Any time I travel by plane, I take a photo of myself crossing the threshold.
It has become a personal ritual of trusting whatever lays ahead.
This ride will get bumpy...
Omelas, an imaginary utopian city from the 2,810-word fiction by Ursula K. Le Guin, called "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas". Read it once (or listen), and ask yourself: "Do I stay, or do I walk away?"
Is there 'Omelas' in your life?
Omelas represents something more than just a city. It might be a symbol of something you idealize — or even ideology itself.
It could be a place. For some, something metaphysical, like Heaven. For others, a physical location — a home, a country, a homeland.
Perhaps your Omelas is a relationship with someone — one you could never imagine yourself walking away from.
And yet...
Beneath the seemingly perfect façade of Omelas, there is also something terrible. It isn't a secret to anyone, but it is isolated in a way that allows you to ignore it.
Ultimately, it forces you to make a decision:
Do you stay, pretending everything is fine, and accept 'evil' as the necessary price for 'good'?
Or does the guilt of associating with this 'evil' crush you until you would rather abandon the 'good' and walk away — perhaps to a worse place for you — but one where your conscience can stand — if not clean — then at least free of self-deception.
And, is it enough to simply walk away?
Is it a privilege to even have the ability to walk away?
What do those that stay think of those who walk away?
There is 'Omelas' in my life.
If Omelas represents 'maximal utopia' that comes at the price of the suffering of one individual, then imagine a lesser utopia that depends on a much greater suffering of many. If you can imagine people walking away from Omelas, it shouldn't be hard to walk away from my version of it... Right?
Right?
My parents always made sure that my siblings and I had great childhoods, even amid the grey, decaying remnants of the Soviet Union. As children we had colorful lives — trips to the zoo, adventurous farm and city life, pets and toys, gifts from friends who visited from abroad.
But we also saw darker things: increasing military presence, and endless trains carrying tanks passing through our resort city — the first signs of what would become the First Russo-Chechen War. My parents saw the writing on the wall: it was time to leave, what was then my parents' 'Omelas'.
We moved to Israel... and it became our new Omelas. My memory is filled with happy moments and friendships that I value to this day. Like most kids, I was raised to believe that there is a special place for God-chosen people — a land that was granted to people who survived great terror and oppression.
Of course we were taught about all the wars that were fought — a young nation surrounded by its enemies, its army outnumbered, yet victorious again and again through collective ingenuity, acts of heroism, and divine will.
And we were always reminded: We are the side that seeks peace, while those others seek our demise. I can't count how many olive-branch-carrying doves I've colored in school, all while carrying a cardboard box that contained my personal gas mask.
And somehow, through all that, I felt safe. Whether it's child's naïveté, the presence of the bomb-shelters nearby, the belief in the superiority of our military, or perhaps a collective feeling that 'the good guys always win in the end.' It's hard to pinpoint the reasons exactly, but it had to make some sense — given that, we, and countless other Russian families, chose to move from one place at war to another place at war.
The 90s were marked by the horrors of Hamas-orchestrated suicide bombings, targeting civilians in buses, markets, restaurants, and other public spaces. Despite that, virtually all of my classmates — including myself — took a bus to school every day.
Despite the looming danger of meeting in public places, our lives were vibrant, full of teenage drama and carefree moments — not different than any memories of youth you might have growing up elsewhere. We went to clubs, concerts, roamed the malls, without our parents knowing our location or even able to contact us. Imagine that.
Every time there was an act of terror, we were shocked and felt afraid. We heard of someone who knew someone... Remembrance ceremonies were held, and together we felt righteous, undefeated, and unified.
This was the extent to which I understood life in Israel during my teenage years. We learned to enjoy life despite the dangers, and trust our army to protect us to its best ability. It was a blissful life that I cherish, and there is so much to be grateful for to Israel. That's how it was for me personally. I can't speak for others who lost loved-ones in the acts of terror, or invalidate their feelings. I was simply lucky. I didn't care for politics — not until well after my family moved from Israel to the US.
One thing I must tell you... This might be a personality flaw, or a glitch in the Matrix, but I never held nationalism in high regard. Somewhere between questioning the validity of the Torah and my innate resistance to authority, that seed simply never sprouted. It never sprouted for any country.
What sprouted instead was Humanism.
Perhaps if I had stayed, and served in the army, sat by my friends at the border-watch through the night, or sailed with them on a battleship, things would have been different. Perhaps I would have even become a high-ranking officer, or — most likely — a frontline junkie (if I’m being honest), with unwavering loyalty to the homeland.
But, alas.
Those who walk away from Omelas don't always leave immediately. They linger in thought — it takes time to weigh one's morals. The overwhelming positive aspects of Omelas — its happy yet sophisticated lives — outshine the one negative aspect that is kept hidden in the basement. And so, for a long time, I was unable to make the decision. In fact, it wasn't until I read Ursula K. Le Guin’s work — well into my 30's — that my views and values have solidified.
It took years for me to see the signs of erosion. I was unable to reconcile the disproportionately brutal response to enemy attacks. Every time fire was exchanged, the response was always excessive and with no regard for civilians on the other side.
What used to make sense, suddenly wasn't adding up... Throwing pamphlets before destroying a building, or a whole neighborhood, makes our army 'the most humane army in the world'? What if it just an adds psychological torture? It serves less as a humane approach, and more as a way for Israel to evade condemnation.
Destroying a whole building with residents, or a school, is acceptable, if one or few Hamas members go down with it? 'They use their own as human shields' used to somehow make sense, but it just becomes a blank check to treat everyone as fair game.
It seems that one society was becoming safer — yes — but, at the cost of suffering growing elsewhere.
The day I left Omelas was the same day Israel fell under attack, on October 7th. Seeing the aftermath of the attack left me in shock and dread for what was going to happen next. It was grimly obvious — to me, and anyone who has seen Israel's response to any previous attacks from Gaza, that this time the nation was willing to abandon humanity in response. Words like 'Annihilation', 'Animals', 'Parking Lot' — these are not words of solemn self-defense, but of bloodlust. And no end in sight.
Just like in Omelas, where the anguish of one is hidden in the basement, the wall between Gaza and Israel makes it easier to ignore the suffering — it seals the eyes from seeing, ears from hearing, and hearts from feeling.
What does it mean to walk away?
These are difficult waters to navigate, because my criticism of the state gets conflated with ill will towards the people who live there. And that is not the case. I simply refuse to have my Jewish and Israeli identity be contingent on waving away humanist values.
My family and friends feel differently — some have even lashed out in anger and issued ultimatums. I can't fault them for their views — it took me so long to arrive at my conclusions — I can't expect others to instantly think like me. But I cannot maintain a relationship that demands that I relinquish empathy, and blindly follow a government that is commuting documented war crimes.
Each person has different values, and arrive at conclusions shaped by their unique experiences. The citizens of Omelas cannot simply be plucked out of their good lives. People who walk away from Omelas, walk away alone. They leave in silence, because there are no words or ideas that haven't been explored before. They have their lives, their conclusions, and their burden to bear.
Similarly, this is my path. I'm not taking any superior position, and I don't fault anyone who doesn't meet me where I am... I merely choose to be able to express my truth and principles and not fall inline with the accepted or expected narrative.
Am I privileged to be able to walk away?
Yes, I recognize that to a great degree I am. Physically, I left a long time ago... I haven’t served in the army, and I didn’t plant my roots. Emotionally though I'm constrained to family and friends who have planted theirs — who have no choice but to go in unity with the majority for their own sake. It would be a huge sacrifice for one of them veer from the collective path.
What do those who stay think of those who walk away?
The people of Omelas are sophisticated; they are not oblivious to the terms of their happiness: Free the child, and the utopia collapses. So they cannot let anyone speak of 'freeing the child', or maintain contact with those who walk away.
Fortunately though, Israel is not a utopia — nor do I believe that its existence hinges on the ethnic cleansing of the Palestinians. There are also voices who speak out, from platforms much higher than my lowly blog, and so I still have a lot of hope.
Hope not for a utopia, but for an imperfect place — one where we take risks to find a shared humanity.
Is it enough to simply walk away?
This is the hardest question to answer. Some readers have criticized the moral outcome of "The ones who walk always from Omelas" by pointing out that those who walk way are cowards for not fighting to save the child. And that is a fair point.
Those who walk away cannot take it upon themselves to free the child and bringing the collapse upon the utopia... They are stuck between two evils.
Perhaps this isn't really much, but I'm not walking away completely silently. I'm leaving you with something to weigh upon. I know that this isn't even going to reach all that many people, and will likely fall into the black hole of the blockchain in a few days. But if I can perhaps plant a seed, or by virtue of being Israeli myself give you the permission to speak your truth... and plant your seed. It's never too late.
Thanks for walking beside me on the road into the unknown.
A N K A P O L O