Living With Israel’s Trauma: A Zionist Immigrant’s Journey of Love

I was raised on Zionism, or maybe it’s more accurate to say I drank the Zionist Kool-Aid—the big gulp doses served up by Bnei Akiva and other Zionist youth groups, especially during those lonely high school years away in Yeshiva. Israel was more than just a homeland I hadn’t seen; it was the answer to everything—a place of resilience and pride, a dream I clung to whenever life felt uncertain or disconnected. Growing up, I was raised on Zionism, nourished by the stories, songs, and ideals that made Israel feel like the center of my world. In my mind, it was a place of strength and hope, where history and faith intertwined. I felt I belonged in Israel, even if I hadn’t yet set foot on its soil.

When I was ten, my grandmother took me and my brother to Israel for the first time to visit my grandfather’s grave and meet our Israeli relatives. I remember pieces of that trip—warmth, family, the feeling of stepping into a place I had always imagined. But then, the Yom Kippur War broke out, and everything changed. One day, we were just visiting, and the next, Israel was in crisis. I remember the suddenness of it all—the fear, the tension, the soldiers who seemed to appear everywhere overnight.

It was overwhelming, especially for a child. I hadn’t expected to see war up close, to feel the weight of conflict pressing down on everything. This wasn’t the Israel I had dreamed about. The tension, the fear, the sense of everyone holding their breath left a mark on me, even though I couldn’t fully understand it then. How do people live like this? I wondered. I couldn’t imagine staying in a place that felt so on edge, so entwined with conflict. I didn’t yet have the words for it, but I felt the trauma all around me, the scars Israel carried even then.

And yet, as the years went by, the dream of Israel never left me. I came back dozens of times, sometimes alone, sometimes with family, each visit deepening my connection. I even spent a year after high school on Bnei Akiva’s Hachshara program, working the land, drinking even more of the Zionist Kool-Aid, and falling in love again with the idea of building a life here. We brought my own children to Israel, passing on our passion for this place, hoping they’d feel the same pull that had drawn us back repeatedly.

No matter where I traveled or what I did, Israel was always there, a quiet voice reminding me where I truly belonged. Eventually, I stopped resisting. I came back, this time not as a visitor, but to live here, build a life, and finally root myself in the land that had shaped my identity for so long.

But I didn’t fully understand what that choice meant then. I didn’t realize that loving Israel would also mean embracing its trauma, that the scars I had glimpsed as a child would become part of my own experience. I thought trauma was something that happened in isolated, extreme moments to people living through rare crises. I didn’t understand that here in Israel, trauma isn’t just an event—it’s a constant presence woven into daily life. It lingers, seeps into your bones, and becomes part of who you are.

Living here has taught me that trauma isn’t just a memory or a chapter in a history book. It’s present, woven into the fabric of everyday life. It’s in how we react to sudden noises, how our bodies tense up, even in places that should feel safe. It’s in the shared glances between strangers, the unspoken understanding that life here is fragile and that peace is never guaranteed.

Israel has always been a place of resilience and pride for me, but I’ve understood that resilience doesn’t mean the absence of pain. It means carrying that pain and learning to live with it. It means holding space for both the joy and the sorrow, for the triumphs and the losses that shape us. Being here isn’t just about celebrating the miracles; it’s about embracing the complexities, scars, and struggles of calling this place home.

Understanding My Own Trauma Response: Running Toward the Pain

What’s strange is how differently I respond to trauma now compared to that first experience as a child. When I first visited Israel, I was overwhelmed by the fear and tension. But now, I find myself reacting in a way that surprises even me. When conflict breaks out, and people run for shelter, I feel an almost automatic pull to go toward the chaos and help however I can. It’s as if I’ve internalized this sense of responsibility, this drive to stand with my fellow Israelis, to be useful in moments of crisis.

I’m the one who wants to get to the war zone, to do something meaningful, to be there for others in ways I never imagined I’d be capable of. I’ve seen myself in those moments, staying calm and focused, moving toward the danger because I feel like that’s where I’m supposed to be. Somehow, I feel safer when I’m actively helping, when I’m immersed in the reality of what’s happening. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism, or maybe it’s just the way I’ve adapted to the trauma that comes with living here.

But it’s a different story when those same triggers—loud noises and unexpected disruptions—happen in “safe” places. When I’m in a quiet neighborhood or a peaceful park and hear a sudden bang, I’m startled. I feel a jolt of fear, a reminder that no place here is truly safe. It’s as if my mind and body have compartmentalized the trauma, allowing me to function in high-stress situations while still being vulnerable to the fear in moments that feel “out of place.”

This dual response—the strength in crisis and the vulnerability in calm settings—has become part of my experience of living here. And it’s confusing. How can I be so steady in the face of real danger yet shaken by a noise when I’m not expecting it? How can I feel prepared and capable in some moments and vulnerable in others? 

Trauma in the Body: A Constant State of Readiness

Living in Israel has taught me that trauma doesn’t just live in the mind; it lives in the body. My body is constantly braced, holding a tension that never entirely disappears. It’s like my nervous system is always on standby, ready to react, ready to protect. This state of hyper vigilance is exhausting, but it’s also become so normal that I barely notice it—until I do.

I realize now that trauma here is something that we all carry, even if we don’t talk about it openly. For so many of us, the body has adapted to hold onto this readiness, this sense of alertness. It’s a survival mechanism, but it comes at a cost. The muscles tense, the heart races at unexpected sounds, and the body stays on guard even when the mind tries to relax.

In some ways, this constant readiness feels like a form of love—like I’m holding onto this tension to protect myself and those around me. But in other moments, it feels like a burden I never anticipated. It’s not something I can simply “get over.” It’s a part of my reality now, a part of what it means to live in Israel. 

Loving Israel With Open Eyes: Embracing Both Loyalty and Pain

Loving Israel was easy when it was an idea, a dream I’d been raised on. But living here has taught me that love has to make room for complexity. Loving Israel means embracing its beauty, trauma, resilience, and scars. It means accepting that this land has endured so much pain, and that pain doesn’t simply disappear. It shapes us, binds us, and sometimes even breaks us.

There are days when I feel overwhelmed by its weight. I chose this life; I decided to be here. But even with that choice, there are moments when the trauma feels too heavy when I wonder if I’m strong enough to carry both my love for this country and the pain that comes with it. And yet, I know I am not alone in feeling this way. We all grapple with this, whether we grew up here or came here later in life.

Israelis have a way of carrying this trauma with a quiet strength that I deeply admire. They don’t dwell on it, but it’s there—in the way they walk, look at each other, and prepare themselves without ever really letting their guard down. This resilience, this ability to live with pain without being defined by it, is something I’m learning to adopt. It’s not easy, but it’s part of what it means to truly be here. 

Finding My Place in a Community of Resilience

As an immigrant, as someone who came here out of choice, there are times when I feel like an outsider looking in. I didn’t grow up with the same experiences as those around me, yet I’ve chosen to share in this journey. And I realize now that my role here isn’t to change anything or to “fix” the trauma. I can’t erase the scars this country carries, nor should I.

My place here is to be present, to listen, to bear witness to the pain and resilience of those around me. I may not have lived through the same history, but I’m here now, sharing in the reality of this land, building my own relationship with its wounds and its wonders.

In Israel, we support each other in ways that are often unspoken. There’s an understanding, a shared survival language, a quiet camaraderie that doesn’t need words. I see it in the small acts of kindness that pass between strangers, in how we look out for each other without making a fuss. I am grateful to be part of this community for this sense of shared resilience. 

What Do I Do With This Weight?

So here I am—an immigrant who came to Israel with a heart full of dreams, now living with a heart that also carries the trauma of this land. I feel the weight of it every day, and I know I’m not alone. But what do I do with this? How do I keep moving forward and loving this place, even when the trauma feels so overwhelming?

I think the answer lies in the people around me. I see Israelis who have lived through so much, who carry their own scars, and continue to build, laugh, create families, and hope. I see a country that refuses to be defined by its trauma, that chooses life and resilience even in the face of unimaginable loss. And I realize that I can learn from this strength and let it guide me.

Ultimately, I think my place here is to be part of this collective resilience. I want to let myself feel the pain without letting it consume me. I want to support others as they carry their own burdens and accept the support of those who understand mine. Trauma is real, but so is healing, and in Israel, healing is something we do together. 

A Hope for Peace, Even in a Wounded Land

Living here, I am learning to hold this land’s pain and beauty in my heart. Israel is not the simple, idealized place I once imagined—it’s complicated, wounded, and alive. It’s a land of love and loss, of strength and struggle. And as much as it asks of me, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

This is my home, with all its scars and all its hope. I may be startled by the sounds that shouldn’t be there, but I am grounded by the people who understand why. Every day, I am reminded that we’re in this together, that we carry each other through the hardest moments, and that we are stronger than any trauma we face.

In this land, I have found a community that doesn’t flinch from pain, a people who hold both the burden and the beauty of Israel with open hands. And with them, I have found the courage to do the same. This is my Israel—the dream, the reality, the resilience.