About the Author: Dr. Nir Asch is a physician and neuroscientist with an MD and a PhD in Computational Neuroscience from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. His research focuses on neuropsychiatric conditions and exploring new treatment possibilities. Currently, he is a researcher at the Weizmann Institute and a psychiatry resident at Rambam Hospital in Haifa.
Some moments arrive quietly and still manage to explain everything. A stormy night, three frightened children, and one crowded bed reminded me why communities matter – and what it really means to belong.
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It was a cold winter night. The wind howled and sheets of rain hammered the windows. Somewhere in the house, a door creaked open and closed. One by one, our three children – no longer so small – climbed into our bed after waking from nightmares. We squeezed together, elbows meeting faces, tangled in blankets. Crowded – and somehow deeply happy.
We had returned the night before from visiting the wonderful Jewish community in Budapest. We had been invited to light Hanukkah candles with them and to share our story from the past two and a half years. Years marked by uncertainty, fear, and the kind of exhaustion that settles into the bones. And yet, from the moment we arrived, we felt as if we were waking from that long, frightening dream. Just like that crowded bed at home, Budapest became a place where we were held close – embraced, supported, and loved – instantly part of the family.
We were welcomed by a proud and historically rich community. They loved us without hesitation, and we loved them just the same. To know that there is a “safe bed” somewhere in the world – a place where we can rest our heads after waking from nightmares – was exactly what we needed.
But we also learned that they, too, carry nightmares. Their history is marked by persecution, loss, and a constant longing to belong. For them, Israel has often been that crowded bed – the place where they could finally feel at home and lay down their worries.
This relationship flows in both directions, and it matters – for us here, and for our sisters and brothers around the world. We must strive to live up to that role. We must be that crowded bed: imperfect, full, sometimes messy – yet safe, loving, and unbreakable.
That, in the deepest sense, is Tikkun Olam: not an abstract idea, but the simple, sacred act of making room for one another. In the end, belonging isn’t built from grand declarations. It is built one invitation at a time: Stay. You’re safe here.
Weeks have passed since hostages were returned to their families, alive.
It was one of those moments that stopped time. As the images appeared and videos of reunions circulated, most of us, in Israel and around the world, were holding our breath in front of the screen. Jewish people everywhere, living and anticipating as one.
Since then, life has almost returned to its rhythm. But the emotion still lingers, a quiet blend of gratitude, relief, and heartbreak. Because even in a moment of return, not everyone is home.
Thirteen families are still waiting to bury their loved ones. The bodies of civilians and soldiers remain in Gaza. Each day that passes without their return prolongs the pain. We owe them more than silence.
At Voice of the People, we don’t take these moments for granted. Our work is not disconnected from reality, it is built on it. We are made up of council members and fellows living in Israel and across the diaspora, carrying the weight of this past year into every conversation, every working group, every solution we build.
Over the past two years, we’ve lost 920 soldiers defending Israel since October 7. Every name is a world. Every sacrifice echoes through the generations.
And yet, we keep building. Not because the pain is behind us, but because the future is still in front of us.
A future where every family gets to mourn with dignity.
A future where every Jew feels seen and safe.
A future shaped by memory, mission, and each other.
