My story

 Halfway through my daily walk, I pass a memorial to those from our city who gave their life for our Land. It is on the edge of a path which hugs a valley where our ancestors once lived. If you look up, you see the cranes that define the skyline of my young city. I often stop at the memorial to look at the names listed. I stop there to remind myself that this home that I live in does not come to us simply and to say a silent thank you. Today, I chose to walk in a different direction, but something compelled me to go back to my usual route.

As I looked at the memorial, I saw a woman walking through it. She was dressed in workout clothes and walking purposely. My initial thought was that her pace didn’t mesh with the sanctity of this place. Then I saw her bend down and reach for some stones. Gently, she laid one down by every single memorial. She wasn’t crying but, on her face, she wore her sadness. As she passed by me, I gave her a hug. I wanted to ask her who it was that she loved and whose memory lived here. But, it was not a moment for words. Instead, I retraced her steps and imagined which name had drawn her to this place.  As I stood there, I reflected on how our city, that was so young had produced so many names.

My city is a city of the future. Not only because it was built with vision and the most detailed of planning but because, in my opinion, it is a city that embraces its children. Every few steps there is another park, another sports field or a youth center. It is also a city that sends its future in great numbers to serve. If you want to feel a surge of national pride, stop by the Central Bus Station on a Sunday morning and see the giant tour buses waiting to collect our sons and daughters dressed in green and khaki. They are laughing and joking and carrying the heaviest of loads. Our chayalim climb on the bus with freshly washed uniforms and, in their hand, a fresh danish from a box of pastries left each week by a woman, who I am sure has her own story