Over the past two years since the tragic events of October 7 and the war that followed, I’ve travelled to Israel seven times. The first was in November 2023, fifty days into the war, and the most recent in September 2025, 690 days in. Each visit has been an act of connection – of breathing the same air as our people and drawing strength from their e resilience.
As a Jew living in Australia, our life here once felt peaceful and secure, but since October 7 that sense of ease has fractured. Antisemitism has surged and, in many ways, become institutionalised. Jewish schools, synagogues, and even private homes have become targets. Conversations feel charged, friendships strained, and many of us have found ourselves looking over our shoulders – feeling we no longer fully belong in the country we’ve always called home.
In contrast, I’ve gained strength from being in Israel – from walking alongside people who carry both grief and grace with such courage. I’ve been inspired by family, friends, and the exceptional people I’ve met: families of hostages and the fallen, civil society volunteers, soldiers – all of whom show a steadfastness that humbles me. Their ability to choose life, purpose, and hope, even in the face of devastating loss, has left me in awe.
I’ve always felt a deep connection to Israel – a love instilled in me from a young age by my parents, and especially by my father, whose devotion to Israel shaped much of who I am. Since October 7, that connection has only grown stronger. I now recognise it for what it truly is: a sense of family – a bond that is interdependent, unbreakable, and transcends distance. It’s what draws me back time and again – to stand with Israel, be inspired by its people, nourished by their spirit, and to contribute in whatever ways I can to those working to heal the pain and loss that began on that terrible day.
In March 2024, I met Rabbi Doron Perez, whose son, Captain Daniel Perez, had been held hostage by Hamas for over 160 days and was then thought to be alive. Days later, it was discovered that Daniel had been killed defending his country at the Nachal Oz base. At his funeral – his body still held by Hamas, a piece of his bloodstained shirt buried instead – I stood in the pouring rain among thousands on Har Herzl, and with tears streaming down my face, I felt as though I were mourning a family member. It was another reminder of how singular our Jewish bond truly is.
When Daniel’s body was finally returned two weeks ago, a second funeral was held. Rabbi Perez said then that although the Jewish people may be one of the tiniest of nations, we are the largest family. I feel that now more than ever. When a hostage comes home, we feel it in our chests. When a soldier falls, we feel the pain as though it were our own sister or brother.
Scholar Mijal Bitton describes this emotional, spiritual, and moral bond that unites Jews across geography as something far more than an idea – a lived sense of shared destiny and responsibility. As Mijal said, the pain we have been feeling in the diaspora since October 7 is peoplehood. We have felt intrinsically part of Israel’s grief, its courage, its endurance – and now, finally, its moments of fragile relief and bittersweet joy.
This week, as I watched the funerals of returned hostages Tal Haimi of Kibbutz Nir Yitzhak and Tamir Adar of Kibbutz Nir Oz, I felt that bond again. I’ve visited both kibbutzim since October 7 and spent time with their remarkable residents. Though I never met Tal or Tamir, I felt the same painful duality – the comfort of their return home and the heartbreak of their loss. Seeing their families, who waited more than two years, speak with gratitude that their loved ones were finally returned to the very earth where they once lived and raised families, was both devastating and uplifting. Their words embodied the unbreakable spirit of the Israeli people – a people who can stand at the edge of unbearable pain and still speak of love, gratitude and hope. Watching them, I thought again: there is no people like the Israeli people.
From the other side of the world, that realisation fills me with pride and purpose – pride in being part of this ancient, living family that holds each other up across continents, and purpose in knowing that even from afar, our hearts remain tethered, and there is still so much we can do to show love and support.
Yet during a visit in November 2023, I realised many Israelis didn’t fully grasp how deeply the diaspora feels connected to them. When a wounded soldier at Ichilov Hospital asked, “Why did you come – all the way from Australia, during the war?” I told him, “Because we care deeply, and we’re beyond grateful to those who defend not only Israel, for the benefit not only of Israelis, but Jewish people everywhere.” He was genuinely surprised. It struck me then that the sense of family we in the diaspora feel so naturally isn’t always visible from within Israel.
Israeli journalist Nadav Eyal, speaking on Dan Senor’s Call Me Back podcast, reflected on this too – that the outpouring of support from Jews around the world since October 7 has transformed how many Israelis see the diaspora. Witnessing Jews devote their energy and compassion to people thousands of kilometres away helped him understand that this solidarity is itself part of our peoplehood, and that it has strengthened the bond between us.
Since October 7, living in the diaspora, I’ve felt a constant ache to be closer to Israel. When I have been there, I’ve felt more at home than in Australia. Just as family does, I’ve cried with our people, rejoiced with them, stood with them, and drawn strength from them. Although oceans separate us, there is only one Jewish heart beating across the world – a heart that will continue to beat with love, unity, and hope long after this war, and into times of peace.
As I write, thirteen hostages are still waiting to come home. One of them is Lior Ruadeff from Kibbutz Nir Yitzhak. On October 7, Lior, a first responder, was killed whilst bravely defending his community and saving many. I met his sister, Idit, in November 2023 in Eilat, where the kibbutz had been evacuated. She told me she was waiting for her brother. Each time I’ve returned since, I’ve told her I believe Lior will soon be home. Not a day passes that I don’t think of Lior, or of the others still waiting. I know I won’t fully feel the joy of the war’s end until Lior is home – with his family, his kibbutz, and all those who love him. Until every hostage is home, our collective heart cannot rest.
