This essay is the first in a series of varied contributions by distinguished writers, exploring the connection and shared responsibility between chareidi Jews in the Diaspora and those living in Eretz Yisrael. Through lived experiences, thoughtful perspectives, and meaningful points of connection, the series aims to deepen a conversation that reaches beyond surface-level engagement. Readers are invited to share their thoughts at [email protected]

Where Our Hearts Go
By Rabbi Shaul Rosenblatt

It is hard for me to identify a single defining moment in my relationship with Eretz Yisrael, because it was shaped by many.

In my younger years, when I was single and arrived alone, I would often find myself in tears as the coastline came into view. I would remember: this is the land upon which Avraham, Yitzchak and Yaakov walked. I would picture Rochel Imeinu weeping as her children were led into exile – and yet here I was, against all odds, in fulfilment of her prayers. I would have to pinch myself to check I wasn’t dreaming. I would remind myself that for thousands of years Jews longed to do what I was doing; that they risked their lives for it; that Moshe Rabbeinu himself could only gaze from afar. And here I was, little me, arriving after a four-hour flight. Wow, wow and wow again. What a privilege. I simply couldn’t hold back the tears. And I didn’t want to.

Another moment: the first time I travelled the road to Yerushalayim and saw the burnt-out armored vehicles preserved along the way. My thoughts turned to those who gave their sweat, their blood, and their lives so that the land could once again be ours, that we could build homes there. And I too was determined to do so.

But life does not always follow the path we imagine. There are greater forces at work than our own dreams.

And so in 1992, after eight blessed years, my late wife, Elana, a”h, and I left with heavy hearts, feeling that our mission for Klal Yisrael lay in chutz la’aretz. It was meant to be temporary. And for her it was. In 2001, she returned to her beloved country, to her final resting place on Har HaMenuchos. For all my love of the land, I have not yet merited to follow her.

If there is one concrete commitment I would hope to see become a norm, it is this: that those of us living in chutz la’aretz see ourselves not as bnei chutz la’aretz, but as bnei Eretz Yisrael who have not yet merited to come home. To think of oneself that way is to discover that distance is not the same thing as detachment. What takes place in the land is not simply followed with interest, but felt, in some real sense, as part of one’s own life. It is ours. The Jewish soul that burns in each of us mourns for it and yearns for it. 

Israel is a troubled country. (One might say more so in recent years, but I think that’s just because we are more intimately troubled by the present than we are by the past.) Indeed, Chazal tell us that it is acquired only through suffering, so nothing new today; it is a land that demands of its inhabitants. It requires resolve to live there; it requires a deep feeling of connection; and it requires vision — vision for the better future that is around the corner if we choose it. 

If we can but recognize the quiet yearning that is within us; if we allow ourselves to feel it, to cherish it and to nurture it, then our hearts will already be there.

And where our hearts go, our bodies surely follow.

Rabbi Shaul Rosenblatt studied for seven years at Aish HaTorah in Jerusalem, where he received semichah. He founded Aish UK in 1992, HonestReporting in 2001, and the Rabbinic Training Academy in London in 2017, where he currently serves. He is the author of Why Bad Things DON’T Happen to Good People, on suffering and faith, and Mean What You Pray, on finding meaning in tefillah.