Living in Israel as a Jew makes absolutely no sense.
Objectively, it’s madness.
We’ve built our lives in a region where every neighbor either wants us gone, silent, or six feet under.
We pay Tel Aviv prices for apartments half the size of what we could afford anywhere else.
We send our kids to the army before they’ve finished being kids.
We raise them with sirens overhead and bomb shelters below.
And we measure time not just in days, months or holidays, but in wars — 2008, 2012, 2014, 2021, 2023, 2025.
We are surrounded by chaos, condemned by the world, betrayed by many of our own, and asked to justify our very existence — every single day.
And yet… we stay.
But more than that — we come.
Since October 7, over 35,000 Jews from around the world have made Aliyah, choosing to plant their futures in this land despite the turmoil.
They came from over 100 countries, driven by faith, identity, and an unshakable sense of belonging.
Not because they’re irrational.
But because they’re home.
This week, my 8-year-old son celebrated receiving his first Siddur at the Kotel. Not just a holy place. The headquarters of Jewish prayer.
And over Pesach, we hiked together as a family through ancient paths — not as tourists, but as descendants coming home.
Where else in the world do school field trips take your children to the same vineyards and valleys spoken of in Sefer Yehoshua?
Where else do kids run through the very cities where our prophets walked — not to visit history, but to inherit it?
Here, in Israel, Jewish children don’t just read Tanach.
They live it.
They walk the hills of Beit El.
They learn about David’s bravery while standing in the Valley of Elah.
They sing the same verses their ancestors whispered in exile — now with pride and volume, under their own flag.
We are a nation that loves our Bible — not just as a book, but as a blueprint.
We’re not just remembering our story.
We’re continuing it.
And we didn’t end up here by accident.
We clawed our way back — through exile, through ashes, through every empire that tried to erase us.
And now, we’re raising the next generation not as survivors… but as builders.
Yes, it’s hard.
We argue. We grieve. We honk like lunatics.
We’ve voted in five elections in four years.
Groceries cost too much.
The bureaucracy is real.
And we’re still healing from October 7 — from the pain, the loss, the betrayal, the division.
But where else do your kids grow up speaking the language of the prophets?
Where else is a Friday afternoon not traffic and errands — but the smell of challah, and the sound of Shabbat songs drifting from every open window?
Where else do you walk past soldiers with rifles and feel safe?
Where else do you cry on Yom Hazikaron, dance on Yom Ha’atzmaut — and understand that they’re two sides of the same holy coin?
We’re not here for comfort.
We’re here for covenant.
And no, it doesn’t make sense.
But maybe home isn’t supposed to.
Maybe home is where you fight, cry, sing, believe, and build — all at once.
“וְשָׁבוּ בָנִים לִגְבוּלָם”
“And your children shall return to their borders.” (Yirmiyahu 31:16)
We are the generation that didn’t just return. We stayed.
And we’re raising the next — with joy, with pride, and with our feet planted deep in the most meaningful soil on earth.
And if your heart ever whispers that maybe you belong here too — listen.
It might not make sense.
But it might just be home.
Dedicated to my brother, sister in law and their two children who are about to join us — at home.
Juda Honickman is a writer, proud Zionist, and longtime advocate for the people and Land of Israel.