A Year (of War) at the Old-New Home

Exactly one year ago, I woke up for the last time in the bed where I’d spent more than a decade of my life, soon to pack my three please-don’t-be-over-23-kilos suitcases and head to the airport.

As I prepared to leave, I texted a (most of the time) wise friend, searching for words to ease the pain of goodbye. His response stuck with me:

‘Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I’m not living‘ is one of my favorite lines. And now you, Juliana, have one less life you’re not living, an untaken path that would have strained your bones. And you’re going to live it. You’re going to one of your homes. And that’s beautiful.

So I did. I boarded the plane bound for a land at war—a place our fellow Herzl called Altneuland, my (old) new home, Israel.

So today, a year after, as I sit at the familiar table in the coffee shop around the corner from my first rented apartment in Jerusalem, I’m taking a moment to look back. I want to capture this past year and lock this moment in time as best as I can on this piece of paper (or blog post, if we’re being precise).

Landing in Israel, I was met with both the expected and the unexpected. The familiar excitement of arriving in the place of my dreams clashed with the surreal reality of a nation at war. During my first week, I navigated a maze of bureaucracy—visiting ministries, setting up a bank account, and figuring out how to officially call myself an Israeli.

But amidst the chaos, I found purpose. I began volunteering to deliver donations to soldiers on the front lines in Gaza (through @jjamlat). When they learned I had just made aliyah, their reactions were almost comical: “Wait, did you not have TV at home? You didn’t know we were at war?” 

It was a question that made me laugh, but it also seemed to reveal a deeper misunderstanding. For them, the idea of voluntarily entering a war zone might have seemed absurd; to me, the decision felt inevitable. I knew what had driven me here, or why, for me, it wasn’t a difficult choice—or really a choice at all. Perhaps it was hard for them to comprehend the weight of living in the Diaspora, where Jewish and Zionist identity often feels like a battle of its own. The events of October 7th brought this battle into sharp focus for Jews outside Israel: the shock, the grief, and the renewed clarity of what it means to be a Jew in a world that too often questions our right to exist. Here, no one doubts the evil of terrorism or our right to self-determination in our own land. No one protests our identity or hides from their own. The moment I came here, I could finally shed the defensive armor I wore in the diaspora. Here, I can simply breathe—except, of course, when attempting to catch a bus on a chaotic Friday afternoon at Jerusalem’s Central Bus Station. For me, making aliyah had already been a calling (and a decision made over a year before), but that day reaffirmed it with a force that left no room for doubt.

Truth is, this year has been a whirlwind of discovery and growth. Each moment, whether joyful or challenging, taught me something new. I felt joy (and a little impatience) walking through the bustling shuk every Friday, the scents of spices overused oil from endless batches of schnitzel and fresh produce filling the air. I stumbled over Hebrew phrases (which will receive a post of its own soon), read every street sign (just like a first grader who is learning how to read), and slowly learned to navigate cultural quirks—like the shared inability of standing in line or letting someone off the bus or train before boarding.

There were also moments of profound difficulty. The wail of sirens during tense times reminded me that life here is fragile. The posters and stickers plastered on walls, windows, and car bumpers too, bearing the faces of people I haven’t met, but whose smiles became hauntingly familiar. Those of soldiers, paramedics, and civilians whose lives ended far too soon. Stories of sacrifice, bravery, and pride—echoes of a 2,000-year-old promise fulfilled. They remind me that my ability to live here comes at a price, one we mourn deeply but also honor with gratitude. Even through tears, their legacy is clear: to fight for the right to be Jews in our land, and to live as a free people. And those of brothers and sisters, we are waiting to come home. 

And yet, precisely in those moments, I also saw resilience in the people around me: the smiles of neighbors wishing “Shabbat Shalom” on their way out of the gym, the kids confidently riding the bus alone, and the quiet strength of a nation that has faced every challenge with determination.  

Life in Israel isn’t easy, but it brings a unique sense of grounding. The winds that sweep through Jerusalem in the early mornings, the glow of candles as Shabbat begins, the street signs in random corners with Etzel’s story, the outside restaurant tables that transform into communal Sukkot, the rain that seems to fall only when it’s most needed—all of it reminds me that I am exactly where I’m meant to be.

Last week, we read Parashat Lech Lecha, when Avraham is called to leave his land, his birthplace, and his father’s house for the unknown (Gen 12:1). Like him, I felt called to challenge the status quo, to leave behind comfort and familiarity for a life of purpose and meaning. As Rabbi Sacks once wrote, Avraham was not called to accept the world as it is, but to challenge it in the name of what it could be. This last year, I’ve learned this same courage pulses through the veins of this nation and its people. One I am now a part of—more than ever. 

So, one year (and two weeks) later, I sit once again in my favorite coffee shop in Jerusalem, reflecting on what this year has taught me. It hasn’t been perfect—life here (or anywhere else really) never is—but it’s been real. And in its reality, it has been beautiful.

As Herzl once wrote:

Therefore I believe that a wondrous generation of Jews will spring into existence. The Maccabeans will rise again. Let me repeat once more my opening words: The Jews who wish for a State will have it. We shall live at last as free men on our own soil, and die peacefully in our own homes. The world will be freed by our liberty, enriched by our wealth, magnified by our greatness. And whatever we attempt there to accomplish for our own welfare, will react powerfully and beneficially for the good of humanity.

A 2,000-year-old both promise and dream fulfilled, one I have the privilege to live and the duty to renew it. Every single day. May this year be just the first chapter of a story that continues to unfold with awe, purpose, and love for this land I now call (my old new) home.

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Originally written on Nov 15th, 2024.