Israel’s Fight: Love, Loss, and Unbreakable Hope
Prologue:
This story took place before October 7th, 2023. However, now more than ever, we should look to this incredible woman as an example. She endured unimaginable hardships, yet in times of crisis, she stood with her people rather than protesting her government. She understood that while there is a time for debate, there is also a time for unity. In moments of peril, the people of Israel must stand together—because we have no other homeland. Now, we must be united against our enemy, Hamas.
The Old Lady On The Bus:
The transportation system in Israel is generally efficient—buses and trains run regularly, connecting the country with ease. But if there’s one thing that makes the experience challenging, it’s the lack of order when boarding. In many places, people naturally wait their turn, but here, it’s more of a chaotic scramble—a test of determination rather than patience.
Sundays are particularly tough. Soldiers, their backpacks heavy and rifles slung over their shoulders, press forward in crowds, all trying to get on the same bus. Yet, as someone who deeply supports Israel and the IDF, I find it hard to be frustrated. Each of these young men and women is heading into another demanding week of service, carrying a weight far heavier than their gear. If waiting a few extra minutes means making space for them, it’s a small price to pay.
Once seated, the ride is comfortable. Free Wi-Fi, phone chargers, and the steady hum of the bus make for a moment of respite from the frantic Israeli traffic. On one such ride, an elderly woman sat beside me. She looked to be in her sixties, though her eyes held the weight of far more years. She spoke to me in Hebrew, and with my limited knowledge of the language, I replied as best I could: “Ani lo medaberet ivrit”—”I don’t speak Hebrew.” She studied me for a moment before responding in flawless English, her voice tinged with something between sadness and resignation.
“Be glad you don’t understand the radio. It’s all horror. Nothing has changed here in decades.”
Curious, I asked about her life in Israel. She smiled, sensing my love for the country, and that was when she began to tell me her story.
She wasn’t in her sixties, as I had guessed—she was ninety-three. Born in Israel to parents who had fled Poland long before World War II, she had never known another home. They had come seeking safety from the rising tide of antisemitism, hoping Israel would offer them peace. Life was hard, money was scarce, and survival depended on what the land could provide. But despite the struggles, her childhood was filled with joy. Jews and Arabs lived side by side, and there was harmony—at least for a time.
She grew up, married, and built a life. Between raising her children and working as a housekeeper, she pursued her education and became a professor of Hebrew. Then, in 1948, Israel was born, and war followed. Her husband fought, and she witnessed the growing hostility between Jews and Arabs, a divide that seemed impossible to mend. It broke her heart. Still, she focused on her family, giving them everything she could—education, experiences, love. The word “no” simply did not exist in her vocabulary.
But Israel, meant to be a sanctuary, remained a land of conflict. The wars, the terror attacks, the constant undercurrent of fear—it never disappeared. Her children served in the army, fighting in the Six-Day War and the Yom Kippur War. Miraculously, they survived, even those in the most dangerous units. When the wars ended, she wept with gratitude and resolved to change her path. Unfulfilled in her career, she trained as a psychologist, dedicating her life to helping those scarred by war. For years, life was good.
Her children grew, started families of their own, and she was blessed with many grandchildren. The fear never truly vanished, but it faded into the background. Until one day, it returned with a vengeance.
An explosion. A terror attack. A knock at the door. Her son, along with two of her grandchildren, had been killed instantly.
Tears welled in her eyes as she spoke, though they fell silently, as if she had long since run out of ways to express her grief. She told me how, in the wake of their deaths, she questioned everything. Why stay in a place where life was so fragile? Where even the strongest could be shattered in an instant? Perhaps she should leave—go to America, to Canada, anywhere but here.
But then her surviving son took her hand and spoke words that would anchor her to this land forever.
“Mother, you and our grandparents built this country. You poured your best years into it, gave us a home, taught us to love and defend it. Now, in the face of tragedy, would you leave? Would you let evil win? If you walk away, then Israel is lost—not just for us, but for all who came before and all who will come after.”
She fell silent then, looking at me with an intensity that sent shivers through me.
“Do you see now? Do you understand why your support for Israel matters? Without love, without hope, this country has no future. We must stand together. Israel is our home.”
The bus slowed to a stop. She took my hand, gave it a firm shake, and stepped off into the sunlit street.
As she walked away, her words echoed in my mind. “Keep telling the truth.”