A Kinder Path Based on Values we Can Live With

Please stop telling me I am naive. Rest assured that when I tell you that you do not know me, it’s because you really do not know me; that is partly my fault.  I have always tried not to talk about certain things, to avoid stigma and secondary abuse for the most part, but here is the truth.

I have eaten from garbage cans. I have slept with a knife under my bed. I have been beaten more times than I can count. I have been sexually assaulted. I have starved.

I stole firewood at night to keep from freezing in the winter.

After I moved to Israel in 1985, I experienced terror attacks. As a child, I remember when we would share two chocolate bars between seven starving kids.

My mother’s story was tragic; she was held captive by her partner for many years. She tried to leave, but he wouldn’t let her go. He had a lengthy criminal record. She met him in San Francisco in the 1950s—a vulnerable adult, worn down by life—and he’d just gotten out of San Quentin, having talked his way out of a murder sentence. She tried to escape but the police refused to help and kept calling her his wife.  From that came seven children.  She finally escaped with us when I was 7, but the authorities caught up with us and brought us to foster care. In their wisdom, the court granted a convicted felon custody over all of us, as my mother did not show up to court for fear of her life.

He kept us trapped with threats—there was nothing he wouldn’t do to those he could reach. I faced my own death every day, often beaten so badly I thought I’d die. He used a bullwhip once and broke a chair over my skull another time.

He was a serious amphedamine drug addict; he’d keep us up all night interrogating us if a chocolate bar went missing. When you live with someone like that, you can’t leave—they’ll kill you if you try.

The state called what happened to my mother a common-law marriage, but it was a hostage crisis.

CPS social workers stepped in, and you start thinking, What have I done? Foster homes came next—countless places where kids like me landed. But when I was 9, my older sister asked to join the synagogue. The synagogue smelled like candles and old books, and for the first time, I wasn’t afraid. Our mother had long escaped by then. We were living in a broken-down house without heat in Portland, Oregon. My father allowed it—probably thought he could get money from it.

My Bat Mitzvah and time in Jewish Zionist summer camps felt like stepping into a new world. I saw well-fed, happy, loved children who got gifts and letters. My older sister would send me letters, signing them as my dad so I wouldn’t feel left out at camp. The rabbi bought me clothes to wear. This is what we Jews are good at—saving kids’ lives.

My siblings didn’t find that path. They got into gangs and didn’t live long—drugs and violent deaths took them. I had this community—an oasis. The lessons I’ve learned in 62 years tell me we’re headed down the wrong road.

So what is the right road? Oasis 1. We don’t kill children. We don’t put ourselves in that situation because we take control of the crazy, which means we take the people who want to get out. How do you make someone a Zionist? You make them an investor. You vet them—this can be done quickly with Unit 8200.  And if they don’t follow the rules of the Oasis, you send them out. Even then, you show compassion. Even if they’re sent out from us, we still give them hope and tell them they can change.

We never close the door on people. We’re not talking about Hamas; we’re talking about saving those that can be saved—because it’s the right thing to do, because it will create a strong Israel later on, and the best part is we’ll be able to live with ourselves after the fact.

Helping the children of Gaza saves our souls and saves Jewish lives by producing more nice people who don’t hate Jews. That’s Oasis 1—a plan to give kids a fighting chance, like I got. I’ve lived their kind of hardship—hungry enough to eat from garbage cans, scared enough to sleep with a knife, beaten and threatened every day, cold enough to steal firewood, and in Israel, shaken by terror attacks.

My mother’s captor kept us in a trap—daily threats, no escape. But at 9, my sister brought us to a synagogue in Portland. My father saw dollar signs, not faith. My Bat Mitzvah was a quiet beginning. Summer camps showed me kids with full plates, warm clothes, and letters from home—my sister faked mine, and my rabbi made sure I fit in. That community pulled me out and gave me hope, pride, and a decent life worth living.

Oasis 1 does that for Gaza’s kids—takes control gently, not harshly. We vet them with Unit 8200—quickly, relatively, thousands an hour. Those who fit stay—get jobs like growing food in a safe place, homes to feel secure, a chance to be Zionists, and people who invest in a future with us. They’d grow up knowing Jews as the ones who gave them a home, not took it away. It weakens Hamas by taking away their shields, turning kids into friends, not foes. We send out those who don’t fit—not to punish, but with food, hope, a way back if they choose. We don’t shut them out—that’s not who we are. It’s about saving who we can, because it’s right. It builds a stronger Israel by making allies, not enemies.

Why does it work? I’m proof. My rabbi didn’t leave me in that broken-down house—no heat, no peace. He gave me a community—an oasis—while my siblings fell to gangs, lost to drugs, violence, and early deaths.

In 62 years, I’ve seen the wrong road—fear, division, hate. Oasis 1 is the right one—hope, kindness, unity. It gives kids a fighting chance to break free, like I did, and saves our souls by doing good. It saves Jewish lives by raising friendly people who don’t hate us—changes the story from fighting to friendship. Jews, let’s walk this road now—help Gaza’s kids, give back the chance I was given, the oasis that saved me.