I Will Never Forget You

“If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning. If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy.”

(Psalm 137:5–6)

I am not religious. Not even remotely. I do not live my life according to religious commandments, nor do I believe that faith is necessary to understand the extraordinary bond between a human being and a land. But every time I read these ancient words, something happens inside me that I cannot explain. Because how could I possibly forget Jerusalem? How could I forget the city that has held my heart hostage since I was a little Dutch girl wandering through its streets, climbing its hills, breathing its air, and experiencing a happiness that I have spent the rest of my life trying to find again?

Jerusalem is not simply a city to me. It is an emotion, a memory, a wound, a sanctuary, and perhaps the only place on earth where my restless soul has ever truly found peace. And no matter how angry I become with Israel, no matter how disappointed I am in its people, its politicians, or its decisions, Jerusalem remains there, quietly reminding me that some bonds cannot be broken, even when they hurt like hell.

And believe me, in recent years, Israel has hurt me tremendously.

Since the war began, I have cursed, shouted, argued, and occasionally wondered whether the people I have defended for practically my entire life have completely lost their minds. I have watched the handling of the Gaza flotilla and wondered how anyone could be so astonishingly ignorant of the international consequences of their actions. I have watched Ben Gvir make public appearances and statements that, in my opinion, demonstrated a spectacular lack of political self awareness and self control. I have seen reports of an inhabitant of Judea & Samaria torturing a dog, something that made my blood boil, because cruelty is cruelty, regardless of who commits it.

And I have watched Israelis, time and again, hand their enemies precisely the images, statements, and opportunities they were waiting for.

Do they have any idea what that does to someone defending Israel from abroad? Do they understand what it feels like to spend hours, days, weeks, and years confronting hostility, misinformation, hatred, and accusations, only to see another completely unnecessary incident undermine everything you have tried to explain?

Sometimes I genuinely wonder whether anyone in Israel listens to those of us standing outside its borders, watching the international consequences unfold in real time. Perhaps they think that a woman from the Netherlands cannot possibly understand their reality. Perhaps they believe that living in Israel automatically makes someone better informed about how the rest of the world perceives their country.

Well, I have news for them. Distance can provide a perspective that proximity sometimes destroys.

I have been defending Israel since I was thirteen years old. I have lost friendships, relationships, opportunities, money, peace of mind, and an enormous amount of emotional energy along the way. I founded Time To Stand Up For Israel because I believed, and still believe, that Israel deserves to be understood, defended, and recognized for what it is, rather than reduced to the endless accusations of its enemies.

But what about those of us who give everything?

What happens when you pour your heart and soul into something for decades, only to discover that you are standing there, emotionally exhausted, with very little left for yourself?

There have been countless moments when I wanted to quit. Not because I suddenly embraced the political narratives of those calling themselves “Palestinians”, nor because I stopped recognizing Israel’s security concerns. My distrust of the movements and individuals who glorify violence against Israelis remains profound, although I know that no entire population can be judged by the actions of its extremists.

I wanted to quit because I was tired of giving so much of myself to a country that sometimes seems completely unaware of the sacrifices made by those defending it from afar.

And yet, every single time I thought I had reached my limit, Jerusalem returned to my thoughts.

The sunlight falling on its ancient stones. The extraordinary silence that sometimes descends upon its streets. The hills where I played as a child. The memories of a time when the world seemed infinitely less complicated. The strange feeling that somewhere beneath those stones, beneath the streets and the buildings, something ancient is still breathing.

I cannot explain it scientifically. I cannot explain it religiously. And frankly, I no longer feel the need to explain it at all.

If I forget thee, O Jerusalem…

Every news report that damages Israel feels like a dagger entering my heart. Every unnecessary scandal makes me furious. Every terrorist attack brings back the same sickening fear. Every Israeli death feels painfully personal, even when I have never met the victim.

And so, like some modern Don Quixote, I continue fighting battles that often seem impossible to win, confronting windmills that grow larger every year, while leaving another little piece of my heart somewhere along the road.

I am not religious. I am not blessed with the extraordinary optimism that so many Israelis seem capable of maintaining even during their darkest hours. I certainly do not possess the intellectual brilliance of some of my dearest Israeli friends, people whose intelligence, courage, and humanity I admire beyond words.

But I have something that cannot be measured by intelligence, religion, nationality, or political affiliation.

I have an unconditional love for Israel.

Not the convenient kind of love that disappears when things become difficult. Not the fashionable kind that depends on international approval. Not the superficial kind that consists of waving a flag while everything is going well.

I mean the kind of love that survives disappointment, anger, rejection, loneliness, and emotional exhaustion. The kind that makes you furious precisely because you care so deeply. The kind that refuses to disappear even when every rational part of your brain tells you that perhaps it would be healthier to walk away.

Israel is the only country where I have ever felt completely, genuinely happy. The only country where I feel that strange sensation of belonging without needing to justify my presence. The only country for which I believe I would be willing to give my life.

And yes, perhaps that sounds dramatic. Perhaps it sounds irrational. Perhaps people who have never experienced such a connection will laugh at it.

Let them.

There is something mystical about Israel to me. Something in its ancient soil, its mountains, its deserts, its Mediterranean coastline, and the extraordinary energy of its people. Something that has kept my heart connected to that tiny piece of land for almost half a century, regardless of how many thousands of kilometers separate us.

I am tired of defending my feelings. Tired of explaining why Israel matters so much to me. Tired of people sitting comfortably in countries far away, viciously questioning Israel’s right to exist or dismissing the very real threats to its security, while knowing so little about the lives of the people who actually live there.

And I am equally tired of Israelis who fail to understand that the people defending them abroad are not machines. We have feelings. We have limits. We have our own struggles, disappointments, and heartbreaks.

Sometimes we need something in return. Not money, not recognition, not applause. Just the knowledge that our commitment is understood and that our voices are occasionally heard.

Nevertheless, tonight I want to put my anger aside.

I want to send every ounce of love, strength, hope, and positive energy I still possess to Jerusalem, to the streets of Tel Aviv, Holon, Modi’in, Haifa, Tiberias, Ashkelon, Ashdod, Herzliya, Netanya, Ramat Gan, Kfar Saba, Beersheba, Eilat, and every other city, town, kibbutz, and community throughout Israel.

To the soldiers protecting their country. To the families waiting anxiously for their loved ones. To the people mourning those they have lost. To those rebuilding their lives after unimaginable suffering. And to the ordinary Israelis who simply want to live, work, raise their children, and enjoy the peace that every human being deserves.

And perhaps, just perhaps, if Israelis and those of us who love Israel from the diaspora could direct more of our energy toward what unites us, rather than what divides us, we might discover that our greatest strength has always been our ability to stand together.

I cannot promise that I will never curse Israel again. Knowing myself, I probably will. I cannot promise that I will never become furious with its politicians, its people, or its decisions. I certainly will.

And I cannot promise that I will continue my advocacy forever, because even unconditional love cannot make a human being inexhaustible.

But there is one thing I know with absolute certainty.

No matter where life takes me, no matter how many disappointments I endure, and no matter how often I consider walking away, there will always be a part of me wandering through the hills of Jerusalem, just as I did when I was a child.

And that part of me will never leave.

If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning.

I will not forget you, Jerusalem.

Not in this lifetime.

Shabbat Shalom, Israel.