Back where?

Oh, she’s asking about America.

And that’s when, after a year and a half, I realized it.

We came here on a one-way ticket with plans to stay for “however long we can.” In our minds, though, this was never the final stop. When are you going to move back to America? People want to know.

“Mashiach is coming any minute,” my husband always answers. “If — chas v’shalom — he isn’t here within the next few years, we’d like to go on shlichus so we can help it happen.”

We never planned to live here long term during galus. Because life here is different. Everything’s a schlep. The post office guy doesn’t speak English and screams very loudly in Hebrew. It took months to find miso in the grocery store. I miss my family — every day. Even in the holiest of lands, it’s a physical life — but against the backdrop of so much more.

The earth here is made of a different sand. It pulls you closer, grounds you. The sky shines with a glow that holds you the entire day. The air is light and strong — blows at you, bringing swift scents of futures and bygones.

Here, the grocer has no yarmulke but will remind you to buy yahrtzeit candles before Yom Kippur. Ladies on the bus will scream at you — because why would you stand when there’s an empty seat? “You think Hashem gives you a mitzvah for standing?! No, He gives you a mitzvah for taking care of yourself.”

Here, you also get a mitzvah for simply waking up in your home and living life in this holy land. You get to keep shemittah and take terumos u’maasros from the mint plant on your porch. You get to hear Bircas Kohanim every week and shuls singing every day.

When my family celebrates a simchah without me, I want to go home. Then we walk the streets of the Old City at night and I never want to leave.

It’s hard. It’s far. There’s a war. But there’s no going back. Except for when we visit the States. Then, we come back… to here.

Everyone does.

My brother-in-law and his wife are stranded here for an extra week. “But we’re not mad about it,” they say. Even without the restaurants, trips, or bustle of the shuk, even when we’re all staying contained indoors — you feel it.

There’s the Sephardic shul down the block singing “V’esmachta” on Yom Tov morning. When the siren goes, they keep going — just louder.

There are the stone walls in our apartment, two-feet thick and 150 years old. They’ve sheltered many generations of Jewish families and they shelter us, too.

There’s the brown door I now triple-lock every night. On Succos, we found people to shake lulav and esrog with just by standing right outside.

There’s a war, but there’s a little boy walking down the block singing Hallel to himself. And there’s terror, but I love the pomegranate tree framing the entry to our courtyard. There are police on every corner, but there’s a tefillin stand on every block, too. There’s tension on the buses, but there are tens of people who still reach out to help you with your bags.

There’s an urgent message from the US government to take the last flights out — and an offer to get a ride on their ship, but there are directives from the Lubavitcher Rebbe to always stay put. Hashem has His Eyes upon this land. It’s the safest place there ever was or will be.

There’s concern and there’s a legitimate question, but when people ask if we’re coming back, it’s a simple answer.

We’re safe — and we’re staying.

There’s no going back home.

We’re already here.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 865)