My Heart Beats with the Pulse of This Country—And for Those Beyond Our Borders

I am Israeli. My heart beats with the pulse of this country. It beats not only in times of crisis, during the war, but every day. I feel it in every triumph and heartbreak, the laughter of children playing in parks, and the whispered prayers of families gathered around dinner tables and barbecues. This love, this loyalty to my people, is part of who I am. I can’t turn it off, and I wouldn’t want to.

But in times like these—times of conflict, loss, and fear—my heart does something else. It aches not only for my own people but for those across the border, the innocent Lebanese caught in the storm, just like us. They, too, are victims of forces beyond their control, used by those in power for agendas that have nothing to do with them. I know this, and I can’t ignore it. I feel their pain, too, even if it differs from mine.

Some might say I’m too soft-hearted or that my empathy is misplaced. They might say my focus should be solely on my own people. And I understand that perspective—trust me, I do. But I can’t help it; it’s who I am. My compassion doesn’t come with borders, and I’ve learned that caring deeply for my own people doesn’t mean I can’t care for others, too. In fact, I believe it makes my love for Israel even more potent because it’s rooted in a vision of humanity that extends beyond lines on a map. 

The Innocent Are Often Pawns in a Larger Game

This truth haunts me: the innocent are often pawns in a larger game, manipulated and sacrificed by those in power. And it’s not just in Lebanon. Here in Israel, I feel it, too, especially when it comes to issues like mental health, where it seems like the government only half-commits to helping our people. But that’s a conversation for another time. Right now, my mind is on Lebanon and the people there who have become collateral damage in a war they never asked for.

The Iranian regime exerts its influence over Lebanon, using it as a base for its own ambitions, exploiting Lebanese civilians as shields, and treating their homeland as a staging ground. And while my love for Israel is unwavering, I can’t ignore the fact that the average Lebanese family is not my enemy. They are people just like us, trying to survive in a land that feels increasingly out of their control. Many of them are terrified, disillusioned, and exhausted by a conflict that serves only the interests of distant powers.

When I picture them, I see parents who lie awake at night, just like ours, praying that tomorrow will be better. I see young men and women who dream of a future that feels out of reach, just as many of our children do. I see elderly people who’ve watched their country’s beauty get overshadowed by war, year after year. How can I not feel compassion for them? How can I not recognize that their suffering is as real as ours? 

Wrestling with Dual Loyalties

It’s a strange place to hold both these truths in my heart. To feel such intense love and loyalty for Israel while also carrying compassion for those across the border. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s even possible to reconcile these two feelings. Am I being disloyal by acknowledging the pain of “the other”? By admitting that, at the end of the day, we’re not so different from the families who live just a few kilometers away?

This isn’t easy. I worry that this empathy could be seen as a weakness or that I’ll be misunderstood by those who want us to keep our focus inward, on our own. But the way I see it, my empathy is rooted in my loyalty to Israel. I love my country so much that I want a future where we don’t have to live in fear of our neighbors and where they don’t have to live in fear of us. I want Israel to stand firm in its compassion as much as in its defense. An Israel that doesn’t just survive but thrives in peace.

And I can’t help but wonder—if we as a nation were willing to hold space for this compassion, what kind of power could that have? What if more of us looked across the border and saw not just an enemy but people caught in this cycle just like us? Empathy doesn’t make us weaker; it makes us stronger. It reminds us of what we’re fighting for and grounds us in our shared humanity. 

Questioning Power and the Cost of Conflict

A question keeps coming up for me that’s hard to even say out loud. If the innocent people in Lebanon are being used by their leaders—by regimes that care more about power than about human lives—could the same be happening here? Could we, too, be sometimes pawns in the hands of those in power? I think about the struggles within Israel, about the ways we are sometimes neglected, especially when it comes to things like mental health support. How often have we been promised that things will change, that help is coming, only to be let down?

I don’t mean to say that our leaders are the same as those who control Lebanon. Our situations are different in so many ways. But I can’t ignore the feeling that, sometimes, ordinary people—whether Israeli or Lebanese—are paying the price for decisions that have nothing to do with us. We carry the burden, we suffer the losses, and we watch our loved ones go off to fight. And I wonder if, somewhere in the halls of power, our pain is simply a line on someone’s balance sheet.

But despite this, I hold onto hope. I have to. I believe in the strength and resilience of the Israeli people. And I think most of us want a world where this suffering isn’t necessary, borders don’t mean fear, and empathy can thrive without suspicion. 

Living with Compassion on Both Sides of the Border

So here I am, trying to find my way through this duality. My heart beats with the pulse of this country, and that will never change. I will always be here for my people, in the good and bad times. But my heart also aches for the innocent Lebanese who are caught in the same storm, used as tools in a game they didn’t choose. And I’m learning that it’s okay to hold both. It’s okay to love fiercely while recognizing that our “enemy” is often as much a victim as we are.

What I know for sure is that this compassion doesn’t weaken my love for Israel. If anything, it strengthens it. It reminds me why peace matters and why human dignity matters. Loving my country means wanting what’s best for it—not just in terms of security, but in terms of values and the world we’re building for future generations. And I believe that we’re strongest when we’re rooted in empathy and hold onto our humanity, no matter how hard the world tries to make us let go of it. 

Holding Onto Hope for a Different Future

I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know if there will ever be a day when we can live without fear when Israel and Lebanon can exist as peaceful neighbors. But I want to believe in that possibility. And I want to think that, even now, in the middle of this conflict, my compassion for the innocent Lebanese doesn’t make me weak—it makes me strong.

If you feel this dual compassion, too, know that you’re not alone. It’s possible to hold both—to love Israel fiercely, to fight for its safety and security, while also recognizing the humanity of those on the other side. This isn’t a contradiction; it’s a vision for a world that’s better than the one we’re living in now—a world where empathy isn’t a liability but a strength, where borders don’t keep us from seeing each other as human.

So, I’ll keep carrying this duality in my heart, however heavy it may be. I’ll keep loving my people while honoring the suffering of others. And I’ll keep hoping that, one day, this compassion will lead us toward a different future—one where no one has to live in fear, no one has to be a pawn, and all of us on both sides of the border can finally breathe in peace.