Israel is not just a place to me.
It's a person—one you can truly love, not just for beauty, but for soul, for grit, for the stubborn resilience that refuses to be extinguished.
No, not just a person. Something deeper still.
It's a pulse in my blood, an ache in my bones that refuses to quiet.
This land doesn't whisper to me—it insists.
It barges in, throws open the shutters of my soul, and says: live.
Here, I am not diminished. I am amplified.
The voltage of life is higher here, the rhythm unpredictable, the meaning heavier.
This country holds my story.
My Safta, who helped build Kibbutz Ma'ale HaHamisha with her iron will
My grandfather, good friends with their Arab neighbours in Abu Gosh—no fence and no fear.
I was not born in Israel, but the smells of Israel are etched into me from earlier visits
Bus exhaust in the mornings, pine trees in the hills,
Home cooking on the breeze. Sun-warmed pavements, stray paws.
Markets, cafes, the sea—scents tangled and alive.
It has been a challenging time—
sirens in the night, families in stairwells,
the sky torn by missiles
Shops shuttered, streets emptied
the air thick with waiting.
And yet—
the morning after, the dust not yet settled,
cafés open their doors.
The clatter of cups, the hiss of milk,
the stubborn ritual of normal life resumed.
Messages fly—
WhatsApp groups, neighbourhood lists,
calls for shoes, for blankets and toys.
Strangers become helpers.
Volunteers bring what they can,
Their arms full of bread, clothes, comfort.
There is anxiety—
the knowing that defence is strong, but not perfect.
That the next siren may come at any hour.
But there is also unity,
a drawing together that is fierce and unspoken.
There is damage, there is fear, and there is resolve.
The stubborn refusal to let fear have the last word.
Israel is battered, but not broken.
Surrounded, but not alone.
Insistent on hope, on meaning, on life.
I don't want to leave.
I want to belong here—because I already do.
Israel: imperfect, insistent and brimming with life.
I am with you.