Dear Israelis…

It’s that time.

Crying on the plane back to New York from Israel. Again.

Not since the summer of 1992, when I was a teenager on ZOA’s Masada Leadership Training Program (yes, I was on the nerd trip), have I spent five weeks in the homeland.

I recognize how lucky I am to have had this experience. It is not lost on me.

But despite the privilege of being able to spend five weeks in the homeland, there is something uniquely painful about leaving Israel.

At Ben Gurion Airport, it is hard to breathe while dragging yourself down the ramp towards the departure gates instead of down the ramp towards immigration.

Because both paths take you home. But not in the same way.

As I walked, groups of Birthright participants straggled alongside me. They were taking photos, hugging, exchanging numbers, promising each other they would come back soon. They were having their first goodbye.

I was trying not to cry in public. Again.

For years, I have spoken to Diaspora Jews about Israel.

About peoplehood and responsibility. About why this tiny country matters, even if you live thousands of miles away.

But maybe this time I want to speak to Israelis directly. I want you to understand what I see. What I love.

This was my summer of yes. If I had an opportunity, I said yes.

I went to Har HaBayit.

I sat in the Knesset while it was in session.

I went to an underground party so far south in Tel Aviv I thought I was going to the airport.

I recorded podcasts.

I met people in person I only “know” online.

I took buses, trains, and light rails.

Okay, one light rail. The only one currently running in Tel Aviv. But I took it by myself. Without asking for assistance.

I practiced my abominable Hebrew, complete with my unmistakably New York accent.

I spent time with old friends, new friends, and friends who flew in from elsewhere just to be here.

And so many people were visiting. That part matters. Because if you only consumed headlines about Israel, you would think nobody was coming. That Israel was isolated.

Instead, restaurants were full. The beaches were crowded with the most magnificent people on the planet. People who exude vitality and joy and grit.

Languages from all over the globe blended together on sidewalks and in coffee shops.

People keep choosing this place.

I don’t pretend that life here is easy.

I know it isn’t.

I know that being Israeli comes with sacrifices many of us in the Diaspora will never fully understand.

I know there are children in uniform who are still children.

I know there are reserve duty notices, sirens, impossible decisions, and grief that arrives without warning.

I know there are prices attached to Israeli life that are paid in ways that cannot be measured in shekels.

And yet, I am envious. You live in the one place on earth where you are not the Other.

You are not explaining your holidays. You are not translating or minimizing your grief.

You are not calculating whether this is the room where it is safe to say you are a Zionist. (Okay, admittedly this is not me but many people feel this.)

You are not wondering whether the person standing next to you sees your Jewishness as an identity, a crime, a fetish, or an accusation.

You simply are Jewish.

Publicly. Collectively. Ordinarily.

You live in a country where Jewish time is the default setting and the calendar makes sense. Where strangers wish you Shabbat Shalom. Where the language of your ancestors is the language of traffic reports and coffee orders and arguments in the am:pm. Where Jewish life isn’t an accommodation.

It’s just life.

For years, I have spoken to American Jews about why Israel matters. This summer reminded me of something else.

Israel doesn’t just matter. She is everything.

There is a particular exhale that comes from living in a place where your existence is not up for debate and your identity is not a political statement.

Where your peoplehood does not require a defense.

For five weeks, I got to live inside that feeling and now I am heading back to New York carrying something I did not bring with me.

Envy. Utter gratitude. Homesickness for a place that is not “technically” my home.

Maybe this is what peoplehood feels like.

Or maybe it is the overwhelming realization that there is one place in the world where you never have to explain why you belong.

And leaving her hurts.

A lot.