Dr. Keren Levy Ganani-Snyder
Even when harrowing images of hunger in Gaza emerge, many Israelis do not respond with compassion—but rather with emotional defense. When hunger is framed as "starvation," the message is not perceived as a humanitarian plea, but as an accusation—one that threatens Israel’s moral legitimacy. It becomes part of a broader battle over public perception, both externally with the world and internally within Israeli society.
This tension came to a head recently with the controversy surrounding the "Artists’ Letter," which sparked debate across social media, live performances, and news broadcasts. At its core was a clash between a moral call to end the fighting and the deep discomfort of being accused—of being seen as unjust or immoral.
Yet beyond the headlines lies a more complex and well-documented psychological phenomenon. Research in political psychology shows that societies living under prolonged conflict tend to respond to both external and internal threats by reinforcing the boundaries of “us” versus “them”—not only outwardly, in relation to the world, but inwardly, toward dissenting voices within the group.
This gives rise to two central questions:
On the one hand, why do the images from Gaza fail to penetrate the emotional defenses of many Israeli viewers?
And on the other, why do words like “starvation” and “war crimes” push the public to the brink of internal rupture?
Political psychology suggests that in situations of long-term conflict, collective identity becomes a key form of emotional and psychological self-defense—not just military defense. In Israel, national identity is a profound source of pride and security, but also a protective shield against perceived external threats. Therefore, when harsh accusations arise—such as the claim that “Israel is deliberately starving Gaza’s population”—they are not heard as a humanitarian appeal, but rather as a direct challenge to the morality and legitimacy of the entire nation.
In such moments, societies tend to rally around a shared narrative. They emphasize the distinction between “us” and “them”—externally toward the global community, but also internally toward those seen as straying from the collective line. Dissenting messages, especially those that question the nation’s sense of justice, are often rejected sharply. Moreover, research shows that symbolic threats—those that target a group’s values, identity, or moral standing—elicit especially strong emotional reactions.
To many Israelis, images of suffering are viewed not just as documentation of human hardship, but as part of a global narrative campaign—one aimed at portraying Israel as a cruel occupier and undermining its legitimacy. When such images are framed as evidence of “starvation,” the conversation shifts from humanitarian concern to accusations of intent and blame. Even when the images are deeply distressing, they are not always experienced as evidence of human suffering, but as another front in a long-standing narrative battle.
This is further reinforced by journalistic investigations—such as the report in the German newspaper Bild, which revealed that some prominent images of “hunger in Gaza” were staged or selectively edited to emphasize despair while concealing actual aid distribution. For many Israelis, such findings not only confirm their own suspicions, but also deepen the perception of being unfairly maligned, especially given that these findings rarely receive international media coverage.
The result is a kind of emotional blockage—not a lack of compassion, but a defensive response to an overwhelming sense of blame, for which there is no emotional space—especially in times of war, and amid a prevailing sense of moral isolation.
This dynamic is not limited to reactions toward the outside world. It also plays out internally—as seen in the backlash to the "Artists’ Letter." In these moments, the “us vs. them” reflex kicks in once more. Only now, “they” are those inside the group who are seen as out of step with the collective.
The emotional result is similar: a kind of hardened resistance to anyone who does not see things the same way. The principle becomes: If you're not with me, you're against me. Discussions around human compassion turn into intense internal confrontations. What may seem from the outside like political intolerance is, in reality, a well-documented human response to sustained conflict.
One can hope that with time, reality will allow space for renewed reflection—a moment when Israelis no longer feel they must choose between compassion and self-protection. But any attempt to force that moment from the outside—especially through emotional pressure like guilt or shame—is unlikely to succeed.
Ultimately, the ability to see the suffering of others depends not only on what is visible to the eye, but on the emotional and narrative context in which we are looking. As long as the dominant feeling is one of threat, of denied legitimacy, and of imposed blame—the gaze will turn away.
Not out of indifference, but out of self-preservation.
Dr. Keren Levy Ganani-Snyder is a researcher and faculty member in the Department of Politics and Communication at the Jerusalem Multidisciplinary College, and a research fellow at the School of Political Science at the University of Haifa.
