Jews often say, “We have to take care of Eretz Yisrael,” the Land of Israel. It sounds noble to some, and it might even sound responsible. But to me, “have to” sounds like the teenager who “has to” clean their room or take out the trash. It’s a duty. A chore.
For many Jews today, especially in the Diaspora, that’s exactly what supporting Israel has become: a burden.
Contrast that with what I’ve heard from many non-Jews, particularly Evangelical Christians, who say with joy, “We get to take care of Israel.” They see it as a privilege. A blessing. Something that adds meaning to their lives. And it shows.
I’ve seen this shift in my work raising funds for Hatzalah Yehuda and Shomron, the emergency medical service. As a relatively new fundraiser in the Jewish nonprofit world, I’ve experienced what feels like an emotional cold front from some of the very communities whose parents and grandparents built deep relationships with the Jewish state. The sense of connection is fading. Supporting Israel feels more like an obligation than love.
This isn’t just anecdotal, it’s generational. And it’s painful.
But while some are turning away from the land, others are turning toward it. Building lives here that are far from the stereotypical image of the “settler” or “right-wing” extremist.
Let me take you on a ride. Literally.
Last week, I was traveling from my town of Susya in Judea to a conference in Jerusalem. I didn’t want to deal with parking in the city, so I took the bus and caught a few trempim (known as hitchhiking) along the way. One of my rides was with a young woman in a tiny car that I half-jokingly call a “tin can.” It was small, lightweight, something suited to city driving, not a strong vehicle that could withstand the rough terrain that we deal with out here in the Hebron Hills. I noticed the steering wheel. It had jewelry on it, sparkly pieces. It was bejeweled like a teenager’s notebook! Beads dangled from the rearview mirror. Definitely not what most people picture when they think of a “settler.”
Naturally, I asked where she lived. “Kiryat Arba,” she said matter-of-factly. She told me the decorations were from Purim. Stickers. Simple, festive, girly. She was cool, composed, confident—a typical 20-year-old in every way.
And that’s when it hit me: Normal people live in Judea and Samaria. Not just rugged pioneers. Not just yeshiva boys and political activists. Teenage girls who decorate their cars with Purim jewelry live here, too.
She wasn’t fazed by the things we passed on the road—donkey carts, construction trucks, even security threats. This is her life. And she’s not just surviving it. She’s thriving in it.
This region, which much of the world calls the West Bank and we call Yesha, covers nearly 60% of Israel’s land mass. It’s as big as Delaware, stretching from north of Jerusalem to the Jordan Valley, and from the hills of Hebron to the edge of the Dead Sea. It’s not a frontier anymore. Most yishuvim are no different from the suburbs. We have playgrounds and traffic circles. Some have shopping centers and swimming pools, and plenty of room to grow.
And we need to grow. This region, Judea and Samaria, doesn’t need pity or protest. We need people.
Because the truth is, we aren’t lacking in opportunity. We’re lacking in ownership—not political ownership, but emotional ownership. The kind that says we get to be here. We get to build here. We get to love this land—the whole land, including the Bible belt that connects us to our deepest roots.
The girl with the sparkly steering wheel reminded me that the story of Israel, of Jewish return and Jewish continuity, is still being written by real people, in real cars, on real roads, in places that most people still don’t understand.
The next time someone tells you they “have to” support Israel, remind them: We get to.
And if we don’t, someone else will.