I live in the Bay Area, but this past weekend my heart was in Israel, on the phone, hour after hour, with members of my Ethiopian Jewish community there and across the United States. The conversations were filled with frustration, fear and a shared sense of abandonment.
It is painful to face the fact that, even in times of war when Israel feels united, our community is not fully seen, valued or protected.
For many of us, Israel is not an abstract idea. It is home, heritage and hope. It is the place we imagine raising our children, building our futures and belonging without question. But that vision becomes harder to hold onto when the reality on the ground is full of injustice and when solidarity feels conditional.
The killing of 21-year-old Yemanu Binyamin Zelka on Israel’s Independence Day is not just a tragic, isolated act of violence. It exposes a deeper, uncomfortable pattern about how the justice system treats Ethiopian Jews in Israel.
Zelka was working a late shift in a pizza shop, trying to support his family and contributing to society. His life was taken after he asked a group of teenagers to stop disruptive behavior in the restaurant. Those teenagers allegedly went home, regrouped, armed themselves and carried out the fatal stabbing attack — a lynching! But the horror doesn’t end there.
It took three days and significant public pressure for arrests to be made, according to media reports. That delay fed into a longstanding perception among Ethiopian Israelis that when they are victims, there is no urgency to solve the crime.
When authorities move slowly on cases like this, we get the message that some lives do not command the same protection as others.
The response from Minister of National Security Itamar Ben-Gvir — “It’s not possible to station a police officer in every pizzeria and on every street” — was cold and outrageous and took no accountability for the safety of citizens he is in charge of protecting. The issue is not about stationing police everywhere; it is about prevention, accountability and equal enforcement of the law.
Zelka’s case echoes those of other Ethiopian Israelis that contribute to a painful narrative. Destao Chikole, 19, was stabbed to death the same week as Zelka. And Rafael Adana was just 4 when he was crushed and killed by a car in 2023. In February, the 82-year-old driver was punished with just one year in prison for fleeing the scene of an accident.
They aren’t the only ones: We mourn Solomon Teka, Yehuda Biadgegn Avraham Damte, Yosef Salamsa and more. Their stories tell us that crimes against Ethiopian Jews lives are not afforded the same urgency, visibility or justice as crimes against other Israelis.
This is not just about one case or one community. It’s about the integrity of the rule of law in Israel. A justice system that is perceived as unequal cannot effectively protect anyone. If Ethiopian Israelis feel that justice is conditional, then the system is failing in one of its most basic obligations.
The story of Haymanot Kassau also continues to haunt us. She disappeared two years ago when she was 9. Police failed to act immediately, and she is still missing today. In a country known for its security infrastructure, how does a child vanish and remain missing for so long without a sustained, nationwide outcry? Why did it feel like the burden of searching, of raising awareness, of demanding answers fell primarily on Ethiopian Israelis themselves?
The same painful question arises when we think about Avera Mengistu. He was kidnapped by Hamas after wandering into the Gaza Strip and held for 10 years before his release in February 2025. During that decade, his plight did not command the same public attention or national mobilization as that of other hostages. It left many of us asking: Are some lives less worthy of urgency, of empathy, of collective responsibility?
We are also dying in Israel’s wars at disproportionately high rates. Around 5% of fallen soldiers are Ethiopian, even though we comprise less than 2% of the population. We serve, contribute and believe in the State of Israel. We are not asking for special treatment; we are asking for equal protection, equal justice and the basic dignity of feeling safe in the country we help defend.
Ethiopian Jews and Black Jews more broadly wonder whether we can trust that the country we love will stand for us in the same way we stand for it. It is about whether our children will grow up feeling fully Israeli, fully protected and fully valued.
As a parent, this keeps me up at night. I want to believe in the dream of returning to Israel and raising my children there. But I am also forced to confront a difficult reality: What kind of society will they grow up in? Will they be seen first as children to be protected, or as outsiders who must constantly prove they belong?
I call on American Jewry to stand in solidarity and to raise their voices in demanding accountability from the justice system in Israel. This is not about external criticism, it is about shared responsibility within a global people.
Zelka’s death should be a turning point, not only for police accountability, but for a broader reckoning. Equal justice cannot remain an aspiration; it has to be visible, consistent and immediate. Otherwise, tragedies like this will continue to feel less like exceptions and more like evidence of a system that has yet to fully include all its citizens.
I do not write this out of rejection, but out of love and urgency. Israel cannot afford to lose the trust of its own people. True strength as a society is not measured only by military power or technological advancement, but by the ability to ensure that every community, especially those who have historically been marginalized, feels equally protected and valued.
Only then can the bridges we are working so hard to build truly stand.
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