Where My Warmth Lives

All my childhood I waited for summer. The kind when you can finally exhale, lift your face to the sun, and truly warm up. Belarus is beautiful, calm, green — yet inside me lived the knowledge that my place was somewhere warmth never ends. Where it is not a guest for three months, but the very air, the very breath, the very life.

I did not know where this knowledge came from. It simply was. Quiet, but insistent.

I grew up, and several times I had the chance to move to a country where sunshine is the norm. And each time something stopped me. At first I listened to the warnings of elders, then I met a man who later became my husband; he did not want to leave Belarus. I chose to stay with him. It was not sacrifice; I truly felt that way then. But somewhere deep inside a quiet voice remained: "But what about you?"

At 32, the opportunity came again. And I finally chose myself. I moved to a country that accepted me as its own. From the first breath. From the first touch of hot air on my skin.

There, the sun can be different. Sometimes merciless, scorching, demanding respect. And sometimes soft, enveloping, like a mother's hands. And in this warmth I blossomed like a flower that had waited too long for its spring.

It was there, under the blazing sun, to the sound of the sea waves, that I truly found my way to myself. Not beautiful words, but a confident feeling: "I am here, I am with myself no matter what — and I am well."

I lived through different things — happy, difficult, beautiful, painful. But it was all experienced differently. As if Israel held me in its arms and quietly said: "Whatever happens, you have yourself. You will manage. You are okay."

Because when I have warmth, sun, and sea — that is already enough for happiness. Everything else is either scenery or bonuses. And any hardships become simply a period where you need to act differently, find a new route. Not a collapse. Just a turn.

Israel is like a loving parent. It always embraces you. No matter what. But it also does not let you rest for too long. You stop to catch your breath — and it sends you uphill again. And in that too there is care: it teaches you to walk. Teaches you to live. Teaches you to be strong without losing softness.

It so happened that after two and a half years I had to return. To finish what I could not finish before. To find a new, deeper connection with my lineage, with my family. So that the foundation, the feeling of "I am okay" that I felt so strongly in Israel, would become internal. Independent of place.

Belarus is my father's homeland. Israel is my mother's homeland by blood. How can I choose between these countries? It is like choosing only one parent. Impossible. Both of these countries matter. Both are within me.

I miss Israel very much. I hardly missed Belarus — but perhaps only because I knew: I can come here at any moment. And if I could not — I would probably miss it too.

And I also know: there is some other country that will one day become my home. I do not know where it is yet. But inside there is this knowledge.

The most important thing I took from this journey: home is not a place. It is a state. When you have chosen yourself. When you are in contact with both lineages. When the warmth inside you burns as brightly as the sun over the sea. When inside it is cozy and safe as in the very best place in the world for you. And then wherever you find yourself — you are home.