My dear children,
One day, you’ll ask me why we stayed. Why, after everything that happened to us – after what you saw, heard, and felt – we chose to keep living in Israel.
You’ll ask why, when people said the country was falling apart, when they warned of corruption and chaos, we didn’t pack our bags and move somewhere else. Somewhere quieter. Safer. Easier.
This letter is my answer.
A few weeks ago, I sat in a TV studio and cried on national television. I had been invited to speak about what happened to me – a journalist detained and interrogated for doing his job. The discussion was about the abuse of power, the erosion of rights, and the fact that the police confiscated my phone without a warrant and treated me like a criminal.
But what truly broke me wasn’t professional; it was personal. I started talking about you – about the moment I wasn’t allowed to pick you up from preschool and elementary school. Ima (Mom) was abroad, you were waiting for me, and I was locked in a police station, unable to come. That memory crushed me.
That’s when the anchor asked: “Do you regret that your family moved to Israel?” My voice cracked. But even through the emotion, my answer was clear: not at all. Not for even one second.
Even though I was only a toddler when we left Chicago, and it wasn’t my choice, I’ve never wished we hadn’t moved to Israel.
Because when people today say, “The country is in ruins,” “It’s corrupt,” and “There’s no future here,” I ask one thing in return: Where would you go?
America? So your kids can go to an Ivy League school and be afraid to say they’re Jewish? Where their mezuzah might need to be hidden in a drawer, and where speaking up for Israel could cost them their safety or their reputation?
The UK? Have you seen what’s happening in London? Jewish students are afraid to show up to class. There are neighborhoods where Jews are told to stay inside.
Berlin? Sure, Israelis love it. But the streets are changing, and the climate is shifting. Many who arrive with open arms carry worldviews that are hostile to Jews.
France? We’ve seen young Jewish women raped and murdered – for being Jewish.
Australia? On October 8 – while we were still counting our dead – thousands rallied against Israel. The Sydney Opera House was lit in protest, marking one of the first anti-Israel protests in the world post October-7. They didn’t even wait 24 hours.
And South Africa? The government is literally leading the international effort to criminalize Israel’s right to self-defense.
So again, I ask: Where would we go?
OUR LATE prime minister, Golda Meir, said it best: “We Jews have a secret weapon in our struggle with the Arabs – we have no place to go.” That truth hasn’t changed. And that is why we stayed. That is why we stay.
Yes, it’s hard. I see it in your eyes. I hear it in your questions about the Bibas family. You’ve seen the posters. You’ve heard the names. You understand more than kids in third grade or kindergarten should ever have to understand.
You didn’t grow up on the Gaza border. We barely had sirens. But still, the trauma seeps in. You hear my phone calls. You see my face. I tried to protect you, but you knew. You always knew.
Years ago, when I worked at a Jewish day school in Florida, a student asked me: “Why are Israeli women so tough? Is it because of the army?” I hadn’t thought about it until that moment, but yes. It’s the army. But not only the military. It’s the tension. It’s the fact that this country raises us differently.
That toughness, that grit, isn’t a flaw. It’s how we survive.
And it’s why I stayed strong even when I was interrogated like a criminal. You remember that week. I couldn’t pick you up from school. Ima was abroad. I had no phone. No explanation. I was under house arrest for doing my job.
The police took my phone without a warrant and leaked lies about me to journalists. They accused me of being part of some mechanism. Even now, as I write these words, they still haven’t returned my phone.
Was I treated like a journalist in a democracy? No. Was I targeted because I wear a kippah? Because I live beyond the Green Line? Because I once worked for a right-wing paper? Maybe.
But more likely, I was collateral damage in a country where every institution is at war with the other, where everyone is playing with fire. The prime minister, the police, the attorney-general, the Shin Bet (Israel Security Agency), the courts, the journalists, the ministers – everyone is trying to destroy the other, and the country is burning around them.
They failed us on October 7. Some admitted it; most did not. And the man who holds the most power – our prime minister – still hasn’t accepted any responsibility. Still hasn’t said, “I failed.”
And yet, we’re celebrating this Independence Day.
Not because of them but despite them.
Because of what happened next.
Because of the people who bought you breakfast and lunch for school at 6 a.m. Because of the neighbors who drove you to school when I couldn’t. Because of the colleagues who sent messages from every media outlet in the country – from Haaretz to Arutz Sheva – saying, “We stand with you.”
Because of the thousands of Israelis who, on October 7, became heroes.
Because of those who took down the neighbor’s sukkah while the husband was on reserve duty. Because of those who cooked meals for strangers, opened their homes, sent gear to soldiers, raised money, and flew in from New York, Miami, Paris, and Johannesburg – not to escape but to help.
And because of something the late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks once said:
“I don’t need you to agree with me. I need you to care about me.”
THAT’S WHAT I saw in this country this year. Unity – not in ideology but in love. Not in agreement, but in responsibility. “Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh” – all of Israel is responsible for one another. That’s not a slogan; it’s real.
And you know what? I learned something this year from others and from myself.
There was a moment a few days after October 7 when I felt completely broken. I didn’t know how to explain to you what had happened or why the world was blaming us, the victims.
But then I heard Gal Gadot speak. You know her as Wonder Woman. She stood on a stage in front of the world and said: “My name is Gal, I am Jewish, and we have had enough of this hate… We must stand up for ourselves. We cannot hold our breath and hope for support from those who refuse to stand with us.”
And I thought of you.
Because I want you to grow up strong. I want you to know who you are. I don’t want you to wait for the world to validate your identity. I want you to walk into every room with your heads held high as proud Jews, proud Israelis.
I want you to know that your identity is a gift, not a burden. And that when others are silent, we must raise our voices. Not in anger but in truth. Not to fight everyone but to stand for something.
So yes, you asked me why we stayed, why we didn’t leave.
The answer is simple: Because this is our home.
Because there is nowhere else on Earth where we belong – not politically, not spiritually, not emotionally – like we do here.
And I want you to know that staying isn’t just an act of resilience; it’s an act of faith – in this place, in our people, in you.
The great Rabbi Sacks famously spoke of “the dignity of difference.” Before an audience at the University of California, he shared a story about visiting Eilat from his hometown in London. A local boat guide told him how much he admired Britain – its history, its culture, and its beauty. But as he looked out over the desert hills of southern Israel, he smiled and said something simple and unforgettable:
“Aval zeh shelanu.”
But this is ours.
Rabbi Sacks said: “There are other nations, other cultures, other creeds – each beautiful in its own way. But this is ours. Let us wear our identity with pride. Let us always be true to our faith and a blessing to others regardless of their faith. And we will bring blessings to the world.”
So that’s why I’m still here. That’s why I’m still hopeful.
And maybe one day, when you’re older and your own kids ask you why we stayed, you’ll tell them what I told you:
Because this land is ours.
Because our people are still writing the story.
And because you were part of how it continued.
Love,
Abba
