If Israel is a priority, when am I making aliyah?

There’s a sketch in the Israeli satire show, HaYehudim Ba’im, that starts with a group of Babylonian Jews pining away for Jerusalem. One talks about how good the food is there. One talks about the spiritual high of Shabbat in Jerusalem. They all wish they could live there. They all say that they would give anything to return, if only they could. What a shame.

Suddenly, a friend rushes into the scene with great news. The new Persian emperor, Cyrus, has declared that the Jews can return to their homeland! We can all move back there – immediately. Let’s go, he says!

Well, says one man, we’re adding a new floor to our villa. We can’t go now. But as soon as we finish the renovations, we’ll sell the house and go. Well, says another friend, our children are doing so well in school, and have such nice friends. We can’t go now. But as soon as possible. We promise!

Those Jews are me. But they’re also not me.

Constantly, I pine for Israel. For hearing Hebrew all around me. For knowing I share values, experiences, and customs with almost anyone on the street. To see Leopoldstadt at the Habima Theater and know that the whole audience understands the history behind the story. To sing along with lyrics that reflect my world at a Hanan Ben-Ari concert in a Tel Aviv bar full of both kippot and tattoos. For the coffee. For the fresh, seasonal fruit. For my family.

My two oldest daughters both made aliyah. As a proud mother, I take every opportunity to tell anyone who will listen what they’re doing. One is studying psychology at Bar Ilan after doing national service at Yad Vashem, and before that, learning for two years at Midreshet Lindenbaum. The other also studied at Lindenbaum and then enlisted as a lone soldier in the IDF. She’s currently serving on a base in the Golan.

As I beam with pride, whoever I’m talking to hits me with the inevitable question: So when are you making aliyah?

Often the question comes from genuine curiosity and understanding, but sometimes it feels subtly minimizing or accusatory, as if they are saying “What’s the big deal about running a marathon if you didn’t run it backwards?”

Either way, I wish I could satisfy them with a 15-second sound bite. “Oh, our beach house in Herzliya will be ready next year.” Or maybe, “We’re finishing the renovations on our duplex in Modi’in.” How about, “We’re renting in Jerusalem for now, but we’re checking out a lot of other neighborhoods before we buy something.” Here’s a good one: “I’m waiting to hear back from the casting director of the new Michael Aloni movie.” Or, my husband could pipe up with, “As soon as Major League Baseball has a team in Zichron Yaakov.”

But of course, none of those responses are true.

What is true is that I have two children still in school here. What is true is that my mother is a quick plane ride away. What is true is that we could have built two Herzliya beach houses with the money we’ve paid for Jewish day school tuition for over the past 15 years (sometimes getting more than our money’s worth and sometimes … far less.) But because we’ve had such exorbitant expenses to give our kids a Jewish education, we need to keep working.

Working at the hard-earned and steady jobs we have here, which come with stability that we’ve always needed and retirement benefits that we will need later on. (Looking at you again, day school tuition).

We’ve also dedicated so much of our lives to preparing our children to make aliyah. Over the years, my husband’s side hustles have been working toward a doctorate at Bar-Ilan and racking up enough credit card points to fund a family trip to Israel – every single year since 2014. When we’re in Israel, we’ve stayed in less-touristy neighborhoods and spent more time at the Cameri Theater and at Zappa music clubs than at the Kotel or Mamilla. We also sent our kids to various camps in Israel so they could meet kids just like them – including many from English-speaking homes – but who also live in Israel. We’ve watched just about every kid-friendly Israeli show produced since 2004, including endless episodes of teen dramas like Galis and Palmach, reality shows like Bet Sefer LeMusica and the Israeli Survivor, and over-the-top productions like the annual Festigal.

Fortunately, these experiences gave our kids the linguistic, cultural, and ideological foundations they needed to settle in as new Israelis. And it shows when they drop a reference to Kofiko while in science class or to an Omer Adam lyric during basic training.

But as much as we would love to pick up and move to Givat Shmuel or to Modi’in, and as much as our well-meaning friends expect it of us – we can’t right now.

And while admitting that makes me feel like the Jews in the Yehudim Ba’im skit, our need for stability isn’t an excuse. It’s meaningful, genuine, and responsible.

At the same time, living in the US isn’t an excuse to be disengaged from Israel, from its people, from its vibrant culture and spirituality, or from its struggles. Just the opposite – it’s a reason to double down on our commitment. I’m proud to have focused my adult life on participating in the miracle that is Israel to the extent possible – sending my kids to Israeli-style preschool, prioritizing podcasts from Israeli thinkers and rabbis, vacationing there instead of in Cancun, pushing myself to read chick-lit in Hebrew, and watching so much Israeli TV that my Israeli family and friends cannot keep up.

Being connected to Israel isn’t an all-or-nothing proposition. There are lots of ways to demonstrate commitment to the Jewish state besides making aliyah. No matter where we live, we can all find ways to make Israel a priority in our lives.

Most importantly, regardless of what our address is, we know where our hearts are.

Our hearts are with our 20-year-old daughter when she’s in the cheder milchama (war room) at all hours of the night when she could just as easily be lounging on a flowery college campus. Our hearts are with her when she must cut short our call to run to her base’s bunker because of a Hezbollah missile alert. Our hearts are with our 22-year-old daughter who will need her psychology training to support a nation of people who will grapple with PTSD, anxiety, and grief for years to come.

Our hearts are in the East, and one day, we hope, our address will follow.