I flew to Israel this past week for Belev Echad. From the moment I landed until the moment I left, it was meeting after meeting after meeting. Exhausting, intense, but ultimately successful, thank G-d, and worth every ounce of effort.
One afternoon, I found myself in Jerusalem with just enough time to pray Mincha at the Kotel.
To get there, I walked through the Arab shuk.
The shuk was crowded and alive—vendors hawking their wares, merchandise spilling into the narrow walkways, noise pressing in from every side. Normally, when I walk through the shuk on my way to the Kotel, it’s Friday night, when the shuk is closed and filled with other Jews heading to the Kotel. Or I go early in the morning, before it even opens.
But this time, it was mid-afternoon. I could’ve gone the longer way, but I was short on time and chose the shortest route.
As I walked, I began to feel on edge. My fists clenched, my eyes and ears were on high alert, keeping track of every person and every movement in front and behind me.
It wasn’t conscious; it was instinctive.
Would a terrorist jump out at any moment and stab me? All I could think about was the danger.
And it wasn’t paranoia. There have been attacks in the Arab shuk. There are terrorists. I even walked past a plaque for my fellow South African Eli Kay, who was murdered there by a terrorist four years ago.
I was walking with Raz, our Belev Echad director in Israel, who was armed. I asked him to keep his weapon visible and accessible.
But then I saw something that stopped me in my tracks.
Right in front of me, children were walking, playing, laughing. Jewish kids. Israeli kids. With no hovering parents in sight. Young girls walking calmly, confidently, on their own. Unbothered and unafraid.
We were walking in the same place, in the same danger, but we were having entirely different experiences.
And then it dawned on me: This is how you walk when you know the land belongs to you. With quiet confidence and ownership.
They weren’t fearless because there was no danger; they were fearless because fear does not define them.
This land does not belong to us because we carry stronger weapons or shout the loudest. It belongs to us because it is ours—historically, spiritually, eternally.
Israel belongs to us—every inch of it. And when you walk with that truth, fear loses its grip.
Not because the threats disappear, but because your identity is stronger than the intimidation.
It’s that identity that we need to strengthen. When we are proud and openly Jewish, not scared to show our identity to those who wish to harm us, that is when we become strong and confident, and the fear dissipates like a wisp of cloud.