Above all, this country is our own. Nobody has to get up in the

Hear the voice of Golda Meir, who spoke with the fire of one who carried her people’s struggles within her soul: “Above all, this country is our own. Nobody has to get up in the morning and worry what his neighbors think of him. Being a Jew is no problem here.” These words rise not as a mere statement of pride, but as a song of liberation, born from centuries of wandering, rejection, and exile. To understand them is to glimpse the deep yearning of a people who longed not for conquest, but for a home.

When Meir declares, “this country is our own,” she speaks as one who has seen the endless nights of displacement. For countless generations, the Jewish people had no soil they could truly call theirs, no city where they might live without fear of sudden expulsion or silent disdain. To awaken in the morning and know that one’s place in the world is secure—that no foreign hand can question one’s belonging—is a treasure beyond wealth. This is the heart of her words: the relief, the strength, the peace of rootedness.

She speaks, too, of freedom from judgment: “Nobody has to get up and worry what his neighbors think of him.” Here is the essence of true home—not merely land or walls, but the absence of shame, the lifting of suspicion. A man can rise, walk in the street, and know that his identity is not a curse, not a cause for whispers or exclusion. It is a life unshackled from fear. What she names is not just political independence, but the deeper independence of the spirit: to exist as oneself without apology.

Consider the history of the Maccabees, who rose in defiance during the days of the Seleucid Empire, when Jews were forbidden to practice their faith. They fought not for wealth or glory, but to reclaim the dignity of their people, to light the menorah once more in the Temple. Though centuries apart, their spirit flows into Meir’s words. For both then and in her time, the struggle was the same: to secure a place where being a Jew was not a danger but a simple fact of life.

Yet her quote is more than a triumph of one nation; it is a teaching for all peoples. Every human being, regardless of race, faith, or heritage, longs for this same truth: to live without fear of judgment, to walk among neighbors without suspicion, to stand in the world as they are. What the Jewish people gained in their homeland is a vision for what humanity itself should strive for—nations where identity is not weaponized, but honored.

The lesson is clear: true freedom is not only in laws and governments, but in the daily life of each person. When your neighbors cease to be judges and become companions, when your mornings are free of fear and filled with peace, then society has reached its noblest state. To create such a world, we must labor not only for our own people, but also for the dignity of others, remembering that no one should live as a stranger in the land of their birth.

The practical action for us is this: seek to become the kind of neighbor who does not burden others with fear or judgment. Speak against prejudice where you see it, not only when it touches you, but when it touches another. Build communities where differences are not threats but gifts, where no one must hide their name, their faith, or their face. For in doing so, you are not only honoring Meir’s words but ensuring that the gift of belonging—once so rare for her people—becomes a gift for all.

And so the wisdom stands: to belong without fear is the greatest freedom, and to grant such belonging to others is the greatest duty. Let her words echo across generations, not only for the Jews, but for every soul that seeks a place to call home. For when each man and woman can rise at dawn, unafraid of the eyes of their neighbors, then the earth itself shall truly become a homeland for all.