The Israel of my youth was full of wonder and joy. I steeped myself in the narrative of our people ’s return from exile, and like many, joined myself to history.

Each Walk for Israel was my own personal Exodus, and my knowledge of Jerusalem won me a round-trip ticket in the 1974 Chicago Jerusalem Quiz. As a high school senior, I placed first in the Reform Movement ’s national sermon contest, arguing that Judaism couldn’t survive without the Jewish State, and the summer of 1977 saw me living in a youth village on the 1948 border. Ten years later, I was back and finally living in Jerusalem, a city that still holds a magical place in my heart.

Of course, by then, much had changed. My year in Jerusalem came in the final months before the 1987 intifada; as Israelis and Palestinians edged closer to that fateful uprising, I, too, had begun to see the limitations of the country I so loved.

And yet I arrived full of hope. Fresh out of law school, I worked as a human rights lawyer for the Association for Civil Rights, joined scattered peace protests, and dialogued with Palestinians. There were hints of the coming violence in the pebbles thrown at me in East Jerusalem —but there was also a glimpse of peace on the hills of Neve Shalom, when Palestinians mingled with Israeli Jews for a day of music and celebration. How could hope not triumph over despair?

When despair won out, and the first intifada exploded, I was shocked to my core. Years of certainty fell away as I saw young people rise in anger to claim their freedom with rocks and guns —and other youth, wearing the Magen David, break their arms, in a vain attempt to break their will.

To answer the pain in my heart, I threw myself into peacemaking, spending years with fellow travelers in the wilderness of the Jewish community, as hearts hardened, and the voices of peace were silenced and ignored.

What joy, what vindication we felt when the Oslo Accords were revealed, and Shimon Peres and Yitzhak Rabin heroically laid down arms. Peace at last!

How could we have known how brief hope’s reign would be?

Two short years later, Rabin was gunned down, suicide bombings became a numbing routine, and the entire Oslo process crumbled into bloody hostilities. Israel and the Palestinians weren ’t building a new future—the past was eating them alive.

I cannot honestly say, then, that I was shocked when the al-Aqsa intifada erupted in September of 2000. Not shocked by the cycle of violence and retribution, not even terribly surprised —but my heart broke with each new horror.

The pain was too great; I couldn’t sit by and watch the dream fade. I joined with a group of peace advocates, and in 2002, we founded Brit Tzedek v ’Shalom, the Jewish Alliance for Justice and Peace; rather than give in to the prevailing desperation, we wanted to find a way to help our Israeli brothers and sisters forge a path to peace.

Since then, Brit Tzedek has grown exponentially, mobilizing some 40,000 American Jews, including 1,000 rabbis, to advocate for a negotiated, two-state resolution of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Our grassroots advocates have met with the Israeli and Palestinian Prime Ministers, U.S. Senators and Representatives, friends and loved ones, and in part because of these efforts, our message is now conventional wisdom: today, 87 percent of American Jews want to see a two-state solution. In this, then, I have found a measure of renewed hope.

I am as dedicated to Israel today as I was when I walked for Israel through the streets of Chicago. Yet the question for me is no longer whether Judaism can survive without Israel —but instead whether Israel can truly flourish without the care and support of peace-minded Jews across this nation, demanding that our government lead the way to peace.

A sustainable two state solution is the only path that will bring either people true security; it ’s the only way that the Jewish people can reclaim the joy we felt at exile’s end. I love Israel, I truly do, and I hold on to the hope that one day, her people will live in peace, and none shall make them afraid.