“Are you sure this is safe?” I asked my commander, puzzled, as the rain poured down on that eventful afternoon. “This is what we have for now,” he replied matter-of-factly, as mortars and rockets continued to rain down around us. I found myself staring down at the meager pile of rocks I’d gathered—my only shield against the threat of invasion from Lebanon we’d been ordered to guard against. “You don’t build a post all at once,” he said, sensing my unease, “Start with this. Later, we’ll bring sandbags and concrete, then trucks and tractors. Slowly, slowly, it comes together.”
I crouched behind those rocks, trying to shield as much of my body as I could, and accepted the helplessness of the situation. As any good soldier would, my mind began to wander, “לאט לאט” (slowly, slowly). That phrase lingered in my mind, a memory from months before. Back then, I had been stationed in Chomesh, a settlement in Yehuda v’Shomron that was evacuated in 2005 alongside Gush Katif and other communities. After years of abandonment, the Israeli government had recently allowed a small Jewish presence to return, though only in the form of a makeshift yeshiva and caravans, but no real building permits. Curious about their plans, I asked a yeshiva student how they intended to rebuild despite all this legal resistance. With calm certainty, he told me, “לאט לאט”— slowly, slowly. A chair here, a siddur for the shul there, building slowly while pushing, in the meantime, for legal recognition.
That idea, of starting small and slowly growing, is woven into the essence of the Jew’s continuity throughout history. Anyone who’s traced the revival of our people after the Holocaust, or the rise of modern Israel into what’s now called the “startup nation,” knows we are not daunted by modest beginnings. Our story as a nation is highlighted with Moshe’s words in Devarim: “With seventy souls, your forefathers descended to Egypt, and now the Lord, your God, has made you as the stars of heaven in abundance” (Devarim 10:22). The Rambam, too, teaches that when guiding a child in Torah, you begin with “Shema” and proceed “little by little” (Mishneh Torah, Talmud Torah 1:6). Even in conquering the land, Hashem promises “to drive out our enemies ‘little by little,’ lest the wilderness overtake us” (Devarim 7:22). As a people, we’ve mastered the art of starting with a small foundation and a bold vision, trusting that, with Hashem’s help, step by step, we’ll bring it to life.
Yet, as this relentless war drags on, that steady patience is tested by a storm of emotions. One day we’ll take over a part of Syria, the next we grieve a fallen soldier. We celebrate the return of hostages to their families, only to mourn as others come back in body bags. Rumors swirl about Trump’s plans to expel the Gazans and a chillingly close attempt another of October 7 from Yehuda v’Shomron leaves us in a constant cycle of hope, despair and uncertainty. Like so many others, I wonder: How much longer can we endure? And each time Hamas reaches a new low in its moral depravity, we wonder how bad it can get before Hashem truly steps in.
Still, we know redemption could dawn in an instant if Hashem deems us ready. Yet, many sources reveal that while this moment could be immediate, there is a gradual process we must go through to reach it. The Maharal, in his introduction to Or Yisrael, teaches that just as one generation of our ancestors left Egypt and another entered Israel, so too must our final redemption build step by step. The ongoing war and Israel’s slow, determined progress in confronting the enemies surrounding us reflect this deliberate pace. Every Jew in Israel has been part of this important struggle, trying their best to get to the end. But the very length of this process extends a powerful invitation and an urgent call for Jews outside of Israel’s borders to join in and become active partners in our collective destiny.
If we think back to October 8, we felt the gulp in our throat at the prospect of losing our land, and our vulnerability when we let our guard down. That day, a powerful sense of unity gripped us, sparking an unforeseen need to pour everything we had into this cause. We were ready to connect, to act and to do whatever we could to eliminate Hamas. Therefore, the length of this process should not discourage us, but rather, remind us of an important opportunity. Because we can ask: What if Israel succeeded on its own? What if Hashem sent a clearly divine, miraculous event—an instantaneous victory— that wiped out our enemies, created peace, and brought everyone together, but only those in Israel were there to witness and experience it?
Four days before my wedding, we urgently needed our closet built, and after hours of trying myself, I gave in and called in a professional to put it together, only to learn it required a power drill—something I didn’t even own. When I asked him how I would have built it if I didn’t call him, he told me, “You can’t ask what would have happened. It all works out, you’ll always find a way.” Humans are adaptive, and when we have a task or mission we must complete, we always find a way to succeed. We don’t know all the answers beforehand, and it will get bumpy, but that’s the idea of building with trust in Hashem. I have witnessed many miracles that I can one day share with my children, saying “Hashem did this for me” (Shemot 13:8), from battlefield events to everyday life, that I can not imagine a scenario of “what would have happened.” Like the failed attacks from Iran that caused no harm, or the bombs placed on buses around the country that were mistakenly set to go off in the a.m. instead of p.m.—outcomes that are incomprehensible. Living in Israel is not just about showing strength during the big moments, like the weeks after October 7. It’s about finding strength in the day-to-day, building, growing and allowing Hashem’s miracles to unfold over time.
That very idea—of starting small and pushing forward—is exactly why I, and so many others, believe the best time to make aliyah is right after high school. Though the decision to move to Israel is difficult at this age—requiring a young adult, who has never lived alone, to make a huge, life-changing commitment in a short period of time—there’s something powerful about this stage of life. It’s a time when one is still shaping who they are, the stakes are relatively low, and there’s room to trip up and keep going. It’s the moment to dive in, start from scratch, embrace a completely new culture and plant roots in a brand new culture and mission.
But wait a couple of years, and it’s a whole different challenge. Once you’ve planted roots in the U.S. and they’ve started to grow, pulling them up to begin again in Israel takes a lot more emotional guts. In America, there’s a very familiar and comfortable trajectory—people typically go to college, do internships, land jobs in cities like New York and eventually settle down in the suburbs. It’s a familiar rhythm that promises comfort and fits most people just fine. In Israel, however, there’s no universal playbook like that, no surefire way to “make it” that suits every lifestyle. That lack of a clear trail weighs heavy when thinking about starting over.
As the angel said to Lot when fleeing Sodom, “Don’t look back!” (Bereshit 19:17), a call Rashi ties into letting go of his possessions, his past. In the same way, we cannot let our past, and everything we’ve built outside of Israel, anchor us and define how we should move forward in building our future in Israel. Moving to Israel means embracing the fact that we won’t have all the answers right away. We don’t always know what job we’ll land, where we’ll live, where our children will go to school, or how we’ll afford a house on an Israeli salary. That’s the heart of it all. Our journey to redemption isn’t a single event—it’s a process. In the grand scheme of our lives, these decisions are relatively small. The big question is: Do we want to be an active part of this redemptive process? We start with our hopes and a starting point, believing Hashem is with us to piece our lives together little by little, and in turn, help build up Am Yisrael as a whole. Hesitate too much, we’ll just keep tripping over the sunk cost trap, holding onto and continuing to invest in what we’ve already put into elsewhere, stuck watching the rest of Am Yisrael from the sidelines. Let your abilities, adaptability, strength, and most importantly, reliance on Hashem, allow you to succeed. The absence of a “one-size-fits-all” plan gives us the freedom to carve our own unique, purposeful role within the nation, one friend, one mistake, one accomplishment and simply one step at a time.
Brian Racer is originally from Teaneck. He served as a lone soldier in the Nachal Brigade and learned at Yeshivat Lev HaTorah in Ramat Beit Shemesh. He is currently studying Communications and Political Science at Bar Ilan. He can be reached at [email protected]
