Israel Feels Like Home, Except I Cannot Live There

I am writing this from Thailand. It is summer vacation, and I am here with my family, thousands of kilometers away from Israel and the Netherlands. Yet somehow, Israel seems to follow me everywhere.

When we arrived in Bangkok, one of the first things that struck me was the extraordinary mixture of people. Thailand attracts visitors from across the world, and Bangkok in particular feels like an international crossroads.

Among the crowds were many Arab and Muslim families. Some women were completely covered in clothing similar to the burqas associated with Afghanistan, accompanied by men in traditional or conservative dress. I caught myself looking at some of those men through the lens of my own experiences and assumptions. In my preoccupied mind, shaped by years of following terrorism, radical Islam and the Middle East, some immediately looked threatening.

But appearances are not evidence. A man does not become a terrorist because of his beard, his clothes, his nationality or the way his wife dresses. If I demand that people stop judging Israelis and Jews according to stereotypes, then intellectual consistency requires me to recognize my own assumptions as well.

And then there were the Israelis.

So many Israelis.

You do not even have to see them to know they are there.

You hear them.

“Imaaaaa!”

“Abbaaaa!”

Children shouting across hotel lobbies. Parents discussing where to eat. Families negotiating with each other at a volume that makes private conversation seem like an entirely foreign concept. Hebrew suddenly appears everywhere, from restaurants and shopping centers to beaches, airports and hotel breakfast rooms.

I recognize Israelis almost instantly.

And I love it.

What fascinates me most, however, is not simply the number of Israelis traveling through Thailand. It is what happens to Israelis when they leave Israel.

Something changes.

Outside Israel, Israelis suddenly seem to remember that they belong to one enormous, complicated and occasionally impossible family.

Inside Israel, political arguments can become vicious. Religious and secular Israelis argue. Left and right argue. Different communities argue. People argue about the government, the war, the courts, the army, the hostages, religion, security and almost everything else imaginable.

Put the same people thousands of kilometers away from Ben Gurion Airport and suddenly there is an unmistakable sense of connection.

They recognize each other.

They help each other.

They talk to complete strangers.

And somehow, remarkably, they make room for me too.

I start talking to Israelis and within minutes I can blend into the conversation. Nobody seems particularly interested in examining my passport. Nobody asks me to prove how much I care about Israel before allowing me into the conversation.

I simply become part of the gang.

And that creates a strange sadness in me.

Because outside Israel I can sometimes feel more Israeli than I am permitted to feel inside Israel.

Israel has occupied an enormous place in my life for years. I advocate for the country. I defend it. I study its history. I follow its politics and security. I have visited repeatedly. I have friends there. When Israel is attacked, emotionally I do not experience it as something happening to some distant foreign country.

It feels personal.

I feel more Israeli than Dutch.

Yet feeling Israeli and legally being able to make Israel your home are two completely different things.

Bureaucracy does not understand emotional belonging.

A government form cannot measure what happens inside someone’s heart. Immigration law cannot calculate loyalty. A computer database cannot quantify how many years somebody has spent defending a country, worrying about its people or explaining its history.

There are rules, procedures and eligibility requirements.

I understand why.

Israel is not merely another Western immigration destination. It is the Jewish state and exists first and foremost as the national home and refuge of the Jewish people. That purpose must be protected.

Still, understanding the principle does not eliminate the personal frustration.

There is something deeply ironic about sitting in Thailand surrounded by Israelis and feeling completely at home among them while knowing that the country I emotionally consider home cannot simply become my legal home.

Perhaps there is also a lesson here for Israel itself.

Look at Israelis abroad.

Look at what happens when the internal labels become less important.

Nobody in Thailand needs to ask another Israeli how he voted before helping him. A child shouting “Ima” across a restaurant does not belong to the left or right. An Israeli family trying to find its hotel does not first establish whether the person offering assistance agrees with the coalition.

For a moment, everyone is simply Israeli.

That unity should not require an airplane ticket.

Israel has enemies who do not distinguish between left-wing and right-wing Israelis, between secular and religious Jews, or between the supporters and opponents of a particular government. On October 7, terrorists did not ask their victims how they voted.

Israelis therefore have every reason to rediscover at home some of the instinctive solidarity they demonstrate abroad.

Disagreement is part of democracy. Israelis will argue because Israelis are Israelis. Expecting them to stop arguing would probably require changing the national character entirely.

But disagreement does not have to become hatred.

Israel’s greatest strength has never been uniformity. It is the ability of radically different people to understand, especially when it matters, that they share something larger than themselves.

I see that Israel here in Thailand.

I hear it every time a child screams “Abbaaaa” from somewhere behind me.

I see it when Israelis who have never met begin talking as though they have known each other for years.

And occasionally, they allow this Dutch woman who carries Israel in her heart to become part of their enormous, noisy, argumentative family.

Maybe that is why the situation feels so bittersweet.

Thousands of kilometers from Israel, I can feel completely at home among Israelis.

I only wish that one day the country I call home in my heart could also become the place I am allowed to call home on paper.