A word that holds the weight of centuries. The quiet prayers of my parents and grandparents, and all those before them, whispered across continents and generations. A longing for self-determination. A pull toward a land that lived in our language, our rituals, our seasons. A place where we would no longer be the outsiders, forever trying to belong, forever pacing our lives by someone else’s calendar, someone else’s story.

I was born in the United States, but Zionism was planted in me early, nurtured by my Uncle Bernie and Aunt Elaine. After my gap year in Israel, I returned home in August 1973 with a promise to go to college before making aliya. It was a promise I truly intended to keep, even though my heart had already chosen. Israel was where I would build my life.

Then came Yom Kippur.

A synagogue thick with whispers. Rumors spreading like smoke. It was October 1973, and the country I had just left was under existential threat. I stood in........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)