In the midst of our most challenging times, it's the small moments that reveal the true heart of Israel – not in grand gestures or political statements, but in the quiet threads of compassion and tradition that weave through our daily lives.
On a peaceful Shabbat morning, just two weeks ago, my friend (just off the plane from South Africa) watched a father and son walking to shul, their heads bent together over a Torah text. The morning sun caught their tallit fringes, creating dancing shadows on the Jerusalem stone beneath their feet. In their gentle discussion of ancient wisdom, he saw something moving: the unbroken chain of our tradition – how we've carried our learning through centuries, from father to child, an inheritance more precious than gold.
In a grocery store where I am blessed to live, I witnessed a mother and child selecting a menorah, their excitement palpable as they discussed which one would grace their window this year. The child's eyes sparkled at the golden options, already imagining the lights that would soon pierce the winter darkness. It was a reminder that even in uncertain times, we continue to kindle lights of hope and faith.
And then there were the donuts – such a simple thing, really. A mother and child buying sufganiyot for Rosh Chodesh Kislev, their faces bright with anticipation. The child's careful deliberation over which flavor to choose, the mother's patient smile – these moments are the sweetness that sustains us, the everyday joy that reminds us why this land is beautiful.
This is my Israel – not just a place on a map, but a living, breathing tapestry of moments where tradition meets tenderness, where strangers become family, and where the sacred dances with the ordinary in the streets of our cities and the corridors of our hearts.
In these small acts of kindness, in these quiet celebrations of tradition, in these spontaneous connections between souls, I see the truth of who we are. This is the Israel I love – not perfect, perhaps, but perfectly human in its capacity for compassion, its dedication to tradition, and its unwavering spirit of community.
These moments might seem insignificant against the backdrop of history, but they are anything but. They are the building blocks of our society, the quiet proof that the soul of our nation remains strong, vibrant, and beautiful. In these small moments, I see the Israel that persists, that hopes, that continues to build a future worthy of our children's dreams.
The beauty of Israel often reveals itself most powerfully in moments of collective grief and strength. I stood at a flag march yesterday, openly crying over my son's friend who had fallen in battle.
And let's be clear, it wasn't just sweet sniffling, it was full-on ugly crying (and there was nothing pretty about it.)
What struck me wasn't just my ability to express this raw grief publicly (or actually, my inability to contain myself, as a good South-African would), but how those around me responded - a stranger offering tissues, another wrapping me in a much needed impromptu hug. There was no awkwardness, no judgment, just pure empathy and understanding.
This is Israel at its core - a place where your pain is everyone's pain, where the barriers between strangers dissolve in moments of shared emotion. It's a society where a grown adult can sob openly at a public event, and rather than averting their eyes, people step forward to offer comfort (even though they are probably horrified.) Not because they know you, but because in Israel, we're all family.
It's more than just social permissiveness around showing emotion. It's an understanding that our collective experiences - both joyful and painful - are meant to be shared. When we lose a soldier, we don't just lose someone's son or friend; we lose a piece of our national family. The ability to cry openly, to be held by strangers, to receive comfort without explanation - these aren't signs of weakness but of the deep bonds that hold our society together.
This is what outsiders often miss about Israel. Beyond the politics and conflicts, it's a place where the lines between public and private grief blur, where showing emotion isn't just accepted but embraced as part of our shared human experience. When I cried at that flag march, I wasn't just a parent grieving; I was part of a nation that understands that tears, too, are a form of strength.
This is my beautiful Israel – found not in headlines or historical monuments, but in the gentle touch of a stranger's hand offering tissues, in the shared smile between parent and child over ancient texts, in the warm aroma of fresh sufganiyot, and in the golden gleam of menorahs waiting to shine their light into the world.
This is dedicated to the memory of fallen IDF soldier, Staff Sgt. Zamir Burke, who fell defending our homeland 3 days ago. Gone, but never forgotten.
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