Aliya – the secret parenting hack

We didn’t move for purely idealistic reasons, to be honest. There were several practical considerations in the decision. We were moving to a different branch of the company we worked for. This branch happened to be in Israel. We could not have known how big an impact this move would have in the forming of our children.

Honestly, we made the move very quickly and with our eyes closed. We knew it was “a good thing” for Jews to move to their homeland, but that was about it. The rest of the implications, good and bad, would be learnt on the journey.

For many years, our kids were resentful of the move. They had a lovely life back home, we were respected in our community and surrounded by family. Suddenly, they were the misfits, the odd ones out, the nobodies, who didn’t even speak the language, never mind the culture, and they were isolated from their cousins, grandparents, uncles and aunts. It was not easy for them. As time went on, they over romanticised their perfect life in London, which was quickly becoming more a fantasy than a memory. They selectively phased out all of the downsides and pedestaled all of the benefits of a life they hankered after.

It took me a while to understand that, as is often the case with kids, they were just taking the lead from me. It was me who was unsure of our decision to move. Me who still pined over an old life. Me who questioned whether we should stay or reverse the decision. And in the moment of that realisation, I made a decision to make my peace with the move. It was one thing to move my kids. That was hard enough. I was not going to lumber them with the weight of my own doubts. I was breaking up with Uncertainty and moving in with Gratitude. Instead of dreaming of what we had left behind, I allowed myself to enjoy what we had. Instead of wondering about where we should be tomorrow, I grounded myself in the scenery, trees and air of today. And it was beautiful once I truly saw what was in front of me. I made peace. My kids made peace. And then our Israel journey really began.

Let it be clear, it had its bumps. For those of you considering the move, it was both roses and thorns. But today, as they have grown up, my kids, between ranting their complaints about the country, also thank me surprisingly often for raising them here. It’s hard to summarize or explain what they gained from being brought up here. But I’ll try.

It’s not always safe here, but the threat of lack of safety is not affected by the parents’ vigilance. In the UK, the difference between my kids being safe and being in danger, I believed, was completely dependent on how well I supervised them. It’s different in Israel. There are threats and dangers, but they are not affected by my constant helicoptering over my kids. This means that kids can have more freedom. They can walk outside by themselves, they can come home late. They are independent. They play. They explore. They venture. It’s an amazing childhood and helps form confident and independent children. When my kids leave the house, I’m more likely to say “Have fun!” than “Stay Safe.”

Whilst I mentioned how hard it was for my kids to be separated from their wider family, it’s difficult to describe what it means to live in a country where everyone considers yourself their family because, on some level, when a land is inhabited by a people, everyone is your family.

Try walking outside at night with a baby without a hat. I guarantee you that at least three people will tell you to put a hat on its head. These people are, on the one hand, total strangers. On the other hand, they consider themselves responsible to tell you off for your bad parenting, because they are your distant aunts or uncles. When you are talking to someone you don’t know, it’s normal to call them “My brother” or “My sister.” In fact, just the other day, someone I had never met actually called me “Ima.”

When one of us hurts, we all hurt. When one of us is in need, we all interfere. I got a ticket from a parking inspector. I thought I didn’t deserve the ticket and luckily, so did about five other people who were standing on the street. Did they know me? No. But an injustice had occurred, and they needed to jump to my defense, because I needed help. All five of them pleaded my case and showed their strong dissent regarding the judgment of this poor, outnumbered inspector. In the end, he had no choice. He tore up my ticket. My brothers had come to my rescue. Do we fight? Oh yes. We fight hard. But don’t most opinionated families? The sense of extended family gave our kids a layer of security and belonging that you can only know if you have experienced it yourself.

It’s not a polite place. People push and shove. They tell you they’re annoyed at you. And they tell you loudly. The driving is aggressive, the haggling is relentless, if you don’t learn to push, you will spend your life at the back of the line. It’s quite a culture shock to nice, well-behaved, uncomplaining citizens like us.

But it has its advantages. People tell you their grievances to your face, not behind your back, so you always know where you stand. They may drive aggressively, but they also protect, defend and love aggressively, so you always know that if anything happens, someone will jump to your defense. People argue, but in doing so, they also learn the art of healthy disagreement. This is not a cancel culture. It’s a culture of sharing opposing opinions and hopefully walking away wiser from a conversation.

When I was a kid, we were told, children should be seen and not heard. But then when I grew up, it seemed like adults, too, should not be heard. Not unless they happen to share exactly the same opinions you have. But here’s the thing. That’s fine if I’m right. But what if I’m wrong? How will I ever learn, correct my mistakes or explore another perspective if anyone with a different opinion is terrified to open their mouths? My kids, on the other hand, learnt to speak up. They learnt to say their piece, argue their point, defend their corner and also to concede to being wrong. Nowadays, they do a lot of speaking up. They learnt that growing up here.

And it’s not just how to speak, it’s also the content of the discussion that enriched them. Our family meals did not revolve around celebrity gossip and latest fashions. From an early age, our conversations reflected what the society around us cared about. My young children had formed opinions on security practices, politics, the voting system, international affairs, existential threats. Kids raised here are warriors. The things they care about and talk about are so deep, rich, elevated and meaningful. That’s not to say that they don’t know how to have fun. The people here have to have fun. Life is so intense sometimes, you have to temper it with hikes, waterfalls, barbecues and camping trips, or it’s all a bit too much. But that combination of really enjoying life and also really engaging in conversations that matter was another significant ingredient-blend that led them to care about important things and also know that life needs to be lived to the fullest.

Living here, we also experience terrible injustice. The injustice of a world opinion that is slanted so sharply against our favor. The complete hypocrisy of a world that will criticise us and disproportionately accuse us without knowing the facts. That will highlight what it considers to be our wrongdoings whilst turning a blind eye to the actual atrocities happening in other countries. That sense that we have to cling to one another because people are so quick to hate us and so quick to ignore our pain and turn our oppressors into victims. So quick to delegitimise our right to existence and so quick to erase the truth of our history. There is something so unjust about a false narrative that has been accepted, not on the merit of truth, but by the sheer force of numbers and mass media campaigning. The injustice of it made my kids realise that we are in the fight of our lives, for our survival, for our future. That we are little David in the fight against the giant Goliath. That awareness behooves responsibility. It’s no longer a luxury to stand up and do, to make a difference, to contribute. Their activism is not a fun hobby – it’s survival.

And finally, although I could say much more, there’s the God piece. Religion is a very complicated matter. It’s not a topic I could do justice to or even particularly want to. Yet, when you remove religion, God is not such a complicated topic here. I have met countless kids who took a break from religion, but not from God. It’s hard to live without God here. Firstly, the whole country is a bible. Every other town has Biblical significance. You can’t take a step without tripping over something really historical. You heard about Abraham? He lived about 30 kilometers from my home. And David’s palace is about a 15-minute drive from here. It’s everywhere you go.

And more than that, we live with a heightened sense of miracle. Miracles in the country’s modern history, miracles we experience during times of war. National miracles, private miracles. The sheer miracle that there is a little piece of land in which to find solace, protection and shelter. The miracle of our returned hostages. The miracle of the Iran war. Every miracle is a piece of art signed by God. So you can’t live with miracles and not notice God.

And, of course, there’s the culture. Like I said, there are lots of people here who are not religious, but if you get in a cab, start counting. It will take your cab driver two minutes before somehow, he slips God into the conversation. And this is true of your tour guide, your fix-it guy, your doctor, your gardener. (My gardener Ahmed and I have become friendly. When I ask him how he is, he replies in Hebrew “Thank God or Baruch Hashem.” When he asks me how I am, I reply in Arabic, “Thank God or Al Hamdu Lillah.”) It’s a culture pregnant with God. It’s embedded in the identity of the country and it keeps poking through the surface, at every given opportunity. This has an effect. If God is everywhere, then so is purpose, and so is meaning. And if purpose and meaning are everywhere, it’s hard to avoid them as you scope out how you use the time God gave you and the talents God endowed you with to make a difference in the world that God requires your help with.

All things considered, it’s not surprising our kids are idealists. We raised them in the best village there is.