History is staggered throughout this land.

I’m walking through the streets of Jerusalem and come across an old man; he’s homeless and begging for money. I’m back on a family vacation to New York, where another old man shakes a can, hoping someone has enough kindness in their heart to give him something. In both instances, I look away. That’s what I was taught to do. And then I leave. I walk through the Jewish market and come across ruins from when the Romans ruled Israel. I’m transported to a time of crucifixions, gladiators, and mainstream polytheism. Togas and sandals become the style, and Hadrian rules the land, destroying the Jews one law at a time. I can picture the forum bustling with Romans, selling their goods, forgetting that a group of people have been outlawed. Walking into a conservative synagogue, I am again a thirteen year old girl struggling to stand in heels as she watches a friend become a part of the Jewish community. History is staggered throughout this land. It is my history. It’s the history of my people. It’s the history of a people who have spent millennia trying to find their way home after being destroyed time and time again.

On Masada we saw a place where Succari Zealots, a Jewish political that conquered the Roman base, fought and trained. The mikvah that they built even though water was in low supply. The lengths they went through to stay Jewish. They climbed a mountain in the dead of night, attacked an outpost where trained soldiers lived. Wives gave Jewish births on the top of a mountain. Children grew and learned for four years. Men trained and fought so they could practice their religion, pray to one god. 960 people committed suicide so they died free; they still died Jewish. A 20 year old commander was the only one to actually take his life. Two old ladies and five orphans remained alive as Romans took Masada; two old ladies and five orphans who are lost to history, yet are still Jewish. Today we walked the amphitheater where Rabbi Akiba was executed. He devoted his life to Judaism. He studied, taught, and advised his students. He fueled a revolution. We walked through the caves where warriors lived, where they outsmarted the Romans; a tiny minority matched the world’s most powerful empire. Warriors who died for their religion in caves they spent years tunneling; tricking Romans into giving them the swords that they would use to fight. And after the revolt was over and after Rome won and Hadrian renamed Israel Palestine and outlawed all of Judaism, ten rabbis were executed in the same place as gladiators fought and lions mauled fighters. In a place where violence was desire and happiness, teachers were burned alive. Rabbi Akiba was burned, he had metal combs pull apart his face and release his nerve endings, he faced the worst Roman torture imaginable. His students watched as the Torah burned with him, and they saw him smile. This man was put through inconceivable pain and he was happy. He told his students when they asked that the Torah tells us to give our body, minds, and souls to god; he was able to give his body and mind to god in life, yet he could never understand how to give his soul. The Romans gave him a gift- they showed him how to give his soul to god in death, and he watched the words of the Torah go with him to heaven, and he was happy. This man died for something he loved, he died with his passion, yet not with his religion.

Throughout history people have died for a cause. They have been slaughtered, massacred, and desecrated in the names of causes. They lived for a reason, though. Rabbi Akiba, Michael Levin, Yoni Netanyahu. They died for something they loved, a force greater than themselves. They found a passion that they lived for. A passion that drove them in everything they did.

In the history of Israel, in the history of my people, a passion for who we are and what we are living for has been established. That’s why some come to Eretz Yisrael. To find something to live for; a passion to drive them.