Early on in the pandemic, I knew that at the top of my post-Covid wish list would be returning to Israel. That feeling of standing in front of the Western Wall seemed so remote in 2020, and to return finally this summer was truly momentous.

In some ways, it felt as though nothing had changed in Jerusalem. The sights, the scents and above all the spirituality of the Old City.

But in other ways, everything had changed. A shooting attack late after Shabbat on a bus in Jerusalem had the city on edge.

The next morning we visited the City of David, located on the outskirts of Silwan in East Jerusalem, very close to where the shooting occurred.

I asked a soldier if it was safe.

His immediate response was, “Of course, this is our country”. Simply put, but also reflective of the facts on the ground in Jerusalem. The economic reality of a constantly growing, building, and evidently successful Israel benefits everyone, Jew, Israeli Arab and even Palestinian alike.

A remarkable conversation I had with an Israeli Arab late one night brought this home. In proudly fluent Hebrew, he enthused about the positive benefits of the Abraham Accords, how the winds of change were now blowing strongly across the Middle East.

Palestinian workers from nearby Bethlehem arrive in their multitudes to help build Jerusalem — and in return, he said, their wages allows them to build and upgrade their own homes and infrastructure in the West Bank. I asked him if it was difficult for Palestinians to attain a permit to work in Israel.

No, he said, as long as you have a tik naki — a clean criminal record. Surely an incentive if there ever was one not to throw stones at Israeli cars.

Too hopeful, too optimistic, I’m sure. But something did feel different in the air — perhaps a new generation fed up with endless war, and desperate for a decent life in at least a tense truce with their neighbours.

We spent a few days in the north on a small kibbutz called Gonen. Until 1967, this kibbutz was right on the Syrian frontier.

Day after day, week after week, members of the kibbutz farmed the Hula valley under threat of Syrian snipers from the hills above. Today, the border lies four kilometres distant from Gonen.

I found myself wondering what it must have felt like to move to the kibbutz in those early years, when the state felt so fragile. Yet move they did and even thrive in the most unlikely of places. That sense of purpose, duty and responsibility still drives the people of Israel to succeed today.

But the most moving experience of all came right at the end of our stay. In a moshav not far from Bet Shemesh called Tzlafon, lives a farmer named Shevach.

Shevach’s great-grandfather arrived from Yemen half a century ago and served as rabbi of the town. His grandfather became a farmer, toiling day and night to earn a living from the land.

Yet one dream of Shevach’s grandfather and father after him remained elusive. Every seventh year he wished he could keep shemittah properly, allowing the land to rest as commanded by the Torah.

Their strong religious roots beat fiercely within them, urging them to keep these difficult but vital laws of the land.

Yet, each time shemittah came around, they found themselves forced to rely on the heter mechira, the sale of the land to Arabs effected by the Chief Rabbinate. Without it, they felt they would simply not survive.

But this year, something changed. Shevach, the third-generation Israeli farmer, finally succeeded in allowing his land to lie fallow during the seventh year.

Immense efforts, coupled with significant support from remarkable shemittah charities such as Keren Hashviis, helped Shevach realise his grandfather’s dream.

To live in the land of his ancestors as commanded by God. Not simply to survive, but to thrive, in every sense of the word — both materially and spiritually.

Visiting Shevach and his farm left me with an overriding sense of pride in our people. To show such commitment and dedication to the land, to hear Shevach declare his powerful commitment to our faith and its inexorable bond with the Land of Israel, meant more than any grand Israeli construction project, however impressive it might be.

With God’s help, from the early Gonen kibbutzniks to the Tzlafon farmers of today, the People of Israel remain strong. And to return after a three-year absence to see that strength renewed was both a joy and a true privilege.

Yoni Birnbaum is rabbi of of Kehillas Toras Chaim, Hendon