Dear Israel: A Story of Love and Longing

Dear Israel,

In the pages of a hand-drawn picture book, your story first unfolded before me, telling the tale of my parents' first journey together to your distant lands. My little eyes were captivated by colorful inked illustrations of your Western Wall, camel rides, and crispy falafel. Your name itself became a melody, echoing throughout our home and community, filled with promise and mystery.

At 17, as I stepped into your ancient streets for the first time, my heart surrendered. The sounds of the שוק (shuk, open-air market), the scent of spices, and the warmth of your people enveloped me. I wandered through narrow alleys, discovering hidden synagogues, sipping sweet mint tea. Your language, food, music, and people captivated me.

Each year I returned, yearning for more. Your allure only deepened, like a fragrance that clings to the skin.

At 22, I stayed for five months and your spell bound me tighter. I vowed to return, to make you my home.

At 23, I did just that: I condensed the life I had known into three suitcases, boarded a plane filled with other new immigrants, and I ascended - עליתי (aliti) - to Jerusalem, your City of Gold.

I felt at home in your multicultural mosaic as I found camaraderie among fellow עולים חדשים (olim chadashim, new immigrants). Together, as friends from distant lands, we joined tables, united by our love for you. Together, we discovered sparkling springs under your relentless summer sun. Together, we laughed, we struggled, and we grew, forging bonds that transcended language barriers.

As we each spread our newly formed wings, Jerusalem's neighborhoods became my home. Nachlaot's creative charm drew me in with its colorful street art and its melodies drifting from cozy cafes. Rechavia's eclectic mix of minds then beckoned, and I savored ג'חנון (jachnun, a Yemenite Shabbat pastry) amidst a crowd of students, social entrepreneurs, and young professionals, engaging in philosophical debates and watching street goers over cups of coffee or glasses of wine. Tchernichovsky Street's quieter charm then became my haven, where love blossomed, and a family grew.

Fridays were sacred. The shuk's vibrant chaos filled the early morning, while the symphony of Shabbat preparations wafted familiar scents through the buildings. As sundown approached, the streets grew quiet. Shabbat's abundance - bountiful meals and overflowing Kiddush cups Kiddush cupגָּבִיעַ לְקִדּוּשׁCup used for blessing wine on Shabbat, festivals and other events, i.e., weddings. - sanctified time and space. Shabbat's sun-kissed strolls filled the day until the light of three stars marked a return to the mundane.

As the Jewish year unfolded in an eternal spiral, each festival left its distinct spiritual mark. Rosh Hashanah's shofar shofarשׁוֹפָרRam’s horn most commonly blown throughout the month of Elul and during the High Holiday season. awakened me, Yom KippurYom Kippurיוֹם כִּפּוּר"Day of Atonement;" holiest day of the Jewish year, which includes a focus on prayer, repentance and fasting. 's silence filled me, SukkotSukkotסֻכּוֹתSeven-day fall agricultural festival associated with temporary booths or huts. 's joy sheltered me, and Simchat TorahSimchat Torahשִׂמְחַת תּוֹרָה "Rejoicing in the Law;" holiday that celebrates the completion (and then the beginning) of the annual reading of the Torah. 's dance lifted me. HanukkahHanukkahחֲנֻכָּה"Dedication;" the joyous eight-day celebration during which Jews commemorate the victory of the Macabees over the armies of Syria in 165 B.C.E. and the subsequent liberation and rededication of the Temple in Jerusalem. 's miracles enveloped me with every candlelit window and voice raised in song, echoing, נס גדול היה פה(nes gadol haya po - a great miracle happened here). Tu BiShvat's budding promise stirred me, Purim's masks transformed me, and PassoverPassoverPassover (Pesach in Hebrew) is a major Jewish spring festival celebrating freedom and family as we remember the Exodus from Egypt more than 3,000 years ago. 's story liberated me. Lag B'Omer'sLag BaOmerל"ג בָּעֹמֶרThirty-third day of the Omer;" a joyful and festive day that celebrates the end of a plague that took the life of thousands of Talmudic scholar Rabbi Akiba's students. spark ignited me, ShavuotShavuotשָׁבוּעוֹת"Weeks;" festival that commemorates the giving of the Torah to Moses atop Mt. Sinai. 's revelations nourished me, and Tisha B'Av's solemn reflections humbled me. Each festival added a unique thread to your tapestry of time, weaving the ever-unfolding narrative of our people.

But your complexities also tested me. Crowds pushed, horns honked, and fear crept in during turbulent times. Yet, your resilience inspired me - the spirit of volunteerism, the immense unity in times of crisis. Strangers became family, opening doors and hearts.

On October 7^th, the sounds of war shook me awake. On that Shabbat and Simchat Torah morning, we sought shelter as rockets pierced the sky, rattling our windows and our sense of safety. Fear gripped me as my heart worried for the little life growing inside me. Your uncertainty guided me to seek the warm, relieved embrace of my family abroad.

I left you, not knowing when I would return - if it would be days, weeks, or months. But now it's been so long that I've settled back into the once familiar rhythms of my childhood surroundings - but I'm not quite settled. The physical distance still feels like a gentle sorrow, a reminder of the life and loved ones I left behind. A reminder that אין לי ארץ אחרת - (ayn li eretz acheret, I have no other land). While the ache of longing remains, I know that this chapter, too, is part of my Israel story.

Just as before, I will renew my promise to return - not to the uncertainty, but to the essence that drew me in. My daughter, born in the Diaspora, will one day know your ancient stones, your complexities, your resilient spirit, and your beauty.

Until then, your melody will remain with me, a persistent hum - אם אשכחך (im eshkachech) - never to be forgotten.

Until then, I'll pick up my colored pens, hold your stories close, and share them with my daughter... in the pages of a hand-drawn picture book.