In Hebrew, where you live says something about how you live:

עיר (eer) — city. From Tel Aviv to Jerusalem to Haifa, this is where most Israelis live today. Crowded, individualistic and full of options.

מושב (moh-shahv) — a rural community where each family owns their own farm and home, but some resources are shared. A bit of independence, a bit of togetherness. The word comes from the root י.ש.ב (to sit, to settle).

קיבוץ (kibbutz) — a collective community, traditionally based on shared ownership and communal life. Kids grew up together, meals were eaten in a חדר אוכל (dining hall), and the idea was “from each according to their ability, to each according to their needs.” The word comes from the root ק.ב.צ (to gather).

So choose wisely. Or let the rent decide for you, like most Israelis.

In Hebrew, the word for poem is שיר (sheer) — the same word used for song.
The verb “to sing” is לשיר (la-sheer), and a poet is a משורר / משוררת (meh-shoh-rehr \ meh-shoh-reh-reht) stemming from the exact root.

This isn’t a coincidence. In ancient times, poems weren’t read silently on a page — they were sung, chanted, and performed. The Song of Songs, the most sensual book in the Bible, is called שיר השירים (Sheer Hah-Shee-reem) — literally “the song of songs,” or the greatest song of all.

So next time you read a poem in Hebrew, remember: somewhere inside it, there’s a melody waiting to come out.

Faith in Hebrew is אמונה (eh-moo-nah). But here’s where it gets interesting: the same root א.מ.ן gives us a whole family of connected words.

להאמין (leh-hah-ah-meen) means to believe. אמון (eh-moon) means trust. And אמן (ah-mehn) – yes, the same Amen you hear everywhere – literally means “it is true” or “so be it.”

Faith and trust share the same DNA in Hebrew; they’re inseparable. To have אמונה is to place your אמון in something, someone, or even in life itself.

So every time you say אמן, you’re almost declaring: I believe. I trust.