The Beauty of an Encounter in Love

This blog post was written by Kae Goldstein, a 2025/26 Fellow in Lod

The past 4 and some months have flown by. It seems just yesterday I was crying tears of gratitude on the plane, seeing the land of Israel from the window. Now, I am living in Lod, working at 3 different schools and a couple of after-school programs. 

One of the schools I teach at is called Harel. It is a mixed school of Jews and Arabs. I remember the first day quite vividly. Excitement and nervousness, and more excitement. 

Walking the streets as if tracing my first steps but not knowing the direction at all. 

Each class, I had a different set of students, and as I tried to remember all of their names, I asked them to tell me what they loved.

All of the boys love football. When I asked them what they like to do, every boy answered: football. Except one. He said he liked computer games. All computer games. He is a quiet boy. I thought it was because he didn’t speak English, but in fact, he understands everything.

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I know he has beautiful thoughts in his head that are only shared with the most fortunate. The quiet often have the most precision in their spoken narratives. 

In the first group, the two Arab boys knew perfect English. They told me they were Muslim, which I figured from their names. The room got quiet for a moment. 

There was also an Arab girl in this group that proudly announced that her father had an Arab grocery store in Ramle. The Jewish girls included her like their own. 

In another group there was a girl from Georgia. She moved to Israel when she was 2 years old. She’s the only child out of dozens that I met in the school who was not born in Israel. Her eyes are big and brown. It felt like she was looking at my soul the way she stared at me. The first thing she said to me was “you are sweet.” You are sweet. How can someone be sweet before you get to know them? Is it something physical? Is it that her eyes did look into my soul after all? 

At the end of the day, she asked me for a hug. I gladly accepted. 

There was an Ethiopian boy who was nervous about his English so I made sure to translate every sentence in English into Hebrew to make sure he could follow with the rest of the group. Yet his eyes still wandered off into the distance. I wonder about what he pondered. 

I asked him a question to which he replied “Ow” meaning yes in Amharic. I asked if he spoke it, to which his body reacted by shriveling into embarrassment. His Ethiopian friend next to him said, “of course you know it.” He said “no, I don’t.” He whispered to his friend, “I feel shame.” The friend stopped speaking and I dropped the conversation as the others laughed to the side. 

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After the class, I asked him if he spoke Amharic. He said “no, but my mom does. My dad does.” I said, “I’m sure they speak it with you. I’m sure you know it too. I think that’s really cool. I'm trying to learn Amharic now.” He relaxed his shoulders. 

I know it seems ridiculous, but there were many more small, precious and sacred moments on this day. 

How is it possible that in just a few hours, I have a place in my heart for these random children? For this place that I swear to protect with my life? For this community that I have only just begun to know? 

4 months later, I am greeted with hugs from the children every morning. A beautiful thing to wake up to is the power of kindness, of care, and of connection. I will surely love these kids forever. I have heard deep unsaid secrets and the loudest, most ridiculous laughs. I have held the boy who cried because the football hit his shins, and the girl who cried because the others spoke badly of her. Both were reminded of their strength and their power. 

And perhaps, just maybe, they are learning some English as well. 

To love is this remarkable feeling that I feel myself struggling to have time to sit in. And as I write this I’m on a bus passing Lod from the highway, the sun a dusty yet brilliant yellow setting over the dusty yet brilliant city that is Lod. And the gold of the mosque shimmers against the greatness of the sun’s light. And the view is one that brings tears to my eyes as the silhouettes of the buildings hold the sweet smell of buna and homemade tahini. Delicately, the souls of the vulnerable will find that they are perfect in their own. 

I am living in a city of gold. 

I am rich! 

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