If I forget thee, O Jerusalem

Rehov Caspi, a magnificent street in the historic Talpiot neighborhood of Jerusalem, stands as a testament to the unbreakable spirit of Israel. Once situated at the tense border between Jordan and Israel, this street bears the marks of history, with trenches running alongside the apartment buildings. Yet, despite the shadows of the past, it sat atop one of Jerusalem’s majestic hills, where nature flourished, and life was vibrant. I was blessed to be a small part of her story, if only for a short time, but long enough to call it home for more than a year.

Never in my life had I felt such unadulterated happiness as I did on that street. My best friend, Martin , the son of the former Dutch ambassador to Israel, lived in the house next to ours. We played ping-pong in the shelter of their home, with an unparalleled view of the Dome of the Rock and the Old City—an ancient Jewish stronghold that has remained the heart of our people for millennia. We ran through the empty apartment buildings still under construction, oblivious to the weight of history beneath our feet. I remember discovering an old watch in one of the trenches. Only now do I realize, with a shudder, that it may have belonged to an Israeli soldier who fought to protect our land, possibly making the ultimate sacrifice.

As Dutch children, we were filled with adventure, roaming the hills in search of scorpions and exploring hidden caves. Yet, our Israeli neighbors were not allowed to join us. Just downhill lay a hostile Arab village, and their parents feared for their safety. Even as children, we felt the reality of living in Israel—our freedom shadowed by the ever-present threat of those who sought to destroy us. But to us, Jerusalem was home. The intoxicating fragrance of its flowers, the stunning vistas stretching before our eyes—every moment was a gift.

Rehov Caspi was also home to many expats. My Swedish friend Erica, along with Sandy and Sarah, who had made Aliyah with their families from the United States and England, formed our international circle of friends. But we Dutch children were the boldest—or perhaps the most naïve. We would use our pocket money to buy birds that Arab youths had caught and were selling, just to set them free, returning them to the skies above the land of Israel.

Nearby, in an open field that has since been replaced by modern apartment buildings, IDF soldiers trained. I would sit for hours, watching them with admiration, longing to be as strong and resilient as they were. During their breaks, I would bring them coffee and cold lemonade, already a devoted supporter of the Israel Defense Forces, even as a child. My compassion extended beyond people—I built a shelter for stray cats beneath our building, turning it into a haven for Jerusalem’s feline wanderers. I am sure my Dutch stubbornness in caring for them was not always appreciated by my neighbors, but my love for every living being in Jerusalem knew no bounds.

Jerusalem was a place of pure joy, a city of dreams, a sanctuary of imagination. Now, when I walk its streets and revisit my beloved Rehov Caspi, I cannot help but cry. The beauty remains, the flowers still bloom, and the breathtaking views endure. But the trenches are no longer accessible, and the hill is now off-limits. I weep for my lost childhood, my lost home, and my lost friends.

Yet, every time I return to Israel, I come home. In Jerusalem, I am once again the girl who ran through its ancient streets, the girl with countless friends, the girl who saved birds and cared for cats.

When I first returned in 2015, decades later, I feared disappointment. Would the modern changes erase the city I cherished? The light rail crossing Jaffa Road seemed foreign to me—too contemporary for the timeless city I remembered. Yet, Israel, with its unmatched ingenuity, had seamlessly woven progress into tradition. New buildings, crafted from Jerusalem stone, preserved the city’s historic essence, ensuring that its ancient character remained untouched.

Jerusalem is the eternal and undivided capital of Israel—the heart and soul of the Jewish people. It is a city unlike any other, where the Jewish spirit is most deeply felt, where every stone tells a story of perseverance and faith.

“If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither. Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth if I do not remember you, if I do not exalt Jerusalem above my chief joy.”

For thousands of years, Jerusalem has been the beating heart of the Jewish people. We have fought for her, prayed for her, and returned to her. And as long as there are Jews in the world, we will cherish and protect her—for eternity.