Today marks eighty days of the ongoing war between Israel and Hamas. That’s two months and two weeks. To many, it’s not a very big deal, it’s just regular old Middle Eastern conflict. But to me, a random, normal girl from Natchitoches, Louisiana, it’s much, much more significant. I live in Israel. It is my new home. I find it hard to believe it’s been just two months, because it has felt like an eternity. An entire lifetime. It feels this way, because in these short two months, I have become a new person. My life has changed so drastically in ways that are both harrowing and beautiful. 

In the beginning of the war, the uncertainty was a crushing pressure that haunted me daily. Did I need to go back home? Was I safe? How long will this last? There were so many questions that simply couldn’t be answered. One thing was for certain, however, I knew that I needed to see my family at some point. I needed to lay eyes on them, be with them. I needed to know they were safe, which may sound silly considering they were all the way in Natchitoches, but when you are hearing stories from people close to you where they describe seeing their beloved family members be dragged into unknown territories by terrorists or witnessing their close friends be gunned down at a music festival, you need your family. And I was so blessed and fortunate enough to have an opportunity to visit my home after two months of this alternate reality I have begun living. 

Visiting home after being in Israel for so long was a moving experience that is truthfully hard to explain. It was fascinating to go from a setting where all we thought about and talked about was the war. I didn’t have to think about the war at home. For the first time in two months, the main topic of conversation at the dinner table was silly local gossip. Something that has been replaying in my brain over and over since my visit is my first trip to Walmart post-war. When I walked into the superstore, instinctively I turned my head to find the nearest bomb shelter. I caught myself in the middle of this movement that had become my routine, and I was astounded. It had been instinct to look for shelter from rockets. I could have never imagined this reality a year ago. The first time I heard a plane passing over Natchitoches, I immediately thought, “oh, no. What’s going on?” But then I remembered. I was home. 

Aside from these complex realizations and feelings, though, I also found magic in my hometown that I never would have even remotely considered pre-war. I found delight in the familiarity of Front Street, walking down the streets, taking in the Christmas lights shimmering above my head, basking in the innocence and beauty they evoked for the people of my hometown. I sauntered in and out of the shops striking up conversations with new and interesting people I never would have spoken to before, soaking in the stories of the fascinating characters that lived there. A particularly moving moment for me was seeing several homes flying Israeli flags proudly in their yards. I found solace and comfort driving the streets of Natchitoches and remembering that these streets made me–this place unknowingly prepared me for the most difficult yet beautiful moment in my life. I was thrilled to be home. 

I spent a week and a half back home in Natchitoches. I made incredible memories with my family and friends, and I was able to return to Israel knowing the people closest to me were doing well. I returned to Israel reinvigorated and ready to serve my country and community, completely supported by the love given to me by those in Natchitoches and beyond. My trip was a reminder to be thankful and grateful for what we have. I know there is suffering and injustice in America, but after living in Israel, I see more clearly the privileges that we are awarded by living in the States. Everyday I look at my students here in Israel, and I remember that in a few short years, they will have no choice but to go into the Israeli army, potentially being caught up in a war like the one happening now. Back home, we have the right to choose whether or not we want to offer up that kind of sacrifice. Be thankful you don’t have to check every public space for a bomb shelter. Be thankful you don’t have to keep your phone unsilenced through the night just in case the red alert app sends a notification of rockets or terrorist infiltration.

Take a walk down Front Street. Count the bricks, memorize their patterns. Talk to the bartender you’ve seen a million times but never said a word other than “thank you” to. Take notice of the variety of plants and trees native to Louisiana you see when you’re driving down the road. Be thankful, appreciate the small things, and never forget where you came from, because whether you know it or not, those small little things are big parts of you, and you will carry them with you wherever you go. 

באהבה מישראל 

קנדיס ריצ׳רדסון

(With love from Israel, Candice Richardson)