The Weight of Belonging

I made Aliyah nearly ten years ago from New York City. Growing up on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, I was immersed in a rich Jewish upbringing, steeped in strong traditions and outspoken Zionist values.

My father, born after the Holocaust, and raised in New York, instilled in my siblings and me a deep appreciation for Yiddishkeit and the importance of maintaining it in the Diaspora. When he met my mother, a bright, idealistic Bnei Akiva Zionist, feminist, and archaeologist from the UK, he knew their children would be raised with nuance, open-mindedness, and an unwavering love for Israel.

For six summers, consecutively, we travelled to Israel, spending two months each time soaking in the culture. I remember learning Hebrew, getting lice in Israeli day camps, falling in love with chocolate spread, and marvelling at the ingenuity of drinking chocolate milk from a bag.

Tragically, my father passed away when I was young. Though he never made it to Israel, my sister, my mother, and I did. Between the three of us, we have each passed the five-year milestone of life here. My sister and I like to think of ourselves as feminist Zionist extensions of our mother, who showed us how empowering it can be to carve out our place in Israeli society as women.

Like many Olim, I have experienced those quintessential “Aliyah moments” those instances that remind me why I made this choice. Seeing buses across the country with “Chag Sameach” banners before every holiday. Rushing to the Shuk in Jerusalem on a Friday to grab the freshest produce just before Shabbat. These moments reaffirm that, despite the struggles, my decision to build a life here was worth it.

I still cherish those moments. But in the post-October 7th world we now inhabit, the weight of being part of Israeli society feels heavier than ever. What once felt grand and fulfilling now sometimes feels draining, overwhelming, and mentally exhausting.

Over the past year and several months, I have found myself consumed by the horrors of October 7th. Perhaps it’s because I work in media, where staying glued to the news is part of my job. I follow Instagram accounts of women my age, wives whose husbands were killed fighting for this country. Some of them mothers to young children who will only grow up with memories of their fathers and the knowledge of how they are extensions of the bravest form of Zionism. I visit Hostage Square. I watch the videos of hostages returning home. I feel the ביחד, the togetherness, the unbreakable connection to this national tragedy.

hdgBut at what cost?

This togetherness is suffocating. My mental capacity feels like it’s shrinking under its weight. Mental health professionals across the country are surely inundated with all members of Israeli society grappling with multiple issues because of this War. Even with people like me people asking the same questions: How do I set boundaries? How do I balance my life, my goals, my ambitions, when often many moments in Israel feel overshadowed by collective grief?

The tension between individualism and collectivism is deeply embedded in Israeli society, and it resonates profoundly with my experience. Judaism itself grapples with this duality; how do we maintain our individuality while also being part of a greater whole?

The Talmud teaches in Sanhedrin 37a that “whoever saves one life, it is as if they have saved an entire world,” emphasizing the infinite value of the individual. Yet, Jewish tradition also commands us to prioritize the community, as seen in the principle of “Kol Yisrael Arevim Zeh Bazeh” (all of Israel is responsible for one another). In times of crisis, the emphasis on collective responsibility intensifies, often at the expense of personal space and self-care.

Navigating this balance, between personal autonomy and national unity, is one of the most challenging aspects of being an Olah.

As I write these thoughts, I feel a sense of relief in putting them down, as if releasing them from my mind. There is catharsis in that. But at the same time, I also feel a tremendous sense of self-consciousness, as if voicing these feelings is somehow sacrilegious or wrong. How can I say these things? How can I admit that I miss a life of individualism, when many would see it as loneliness and a lack of community? How do I reconcile these emotions with the deep sense of purpose I feel living in Israel?

There is so much I haven’t achieved this year. So many personal hurdles I am still trying to overcome, some a direct result of the war, others not.

I am exhausted. But I am grateful. I am a Zionist, a proud believer in this country, and I feel deeply connected to the pain of hostage families and the loved ones of fallen soldiers. But as an Olah, someone who once had a rich Jewish life in the Diaspora, I am not ashamed to admit that I miss the autonomy. I miss a life where to an extent, I only had to worry about myself. Here, with my Israeli ID in hand, the weight of ביחד is ever-present.

I don’t have the answers. But I do know that these thoughts need to be expressed. Because whether we are tzabarim (born and raised here) or Olim who chose this life, these feelings exist in our subconscious. And it’s okay to admit that life is hard, no matter how deeply we are steeped in strong ideologies and values. It doesn’t make us any less devoted. It just makes us human.

And I am still figuring out how to carry it.