Picking Up My Own Sword for Birthright Israel

I was born and raised in Highland Park, on Chicago's North Shore. My dad was Israeli, so Israel and Judaism were a huge part of my upbringing. I went to private Jewish school from kindergarten through fourth grade — I spoke Hebrew, I read Torah, I did it all. But I don't do my best learning in a classroom — I do my best going places, experiencing them, putting things into practice. 

My family was very Jewishly focused. My grandfather had the entire Torah memorized; he was a statistician with a photographic memory, and you could give him the first two words of any portion, and he'd recite and sing the rest correctly from memory. I was extremely close to my grandmother, who took a huge role in my life as I grew up. Many of my favorite memories are with her — Shabbat dinners on Friday night, lighting candles, making challah, just spending that time together. Shabbat is still probably the most special thing in my life to this day. Our family did Seders every year, and my sister and I would find the afikomen and hold it for ransom until we got a present. 

I first heard about Birthright Israel at Indiana University; our Hillel was running a trip. I'd been to Israel twice before — once as a baby, and once in first grade, when my dad took me at the end of the USA school year and, not knowing what to do with me since Israeli school runs later into the summer, dropped me into my cousin's classroom where no one spoke English. Looking back, my dad's plan seemed to be, "She'll figure it out." Which, in fairness, is a very Israeli solution.

I learned Hebrew fast. But I hadn't been back since, and going now, as an adult, mattered a lot to me — partly to see family, but mostly to reconnect with a place that I knew was a part of who I was. 

Tel Aviv is one of my favorite places, and so is the Negev. I love Masada, but Makhtesh Ramon might be one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen — this giant crater in the desert in southern Israel, almost like a smaller Grand Canyon. Standing there reminds me how small we are, how many bigger things there are than whatever we're stressing about. The desert has always been a place where I feel calm, because it's a constant reminder that you're this tiny thing in a giant place — and once you internalize that, it puts everything into perspective. 

After graduating, I got a job in marketing with Shorashim, a trip organizer, and started staffing trips. I wanted, more than anything, to help other young Jews have the best possible Birthright Israel experience. One of the things I loved about Shorashim was that they kept Israelis on the trip for all ten days, not just a few. Talking with them opened my eyes in a way nothing else had. I understood that at eighteen you go into the army — that's just how it works. But hearing from Israelis themselves why it mattered to them personally, not just that it was expected, was something else. I also quickly learned that no two Birthright buses are ever the same. You can have the exact same itinerary ten times and get ten completely different trips. 

I picked up on the broader Israeli mentality — in the U.S. we're always stressed, always thinking five years ahead; in Israel it's much more "I'm here right now, I'll figure out what's next." They also somehow make "it'll be fine" sound like a fully developed life philosophy. And somehow...most of the time, they're right. It helped change the way I think, and it let me touch a part of my own Israeli identity I hadn't had access to before, since everything Israeli in my life up to that point had come through my very American Israeli community. 

My first trip staffing was really challenging — I'd never been in that kind of leadership position, and there's a lot of pressure representing not just yourself but an entire organization. Staffing teaches you skills nobody warns you about—like counting forty people in under ten seconds, figuring out who wandered off to buy shawarma, or somehow becoming everyone's photographer, therapist, and alarm clock, and accepting that no matter how many headcounts you do, someone is always still in the bathroom. But I also learned so much in those ten days: how to connect better with people, and how important it is to connect with people from different cultures, mindsets, and backgrounds — not just the Israelis, but the Americans too. You're pulling people from every part of the country and every kind of Jewish upbringing: Orthodox, Reform, people with one Jewish parent who don't fully know who they are yet and are in Israel to figure it out. There's something intimate about being part of that. I remember coming home from that first trip exhausted, but thinking, now I know what's truly special about these trips — that’s when I understood why these trips matter so much. 

I've seen so many participants have their lives changed — some of it visible right away, some of it taking time to surface. One participant I think about often had never really left home before, and that trip was her first time making major decisions entirely on her own. Watching her grow over those ten days was extraordinary — riding an ATV for the first time in her life, her face lighting up in a way that told you something in her had shifted completely. Anyone who's staffed Birthright knows the Masada hike usually includes at least one person who announces they're definitely not making it to the top. She was that person. By the end, not only had she made it, but the entire group had rallied around her along the way. 

On my next trip was a participant, Black and Jewish — genuinely one of the kindest people I've met. Growing up he'd felt some connection to Judaism but also real distance from it. Watching him move through those ten days was amazing — he asked questions at every stop, connected with the Israelis, tried to understand their whole lives and culture. During our wrap-up, he shared that he'd never felt so connected to Judaism as he did on that trip, that having Jewish friends from everywhere made him feel part of something again. We were all in tears. Watching him go from someone who identified as Jewish at the start to someone genuinely proud to be Jewish by the end — joining Jewish networking groups, posting about his Judaism, getting involved in the Jewish community once he got home — that's something I don't think would have happened without Birthright Israel. 

Since October 7th, I've staffed several trips, and the sentiment I keep hearing is that people still feel proud to be Jewish, but many have told me they feel more hesitant expressing that publicly than they did before. They don't feel safe walking to synagogue or posting that they're celebrating Shabbat. What's been special about being in Israel these past couple of years is watching people become a little less afraid, realizing there's a whole community out there feeling exactly what they're feeling. I've had participants terrified to post they were even in Israel, and by the end of the trip, surrounded by people who felt safe, I'd watch them start sharing where they were, genuinely proud. 

One of my favorite moments came from an Israeli on a trip last year. An American participant thanked a group of Israelis for fighting for their country, and the Israelis responded by saying — “the work we do, we've been ready for it our whole lives. But you,” they said, “you're the ones really fighting the war right now. Every post, every story, just saying you're here — that's you picking up your own sword to defend Israel”. I'd never thought of it that way before, but the work I do, day to day, is built on the belief that Israel has every right to exist. Knowing Israelis and Jews around the world see my work as its own form of defending that right is something I carry with me every day. 

My Birthright Israel experiences are the reason I'm doing the work I do in the Jewish nonprofit space today. The trips, experiences and people that I have met opened doors I never expected and ultimately led me to the work I do today. That's why I do anything I can to make sure people know Birthright Israel exists — even now, I'm constantly telling people to go sign up for a trip. Staffing these trips, being part of this world, is what helped me rediscover what it means to be Israeli and what it means to be Jewish. No matter where you go, someone eventually asks, "When did you go on Birthright?" or "Who did you go with?" It's basically Jewish geography for millennials – a way to build community wherever you are. 

If I could speak directly to the donors who funded my own trip, or any trip I've staffed since, there's really no way to thank them adequately in words. The only real way I can think to do it is by continuing to pay it forward — by continuing to support Birthright Israel, by sending people on trips, by making sure people know what this organization does. That's the most meaningful kind of thank-you: making sure Birthright Israel is around for a long, long time to come.