Yesterday we went to the Kotel, me and the woman I love . . . we davened, we cried . . . and it was sweet. Yet, we were separated, I could not hold her hand, or feel the touch of her fingers as her arm drapes over my shoulder. I want that, I need that . . . It is my identity . . . as sweet as it was, I know I need more.

My grandparents fought in the forests outside Vilna and marched in Bergen-Belsen after the war . . . they marched and fought for Israel . . . for a place where we wouldn’t be hunted down like dogs and shot in the street like my great aunt was at the age of 13. Having a place of refuge and safety is a reason for Israel, but it is not The reason. The reason is not to protect us from the outside, rather the reason is for the world, a Jewish world, that we can create on the inside. That’s what my family fought and died for . . . for the dream, for the reality of home that we can create here, in Eretz Israel.