In 1978, psychologist Eli Birnbaum and his wife Leah left behind family, friends and careers to board an El Al jet bound for Israel. Young and idealistic, they were the first of their New York Aliyah support group to leave. While watching the news from his new Be'ersheva apartment, Eli wondered, "Will it make difference where I've settled ten years from now?"

   The young couple met with then-Minister of Agriculture Arik Sharon to explore the possibility of starting a moshav in Judea or Samaria. Sharon said the government wasn't starting moshavim there, but "There's a place out in the desert-no road yet-but there are three families. We are planning on putting a road there." Tekoa, this "place in the desert," was little more than an army outpost some thirteen miles south of Jerusalem. High in the Judean mountains, Tekoa had only four trees. There was a clear view of Herodean (where King Herod built his palaces), desert hills and Wadi, and the mountains of Jordan some twenty miles to the east. Leah Birnbaum, a nurse who now runs the recovery room at Mt. Scopus Hospital, says she is still excited by the gorgeous view they saw that day. "In the fall, you can see the Dead Sea shining in the early morning. On winter afternoon the Moav mountains turn different shades of purple and orange. We look for streaks of color, it's our version of foliage"

New housing is being built at Tekoa. As soon as re-election results were in, construction began. Herodean in background

   Today Tekoa houses two-hundred fifty families of Israeli, Russian, European and American descent. Walkways are shaded by pomegranate, olive, date and apples trees. Bushes and grass paint the yards green, while grape vines drape certain entranceways. A privately-owned goat dairy produces a tangy, soft cheese, "Noa from Tekoa," and the "Tekoa Mushroom Farm" grows shiitake mushrooms. A vineyard covers a large hill where once nothing grew but rocks.

   At that first visit Eli Birnbaum was concerned that the people who lived there were not religiously observant. "Do we want to live in a mixed settlement?" he asked himself. Everyone he consulted said it wouldn't work. However, after being denied a job in a non-religious school because he was religious, Eli felt even more strongly that the Jewish people needed to learn to live together in unity and tolerance. And in Tekoa, they do.

   Birnbaum, who is now director of student services at the World Zionist Organization, feels that Tekoa has been the ideal place to raise his five children. On his coffee table sits a wicker basket filled with artifacts the children dug up near the house: Tiles and pottery from the Byzantine era, seventh century coins, glass beads from Roman times, and more. The children "have a real connection to the land, to their history," he notes.

   All the usual after-school activities are offered in Tekoa, from piano, art and karate lessons, to a Gemara club where children being raised in both observant and non-observant homes come voluntarily and enthusiastically. There are performing choirs for both children and adults. Adults enjoy daily Torah classes, aerobics, Feldenkreis and even massage.

Eli Birnbaum, Director of Student Activities at The World Zionist Organization, with his dog Cider.

   There is no fence around Tekoa, but armed residents patrol the surrounding road. During a recent outbreak of terrorism, IDF tanks parked at the settlement's entrance and soldiers surveyed the area from the top of Herodean. Two years ago the government planned to give Herodean to the PLO. After learning of this, Tekoa citizens climbed the mountain each morning and held minyanim and Torah classes. Birnbaum explains that the IDF had to protect them; and once they had established a presence there, they didn't leave. In October an IDF commander told Birnbaum, "You people have no idea how useful this is [for surveillance].

   During the previous four years, Eli felt betrayed by the government. "We came here at the invitation of a legitimate government," he says, noting that Shimon Peres decided to start Tekoa just before the 1977 elections. Then, the attitude became: 'We don't need you people, you're damaging the country, go back to where you came from.' This negative atmosphere made it all the worse when Eli's friend and neighbor, art teacher Mordechai Lipkin was murdered driving home from Efrat one night.

   "The night of the election was worse than tense," Eli says. After the Labor victory was announced Birnbaum tried to comfort his older children who were upset and scared. "We have to believe that this is what G-d wants," he said. "We'll have to deal with it. If we have to leave [Tekoa], we'll leave."

   Today Eli feels more optimistic, as do most of his co-settlers. He is grateful for the improved atmosphere, but realizes they have no guarantee about the future. Even if they have to leave the homes and communities they've worked so hard to build, "it would be different now." Today the settlers are again valued and appreciated by the government. The attitude is: 'You people have the right to be there. You were pioneers, you gave what you had to the country.'

   "Rabin de-humanized us. That will not happen now."

   Shani Simkovitz's parents brought their rebellious teenager to a psychologist. It seemed the girl was always running off to demonstrations demanding freedom for Soviet Jewry, attending meeting with the late Rabbi Meir Kahane and carrying on about Zionism. "There's nothing wrong with your daughter," the psychologist said, "she simply needs to live in Israel."

   So, in 1971?at age sixteen?Shani left the Yeshiva of Flatbush, packed her bags and came to Israel. She then finished high school at Yemin Ord in Carmel. In 1971, Shani and her husband, Jack, became Tekoa's eighteenth family. They wanted to live near Jerusalem and the phrase "Green Line" held no significance for them. "If a Jew has the right to live anywhere he wants in the Diaspora," Shani reasoned, "he has the right to live anywhere he wants in Israel."

   Shani saw Tekoa's mixed make up as a challenge. The phenomenal success of the elementary school?visitors travel from all over to see it?reflects the unity of the community. The teachers are orthodox and the curriculum Torah-based, but services are optional and the atmosphere is one of acceptance and tolerance. Shani's five children have learned and played there; whether their playmates' fathers wear knitted yarmulkes, black hats or go bareheaded.

   The Simkovitz's like Tekoa's small town atmosphere. Here children walk freely without adults; no one worries about kidnapping or child abuse. If your own mother isn't around, someone else will provide a snack or bandage a knee.

   However, the children notice that the fathers carry guns. Children in the seventh grade and up?along with some younger children?leave the Yishuv each morning to attend neighboring schools. They travel with an armed IDF soldier as an escort. Shani is quick to point out that for the past several years it's been mostly peaceful and routine. As the Director of the Gush Etzion Foundation, Shani rides the bus with the children as far as her office in Alon Shvut, where her organization raises funds for medical, social and artistic community buildings and equipment. After the Hasmonean Tunnel opening set off rioting before Sukkot, Shani warned the children not to engage in the usual schoolbus horseplay. "If something happens," she warned, "and you have to get down on the floor...do it!"

   As the bus rode through an Arab village, the villagers began to throw rocks at the bus. IDF soldiers shot rubber bullets?which sound as loud and scary as real bullets. The children quickly ducked between the seats and the bus was filled with their cries. "I comforted them," Shani says. "I'm sure this has some kind of effect on them, but life goes on."

   A Likud member, Shani worked the polls on election day. At ten P.M., her house was filled with activity as her family gathered in front of the television to await the computer-generated results. "We sat there crying," she recalls, "as we saw the Labor party opening champagne. How could Am Yisrael do this?" she wondered. "I was in pieces when Yossi Sarid, head of the left-wing Meretz Party announced to the nation, 'There is a G-d in heaven.' "

   When the broadcaster said, "These are not the end results," Shani sent her children to bed. At six A.M. she heard the radio announcer say, "Bibi Netanyahu, 50.1%." Simkovitz thought, "Yes, there is a G-d in heaven that sends angels who work at night."

Nariya Birnbaum, 5, playes at one of the Tekoa's playground. The previous administration froze funding for the new playground, but Tekoa members raised funds overseas to complete it.

   Shani feels that Bibi's victory?she calls him by his first name? is a sign from above. It's as if G-d is saying, "Guys, you have another chance. I'm giving you back your country. Rebuild. Make Aliyah."

   More than anything, Shani explains, "We want peace. But not at any price. I pray that Hashem should give Bibi the wisdom, knowledge and strength to bring Am Yisrael to peace." As a full-time, at-home mother of six, Robin Zell felt out of place in her Rockville, Maryland conservative congregation. She just wasn't comfortable with her role as the local super-mon. Neither Robin, nor her husband Marc, were raised with Zionist values and they had never contemplated or even discussed Aliyah.

   Then, in 1984, the D.C. lawyer was invited to participate in a United Jewish Appeal's young leaders mission to Israel. During the trip?which was designed to tug at the heart to loosen the purse strings?the group visited the Mevaseret Zion Absorption Center. There, Marc saw a class of four-year-olds learning Hebrew. At the time, his twin daughters were also four. The thought then flashed through his mind: These could be my kids.

   At the end of the trip the leader asked each participant how much money he would like to pledge. To the leader's dismay, Marc replied, "I'm thinking of giving me and my entire family."

   The following year, the Zells went on a pilot trip sponsored by Gush Emunim. Robin was impressed with the orthodox, child-centered society. "I'd walk into the houses and felt like everything was turned upside down. The kids came first. They were happy, healthy, and [despite the dearth of material goods] played with imagination." She was also impressed by the closeness between neighbors. And, she adds, "Here I wasn't any different with six [now seven] kids."

   By 1988, the Zells had become both orthodox and Zionistic. And despite strong parental objections, they made Aliyah and settled in Alon Shvut, a Yishuv forty-five miles southeast of Jerusalem. At the time, the Intifadah had just started but even then their new neighbors welcomed the Zells with cakes and greetings of "Kol Hakavod!" The Zells agree that Alon Shvut is an ideal place for children. "It's like a small town in Iowa." The Gush Etzion regional swimming pool, Yeshivas, and community center, and quiet roads all add to the quality of life. However, Robin admits, that her youngsters have been exposed to a lot: The Gulf War, rock-throwing, shootings and the loss of many dear friends to terrorism. A barbed-wire fence surrounds the Yishuv; there is only one gate in or out.

   "We get used to things real fast," she notes. During the Gulf War, there was even an art project for the kids?"Decorate your gas mask box."

   Each time a Yishuv member was murdered by Arabs, Robin thought, "It could have been me." Spouses here kiss and make up before driving away. Any "good-bye" could be the last. Marc, though, continues to commute to law offices in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. "I worry," Robin admits, "but it doesn't help. I know I'm attached to Hashem by a string. He teaches us [how dependent we are on Him].

   For Marc Zell, the four years of the Rabin administration were "very much like waking up every day in a nightmare." Opening the daily paper he would find yet another government official slamming the settlers or religious Jews. "They called us all kind of names," he says. "The effect was to turn our community, and people with similar beliefs, into social lepers. The most basic values concerning the Jewish state, Zionist dreams, history and our connection to the land?all were called into question by a government that called itself Zionist." Discouraged, people in Alon Shvut talked about moving out, but no one did.

   As a member of the Likud central committee and policy bureau, Marc actively campaigned for Netanyahu. As the Chairman of the Alon Shvut election board, he felt the tension building as the polls closed. "If we lost the election it would have been the end of life in Judea and Samaria. For us, it was quite literally a matter of life and death."

   Zell counted ballots from ten P.M. until midnight. The radio announced a likely Peres victory. At midnight, wondering if it was really all worth it, he drove his board's results to the National Congress Building in Jerusalem. At one A.M., pollster Chanoch Smith said, "I can state, officially, that Shimon Peres will be the next Prime Minister of Israel, based on the results and exit polls."

   "My heart just sank," recalls Marc. As he drove home, visions of disaster filled his head. At the outskirts of Bethlehem, at one forty-five, pollster Minna Tzemach said that the raw vote was changing; she could no longer predict the results. The race was too close to call. Zell began to cry.

   At three A.M., the exhausted attorney joined a friend in staring at the television screen. Slowly, the trend began to shift. As the Labor celebration died down, they began to party at Likud headquarters. The two friends sipped cold water and asked, "Could this be the beginning of a miracle?"

   By daybreak, Netanyahu had pulled away by one-tenth of a percentage point. Over the next few hours it increased to a point-and-a-half. As Marc walked home people he barely knew grabbed and hugged him. "Everyone understood that we'd been saved by a great stroke of mazel from HaKodesh Baruchu."

   Today the anxiety and malaise of the previous four years has lifted. Still, Marc acknowledges, there remains "an overwhelming sense of uncertainty about what our future will be." He fears that the government will give in to the extraordinary pressures wrought by the United States, the Arab world and the Israeli opposition. Alon Shvut is planning construction on three-hundred new housing units. And no matter what, Robin adds, "We feel proud. We can hold our heads up high."

Sara-Rivka Ernstoff is a free-lance writer, karate teacher, wife and mother who made Aliyah in 1996.