I just returned from Israel after a week long mission with Jewish Federations of North America, with one hundred women. One shared purpose. One name that held more meaning than I could have imagined before I arrived. Ometz Lev, the courage of the heart.
It was my first time in Israel since October 7th. What I discovered was an Israel I did not recognize. An Israel scarred by war, terror, death, destruction and heartache.
Every single person in the country has been affected. There is no separation between “the war” and “daily life.” Everyone has lost someone, knows someone who was killed, wounded, taken hostage, or sent to fight. Soldiers came home broken in ways you can see and in ways you can’t. Wives became single parents overnight. Mothers became fathers. Business owners left their livelihoods without knowing when, or if they’d return. All of this while sirens screamed through the night, waking children who learned far too early how to run for shelter. No human is built to withstand this kind of trauma. And yet Israel does.
Almost immediately, I felt the contradiction. A stranger giving me free dessert just because I was a visitor. Cars pulling over for hitchhikers without hesitation. People trusting each other in ways that feel impossible anywhere else. There is pain everywhere and somehow, also warmth, generosity, light and an unfathomable resilience.
Throughout the week, we heard stories that were unbearable and yet they were told with strength, humor, and an insistence on moving forward. One Nova survivor said “A small amount of darkness is barely noticed in a room full of light. But even a little light transforms a room filled with darkness. Let us continue to be the people who bring the light.” Bearing witness to these intimate realities, we often cried together. And sometimes, just as quickly, we danced. That emotional whiplash felt uniquely Israeli. Grief and joy existing in the same breath.
Again and again, Israelis said the same thing to us, “Thank you for coming”. They didn’t say it casually. They said it like it mattered. Like our presence meant something. Especially with so much uncertainty in the air. With the fear of what could come next. With the very real concern that escalation in the region could put lives at risk, including our own.
As Shabbat arrived, all one hundred women went together to the Western Wall. Some women had never been to Israel before. Some had waited a lifetime for this moment. We shared a Kabbalat Shabbat service, taking turns placing our prayers into the crevaves of the stone wall. Standing there, shoulder to shoulder, I felt something I can’t fully explain. Strength, unity, continuity. The sense that we were exactly where we were meant to be, at exactly this moment in history. The first Shabbat in over 12 years when no single Israeli is being held hostage in Gaza.
On my last day, I wandered the streets of Jerusalem alone. No itinerary, no group. Just walking and listening to the voices of the Israeli people. I spoke with shop owners, vendors, strangers I would never meet again. Yet the sentiment was the same everywhere. Gratitude, relief and resilience. In the Jewish Quarter, I walked into a small jewelry store. The owner, Nissim immediately apologized for the dust. “This is my first day back,” he told me. He had been called into the reserves on October 7th. He left behind his store, his wife, and his two young daughters. He shared stories of his time in Gaza, not dramatically, not for sympathy, just plainly. As fact and as something that had to be done. He told me he didn’t feel he had a choice. He needed to protect his country and his people. The Jews in Israel and the Jews around the world. Most of all, he wanted to be a role model for his daughters. He wanted them to learn the importance of his work and to know that some things are bigger than his own comforts and fears. I hadn’t planned to buy anything. But standing there, listening to him, I knew I couldn’t walk out empty handed. It felt like the smallest thing I could do and yet it mattered. I bought a ring with the shema inscribed into it. Now I wear it every day. It reminds me of him, of his daughters, of his dust covered store, of the weight Israelis carry and the pride with which they carry it. We hugged, we cried and we thanked each other. There was nothing more to say.
Over and over, I’ve asked myself why I didn’t cry more. Why I seemed so steady while hearing stories that should have broken me. I’ve thought about this a lot, and I think it’s because I felt I needed to be strong, not for myself, but for them. For the people living this every single day. For the soldiers still fighting. For the wives holding their homes together. For the parents raising children inside uncertainty. For a country carrying generational trauma and still choosing life, chai.
This is a new Israel. It will never be the same. And yet, the word tikvah, hope, has never felt heavier or more sacred. Ometz Lev, the courage of the heart. I saw it everywhere. I felt it in strangers. I carry it with me now. And I will never forget.
Please consider making a voyage to Israel. Go however you can, on an organized mission, with family, or with friends. The people of Israel need to see us walk their streets, sit in their cafes and stand beside them. They need our strength when theirs feels depleted. They need our light when the darkness is too much to bear. Most of all, they need to feel they have not been forgotten. Being there now means more than it ever has before.
Am Israel Chai.