Between Generations
To be Israeli in times of war is to live in two timelines at once.
There is the present, sirens, headlines, our children leaving to serve, political arguments, uncertainty.
And then there is the past, the quiet stories told at the kitchen table, the numbers on an arm, the silences that spoke more than words.
In one lifetime, our family story stretches from powerlessness to sovereignty.
My father grew up in a world where Jews had no army to defend them, no state to claim them, no force to secure their future. Survival depended on chance. On hiding. On endurance. The lesson carved into his life was simple: without the ability to defend ourselves, our future is never secure.
Today, my children wear the uniform of a Jewish state. That alone is a profound transformation of history.
When they serve, they are not serving an idea of war. They are serving the right of our people to exist safely in our homeland. They stand guard so families can sleep at night, so children can go to school, so life, ordinary, beautiful, imperfect life can continue.
Defending Israel is not about aggression. It is about responsibility.
It is about ensuring that the Jewish people will never again depend on the mercy of others for survival. It is about sovereignty, the ability to shape our own destiny. It is about protecting a fragile and extraordinary reality: a democratic Jewish state built after centuries of exile and persecution.
When I watch my children in the IDF, I feel many things at once, pride, concern, love beyond measure. But above all, I feel continuity. My father survived so that we could stand upright. My children serve so that we can remain upright.
This is not a cycle of endless war. It is a commitment to existence.
We do not defend our state because we love conflict. We defend it because we love life. Because we want a brighter future than our past. Because we believe that strength today can create stability tomorrow.
Every generation of Jews has carried a different burden.
My father carried survival.
My children carry responsibility.
And I carry hope.
Hope that their service will help secure a safer, more stable tomorrow. Hope that defending our state today will allow our grandchildren to live more freely. Hope that the strength we show now will create space for greater peace ahead.
“Never again” is not only a warning. It is also a promise, promise that Jewish history will not return to helplessness, that our children will inherit a country that stands firm.
A promise that despite fear, despite conflict, despite the weight of memory, we choose life.
And that choice, to defend, to endure, to believe in a brighter future, is the deepest meaning of sovereignty.
