How it really feels to be the only Israeli at a British Christmas dinner

I was hurt. At night, I cried to my husband about how invisible I felt. Then, on Boxing Day, to my surprise, he decided to act.

He called the table to attention. “As you may know, with all the horrible war, the last few months have probably been the hardest for Flora,” he announced. The crowd nodded, sudden realisation sparking in their eyes. “So, as we enjoy this warm meal and celebrate Christmas,” he continued with growing courage, “we should, ehm, remember the hostages in Gaza who cannot celebrate it too”.

“Technically we don’t celebrate Christmas, but thank you,” I whispered, breathless, with a rare smile.

I was grateful for his goofy attempt to create a supportive inner circle for me. But as the war dragged on, unfortunately it did not last. Fast forward to Christmas 2025. I feel relief knowing I will not have to fake friendly interactions with the family members who

disappointed me most through  minimising my pain and trauma, and trivialising antisemitism. I may be the reason for their absence this year, and for the first time in my life, I do not feel compelled to rebuild broken bridges within my family.

Like me, many Israelis who are intermarried or dating non-Jewish Brits, have had complex two years. Lior*’s Christmas 2023, was even more extreme as he returned to the UK straight from the battlefield in Gaza.

“We’ve been ten years together, and from the first moment, everyone in her family welcomed me in a beautiful and loving way”, Lior says. The fact that he is a reserve combat officer didn’t create any discomfort in any of the households of her divorced parents.

“On October 7th, I opened the TV, I was petrified. It felt like an attack on all of us, Jews and Israelis, and that we have to fight from home. That evening, I spoke to my commander and told him I was interested in volunteering back to the service”. Lior adds that “my unit, which is responsible on communication capabilities, hasn't been called to an emergency since Yom Kippur War. It seemed like an apocalyptic scenario, and yet, we were called”.

Lior’s wife, who lives with him in Israel was worried for her friends and his family. She begged him not to join the on-the-ground campaign, but as a commander Lior felt obliged to join. “She cried a lot and deleted her social media as the anti-Israel campaign started immediately”.

After service (“you look at the sky and see five drones above you, without knowing if they are Hamas’”), his unit was released just before Christmas. The transformation was sharp: “From being praised for my service, I returned to a country where I must hide my Jewish and Israeli identity and considered by some as a potential war criminal”.

“I had a very moving meeting with my wife. For the time I was away, our communication was with tense; I felt disappointed with the world and friends, and she tried to show that not all is wrong”, he says. “When I returned, I was in a bad mental state. I read to her a letter that the commanders asked us to write about the service and I couldn't stop crying”.

On Christmas, while his wife’s mother and partner were supportive (“he took me aside to tell how proud he is in my service”), her brothers were more challenging.

“I remember a conversation with her older brother, who I assume was trying, because he's a good guy, to be respectful. I thought I'd be able to have conversations about the situation, but I wasn't in the right state of mind for it. He started to doubt Israel's right to defend itself and return the hostages. My blood was boiling.”

“In another conversation with her younger brother, he calmly explained to me that Al Jazeera is the most reliable news source. I felt so helpless and I'm not sure I've gotten over it until now, because it was telling – a young Briton from a small town, not a SOAS student, relying on a channel that is funded by Qatar, the sponsor of the massacre, instead of asking me as someone who he loves and knows, and is coming from the conflict”.

As time went on, Lior decided not to engage in political conversations any more. Yet months before he returned for another round in Gaza in the summer of 2024, his wife’s father sent him a message that tore the family apart. “It was a one-sided expression of empathy, completely indifferent to the pain of Israelis. He emphasised that it wasn’t personal”.

As a result, they celebrated Christmas 2024 separately.  After a months-long family crisis and an apology from his father in-law, Christmas 2025 is expected to be calmer.

“I understand that people can have different opinions, and that’s okay. They don’t need to change their belief system because of me. I understand the complexity and don’t see the situation as black and white myself. But it’s about how people communicate their opinions. When it comes to people I care about, I try to find a way to forgive”.

Ora and her British husband have been married for more than 20 years and have three children, yet October 7 shattered something between them. “We were going through a complicated time in our marriage regardless, and October 7 added to it”, she says. This combined crisis almost cost their marriage.

Despite her husband being supportive in raising their children as Jewish, and his support of his wife’s activism during the protests against the 2023 Israeli judicial reform, Ora says “he didn’t really understand what I went through. It was an intergenerational trauma; I was in a survival mode – fight or flight, but he lacked this historical context. For days I misfunctioned while he took care of the kids, yet he went on with his life”.

“Suddenly I felt like an ambassador at home. The BBC was always on, and he kept asking for my opinion about different reports. At the same time, there were things he didn’t say that triggered me. I also have criticism of how the war was conducted, but here I had to defend [Israel] all the time. I felt isolated.”

Ora describes the wider family as “not very close and quite chilly”, so even when she visited Israel during the war with Iran, she was not surprised that they did not message to check on her. Christmas gatherings tend to lack drama. “I’ve learned not to expect much,” she admits.

Rotem began her master’s degree in Oxford a month before the attack and experienced isolation and antisemitic slurs from some fellow students. She met her British boyfriend on a dating app shortly before Christmas 2023 and will celebrate her first Christmas with his family this year. Her boyfriend’s half-brother, who lives in Australia and is married to a Palestinian woman, will not be there. “After the terror attack there, I messaged their mother to check on them. I know how terror can shake you,” she says.

“His family has been completely accepting of me. They are very warm and supportive. For them, it is clear that you can have different opinions and backgrounds and still love each other. But I was told not to talk about the conflict at home.”

Her main challenge has been communicating both the reality and her personal trauma to her boyfriend. “When we met, I was like an exposed nerve, and he had to contain me. I have a loving partner, but he will never fully understand the fear of being Jewish, and he didn’t fully understand how the war affected me. We are both lefties, but my experience and his consumption of the BBC create tension. These are the values of someone who grew up in war versus someone who grew up in peace. He understands that he is somewhat privileged and tries to learn more”.

Despite their arguments, he has found himself defending Israel’s perspective in heated conversations with friends and insisted on not removing the mezuzah from their front door.

Rotem  has a strategy for future Christmas meals with his wider family. “I stick to the British way: killing with kindness. I’ll be pleasant and kind, and by doing so, I represent my people”.