Two Weeks Home

Today marks two weeks since Raina and I made Aliyah and moved to Tel Aviv.

They’ve been a full two weeks.

We’ve been here many times before as visitors, and I’ve spent extended periods here as a student. But this time is different. This time we’re here to build a life. That means learning an entirely new way of doing things—from opening bank accounts and transferring utilities to navigating healthcare, registering an electric bike, and figuring out which line you’re actually supposed to stand in.

One of the things that has struck me most since arriving has been reading the American press and scrolling through social media commentary about Israel from afar. It amazes me more than ever how much commentary is driven by incomplete information, obvious bias, and often poorly hidden agendas. So many people speak with absolute certainty about Israel and the Middle East while demonstrating very little understanding of the complexity of either.

Recently, someone began commenting on nearly every one of my Facebook posts. The comments weren’t invitations to conversation. They were reflexively antagonistic, as though disagreement itself had become the point. Sadly, that’s something I encountered more and more during my final months in America. It makes me heartsick that for so many people today, Israel—or even the word Zionism—triggers an immediate emotional reaction before any genuine conversation can even begin.

But today I want to write about something much more ordinary.

For years, Israelis have been described as Sabras.

For those unfamiliar with the term, a sabra is the fruit of the prickly pear cactus. It’s covered with long, sharp spines and tiny, almost invisible needles that make it nearly impossible to pick up in its natural state. It’s a brilliant defense mechanism. But if you place the fruit in ice water, the needles fall away. Peel back the skin and inside is something unexpectedly sweet, soft, and delicious.

That’s the metaphor we’ve all heard: Israelis are tough and prickly on the outside but warm and gentle underneath.

Except…

After two weeks of actually living here, I don’t think the metaphor is entirely accurate.

I haven’t experienced much prickliness at all.

Now, to be fair, Israelis are direct. Conversations are often brisk. People tend to say exactly what they think without wrapping every sentence in layers of qualification. But I’ve come to appreciate that. After living for years in a culture that increasingly polices language—where ordinary conversations can feel like exercises in choosing exactly the right words lest someone object or take offense—the directness here is refreshing. It allows for conversations that feel freer, more honest, and more authentic. Personally, I’m relieved not to spend every moment wondering whether a perfectly well-intentioned word has suddenly become unacceptable. I’ll happily trade carefully edited conversations for honest ones.

At almost every turn, Raina and I have encountered kindness, patience, and generosity.

When I was trying to deal with the electric company, the automated phone system was every bit as frustrating as anything in America. But once I finally reached a real person, everything changed. She was patient. She was helpful. She promised she would call me back—and she did. When we still couldn’t resolve the issue that day, she called again the following day. Then she called yet another time simply to make sure everything had been taken care of.

Honestly, that’s a level of customer service I haven’t experienced in America in years.

When we went to register for our healthcare, we immediately discovered we had no idea how the system worked. We didn’t realize we first needed to take a number. A supervisor noticed our confusion and helped us get into the queue.

When our number was finally called, the representative asked for the printed ticket. We sheepishly admitted we didn’t have one. The supervisor immediately explained what had happened, and the representative’s entire demeanor changed. She smiled and simply said, “Please, how can I help you?”

She spent nearly an hour walking us through every detail of the system, patiently explaining everything we needed to know. About halfway through, she apologized for “taking so long.”

We couldn’t help but laugh.

We were simply grateful for her kindness.

And that’s been our experience again and again.

Some might assume this atmosphere of kindness is simply a response to October 7. It would be understandable to think that when a society feels hated by much of the world, people naturally turn inward and become more supportive of one another.

But I don’t think that’s what’s happening here.

What I’ve come to believe is that the social contract still exists.

People still understand that they bear responsibility for one another.

Or, to put it in Jewish language, they understand peoplehood.

Yes, when people discover that we’re new olim—Americans who chose to leave behind comfortable lives and cast our lot with the Jewish people here in Israel—they often express appreciation and go out of their way to help us.

But what has impressed me most is that it doesn’t stop there.

I watch people helping one another all the time. An elderly person struggling with groceries. Someone patiently giving directions. Parents looking out for children who aren’t their own. Small acts of kindness that happen not because anyone is watching, but because that’s simply what you do.

That’s why I find it so jarring when I read commentators describing Israeli society as cruel, uncaring, or morally bankrupt.

Whatever political disagreements one may have—and there are many to be had—that description bears no resemblance to the country I have experienced over these past two weeks.

In fact, if I had to sum up these first two weeks in one moment, it would be this.

Just this morning I passed a father walking down the street with his two young children. They were happily eating cookies. I smiled at the kids—they were adorable. The father caught my eye, smiled, and in Hebrew asked, “Would you like one?”

He didn’t know me.

He didn’t know my politics.

He didn’t know my story.

He simply saw another person and offered to share what he had.

It lasted maybe five seconds.

But somehow, in those five seconds, I caught a glimpse of the Israel that is so often missing from the headlines.

And I thought to myself, perhaps the real symbol of Israel isn’t the prickly pear after all.

Perhaps it’s a stranger offering a new immigrant a cookie.