Love is the currency of life. Without love, there is no life worth living. We can survive without wealth, without recognition, without power and even without the approval of others, but living without love is something entirely different. Love gives meaning to our existence, makes us vulnerable, gives us courage and sometimes destroys the very people who possess the greatest capacity to give it. Yet, in a world where we have never been more connected, genuine love seems increasingly difficult to find, and perhaps even more difficult to keep.
I have often wondered whether love is truly the beautiful, unconditional force we like to believe it is, or whether it has become another commodity in a society obsessed with personal satisfaction, convenience and immediate gratification. We speak endlessly about love, celebrate it in songs, movies and literature, and promise it to one another as though it were eternal. Yet how often do we actually understand what it means to love someone without expecting something in return?
In human relationships, love is almost always conditional, despite our insistence that it should not be. We love someone because that person makes us feel special, desired, understood, appreciated or safe. We fall in love with the way someone looks at us, touches us, listens to us or makes us forget everything that troubles our minds. Love can become almost addictive, a beautiful drug that makes ordinary life extraordinary, that turns a simple message into happiness and a moment of silence into unbearable uncertainty.
But like any drug, love can also become destructive when the person who gives it and the person who receives it experience it differently.
Sometimes you give your heart to someone only to discover that your love is considered a threat. Perhaps because there is already someone else who was promised exclusivity long before you appeared. Perhaps because your feelings demand an emotional responsibility the other person is unwilling or unable to accept. Or perhaps because loving someone deeply makes that person uncomfortable, particularly when they have become accustomed to receiving affection without having to offer the same vulnerability in return.
And even within established relationships, love is constantly challenged by temptation, curiosity, ambition and the attraction of something new. What once seemed irreplaceable suddenly competes with excitement, novelty and the illusion that happiness must always exist somewhere beyond what we already possess.
We have become remarkably good at pursuing love and remarkably careless about protecting it.
The tragedy is that love does not have equal value in every heart.
Love is the currency of the heart. Some become richer simply by receiving love they never return, while others give everything they possess until they find themselves emotionally bankrupt.
And perhaps the cruelest realization is that those who have the most love to give are often the ones who suffer the greatest losses. Not because their love was worthless, but because they invested it in someone who never intended to make the same investment.
Yet I refuse to believe that love itself is the problem. The problem is what human beings do with it.
When Love Becomes Something Greater Than Ourselves
There is another kind of love, one that cannot be explained by physical attraction, romantic promises or personal satisfaction. It is the love we feel for something greater than ourselves, something that becomes part of our identity, our history and our understanding of who we are.
For me, that love is Israel.
And strangely enough, the longer I think about it, the more similarities I discover between loving another human being and loving a country.
My love for Israel has never been based on what Israel could offer me personally. It was never about financial opportunities, social recognition, political influence or the possibility of receiving something in return. It began long before I understood the complexity of the Middle East, long before I became involved in advocacy, and long before I experienced the enormous emotional price of defending a country that much of the world seems determined to misunderstand.
It is a love that was planted in my childhood, strengthened by my parents and shaped by experiences that became inseparable from my identity.
And just like loving another person, loving Israel can be an extraordinary source of happiness and an equally extraordinary source of pain.
For more than twelve years, I have devoted an enormous part of my life to defending Israel, explaining its history, challenging misinformation, confronting antisemitism and reminding people that behind the political headlines there is a country filled with ordinary human beings who want exactly what everyone else wants. Safety, happiness, opportunity, dignity and a future for their children.
I have invested my time, my knowledge, my energy and often my own financial resources. Not because someone demanded it, and certainly not because someone promised me a reward, but because love, when it is genuine, creates a responsibility that is difficult to ignore.
Yet even unconditional love does not protect us from disappointment.
Sometimes the greatest pain does not come from those who openly oppose what we love, but from those whose recognition, understanding or appreciation we quietly hope to receive.
There is something particularly painful about giving everything you can to something you believe in and discovering that devotion does not necessarily create belonging.
The Price of Loving Israel
The Jewish people’s relationship with Israel is perhaps one of history’s most extraordinary examples of enduring love.
For thousands of years, generations of Jews maintained their connection to their ancestral homeland through prayer, tradition, language, memory and longing. Empires rose and disappeared, communities were expelled, persecuted and destroyed, yet the connection survived.
Jerusalem remained Jerusalem, even when reaching it seemed impossible.
Israel was never merely a geographical location. It represented continuity, identity, survival and the extraordinary determination of a people to preserve their existence despite centuries of adversity.
And today, that love is once again being tested.
The more openly Jewish people express their attachment to Israel, the more frequently they are confronted with demands to justify that attachment. Their history is challenged, their identity politicized and their national aspirations subjected to standards that are not always applied equally to other peoples.
Of course, loving Israel does not mean agreeing with every government decision or defending every political action. Genuine love should never require intellectual blindness. In fact, the freedom to criticize, question and disagree is one of the characteristics that makes Israeli society so remarkable.
But there is an enormous difference between criticizing a country’s policies and demanding that its people surrender their right to national self determination.
And this is where the parallel with human relationships becomes painfully clear.
When you love someone, you should not be expected to erase yourself to prove that your love is genuine. And when the Jewish people love Israel, they should not be expected to abandon their history, their identity or their homeland to satisfy those who refuse to accept their existence as a sovereign nation.
Love should never become a negotiation over someone’s right to exist.
Can Love Survive Without Reciprocity?
Perhaps the most difficult question is whether love can remain unconditional when it is constantly challenged, rejected or taken for granted.
In relationships, we eventually discover that even the strongest heart has limits. We can forgive, understand, sacrifice and continue giving, but there comes a moment when we must ask ourselves whether love is still nourishing us or slowly consuming us.
I have asked myself that question about people, and I have asked myself that question about Israel.
There have been moments when I wondered whether all those years of devotion truly made a difference, whether the sacrifices were worth it and whether my love for a country could ever be understood by those who have never experienced such a profound connection.
But there is one essential difference.
A romantic relationship requires two people who are willing to choose one another. Love for a country is not a personal contract. Israel is not an individual who can promise affection, gratitude or emotional security in return.
A country cannot love me back in the way another human being can.
Its people can, however, offer friendship, belonging, kindness and recognition. And throughout my life, I have experienced enough of those moments to understand why my connection remains so powerful.
Perhaps that is why, despite disappointments, despite rejection and despite the emotional exhaustion that sometimes accompanies advocacy, my love for Israel has never disappeared.
It has been wounded, questioned and tested, but it has never been extinguished.
The Greatest Wealth We Possess
I increasingly believe that the richest people in the world are not necessarily those with the largest bank accounts, the greatest influence or the most impressive achievements.
They are the people who can love deeply without losing their humanity, who understand that affection is not a weakness, that loyalty is not stupidity and that devotion should never be mistaken for an unlimited invitation to take without giving.
But there is also a responsibility to ourselves.
We cannot continue giving every last piece of our hearts to people or causes while pretending that exhaustion does not exist. Even those who love unconditionally need moments of kindness, understanding and emotional rest.
The same applies to those who dedicate their lives to Israel. Advocacy should be driven by conviction, but conviction should not require the destruction of the person who carries it.
And perhaps this is the lesson I am still learning.
Unconditional love does not mean unconditional access to your heart.
I can love someone without accepting indifference. I can love Israel without agreeing with everything that happens within its borders. I can remain devoted without surrendering my dignity, my independence or my emotional wellbeing.
Because love, whether directed toward another person or toward a homeland, should ultimately make us more human, not less.
Love is the currency of life, but unlike money, its true value cannot be measured by how much we accumulate.
It is measured by what we give, what we protect and what remains when everything else has disappeared.
And if there is one thing I know, it is that my love for Israel has survived circumstances that might have destroyed a lesser commitment.
I may sometimes feel emotionally bankrupt, but I refuse to believe that loving deeply makes me poor.
Perhaps the greatest tragedy is not giving too much love.
Perhaps it is having a heart so rich that others mistake its generosity for something they are entitled to receive.
And perhaps the greatest victory is discovering that, even after everything, there is still enough love left to begin again.
