The Strangest Feeling, The Strongest Pull

There’s a feeling I’ve never quite been able to explain.

It doesn’t show up on a map. It isn’t stamped in a passport. And it doesn’t care where you were born, where you live or how far you’ve wandered.

But it’s there. A pull. A quiet, constant gravity that tugs at something deeper than logic.

I grew up in the diaspora. Built a life, travelled, lived in different places. But no matter where I was… Israel was always home.

Not “home” in the practical sense. Not where my bed was, or where my post was delivered.

Home in the way your soul recognises something before your mind can explain it.

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And then there’s the part that makes absolutely no sense at all. Because where else on earth does this happen?

Missiles are flying. Sirens are sounding. The risk is real, daily, unavoidable. And what do we do? We get on planes… to go towards it.

Emergency repatriation flights – not to evacuate people away from danger, but to bring them back into it. From safe countries. From quiet streets. From places where life is comfortable and calm.

Back to a country under threat. Back to a place where hundreds of missiles can cross the sky in a single day. Back home.

Comedians like Yohay Sponder have fun with it – because honestly, how could you not? Which other country “rescues” its people from safety… and brings them into a war zone?

And yet, we go. Willingly. Almost instinctively. Not because we have to. Because we need to.

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And then there’s something even more extraordinary.

At 18 – barely out of childhood – we send our sons and daughters off to serve. Not reluctantly. Not with hesitation. With pride.

In most places, 18 is freedom. In Israel, it’s responsibility. A quiet understanding that freedom isn’t something you inherit. It’s something you protect.

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And here’s the part people rarely say out loud: Would I go?

Yes. In a heartbeat. Without hesitation. To serve my country. To protect my family. My neighbours. To protect Am Yisrael. No question.

But here’s the harder question:

Would I send my children?

Again… yes.

Would I be scared?

You’re damn right.

Would I have a lump in my throat?

Of course.

Would I send my beautiful children off to protect a home they weren’t born in – to stand shoulder to shoulder with kids from different backgrounds, different cultures, different lives?

Yes. Absolutely.

Would I be proud of them for protecting our home… our people… Jews, Christians, Muslims, Druze, Bedouins, neighbours, strangers, life itself? More proud than I could ever really put into words.

Would I worry every single day?

Without a doubt.

Do I understand the risks?

Of course I do.

But this is what we do. Not because we want war. Not because we want our children in harm’s way.

It’s the exact opposite – we pray for peace. Just as we have for thousands of years. We pray for our children. For all children. We pray for safety, for light, for a better tomorrow.

But we also understand something many outside Israel struggle to grasp. Peace isn’t something you can wish into existence.

If you don’t defend your values, if you don’t protect the home those values live in, then peace remains just that. A distant dream. A fairytale.

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And yet, despite all of that… I still hold onto something deeply, stubbornly hopeful. By the time my children are old enough to serve, I pray – truly pray – that there are no more wars in the Middle East.

That joining the army will still shape them. Strengthen them. Ground them. But not for the same reasons it does today.

Because there is a difference. A profound difference. Between having a weapon and needing to use it.

I want them prepared. Capable. Able to defend themselves, their family, their home.

But I want them to live. To build. To love. To raise families of their own in a world where strength is no longer measured by survival – but by what we create in peace – together.

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And then there’s the everyday reality. The part that, from the outside, feels almost surreal.

You go to a wedding… planned for months, sometimes years. Every detail chosen. Every moment imagined.

And then the sirens come. Missile barrages don’t check calendars.

So what happens? They move. Not postponed. Not cancelled. Moved.

Underground car parks. Concrete shelters. Spaces never designed for beauty – quickly transformed into something sacred. And without missing a beat… the wedding goes on.

The bride still looks beautiful. Her father still cries. The groom – with a rifle slung over his shoulder – circles his bride.

The bride, radiant in lace, an M16 resting against her shoulder – because apparently, in Israel, wedding attire comes with optional accessories… and they’re not exactly subtle.

They recite ancient prayers to each other – words that have carried us through centuries of chaos and hope.

And together, they break the glass – marking the beginning of a new life, even as the world outside feels anything but certain.

All while, just beyond those concrete walls, missiles may still be flying. Sirens ringing.

It is completely normal. And completely bonkers. Unfathomable to anyone looking in from the outside.

And yet here we are. Celebrating life. Celebrating love. Choosing joy – right in the middle of fear and chaos.

Because that’s who we are. We love life. We love family. We love our country. Our heritage. Our home. Our children.

And we keep going. Reciting prayers that are thousands of years old – prayers for peace, for life, for a better tomorrow. For our children. For our ancestors.

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None of this should make sense. And yet, somehow, it does.

Because underneath all of it – beneath the uniforms, the sirens, the contradictions – is something incredibly simple: We trust each other. We belong to each other. We show up for each other.

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That’s the pull. That strange, unexplainable pull. It’s what makes us strong. It’s why our kids grow up resilient beyond their years. It’s why we never give up. Why we never stop pushing for better days.

It’s not about politics. It’s not even about geography. It’s about people. It’s about knowing that wherever you are in the world, there is a place – and a people – that will always call you back. That wll always have your back.

Not gently. But unmistakably. And when that call comes… you don’t question it. You just go.

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And yes… it’s strange. Completely, beautifully, irrationally strange. But it’s also something else.

It’s who we are. And we are very, very proud of it.

Am Yisrael Chai