Why Would I Not Be Here?

October 7th happened and honestly, what else could I do but help? I mean, really.

I tried the whole tech company thing first. Remote support, helping companies whose employees got called up. It made sense on paper. I have the skills, they needed the help. But it felt… distant. Theoretical. Like I was playing at helping instead of actually helping. When I heard about Birthright Israel’s volunteer program, I jumped. Didn’t even think twice. Finally, something real.

One of our assignments was to Kibbutz Nir Am. Right there on the Gaza border. You know what’s crazy? 37 terrorists tried to breach this place on October 7th. Thirty-seven. And the local fighters—not soldiers, just regular people who lived there—they fought them all off. No casualties in the community. Just typing that feels surreal. When you’re standing there, looking at bullet holes in the walls of houses where families live… it hits different.

We planted trees in their new resilience gardens. Sounds almost silly when I write it out like that. Here’s this place that went through hell, and we’re… gardening? But that’s exactly what made it powerful. These gardens are meant for therapy, for healing. Standing there with American and Israeli volunteers, dirty hands in the soil, you can’t help but feel the weight of it. Just months ago, people were fighting for their lives right here. And now we’re bringing something new to life in the same spot.

The Israeli fighters who defended Nir Am worked alongside us. These people who’d been through the unimaginable, who protected their homes with their lives, they looked at me and asked why I came. The words just came out: “Why would I not be here?”

I keep thinking about that moment. About standing there, planting trees where there had been violence. We all cried—volunteers, fighters, residents. Not polite tears, either. The real, messy kind that come when you’re part of something bigger than yourself. The bullet holes in the houses watched us while we worked. Reminders. Evidence. But also motivation.

Coming home messed with my head a bit. I started questioning whether what I did really mattered. Sure, I planted some trees, picked some fruit. But then I realized—it wasn’t about the tasks. It was about showing up. Being there. Standing shoulder to shoulder with people who’d been through trauma I can barely imagine and saying, without words, “You’re not alone in this.”

Before going, I felt helpless. Useless. Watching everything unfold from far away, doom-scrolling through news and social media sites, trying to make sense of it all. But being there, getting my hands in that soil, working next to those fighters—it changed something. Seeing others who felt the same pull I did, who dropped everything to fly across the world because they had to be there… that’s when it clicked. We weren’t just planting gardens. We were planting ourselves there, rooting ourselves in solidarity with Nir Am, with Israel, with our people.

To the Birthright Israel donors—you need to understand what this means. I’ve been to Israel before, sure. I’ve done the tourist things, stayed in nice hotels, wandered through markets, enjoyed lazy Shabbat afternoons. But this was different. Before, Israel was this place I cared about, visited, enjoyed. Now? Now I know faces. Real faces—not smiling tourist photos, but faces etched with determination and pain and hope. I know voices cracking with emotion. I know the sound of shovels in dirt and shared tears. The fierce look in people’s eyes as they rebuild. This wasn’t about hummus tastings or Instagram photos or checking boxes on a tour itinerary. You didn’t just send me on another trip to Israel. You helped me find my place in something bigger than myself, during a time when it really mattered.

That’s what I brought home—not just memories, but a piece of Nir Am. A piece of this family I never knew I had until I stood in their gardens, putting life back into bullet-scarred earth.

And if anyone asks me again why I went, they’ll get the same answer:

Why would I not be there?