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Does a Jew Belong in Israel?

When I left New York in the Summer of 2022, I didn’t know where I was going. It was just anywhere but here.

By all outward appearances, I was doing great and living well. I had recently sold my first company, which should’ve felt like a dream fully realized. For the first time in my life, I had ample free time and was making enough money to enjoy some semblance of leisure. My job was far less demanding than I was used to, and for the most part I could spend my time doing whatever I wanted.

New York is surely the best city in the world. If you want to be the best in your career, whatever that may be, it’s almost certainly the best place to be. And, as a bachelor in my twenties, I was convinced it was also the best place to date amongst what felt like an endless supply of eligible partners.

Behind the scenes, I was descending into an overwhelming and all-encompassing feeling of hopelessness. My daily life had dulled to just going through the motions and wandering aimlessly through the city. At some points, I didn’t get out of bed for days at a time. Eventually, it got to the point where I had almost fully withdrawn from my friends and family, but I hid it well enough to not worry them.

In New York, everyone around you is striving to climb to the top of whatever mountain they’ve set their sights on. As a side-effect, it’s expected that any social faux-pas is excusable if you’re busy climbing. With my career in the backseat, I sought out deeper relationships and stronger communities in a city that harbored neither. At first, I had dozens of friends who I spent hours with each week, but as I started to turn inwards and drift away, it felt like none of them really noticed the changes at all. I didn’t feel like I belonged in New York. I didn’t feel like I belonged anywhere.

At my lowest point, I decided that I couldn’t carry on living like this. I resolved in that moment to use every resource at my disposal to dig myself out of the hole I was in, and it became immediately clear that I needed to leave New York. So, over the course of that week, I put all my stuff into storage, boarded the cheapest flight I could find to Europe, and started the journey to find where I belonged — or die trying.

Over the course of four months, I spent time in various cities across the US, Portugal, Spain, France, Denmark, the Czech Republic, Austria, Hungary, Italy, and Germany. I had resolved to follow my nose and heart, one day at a time, and try to find a way to appreciate just being again. Europe, with all its delicious carbs and a general lack of urgency, turned out to be the perfect place for this.

Unfortunately (and unsurprisingly), the vagabond life is not the best way to find belonging. Traveling with other transient strangers was even more socially isolating than life in New York. I’d build connections with people, only for them to disappear completely from my life a day later, often with no parting words. Additionally, as I visited an enumerable number of churches, and amongst homogeneous cultures, a deep feeling of otherness sunk in that I just couldn’t shake. By the time winter reached Berlin, I had arrived at the conclusion that I didn’t belong in Europe.

I decided to go to Israel on October 6th, 2022 and arrived the following day. Israel was not an obvious destination for me, or particularly high on my travel list. It was actually pretty close to the bottom. Nevertheless, I thought that the mediterranean climate would be a lot more agreeable to my California sensibilities, and it was as good a place as any for a layover while I figured out what’s next.

At least, that’s what I had told myself at the time. In truth, every time I decided to leave one city and go on to the next, I considered buying a flight to Tel Aviv. I disliked Israel the only other time I had been there (for a 10-day trip called Birthright). I didn’t have any friends or family living there. I wasn’t raised to be a Zionist with some religious duty to move there. No, as I sought out an answer to the question of where I belonged in the world, I felt some kind of latent force pulling me there. I’ve never been a particularly religious person, but this was the closest thing I’ve ever felt to a higher power.

When I arrived in Israel, and waited at the airport for the train, a friend called me to offer me an opportunity to work at his startup. It was a compelling offer that I would’ve been stupid not to take, but, with surprising clarity, I declined. The job was in New York, and somewhere deep inside me I knew I wouldn’t be leaving Israel any time soon. It immediately felt like home in a way I’d never experienced before.

As I boarded the train to Tel Aviv, a young man who just returned back from his post-military trip around the world sat across from me. In the truest demonstration of Israeli social graces, he smiled and said "I overhead your conversation on the phone! are you from ˜New York? Welcome!" He gave me his WhatsApp and insisted I text him if I needed anything. I can’t explain fully why I felt like I belonged in Israel so quickly, but I remember texting my mom when I arrived at my hostel that "everyone here looks like me!"

I am Jewish — sort-of. I was raised in a very laissez-faire "Reform" Jewish community. I had a mostly symbolic Bar Mitzvah when I turned 13, and attended a weekly social Sunday school, but otherwise was fully assimilated into secular life. We didn’t keep Shabbat, Kosher, or follow any of the other rules, but we did loosely observe some of the major holidays. I didn’t go to a Jewish school or have many Jewish friends. I've dated mostly non-Jews.

Judaism was just not a significant part of my identity for most of my life. At times, I felt like I was different than my peers in some ineffable ways, but I wasn't introspective enough to understand where that feeling came from. On the other hand, Judaism was a significant part of my family history and my culture. Both sides of family are Jewish going back as far as we can tell, and my German-Jewish grandfather survived the Holocaust. And, whether my parents did it consciously or not, I was raised with all the cultural values integral to Jewish life like curiosity, education, justice, and the ability to debate anything over a dinner table.

Likewise, Zionism was definitely not something I was taught growing up. I grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, which I used to joke was the least Zionist place in the world outside of Palestine. Seattle, where I attended university, would probably be next on that list. My family and friends didn’t hate Israel, but it was certainly not something that guided their politics. They never encouraged me to move there, but didn’t hold me back either. I was forced to form my own opinion, which I am grateful for, but wish I didn’t have to do it in an environment that was so hostile to any independent thinking that went against consensus progressive values — most of which I hold, as well.

My first week in Israel became two. Two weeks became a month, then another. After three months, I signed a year long lease. When I originally left New York, I wanted to leave a spare-key for my storage unit with someone who I could rely on to check on my stuff if need be. Despite having an uncountable number of "friends" in New York, the only person I felt I could trust for this task was my ex. In sharp contrast, after signing my lease in Israel and planning a trip back to the US to refresh my visa and fetch my belongings, I had half a dozen new friends insist on looking after my new place and watering my plants while I was gone.

One thing that I think is hard to understand from the outside looking in is that Israel is a fundamentally tribal place. It’s one of the only places in the world where a family can live for three or four generations and still identify as "Iraqi," "Yemeni," or "Persian." These tribal identities continue to mold the culture today — from the food you eat, to the language you speak, to the way you wish each other a good Sabbath. There is a perception in the west that Israelis are white colonizers. But the plurality of Israeli Jews — called Mizrahi — are not white, and come from Arab countries they were expelled from after 1948. Genetically, it’s been found that these Jews are probably not-so-distant cousins to the Arabs in the region, like the Palestinians in Gaza and the West Bank. I suspect that Palestinians and Jews were the same tribe millennia ago, and that Ashkenazi, Sephardic, and Beta Israel Jews are just descendants of those people who fled under centuries of colonization by various occupying powers.

Further segmenting these tribes is the vector of religiosity, from hyper-secular to ultra-orthodox. Amongst secular Jews, there are Kibbutzniks and those who live a contemporary western life in Tel Aviv. Within the more religious population, there are branching trees of beliefs that strongly inform politics and behavior. There are orthodox Jews who practice mysticism. There are religious Jews who have modernized their practice to fit into contemporary society. There are orthodox Jews who believe the land of Israel should entirely belong to Jews, and there are those who believe it should not. In addition to Jews, there are about 2 million Arab Israelis, who constitute 20% of the population.

Suffice to say, despite being a nominally Jewish state, the land of Israel is incredibly diverse, with many different types of people living there, both Jews and otherwise. Yet, as with most pluralistic societies, this heterogeneity is a double-edged sword. It feels like every conflict both within Israel and with its neighbors originates from centuries of disagreements and blood feuds between these tribal factions. It’s a never-ending tit for tat, between very prideful people, deeply fermented in generational trauma.

As I settled into my life in Israel, I stumbled upon each of these tribal divisions both ignorantly and haphazardly. At first, I was too quick to make assumptions based on incorrect, preconceived notions that I held. After shedding as many of these beliefs as I could, I began to slowly unfurl the various identities tying together Israeli society, and tried to figure out my place amongst them.

Most of my religious friends applied subtle influence on me to become more adherent, usually by just inviting me to participate in religious events. As much as I tried to keep an open mind, I ended up chaffing hard against the religious community. I struggled a lot with what I felt were contradictions between my values and the laws that promoted a culture of homophobia and chauvinism within these communities. I knew my friends mostly shared my values, despite the laws, but I couldn't stomach the idea of ever raising kids within those laws (directly or indirectly).

My American-Israeli friends were mostly pulled to Israel by family or by political Zionism. Most moved from the US to enlist in the military just before or just after college. Over time, it became clear that we were raised with markedly different beliefs, and that it would be difficult to fully belong with them unless I went back in time and served too.

As someone in tech, I was able integrate into Israel’s substantial tech community quite easily. While most of the connections I made in Israel's tech community were with native Israelis, these friendships were some of the most substantial. I’ve come to believe that shared interests are the best way to overcome cultural division, and my interests were squarely in technology rather than Judaism or Zionism. But this too only got me so far. Much of Israel’s tech world is parochial and the networking is mostly through the military. I concluded that if I were to start a company there, the network I had built over my career would not transfer well, and I’d be forced to rely on a native-Israeli co-founder to do most of the hiring.

As I bounced between these different tribes, it became increasingly clear that I didn’t have a strong enough reason to be there, but there was still something deep about this place that I connected with. I wanted to stay in this place that felt like home, but I didn’t have the anchor to help me stay in port and make the bridges I needed to carve out my own identity.

I think the most amazing thing about Israel is this general sense of optimism that reverberates throughout the society. It's there during the war. It's there during the record breaking protests against the government. You wouldn't expect it in a country so riddled with conflict throughout its existence, but Israel as a project and Israelis as a people are both incredibly optimistic.

Israel has a thriving economy with a GDP per capita greater than the UK. Israel invented drip irigation and is a world leader in desalination, both to combat the effects of global climate change and resource scarcity. Many of the most important technological innovations and technology businesses originated in Israel. And – it's the only OECD country with a positive fertility replacement rate. For the last 75 years, Israelis have been turning sand dunes into cities and forests, founding important global businesses, and making babies. There is this Indomitable feeling of hope that permeates the place. A hope that — finally — our people will endure, after generations of persecution.

When I first arrived, my parents had a bet. My step-father bet I’d move back within a year. My mom bet I’d find a partner and stay forever. They ended up both being right, in a way.

After begrudgingly attending a Yom Haatzmaut (Israeli independence day) party, I met someone and quickly fell in love. While I knew better than to rely on a relationship for a sense of place, it helped me to finally build inroads to the communities there in a way that I wasn’t able to before. It allowed me to draw a boundary around myself and my unique experience, without compromising on my values. And, as a fluent Hebrew speaker, and former soldier, she was able to help me feel less alone and rudderless in what was otherwise a foreign place with stories that were otherwise incongruent with my own.

We flew to the United States to meet each others families in September of 2023, and we let ourselves dream a little about what our lives might look like together when we returned. I started looking for an unfurnished apartment to fill with my life in waiting, and had collected all the paperwork I'd need to formally make the move.

Concurrently, with renewed hope and a vision for my future, I had begun working on a new project. Increasingly, the project consumed my time and energy, and I was getting close to have the conviction to fully commit to building it into a company.

Unfortunately, life had different plans. We didn’t go back to Israel together, and I ultimately didn’t go back at all. When the war started, I was so thankful that we were both safely in the United States. But Survivor's guilt consumed us both. Her, as someone who had served in the military and built a substantial life there, and me because I had the privilege of continuing my life largely uninterrupted.

After we broke up, going back became especially daunting. I was consumed with fear of what would happen if the war got worse and I had no family there to support me. Once again, I had no substantial anchor to Israel, and it was clear that the prevailing winds of the country's sentiment shifted away from cultural affinity and modernity to war-time nationalism and camaraderie. In these times, though I felt aligned, it was more clear than ever before that I was other.

It felt impossible to focus on building a software business with an awful war raging just an hours drive away. In the context of today, it didn't feel right to put my life on hold, nor did it feel right to continue on as if nothing had happened.

Eventually, I decided that the best option was to go back to New York and focus on building my startup. Reintegrating into New York has been difficult. I am wrestling again with whether or not I belong here. Thankfully, I now know what it feels like to belong somewhere.

When I first moved to Israel, most people in my life paid little attention. It just wasn't a particularly interesting thing to do in 2022. But once the war started, I had a lot of friends reach out. Some conveyed sympathy. Others tried to understand the war better through my experiences. More than a few called me a colonizer.

My experience in Israel was a personal one. It was not guided by any political belief. It was, in many ways, the first time I felt like the people around me implicitly understood me and cared about me as I was. Since being back in the United States, I've increasingly felt other here. I don't feel safe in the community I grew up in anymore. Since October 7th, I've lost so many friends to a deeply misguided affinity with a terrorist organization that raped, murdered, and kidnapped people like me — while filming their actions. This war is horrible. I am disgusted by all the death and destruction.

As an otherwise progressively minded, liberal person, I've never been more afraid, or felt more ostracized. Progressives no longer believe all women if the women are Jews. Progressives have come to support a country that hangs gay people, over a country that has one of the world's largest pride parades. Progressives assert that Israel is responsible for climate destruction, when Israel is a leading pioneer of green technologies. Progressives call for a ceasefire without calling for hostages to be returned or acknowledging that Hamas has broken every one so far. Progressives chant for globalizing the antifada, missile strikes on Tel Aviv, and for the destruction of the Jewish state.

All 1 million Jews that lived in Arab countries until 1948 were either killed or expelled. There are virtually none left in the Arab world today. The worldwide number of Jews today is still less than it was before the Holocaust. We are only 0.2% of the world's population, and somehow when people are frustrated — especially with capitalism — Jews become the world's punching bag. We've been constantly blamed for so many of the worlds problems, however disconnected they may be. There has always been a double standard for us. No one seems to care about any other conflict in this world as much as they care about this one.

If you fundamentally believe that Jews like myself do not belong in Israel, that is your right. I just ask that you don't make it impossible for us to live anywhere else in the world too. I just ask that you stop chanting genocidal slogans, desocrating our religious symbols, and screaming at Holocaust survivors. That's why the state of Israel was originally formed. That's where the word genocide comes from. For thousands of years, Jews have been kicked out of everywhere we've ever lived through pogroms and genocide.

We just want to belong somewhere.

I just want to belong somewhere.