I’ve been to Israel many times, and every visit is special. But this recent trip with JLI was different. This was an Israel I had never experienced before.
Since October 7th, something has changed. There is an intensity, a passion, and a sense of purpose that is almost impossible to describe.
Every person you meet has a story. Soldiers serving in combat, intelligence, or secret missions. Ordinary people doing extraordinary things, often at tremendous personal sacrifice. And somehow, despite the sorrow, the loss, and the unimaginable challenges, there is an extraordinary spirit of joy and determination.
Our trip photographer was a perfect example.
For two days, he was simply the friendly young man accompanying us, taking pictures and chatting. On the third morning, we learned that he had almost not made it back.
After finishing with us at 9:30 the previous evening, he was called at 11 p.m. for an urgent mission in Lebanon. He and a teammate were sent to extract a terrorist whose location had been identified.
He returned home at 6:30 a.m., showered, had coffee with his wife, and by 8:30 was back on our bus, camera in hand.
Just like that.
And somehow, in Israel, this is almost normal.
The photographer, the store owner, the young father walking his children to school—you have no idea what they did the night before or what they may be called upon to do tomorrow.
Another encounter that deeply affected me was with the wife of a soldier who had spent six months fighting in Gaza, barely seeing or speaking to his family.
She was home with four small children, running in and out of bomb shelters, carrying the enormous burden of keeping her family safe while worrying constantly about her husband.
She shared that one day she discovered her husband had called his sister instead of her. She was furious. How could he have one opportunity to call home and not call his wife and children?
Four days later, when he finally called, she let him have it.
He listened silently. Then he said, “Miri, I really can’t hold these negative emotions right now. I need every ounce of strength I have to fight and keep myself alive. I’m going to have to hang up.”
And he did.
She told us that in that moment, something shifted inside her.
She realized that as difficult as her life was, something much bigger was at stake. Her husband needed her strength and encouragement, not her frustration. She needed to look beyond her own immediate needs, even beyond the challenges of raising four children alone, and recognize the greater mission they were all part of.
What struck me was the extraordinary clarity with which these people live.
It’s not that life becomes cheap. Quite the opposite. Life is infinitely precious. Every husband, wife, and child matters beyond measure.
But precisely because life is so precious, they understand that it must stand for something greater than themselves.
And then I thought about the places we had walked.
We stood at Har HaMoriah, where Avraham Avinu was prepared to offer his beloved Yitzchak because Hashem had asked it of him.
We walked through Shiloh, where the Mishkan once stood and where Chana poured out her heart, begging Hashem for a child. And when her prayers were answered, she fulfilled her promise, bringing her precious Shmuel to Eli the Kohen Gadol, dedicating him to a life of serving Hashem.
Imagine the strength of that mother. The love, the sacrifice, the absolute clarity that her child’s life had a purpose beyond her own personal happiness.
Thousands of years have passed, yet I felt that same spirit of dedication and self-sacrifice alive in the people of Israel today.
And it brought me to a very personal realization.
Over the years, people have often asked me, as a shlucha of the Rebbe, “What comes first in your life? Your family or your shlichus? Your family or your mission?”
I’ve always found that a difficult question to answer.
I would explain that our family and our shlichus are really one and the same, that they are intertwined and inseparable.
And while that is certainly true, I realize now that perhaps I was also avoiding the deeper question.
Because it’s not easy to say that there is something in life more important than ourselves, or even than our families.
Yet in Israel, I met people who understood this with remarkable clarity.
They love their families fiercely. They treasure their children. They want nothing more than to come home safely and live ordinary, peaceful lives.
But they know they have a mission. And that mission is bigger than their own personal lives.
Not because their families matter less, but because they understand that their lives have been entrusted with a purpose that reaches far beyond themselves.
As a shlucha, I’ve spent my life trying to live with that sense of mission. But witnessing it so vividly in the lives of ordinary Israelis gave me a new appreciation for what it truly means.
There was one more experience that made this trip especially meaningful.
Before leaving Atlanta, our Chabad Beth Tefillah community collected almost one hundred gift cards for Israeli soldiers. I had the privilege of personally handing every single one to a different soldier.
Their gratitude was overwhelming.
It wasn’t simply the gift card. It was knowing that people thousands of miles away, people they had never met, were thinking about them, appreciating them, and caring about what they were doing.
Their faces lit up when I told them about our community in Atlanta.
It was a beautiful reminder that we, too, are part of their story. That our connection to Israel is not measured in miles, but in the love and responsibility we feel for one another.
I came home deeply inspired, but also challenged.
How often do we become consumed by the small frustrations and inconveniences of our daily lives, losing sight of the bigger picture?
The people I met in Israel reminded me of something the Rebbe has taught us all along.
Life is infinitely precious. Every moment, every person, every family matters. But our lives are not only about ourselves. We are here for a purpose, a mission that is greater than our own individual needs.
Perhaps that was the greatest gift of this trip.
Not simply witnessing extraordinary courage, but coming home with a deeper understanding of what it means to live with absolute clarity of purpose.
To cherish life with every fiber of our being, while recognizing that the greatest meaning of our lives lies in something far bigger than ourselves.
As I head into shabbos celebrating the kiddish and birth of our dear grandchild Assia, I pray for all of our children to grow up with this joy and clarity of purpose.
Shabbat Shalom,
Dassie New
