You do not burn what you love

The hills around Jerusalem are burning.

Fires raged throughout the night, creeping forward, through dry wadi and golden slope, circling the city like jackals at the gates—feral, low to the ground, hungry for ruin. They don’t ask who planted the olive tree, who prayed under the fig, or who carved blessings into the limestone. The flames do not care.

But we do.

Because to love this land is not just to inherit it—it is to tend it. To water it. To rise before dawn and walk its borders. To crouch low in the dirt and coax life from rock and dust.

And those who truly love this land could never set fire to it. No matter their grief. No matter their fury. No matter how deep the scars or how ancient the wounds, they would never torch the hills that hold our stories.

“When you besiege a city for a long time… you must not destroy its trees by wielding an axe against them.”

— Deuteronomy 20:19

My friends are out there now—firefighters, soldiers, parents with garden hoses and buckets—beating back the flames with blistered hands. My own son helped put out a fire on his kibbutz, still a boy, already a guardian. This is the love of the land: not abstract, not poetic, but fierce and gritty and real.

The jackals are circling.

My friends are out there now—firefighters, soldiers, parents with garden hoses and buckets—beating back the flames with blistered hands. My own son helped put out a fire on his kibbutz, still a boy, already a guardian. This is the love of the land: not abstract, not poetic, but fierce and gritty and real.

But still, we stay. Still, we fight—not only to protect our homes, but to protect the soul of this place. Because this land is sacred to all of us. Not as a prize. Not as a pawn. But as a living testament to something older than rage and stronger than fear.

You do not burn what you love.

And if you do, you were never the rightful heir.