I can pinpoint the moment I no longer felt safe in the queer community. In the weeks following October 7, I was scrolling through my Instagram reels, pumping my brain with the dopamine my maths homework failed to provide. Until then, my feed had been flooded with messages in support of Israel and the Jewish people; the comments adorned with yellow ribbons. Of course, I also saw Israeli flags being burnt and stickers of Magen Davids inside rubbish bins, but I didn't think much of it. I deduced those people were a misinformed minority, bound to realise that they were supporting terror, not Palestinians. You can call that simplicity on my part. I thought it was hope. For those few weeks, I swam in blissful ignorance. I overindulged in the misguided belief that my generation, Gen Z, had finally realised Israel was not the villain. Unfortunately ignorance isn't bliss. It's blinding.
I woke up when I saw the inevitable Instagram post caption: 'Queers for Palestine.' A girl with pink hair and glittered eyelids, no older than me, was informing – no, warning – me that as a Zionist, I was unwanted in this community. In a fifteen-second reel, she looked me in the eyes and said, 'If you're a Zionist, you have no place at next year's Pride parade.' And given the overwhelming majority of Jews are Zionists, I took that to mean: I don't care if you're gay. Because of your Jewish identity, you don't belong in the queer community. You are not welcome.
Maybe if I had been a little older or a little tougher, it wouldn't have hurt me as much. But I wasn't. I was fifteen and rejected by a community that preached acceptance – the community I had finally summoned the courage to admit I was a part of. Where I thought I truly belonged.
Not long after that, I began to drown in anti-Zionist, and sometimes overtly antisemitic, content. My favourite artists, from queer musicians to actors, attended pro-Palestinian protests where chants praising Hamas and urging the demise of my people proliferated. At my first-ever concert, girl in red punctuated her set with an unprompted 'Free Palestine'. Every single person cheered. I had been listening to her since I was twelve, finding comfort and salvation in her art – like other queer girls my age. Her iconic song We Fell in Love in October made me feel that I would find love. But at that moment, it felt like politics had invaded a space where I was supposed to feel safe; a space where I could just be me, with people like me who loved her music. Instead, two fundamental parts of my biology were pitted against each other. I had to choose: the Jewish community or the queer community.
Frankly, I'm still not sure why or how the queer community grew so vulnerable to Hamas propaganda – considering they routinely slaughter us in Gaza – or how it has become popular to accessorise keffiyehs with pride pins. I used to be proud to be part of this community, even when being queer was just in the confines of my thoughts. And now, I'm not sure I want to be associated with it. I'm not any less queer than I was on October 6 2023, but, apparently, there was a secret clause under the terms and conditions of entering the community: 'Warning. May fall victim to clickbait and not research ridiculous claims.'
Most of all, I'm furious. How dare queer influencers deem Israel a 'pinkwashing' state when Tel Aviv has one of the most vibrant Pride parades in the world? How dare they brainwash my generation into thinking being queer has to equal being anti-Zionist? How dare someone say I – a queer woman – don't belong at a Pride parade because of the Magen David around my neck?
Slowly, I began to drift away from queer spaces. Not that I wanted to. I had spent years concealing that part of me – partly out of shame, but mostly because I needed to mature a little more. I wanted to figure out how those feelings sat inside of me, what being gay meant for me. But recently, I was ready to show people who I was. Fully and wholly me. That was up until October 7, when I realised there was a new part of me to hide: my Jewishness. Out of fear.
And I hated that. I should have been welcomed with open arms and rainbow stickers within the queer community. I should have found lifelong friends and unconditional acceptance. But I haven't. It makes no sense that other queer people can bask in the benefits of having a community that loves and accepts them fully, but queer Zionist Jews can't.
– Noa Gomberg (2025) 'The End of Ignorance' in Ruptured: Jewish Women in Australia Reflect on Life Post-October 7, pp. 44-6.
