Thirteen Days Without Israel

It’s been 13 days since I left Israel, and the sadness hasn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it’s heavier now. I wake up in the morning and, for a split second, forget where I am. Then it hits me: I’m not in Tel Aviv. I’m not walking down Dizengoff with a falafel in hand. I’m not sitting with friends at midnight on a beach that never really sleeps. I’m here, far away, and the emptiness settles in all over again.

I joke with myself that maybe I just need falafel, shawarma, or a bag of Bamba. But the truth is, it’s not just the food I miss; it’s what the food represents. Every bite in Israel feels like more than sustenance; it’s a heartbeat, a memory, a moment of community. Eating here feels like eating alone.

What gnaws at me most, though, are the memories that live between the big moments. Long afternoons stretched lazily across Tel Aviv’s beaches, watching the sun melt into the Mediterranean as someone’s speaker played softly nearby. A Shabbat in Jerusalem, when the usually buzzing city fell into rare silence. The streets emptied, time itself seemed to pause, and I felt the holiness of stillness.

There are sharper memories too; ones that ground me in the reality of the place. Sitting by a friend’s hospital bed in Petah Tikva and realizing that solidarity isn’t abstract; it’s flesh and blood, presence and patience. Or that night of the long-awaited rescheduled Offer Nissan concert, where joy felt like defiance; voices rising in song after days of fear and disruption.

And then there was the war. Twelve days of sirens, uncertainty, and tension wrapping themselves around daily life like a shadow. Yet even in that darkness, I found unexpected sanctuaries. Meir Garden became one of them; a small patch of green where I caught my breath, met friends, and remembered that life continues, stubborn and beautiful, even under the threat of rockets.

Perhaps the most grounding memory of all was helping to socialize a newborn kitten, aptly named Tikva which means hope. In the midst of chaos and grief, this fragile creature reminded me that hope isn’t lofty or abstract. It’s small. It’s alive. It needs care. And sometimes it fits in the palm of your hand.

These moments, layered together, are what make leaving Israel so devastating. Every departure feels like tearing myself away from something larger, something deeply alive. And I can’t help but wonder: am I the only one who feels this way? Do others also leave Israel only to find the world a little flatter, the colors a little dimmer, as if life itself has lost its sharpness?

I’ve come to call it “post-Israel depression.” It’s different from the sadness after any other trip. It’s not about missing a vacation; it’s about missing home, even if, technically, on paper, it’s not where you live.

But as much as I sink into the ache, I also know I can’t live in it forever. So I’ve been trying to find ways to soften the blow of being away:

• Keep the lifelines alive. I message my Israeli friends every day; even just a joke, a photo, a “thinking of you.” Distance doesn’t have to mean disconnection. 
• Recreate the sensory world. I order falafel at every opportunity, purchase Israeli snacks online, and play the songs that became my soundtrack there. Taste and sound help bridge the miles. 
• Stay rooted in culture. Reading Israeli news, streaming Israeli shows, or keeping Hebrew in daily life keeps me plugged into the rhythm of the country. 
• Count down to next time. Even if my next trip is far away, setting a date gives me something to look forward to. 
• Find community here. Talking with others who love Israel as much as I do turns longing into solidarity. 

The truth is, post-Israel depression never really goes away. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe the ache itself is proof of how deep the love runs. Maybe it’s a reminder that Israel isn’t just a place I visit; it’s part of me.

So yes, 13 days later, I’m still sad. But I’d rather feel this sadness than feel nothing at all. Because in the emptiness, there’s also gratitude: gratitude for knowing what it’s like to belong somewhere so completely that leaving hurts this much. And maybe, in the end, that ache itself is a form of tikva “hope”.