by Ruchi
Every time I go to Israel
I see it through new eyes.
The eyes of those who have never been,
alighting upon Jerusalem stone in discovery for the very first time.
The eyes of those returning as if to an old friend,
warming with familiarity and homesickness.
The eyes that cry at the Kotel, and the eyes that are too dry to shed a tear.
The eyes that stare, agape, at each gun, slung so casually
around the thin shoulders of an 18-year-old.
The eyes of my daughter, in love with the ancient city in which she was born,
and has rediscovered anew this year.
Her eyes that light up with each new Hebrew phrase she's mastered.
With each fellow Jew she's connected to.
The warm, dark brown eyes of the taxi driver,
pretending to be annoyed that he has a job "too close" to Shabbat.
The eyes of the confused shop owner, asking us, "Are you Chabad? No? Then...what are you?"
The eyes of women, brimming with tears, as they stand at the ancient walls on Friday night, singing songs of the soul they didn't even know were there. The eyes of women, looking around that circle at one another, and recognizing in one another's eyes a soul sister, in a bond that will last for always.
All eyes on Jerusalem...
