Birthright Israel: Visiting When a Good Friend Is in Trouble

I'm originally from Brooklyn, and I attended college and law school in New York City. I'm married, I'm observant by choice, and I have teenage twins. I've always known that as an adult, you have to constantly reinvest in your commitment to Judaism. It's not something that just happens. It has to be planned. It has to be intentional. 

After October 7, I felt what many American Jews felt: I didn't know how to react. Of course, you pray, attend fundraising events, send bags of supplies. But then what? I read a line in a newspaper — it wasn't attributed to anybody — and it said: When a good friend is in trouble, you don't call if you can visit. That struck something in me. I thought: that's what's missing. That's what I need to do. 

Birthright Israel gave me the mechanism. Because the passion was there, but without a means to easily implement it, it wouldn't have happened. You can't just sit in America and plan a volunteer trip. You don't have the connections. You don't know where you're needed. Coordinating volunteers in a way that's actually helpful is very difficult. Birthright Israel does that. And knowing that my work would be appreciated and needed meant everything to me. 

I specifically chose a co-ed group because I wanted to engage in rebuilding and physically revitalizing, not just tidy up or paint. I wanted to build something that would be there for a long time — a lasting reminder of our presence. And that's exactly what we did. The program I chose had Jews from all over. We had a couple from Texas who were asking a million questions because they had never met an Orthodox Jew before. A farmer from Florida. Eight teachers from Atlanta. I loved the diversity. 

We started in Shlomi, which is on the border. The first two days, we really gelled as a group. By the time we were working side by side, everyone already knew each other's names. That first night of volunteering, we came to a kindergarten whose garden had been overgrown for two years because no one had tended to it. We pulled out the whole garden, leveled the ground, put in new soil, irrigation, plastic lining, dug the holes — all of it, in three hours. What we were able to do in three hours was crazy. 

The next day, we cleared debris from a park that had been abandoned for two years. Missiles had hit trees. The iron dome doesn't shoot things down in unpopulated areas, so the debris just sat there. You need people physically to carry it out so the garbage trucks can pick it up. So there we were — moms in our early 40s, in our Birthright Israel Volunteer t-shirts, hauling tree limbs. Israelis walking through the park on their way home kept stopping: Who are you? What are you doing? Who told you to do this? And then: Let me get you water. I made cookies. They were coming out of their homes to bring us things. They kept saying: Americans care. You came and helped us. 

One night, I looked out and saw what I thought was lightning. No thunder. No rain. Our organizer told us afterward: that's not lightning. Those are missiles. And I just thought — yeah. That's the reality. That's what Israelis live with every single day. There were soldiers staying at our hostel — probably just back from combat. One of the teachers in our group brought thank-you notes from her students, and every time she saw a soldier she handed them one. They were exhausted, obviously, but they were so touched to see all these Americans in a town that was basically deserted. It was heartening to them. 

We also got an emergency call about a farmer about 20 minutes east of Netanya. It had been raining so much that his chili pepper crop was waterlogged and at risk of mold. There were hundreds of people cycling through his farm to try to save it. He came and spoke to us. He used to have nine workers; now he has one. He used to have avocado trees; they were stolen or burned. He's growing crops that grow quickly now. And he just kept walking around saying: thank you, thank you, this is great. That's a real person, with a real farm, and a real crisis. And we were there to lend a hand. 

There were three or four Birthright Israel buses cycling through, and we got to meet a group from Australia. I can't even tell you the feeling — all these Jews from all over the world, meeting in a field in Israel, working together. 

One of the most meaningful days was when we planted trees in the Gaza envelope — at a program called V'natata, which means "and you shall plant." I always wanted to plant a tree in Israel. You grow up with JNF and hear "plant a tree, plant five trees for your bat mitzvah," but actually planting, actually being there — it was different. The program brought Israeli volunteers to plant alongside us. I ended up talking with a man who had served in the reserves during the Gaza war. As it turned out, he had been a recipient of the supply bags we sent from Teaneck after October 7. We talked about being parents. About being Jewish. About what the last year and a half had been like.  

After we friended each other on Facebook, he wrote me a personal message about what it meant to receive the supply bags. I shared his message with my community group — 2,000-plus people. People were crying. A year and a half later, to find out that what you did really mattered — that's so meaningful. 

And that's the thing. I could have talked about Zionism philosophically before this trip. I could explain why Israel is important. But I didn't have firsthand experience. Now I do. I broadcast to everyone at work that I was going to Israel on a volunteer program, and everyone said: you're using your vacation time to go work somewhere? And the conversations that sparked — with Jews, non-Jews, observant, not observant — have been tremendous. People come to me now as a safe place. Someone who was there. 

Professionally, I work with mostly non-Jewish colleagues. I had come into contact with hundreds of people who have heard about me going on this program. Before the trip, I could say the whole apartheid accusation is just not the case — that you're shoulder to shoulder in the shuk with Arabs, Christians, Druze, everyone just trying to buy a pita. I'd say Israel is even more of a melting pot than New York City, and people would say: really? But now I say it with the confidence of a firsthand account. That's different. 

I came home and showed my kids the video I put together. I have one child who is religiously observant and one who isn't. I told him: even if you're not observant, that's only one part of Judaism. There's being a good person, and there's also contributing back to your community — and your community includes Israel. I gave ten days of my life to volunteer. Even if my kids don't appreciate it now, ten years from now, that's what they'll remember. You have to leave a legacy to your kids. This program is building a legacy. 

You have to walk the walk if you talk the talk. And as someone who is Orthodox, I always thought: well, I'm a Zionist, that's covered. But you must feed your Zionism the way you feed everything else. Our whole Jewish calendar is based on the farming calendar. When you're praying for rain, or praying for dew — it hits differently once you've actually met an Israeli farmer. Because I learned that if you get too much rain at the wrong time, your peppers grow mold. There's a delicate ecosystem balance. And now when I say those prayers, I appreciate them in a completely different way. It's a lived experience. It allows me to connect to G-d in a way that isn't possible otherwise. 

If I could speak directly to the donor who made this trip possible, I'd say: thank you so much for this opportunity. Not a single cent is wasted. I really believe every single person on my trip was impacted — probably in a hundred different ways that changed the trajectory of their entire life, and the lives of everyone they come into contact with, forever. Birthright Israel Volunteer was truly outstanding. And without the funding and support, none of it would have happened.