I'd become quite fond of Mr. Withheld, when, in a moment of "boy, am I glad this is all happening in my head," I realized that "Name Withheld" was not a man with a charmingly antiquated moniker, but rather a way of indicating that the reader had withheld his or her real name.

Now the brazen author of a dozen viewpoints became a scattered group of cowards. I had to go back and read each of the letters to assimilate this new information about them. In an instant, a realization that I had been wrong in the way I was reading changed the way I experienced the text in front of me.

Even if I'd wanted to, I could no longer delude myself into believing that Mr. Withheld existed.

I've only successfully kept a diary once in my life. For three-and-a-half weeks, I forced myself to catalog my daily experiences on the Vision Program in the Balkans. I've talked about that trip on this site before, but just to recap: 23 American university students, half Palestinian, half Jewish (one both—good counting), a month doing comparative conflict analysis and dialogue in former Yugoslavia.

We spent most of our first three weeks in the Balkans getting to know one another and trading accusations of communal guilt for our perceived victimization. Just like any group of college students backpacking around Europe.

The waking up moment happened in Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina. The town is split down the middle by a river of striking turquoise-blue. The great symbol of Mostar is a white bridge, rebuilt after the war, but the town has long been split between Bosnian-Muslims and Croatian Catholics.

At that point, we had reached an impasse in our conversations in our dialogue group. We were feeling defeated and hot in our hotel conference room. Nothing could un-stick us, not even the breeze coming in off the Neretva River.

Then, one afternoon, while the other hotel guests took in the sun on the patio, the Palestinians in the group collectively snapped out of it. On that day, the Jewish students were essentially told to shut up and listen. Out came a story of familial loss, communal dissolution—brutally honest, shockingly personal stories. And at the culmination, one student told us of a friend who was killed in an IDF attack.

It was a session of open mouths that mimicked gaping wounds. I felt defeated by accusations that were not accusations. I no longer wanted to expunge myself of guilt. Instead, I wanted to bathe in it. I was looking for a cleansing of the spirit by confession, so I drew myself a bath.

I made a connection during that session between the circumstances of my birth and the death of the friend of the person sitting in front of me.

My parents met in Texas when my father, who was serving in the Israeli air force, traveled to Texas to learn how to use weapons the United States was providing to Israel. In other words, I would not have been born if not for the fact that the United States provides Israel with weapons technology that it in turn uses against Palestinians.

I know, I know. It seems a little histrionic.

But the fact remains that, in that moment in the basement of a hotel in Mostar, it became so clear to me that my heritage is wrapped up in the violent side of Israel that I could not believe I had never realized it before.

I guessed that if I explained this new reading of my personal history to my parents or siblings, their reaction would be amusement, confusion, or even anger. (And I was right, that is how my mom responded—hi Mom!)

But that doesn't matter. What matters is that from that point on, I felt a more urgent personal impetus to work toward ending the conflict. In the past, others—civil leaders, politicians, ancestors—had made decisions that I could not control. Now I would make decisions that reflected my new awareness.

Fast-forward two-and-a-half years. For three weeks, the war in Gaza consumed my attention. I read every article I could get my hands on. I wrote checks for humanitarian aid. I emailed my Congresspeople. I made my gchat status a poignant article or donating opportunity. I talked to my friends in Israel and at home. I tried to articulate my perspective clearly when the opportunity arose in other social situations. I tried to make myself feel useful when I was largely useless.

I had recently begun reading Jewcy.com, an online community of Jews writing on a variety of topics, including Israel. In my reading, I was so disappointed to read posts and comments from people who were so clearly stuck in a very particular hear no evil/see no evil/recognize no evil way of looking at Israel. I tried writing my own posts to persuade people to think differently. I tried commenting on other people's posts. I got myself worked up. I tried to be reasonable when I really just wanted to say, “You are so retarded! I hate you!” (Yes, I wanted to use the word “retarded.” A lot.)

The conversations on those blog posts go on for pages and pages of comments: No you're wrong. No you're wrong. Your mom is wrong. Your face is dumb. Etc.

I am starting to realize that if you are reading a situation a particular way, you cannot simply be told to throw that out and look at it in a different way. I think the human response to that is inevitably—no, I know better, let me teach you something, buddy. Perhaps that is what makes Abraham's Vision so remarkable: they create conditions within which you can learn from other people without feeling like you are being encouraged to think in a particular new way. The only prerequisite for this to work is to be open to listening.

That's why I'm cutting myself off from the Jewcy debates (hardeeharhar). I think the more important task is to join with like-minded people. So much of the stagnancy of the situation is in the feeling that the majority thinks in a particular way. We must make it clear that there is a new majority of people who are less concerned with the borders of the State of Israel than we are with Palestinian and Jewish lives, people who think the opportunity to make the Jewish State a beacon of responsibility, justice, and holding-ourselves-to-a-higher-standard is being thrown away.

To end on an optimistic note, I have heard—now more than ever before—disappointment and anger about Israeli activity in Gaza publicly articulated by American Jewish leaders. I also had a civil conversation with my father about the conflict, which must be a good sign (or a sign of the apocalypse, I'll get back to you on that).

But I used a somewhat lacking analogy up top. When I was a kid, and I realized I was misreading the letters section of the magazine, I went from an objectively wrong reading to a correct one. What I learned from the trip is that my changed opinions about Israel should instead be changing opinions. After discovering myself to be deluded once before, I would be missing the point if I didn't keep challenging my ideas.