On October 7 I Came Home Twice

The day I first touched the soil of Eretz Israel became, decades later, the day it bled under my feet –  and taught me what it truly means to call this place home.

35 years ago – Oct 7

I cut the umbilical cord of Africa that had fed my soul for 20 years – and boarded a plane to start a new life.  

An inexplicable pull to be part of an ancient story – 3,000 years old – had followed me since birth: in my daydreams, in my dreams. In every breath.

In my mind, images of that first day spin like a silent carousel.  

My toes touching the soil of Eretz Israel.  

My feet carrying me into the arms of the man who would become my life partner.  

The drive from the airport – past house after house decorated for Sukkot.  

My heart soared. I was home.  

Thirty-five years have passed – like a wink and a punch in the gut at the same time.  

Years that sprinted past – before I could glance their way.  

Years that trudged like boots through mud.  

Years of partnership – marriage, pregnancies and losses, fights and makeup hugs, crying babies and stubborn toddlers.  

Childhoods – sweet, sticky, messy, miraculous.  

Crayon drawings, big school, noisy friends – ballet tights and smelly Scout uniforms.  

First loves that crushed little hearts – Shabbat meals that reminded us we were a unit.  

Vacations to distant lands – and the deep-set joy of landing home.  

Pool days – summer weeks – exam months – army years.  

It was my path taken, chosen by me – chaotic, tender, bruised, mine.  

The path I walked barefoot – exposed to the elements, sometimes trudging, sometimes sprinting, sometimes alone, always with love.  

And for which I thanked God every day.  

Then came October 7 –  

the date that shattered the steady rhythm of my life.  

The day the earth beneath our feet trembled and bled.  

The day that turned worlds upside down – and brought our nation to its knees.  

It’s impossible for me to mark my October 7 – the day my new life began – without feeling the weight of this October 7:  a cosmic eclipse that turned day into night 

Where ordinary light vanished, leaving us stumbling through the shadows of hell.  

Two threads woven into the same date – one of intense joy, one of intense heartbreak.  

Perhaps that’s the essence of this place –  

where we straddle miracles and mourning.  

In 35 years – I have learned that to be Israeli is to carry both:  

to hold the ecstasy of birth  and the anguish of loss  in the same trembling hands.  

To know that being truly one with this 3,000-year-old story means inheriting its pain – as much as its promise.  

To understand that courage is not only found under fire on the battlefield  

but also in the deep, defiant acts of silently staying, rebuilding, and believing that rebirth is possible.  

The wide-eyed girl-child from 35 years ago  may have her optimism slightly scuffed at the edges, her enthusiasm tempered.  

But the ancient pull that brought me here still floods my bloodstream.  

Because home is not just a random spot on the map,

it’s a heartbeat shared by millions – who came before me, who live beside me today, who will carry our legacy forward.  

It’s a collective memory.  

It’s a stubborn light – that cannot be snuffed.  

Thirty-five years later –  

after every song that lifted my soul –  

every siren that shook me to the core –  

every tear wept by an orphaned child –  

every wound ripped open time and again –  

every particle of pride that built a wall of resilience like a fortress around my heart –  

I am home.