Even in the Fire, I Choose Israel Every Single Time

These days, my heart feels heavy, like it’s carrying the weight of a thousand air raid sirens, each wail a reminder of the price we pay to call this land home. I’m tired, bone-deep, soul-weary tired. Tears come unbidden, spilling over at the sound of warplanes slicing the sky or the crackle of news reports that never seem to pause, except on Shabbat.

My son, my heart’s own beat, is out there somewhere in Gaza, a place that feels as distant as Timbuktu, yet as close as my every prayer. He fights for the privilege of our life here, for the sacred soil beneath our feet, for the dream that binds us to this eternal land. And I, his mother, read the news, write the news, wait, pray, and cry.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments between sirens, I dream of escape. A holiday, somewhere peaceful, where the air is soft and the only sound is the rustle of leaves or the lapping of waves. A tranquil haven, far from rockets and war reports, where my heart could rest, just for a moment. I imagine a place where the news isn’t a 24/6 drumbeat of conflict, where I could breathe without bracing for the next alert.

But then, as if Hashem Himself nudges my soul, I see the children of Beit Shemesh dancing in the streets, their laughter rising like a melody above the chaos. I watch yeshiva students marching through Jerusalem’s narrow, cobbled pathways, their voices lifted in song, their steps tracing the ancient stones that have held our people’s prayers for millennia. And in those moments, I know: I am blessed beyond measure to live here.

Is it easy? No, not for a second. The sirens pierce the night, and every mother’s heart skips a beat, wondering if her child is safe. The weight of war clings to us, a shadow we can’t fully shake. Is it perfect? Far from it. We struggle with division, with challenges that test our unity, with a world that often misunderstands our resolve.

But is it blessed by G-d? Oh, in spades. This land, our Israel, pulses with divine grace. It’s in the golden light that bathes the Judean hills, in the fervent prayers at the Kotel, in the resilience of a people who dance through tears and march through fear. It’s in my soldier son’s courage, wherever he is, fighting for our right to sing Hatikvah under these skies.

I cry because I’m human, because the weight of this moment is heavy. But I stay because I’m Jewish, because this land is woven into my soul. The sirens may scream, but so do the schoolchildren’s songs. The rockets may fall, but so do the blessings, cascading like manna. I dream of tranquil shores, but I wake to a land that is my heart’s true home.

Here, in Israel, surrounded by the chaos and the miracles, in equal measure, I am tired, I am tearful, but I am undeniably, profoundly blessed. And for that, I will keep praying, keep hoping, and keep holding fast to this sacred, G-d-kissed land.