Why would a girl from a clean, polite and comfortable American environment uproot her life and move to a land of loud voices, endless debates, and, yes, rockets and sirens? It’s a question I’ve been asked many times. The answer, though, is forever tied to several groundbreaking moments and here is one of them — my first encounter with the rocketing reality of Israel.
It was during the 2014 war, in Modiin, a city alive with parks and playgrounds. That afternoon, the air was warm, the sun bright, and the long green playground stretched before us. My three-year-old played contentedly in the sandbox, alongside a little boy of the same age, while my seven-year-old was climbing the bars on the jungle gym. It was 3 p.m., and the playground was almost empty—peaceful, quiet.
Then, the siren went off.
If you’ve never heard it, the sound is piercing, chilling, and impossible to ignore. It’s a warning: incoming rocket, one minute to take cover. Just sixty seconds to act. I froze for half a breath, my heart pounding, as I stood there in the middle of the playground. My mind raced, calculating the impossible—how to protect both of my children. My youngest was in the sandbox, my oldest perched high on the climbing bars. I was in the center, equidistant from both.
And then, I saw him—the father of the little boy in the sandbox. Without hesitation, he scooped up not only his son but also my daughter. He didn’t pause to ask; he didn’t hesitate to calculate the risk. He just acted, running toward the nearest shelter with both children in his arms.
His split-second decision gave me the time I needed to focus on my oldest, coaxing him quickly and safely down from the bars. Together, we dropped to the grass, shielding ourselves until the threat passed.
When it was over, when the sirens fell silent and we emerged from our hiding places, I looked at this man, this stranger who had instinctively acted to save my child. In his actions, I saw something extraordinary: a collective spirit, a bond of unity that transcended blood and background.
That moment was more than an act of heroism; it was a revelation. These people—these loud, fiery, endlessly resilient people—don’t think twice when it comes to helping one another. They live with a fierce determination to protect and support, to act without hesitation. And in that moment, something in me shifted.
I didn’t just admire them. I wanted to become one of them. To share in that unspoken understanding, that deep, unwavering connection. That was the day I knew I didn’t just want to live in Israel—I wanted to be Israeli.
Even now, years later, that moment plays in my mind, as vivid as ever. The siren may have marked a moment of danger, but it also ignited a burning desire within me—a desire to belong to this extraordinary nation of extraordinary people.