I Believed the Narrative of Israeli Brutality. I Was Wrong.
For years, my perspective on Israel was set in stone, carved from a quarry of what I considered unimpeachable sources and self-evident truths. I read the Haaretz reports alleging a deliberate policy of shooting unarmed Gazans at aid distribution sites and I felt a cold certainty settle in my gut. I saw the relentless, graphic footage from Gaza—the shrouded bodies of women and children, the bombed-out tent camps—and it created what I can only describe as a ‘credibility anchor’ of Israeli brutality. Every official statement from Jerusalem, every claim of precision or morality, sounded hollow and hypocritical against this deafening backdrop of suffering.
When Israeli strikes hit Iran, my initial reaction was one of weary cynicism. I saw the powerful, emotional coverage of mass funerals for slain Iranian commanders, the seas of mourners and flag-draped coffins, and I thought: ‘See? These aren’t just faceless terrorists; they are national figures to their people.’ The Israeli narrative of eliminating ‘the serpent’s head’ felt like crude, dehumanizing propaganda. To me, and to many like me, this was another act of reckless aggression from a state I was convinced had lost its moral compass, likely orchestrated by a Prime Minister using war for his own political survival. I wasn't just a passive consumer of this narrative; I believed it. I argued for it. I saw it as my moral duty to stand against it. And I was profoundly, unsettlingly wrong.
My transformation didn’t happen overnight. It began with a single, nagging piece of information that refused to fit into my carefully constructed worldview. It was a detail buried deep in an International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) report, published just before the strikes. It stated, in dry, technical language, that Iran had accumulated enough 60% enriched uranium to produce up to fifteen nuclear bombs and was now only a “short technical step” from weapons-grade material. The phrase echoed in my mind: a short technical step.
It wasn’t a speculative future threat. It was a present-day reality. This wasn't a talking point from a politician's podium; it was the clinical assessment of the world's nuclear watchdog. Suddenly, the official Iranian response to the IAEA’s condemnation—not cooperation, but the defiant announcement of new illicit enrichment facilities—looked less like sovereign pride and more like a final, arrogant sprint towards the finish line. A terrifying cognitive dissonance set in. How could a threat so immediate, so existential, be relegated to a footnote in the global conversation, while the narrative of Israeli aggression dominated every headline?
This single crack in my certainty forced me to re-examine everything I thought I knew. I started with the accusation I held most dear: that this was an unprovoked, illegal act of aggression. I had seen it as the first shot in a new war. But as I forced myself to look at the timeline, not just the dramatic final event, the picture warped. The conflict didn’t begin with Israeli F-35s over Natanz. It began, for this recent chapter, on October 7th, with the massacre by Hamas, a direct and avowed proxy of the Iranian regime. It escalated with Iran’s first-ever direct missile and drone attack on Israel in April, and then another in October. This wasn’t an unprovoked strike; it was a counter-punch in the final round of a fight Israel had been desperately trying to avoid, a last resort after diplomacy had been exposed as a charade used by Tehran to buy time. The realization was deeply uncomfortable: what I had condemned as aggression was, from the other side of the gun, a desperate act of pre-emptive self-defense against an enemy that had explicitly promised annihilation and was now just one “short technical step” away from achieving the means to do it.
Next, I had to confront the most difficult and emotionally charged pillar of my belief: the moral equivalence I had created. The images from Gaza had conditioned me to see the IDF as a blunt instrument of indiscriminate force. The funerals in Tehran had convinced me of the humanity of Israel's targets. But the facts of “Operation Am Kelavi” challenged this narrative directly. I looked at the target list: General Hossein Salami, head of the IRGC; Amir Ali Hajizadeh, the commander who personally oversaw the missile attacks on Israeli cities; and a host of senior nuclear scientists. Were these the ‘innocent civilians’ of my imagination? No. They were the architects of a global terror network that funds Hezbollah, arms the Houthis, and orchestrated the butchery of October 7th. They were the men who built the very weapons aimed at Israeli families.
Then I looked at the targets of Iran's response. While Israel’s targets were the Pilot Fuel Enrichment Plant in Natanz and IRGC command bunkers, Iran’s targets were... Ramat Gan and Rishon LeZion. They fired over 200 ballistic missiles not at IDF bases, but into the heart of civilian neighborhoods. I learned the name Eti Cohen Engel, a 74-year-old grandmother killed when a missile tore through her apartment. The moral contrast became sickeningly clear. Israel was waging war on military infrastructure and terrorists. The Iranian regime was waging war on grandmothers in their homes. My generalized sense of outrage had blinded me to the specific, undeniable truth of intent.
Finally, I had to reckon with my fear that this was a reckless escalation that would drag the world into war. This was where the most shocking truth emerged. I learned of the intricate deception operation Israel ran with the United States, designed to achieve total surprise. The goal wasn't just to succeed, but to paralyze Iran’s response capability and prevent a wider, more devastating counter-attack. The proof was in the numbers. Intelligence estimated Iran was prepared to launch approximately 1,000 ballistic missiles. Because Israel’s strike was so devastating to their launch sites and command structure, they only managed to fire around 200. The Israeli operation didn't cause the missile attack; it gutted it by 80%. What looked to the world like the act that lit the fuse was, in reality, the act that may have prevented a regional explosion. The question changed from “How could Israel do this?” to “What would have happened if they hadn’t?” The answer is a Middle East—and a world—held hostage under the shadow of an Iranian nuclear bomb.
I do not write this as a convert to a new, unthinking dogma. The complexities are immense, and the human cost of any conflict is a tragedy that must be mourned. But I can no longer stand by the simple, satisfying narrative of Israeli villainy that I once held so firmly. I was wrong because I focused on the tragic, painful symptoms while willfully ignoring the disease: a genocidal, theocratic regime that lies as a matter of policy, oppresses its own people, and was on the precipice of acquiring the ultimate weapon of terror. I confused the firefighter with the arsonist. My journey from certainty to doubt was a difficult one, but it has led me to a new, more terrifying, and more honest understanding. And it compels me to ask those who still stand where I once stood: are you sure the story you’ve been told is the whole truth?
