How I Accidentally Befriended A Cult

You know that moment when you think the universe is finally throwing you a bone? That maybe—just maybe—you’re about to meet some cool, expat girlfriends who won’t try to marry you off, ask your age, or force-feed you falafel?

That moment lasted seven minutes.

So there I was, strutting down to the plaza in my usual outfit, when I heard it—English. Sweet, sassy, English. From where I was standing it sounded American. Naturally, I pounced.

“You guys American?” I asked.

One of them smiled brightly and said, “I’m from England!”

The other chirped, “And I’m from Ireland!”

We chatted, laughed, and bonded over the price of cucumbers. It was going well… until one of them pulled out The Bible like it was a free sample of skincare. It turned out, they were part of a cult and travelled to Israel to get people to join.

“Would you like to pray with us?” One of them asked.

Excuse me? I thought.

Before I could politely decline, she grabbed my hand and said, “God told me you’re the chosen one for our Wednesday night prayer circle!”

Oh boy.

At that moment, I did what any normal, rational person would do in a cult-chase situation:

I beelined straight into the nearest store and hid behind a pyramid of adult diapers.

But every corner I turned—bam—they were there. Like well-dressed religious ninjas. “Just one verse!” they shouted.

“I’m Jewish,” I yelled back. “And late for my dentist appointment!” But that didn’t work either. They were hell-bent on converting me.

Eventually, after what felt like a spiritual manhunt, they left. Maybe they sensed my energy was “unsavable.” Maybe someone else in Haifa looked more convertible. Either way, I’m happy to say, I’m Jewish and here to stay.