Dec. 2026
Agi Meinhard
A long road still stretches before us, as my husband and I drive through a changing countryside on our way to Florida.. My mind however is drawn to another landscape, far away, as I close my eyes and listen to a collection of “Israeli songs from the Homeland” (Shirai Moledet). The songs describe a beautiful land of milk and honey, a city of gold, surfboards on sparkling seas and camels soundlessly crossing desert dunes. But most poignantly, they proclaim a deep love for the homeland. As the familiar tunes and evocative words wash over me, my thoughts drift back to the heady years that I spent in Israel.
When I first visited Israel in 1968, the euphoria of the victory of the Six Day War was palpable. Israelis were still in disbelief at how quickly victory was won after weeks of worrying about being “driven into the sea” and rabbis running around consecrating soccer fields in preparation for mass burials. I was travelling with two friends, not part of a tour. Young men in uniforms, and civies, were hitting on us all the time, trying, in their broken English, to impress us with tall tales of bravery. Encounters with older Israelis told a story of a different kind of bravery; a story of a homeless people, reborn in the wake of the Shoah, finally “at home” in the land inhabited by our ancient ancestors. Their passionate commitment to build a just society that would be “a light unto the nations” was inspirational. In the kibbutzim and moshavim, we witnessed the pride of the agriculturalists “making the desert bloom.” In the cities, a building boom was underway, melding the new with the old. Visiting the shuk in the old city of Jerusalem gave no indication of resentment among the Arab merchants. In Haifa, we ate in Arab restaurants where Jews and Arabs mingled in a friendly manner. As young and naïve tourists, we were unaware of the fissures in Israeli society.
During that first visit, I fell passionately and deeply in love; not with a person, but with the country. I have very few photos from that three-week visit. Despite my North American clothes and the fact that all I could say in Hebrew was “Shalom” and “Ani lo medaberet Ivrit” (I don’t speak Hebrew), I didn’t want to look like a tourist. I wanted to be an Israeli, to be a part of that vibrant society. I left Israel with a heavy heart, vowing to go back to help build that youthful country so full of promise and energy. Two years later, I made aliyah with my new husband.
The first few songs on the CD are expressions of love for the land, its people, and its history. And they mirror my first three joyous years in Israel – visiting archeological sites, experiencing the beauty of the desert, the refreshing waters of the Mediterranean, the agricultural fields of the Galil, the ancient stones of Jerusalem – truly a city of gold in the reflection of the setting sun on its windows and pink stones. But as the CD progresses, the songs take a darker turn. They are laments for young men killed in battle, whom even the angels watching over them could not protect. They are about losing friends in the height of their youth, their lives, sanctified in blood, never to be forgotten in our hearts. They express dreams that the passing jeeps are not carrying young men to war, but rather that they are shouting that the war is over. And endless songs of yearning for peace – “I was born to the peace that is yet to come”, expressing the hope that there will be no more war. But alas, the wars continue.
In 1973, I experienced the Yom Kippur war: the eerie darkness of the blackout, the heart-thumping wail of the air raid sirens, the worry for a husband on the front lines, and most devastating of all, the loss of a young friend who, just as the song says, will never be forgotten in our hearts.
Exactly half a century after “my war,” the country was attacked again, in a far more brutal way. I observe this war from a distance with agonizing despair. The comforting illusion of normalcy had been shattered that October 7 day, and the yearned-for peace remains elusive. Israel’s external enemies still wish to destroy it. Even more disturbing is the realization that the fissures I hadn’t noticed as a tourist, but that I had become acutely aware of during the 10 years of my sojourn there, seem today to be developing into large crevasses that threaten the soul of the country.
Today, my love for Israel is like that of an anguished parent, whose love for her child can never be diminished, but who is fearful of the future direction of her child.
