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 Bronx, in the land of my birth, feeling the distance like a physical ache and asked myself: “What am I doing here? Israel needs me.”

By December, even though I was an only child, barely 19, I left. I uprooted myself before “relocation” was even a word we used. I’ve never looked back since. Not even once. Within a year, I was drafted into the IDF. That was how I could fight for my country then. Had I not been drafted, I would have volunteered without hesitation.  Women were not in the battlefields then, but there was work I could do that would help, nevertheless. 

Fifty years later, on October 7th, 2023, I was again fighting. Not with a uniform or a weapon, but sitting on the floor of my saferoom on the Gaza border. Giving interviews. Going live. Telling the world what was happening just beyond my walls. That was the day I lost more dear friends and neighbors than I can count. The day I almost lost two of my children and three of my grandchildren. The day everything converged. Years of building followers in the “Life on the Border Facebook I started just for that purpose, years of learning how to speak, how not to stay silent, how to tell our story. It all led to that moment.

I can no longer carry a gun. So I carry words. I use them as precisely and as fiercely as I can.

I do this to protect my tribe, mindful of the essential distinction between the people of Israel and the government of any given moment, a nuance too many overlook when judgment turns into accusation.

Today, the threats are not only at Israel’s physical borders. Jews in the Diaspora face growing hostility, their safety increasingly fragile. And online, hatred spreads with terrifying speed, fed and amplified until lies begin to sound like truth.

Pushing back is exhausting. It is relentless. At times, it feels like being a single drop in an ocean, determined to drown out reason. There are moments when I think about stepping away. Choosing quiet. Choosing an easier life filled only with family, community, the small, beautiful things.

But I do not feel I have that privilege.

As long as one person writes to say, “I understand more now,” as long as one conversation shifts, as long as truth finds even the smallest opening, I will continue.

This is how I defend my country today. This is how I can help protect my tribe. This is how I fight for the future my grandchildren deserve.

Because if lies are repeated often enough, they harden into something that feels like truth. And silence only helps them grow.

So I will keep speaking. I will take the small victories. And I will keep working to return Zionism to what it truly is: not a slur, not a distortion, but a source of pride. Something Jews can stand tall behind, and something others can respect, understand, and perhaps even admire.

On Israel’s 78th Independence Day, that is my promise.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)