bedouin soldiers—a disproportionate sacrifice from communities that make up less than five per cent of the population. These figures represent more than statistics; they are a rebuke to narratives of incompatibility. The Israeli "we" is evidently more complex than political talk shows would have us believe.
I write these words on Yom HaZikaron—Israel's Remembrance Day for fallen soldiers and victims of terrorism—on the threshold of the nation's seventy-seventh Independence Day. For me, this day carries not only public significance but deeply personal weight: my son, Yuval Ben Yaakov, a staff sergeant, twenty-one years old, fell heroically on the first day of the war—October 7, 2023. His courage, like that of his comrades, is not the feat of abstract heroes but the living, heavy, real price paid for our country's continued existence.
The quiet revolution of organ donors
Perhaps the most astonishing social phenomenon to emerge in 2024 is entirely separate from the battlefield. It involves no weapons, no uniforms, no grand ideological declarations—only the quiet, almost invisible realm of altruism. Specifically, organ donation.
During the past year, Israel recorded 313 kidney transplants from living donors—an absolute historical record. More remarkably, approximately sixty per cent of these donors had no familial connection to the recipients. These were people from across Israeli society—religious and secular, young and old, from diverse communities—who chose to give part of themselves to complete strangers. No headlines. No compensation. Often in secrecy, even from neighbors.
This represents nothing less than a revolution of meaning.
Consider the story of Eviatar and Hadari Kimchi. He teaches at a yeshiva; she works as a financial analyst. Eviatar became a donor in 2017, inspired by a friend's example. Hadari made the same choice seven years later, when their children were older and her resolve had finally crystallized. They became the thirtieth couple in Israel to both become living donors. Each gave a kidney to a stranger.
Hadari explains herself with disarming simplicity: "Dialysis destroys a person. I wanted to give someone a chance to live."
The significance of such stories extends beyond individual lives saved, though the statistics themselves tell a sobering tale. Israel currently has 1,481 patients on organ transplant waiting lists. In 2024, seventy-two passed away before compatible donors could be found—a silent toll of lives lost waiting for second chances.
One donor is a family friend who gave her kidney to a distant relative and asked not to be named in this article. Her journey to this decision took years—conversations with her husband, careful discussions with her children. "I was not afraid," she tells me. "It felt natural. If I could, I would do it again."
The recipient, once bedridden and dependent on dialysis, married within months and began what he describes as "a life I never thought I'd have."
Where faith bridges divides
In my book "Dilemmas and Achievements: On the National Character of the Modern Jewish State" (2023), I explored how the Organ Transplantation Law, adopted in 2008, represents a successful example of dialogue between religious tradition and civic challenges. This legislation became more than a legal framework—it catalyzed public discussion and united rabbis, doctors, legislators, and volunteers. Most importantly, it inspired action.
When discussing Israeli divisions, commentators typically focus on politicians, parties, and identity disputes. But perhaps the real scene of social reconciliation is the hospital ward, where a patient with a transplanted kidney breathes without pain for the first time—knowing that somewhere in the country, someone gave them this chance without recognition or reward.
Altruism in today's Israel extends beyond organ donation. It manifests in numerous civic initiatives and private gestures that help others endure grief and rebuild shattered lives.
One of the most touching examples is the organization Ohr LeMishpachot ("Light for Families"), headed by my longtime friend Aharon Frenkel. In a gesture of profound compassion, they awarded full academic scholarships to every university student who lost a sibling in the war. This act is not merely financial support; it is a embrace, an affirmation that life, even after devastating loss, can and should continue.
Israel in 2024 remains a country of anxieties, polarization, and unrelenting struggle. But it is also a place where young soldiers die protecting the common good, and where ordinary citizens sacrifice parts of themselves for strangers. It is a society where faith does not inevitably divide but can sometimes unite.
Perhaps what matters most is our ability to discern these quiet signs of hope amid the cacophony of conflict—and not forget them when the noise eventually subsides.
Dr. Haim Ben Yaakov is the Director General of the Euro-Asian Jewish Congress and author of "Dilemmas and Achievements: On the National Character of the Modern Jewish State" (2023).