I was born in a DP camp (displaced person ie: refugee camp) in Germany in 1947 to parents who had survived the ovens of Nazi Germany, in which their entire families had perished. We -- my parents, my sister (who had been hidden by a Catholic family during the war) and I -- sailed to America in 1950.
I had a new respect for my parents, who had lost everyone and relocated to a strange land, a foreign tongue, and built a new family, a new life.
I was in my own country, my own homeland; my son died wearing his country's uniform, and, God willing, my other sons will serve their country proudly as well. For, among my people I dwell, and that for me is still a privilege and a blessing. My three-fold love of my people, my land, and my Torah has never wavered.