The Day Israel Answered Me

I came to Israel wondering whether I could really take my children away from the comfort of American life. Then our car was totaled , strangers came running toward us, and everything changed.

We had just begun our drive from Jerusalem when everything shifted in seconds.

A car ahead of us crashed. Another car hit it, and then our car collided with the car in front of us. Four cars. One collision. The entire front of our car was destroyed.

The airbags exploded. The windshield shattered. There was glass everywhere and that unmistakable smell from the airbags filling the car.

Thank GD, every one of us was wearing a seatbelt.

Then I heard my daughter screaming.My younger son was saying his stomach hurt.

My sandals had somehow flown off my feet. My door was jammed, but I pushed until it opened. I stepped out barefoot onto broken glass and ran around the car toward my children.

I didn’t care where my shoes were. I didn’t care about the glass under my feet. I just needed to get to my kids.

And then something happened that I will never forget.

People started running toward us. Not away from the accident.Toward it.

People stopped their cars. People pulled over on motorcycles. People seemed to appear from everywhere.

One of the first was a man named Itzik.

I still don’t really know where he came from. He simply appeared and started taking care of us. He checked on my children. He checked on me. He checked on my husband. And then he stayed.

He surely had somewhere to be that day. A family. Work. Plans. A life that had nothing to do with four American Jews standing shaken beside a destroyed car.

But for that moment, we mattered to him.

Then the paramedics arrived. Then more people came. Before we were taken to the hospital, dozens of strangers had stopped to ask whether we were okay. Did we need a ride? Could someone take our luggage? Did the children need anything? Did we have somewhere to go?

Nobody knew us.They treated us like family anyway.And maybe that is because, here, we are.

The strange thing is that I had spent this entire trip wondering whether Israel was giving me some kind of immigration test.

My family is planning to make Aliyah. And despite how certain I may sound when I say that, I am a mother. Of course I have questions.

My children have a very comfortable American life. My husband is a physician. I work in politics and community organizing. We have a beautiful home, multiple cars, excellent schools, vacations, convenience and stability. My children have close friends and a life they understand.

They know America. And I am asking them to leave it. I am asking them to exchange a polished, comfortable American childhood for something much grittier.

In Israel, I see young children helping with their siblings. I see teenagers working, hustling, selling things, starting businesses and learning independence earlier than many American children do.

Life feels louder here. Harder. Less polished. Less convenient.

And the funny thing is, part of me looks at all of that and thinks…GOOD. I want some grit for my children.

I want them to understand responsibility. I want them surrounded by people who argue loudly, love intensely and show up for one another.

But wanting that in theory and actually uprooting your children are two very different things.

So I kept asking myself questions. Am I really ready to take them away from their friends? From the education system they know? From the comfort and predictability of American life?

These are American Jewish children. Can they really become Israeli children?

Then our car crashed. And Israel answered me.

At one of the most frightening moments of my life, complete strangers came running toward my family.

Nobody asked what synagogue we belonged to. Nobody asked whether we were religious or secular. Nobody asked how we voted, how much money we had, where we came from or whether we were planning to stay.

They saw a family in trouble, and they came.

There is a kind of wealth in that which is very difficult to explain until you experience it. You cannot buy it with a bigger house. You cannot replace it with another car. You cannot manufacture it with the best private school or the most comfortable lifestyle.

It is the feeling that when something goes terribly wrong, the people around you do not see you as somebody else’s problem.

They see you as theirs.

And suddenly the question I had been asking all week felt very different.

Would our life in America be easier in many ways? Absolutely. But ease is not the only measure of a good life.

Comfort is not the same thing as belonging.

I can give my children many things in America. But I want to give them this too, the knowledge that they are part of a people, and that when one family is standing frightened on the side of the road, others stop.

They come closer. They ask what they can carry. They stay.

Our car was totaled. The windshield shattered. The airbags deployed. Looking at what was left of that car, I still cannot quite understand how we all climbed out of it.

Yet somehow, thank GD, my husband and children were okay, and I walked away with little more than a wrapped foot and some bruises.

It was a total and complete miracle.

I came to Israel on this trip wondering whether I was really prepared to call this place home.

On the side of a road, barefoot among broken glass, Israel answered me. I have my answer.

Thank You, Hashem, for protecting my family.

And thank You for reminding me, in the most dramatic way imaginable, exactly where home is