​War: ​A ​second ​immigration

​I froze, legs folded over my head. Not just because of the question itself, but because of the flood of answers it unleashed. Every woman in that room had a war of her own. ​​A father who stumbled home one Wednesday morning, blood streaked across his face. A son who marched to the battlefield the same day he left home for the first time. Months devoted to those most shattered by tragedy. The list goes on and on.

Seven years ago, I made this place my home. As people often say: “Forget your local ID — you went through your first war and stayed. Now you’re Israeli.”

“First,” let’s be clear, not “only.” Because while people here believe in miracles, expecting utopia feels like too much.

So yesterday, a friend sent me a work by an Angolan author about immigration. I was deeply moved — not just because the text is brilliant (and it is), but because it took me back to the time when THIS was my transformation.

​I wrote a book about it​ — ​about letting go of who you were and trying to understand who you’ve become. About language, unfamiliar brands of fabric softener, and the disorienting absence of reference points. About learning to navigate traffic, government offices, and even the falafel queue.

For six years, I was an immigrant.

Today, I am the war.

Nothing makes much sense beyond the news of missiles, fear, and kidnapped brothers and sisters. We live, celebrate, plan, travel, and share in the happiness of those back in our home countries. Yet somehow, we’re never truly anywhere but here.

“Out there” has become a distant place.

The people you once knew no longer know you.

Like immigration, you cling to small comforts, trying to preserve who you were — only to realize it’s already too late. You’ve learned a new language, one without a name, spoken only by those who live beside you.

This is my war. And I’m still trying to understand who will be born out of it.