"How was New York?"
I hate that question. Every time it’s asked, I’m forced into an immediate identity crisis.
“It was just me going into my alternate life,” I say, feeling an unplaced sense of resentment.
How do they not understand? Going to New York is not a vacation. Sometimes, it’s not even particularly exciting. Moreover, I’m proud that it’s not exciting. Because it’s my home, and I claim it as such. A true New Yorker would never be that excited about going to New York City. Anyone who is overly excited about pretty much anything is probably not a native New Yorker. That’s culture.
Perhaps I’m not ready to give it up.
As an olah (immigrant in Israel), I straddle two realities, with one foot in my old world and the other in my new one. Quite literally. I go back two to three times a year. “Wow! That’s a lot,” people say. Are they crazy? My entire extended family is there, my childhood home, bank accounts, friends, a mentor, and a very specific sandwich I need to eat.
When in New York, I miss Tel Aviv’s cold coffees, the sun, and having all of my friends within a 10-minute walk of where I live. When in Tel Aviv, I miss New York’s hot pipes that heat the walls, making city apartments toasty in the winter.
When I return to New York, it’s not restful.
Many olim can attest, calling this journey a “trip” or worse. A vacation makes it sound like a getaway, an escape. But when I go back, I’m not sipping a fresh passion fruit margarita on the shore with the water gently washing up against my thighs.
No, when I’m “back” in New York, I’m running around, trying to fit a year’s worth of relationships into a matter of days. I’m handling errands that can only be done in the US and trying to prove to myself that I still belong.
STEVEN REICH: Going back home fills my cup
STEVEN REICH, a Philadelphia native in his 30s, couldn’t agree more. He moved to Tel Aviv a few years back and is happy and committed to his choice, but the challenges keep him contemplative.
“I go back twice a year, usually for weddings. I still have this close group of friends there, and part of my family that I am so close with are there. I love them deeply,” Reich says.
“The question ‘How was your trip?’ – it’s always well-intended. America, so cool, so exciting! But my reaction is frustration. My knee-jerk reaction is to respond and say it’s not a vacation. I feel the need to assert that,” he explains.
Reich uses a word that was initially missing from this article but was needed – “confusing.”
“I love my family, and I feel refreshed in many ways when I go there… but it’s really emotional, tiring, and taxing. I am happy to go back; it fills my cup. But it’s also confusing.”
He goes on to describe the challenges of trading a fun vacation for a trip back home: the time it takes, the money, and the emotional toll. Even discussing the importance of seeing his father and his sister makes him choke up.
“You’re spending most of the time away from everything you know, love, and are familiar with. And to go back? I feel it in my body. It triggers these memories. And overwhelming sensations,” he explains.
When asked if he still considers himself a Philly boy, Reich starts to discuss something that most people can relate to in the City of Brotherly Love: sports fandom.
“Philadelphia sports culture is unlike any other, and seeing the community back home celebrating our recent Super Bowl win… the craziness and rowdiness made me feel sentimental and connected to the city. I am a Tel Avivian, and I’m still a Philly guy. I am in both worlds. Maybe I can’t be that way forever… But that’s how I feel.”
Reich, despite investing in his Hebrew, remarks that in any room he’s seen as the American and is even questioned about why he chooses to converse with Israelis in the language.
“I get lectured by people who ask why I am trying to ‘be someone I am not.’ I don’t want to change who I am; I just want a home, a community, and to be accepted. As a Philly guy who is an Israeli citizen.”
Reich says he’s come to develop a sense of pride in his nuanced identity and that the only person who needs to understand it is himself.
JOSH HAKIM: A sign of relief returning to Israel
JOSH HAKIM, a 28-year-old oleh from Australia, has had a different experience. He heaves a sigh of relief when he boards the plane back to Israel.
“I’ve been back four times since I started my degree in 2021,” he tells me. “Each time, it’s a shock. I see how different our lives are in Israel versus my community in Australia.”
Hakim has started to detach from his old world. He used to make an effort to see as many friends as possible, trying to maintain old connections. Now he prioritizes just a few close ones.
“I realized, I don’t need to keep in contact with the number of people there as I do here,” he says. “If they come to Israel, hit me up. But if I go back and they don’t reach out, I won’t make the effort.”
Hakim has always been a proud Australian. Even after moving to Israel, he held on to that identity. “I never said I was Israeli,” he admits. “I always said I live in Israel.”
But something has changed. Since Oct. 7, he has found himself saying, “I’m Israeli” more often.
“Australia has gone downhill in antisemitism,” he says. “I used to tell Israelis I was Australian, and they’d say, ‘Oh, I want to visit.’ Now they say, ‘Oh, it’s antisemitic there.’ That’s a big change.”
It’s not just external factors like antisemitism that reshape identity; it’s the slow realization that we might not fully belong in our country of birth anymore.
Hakim used to go home and try to pick up where he left off. Now he sees his trips as visits.
“I don’t call Australia home,” he says. “My home is here.”
CHEN SCHIMMEL: From the UK to the IDF
CHEN SCHIMMEL is a 25-year-old woman who left the United Kingdom right after high school, joined a mechina (pre-military program), and then enlisted in the IDF.
“I was so happy to move to Israel and wanted to do it my whole life, so it was easy to leave London behind. But I love going back. There are specific things I love to do,” she says. “A specific park with greenery and nature, which I feel is lacking in Israel. I love the cold. I love the seasons. I miss shopping. I love art, museums, and beautiful architecture. All of those don’t really exist here.”
Schimmel adds that not only does she like to drop in on the places she loves, but she always wears a completely different wardrobe, being stylish in a way she feels is overshadowed in Israel by the casual culture.
“I grew up in a very religious community, so I don’t like to be there. I’m more in town when I’m back, like a tourist. London is beautiful. I have a greater appreciation for London now that I don’t live there,” Schimmel explains. “When I lived in London, I would come to Israel for a visit and cry for a week when I would come back home to London. I always wanted to be in Israel.”
MARILYN, 70, toes the line between Israel and the UK, splitting her time between both places so that she can be at every family member’s birthday party. Marilyn has 10 relatives whom she promises to visit for their birthdays.
“I used to feel pride about being British. I have no pride in being British now. I have no love for the country. The antisemitism that has risen there, and the weekly Palestinian marches – they are beyond me. If I could bring the whole world from England to Israel, I would, but people have to earn a living, and their living is in London.
“There is so much hate around being Jewish. You don’t want your kids to be out wearing their kippot. It’s not a place for Jews anymore,” Marilyn explains.
THE WRITER of this piece doesn’t quite feel the same.
I haven’t had big-deal personal antisemitic experiences in New York. My non-Jewish friends have been supportive and attentive throughout this war. New York City Mayor Eric Adams gave a compelling speech where he said he would be making it his business that New York be a safe haven for Jews. His powerful address brought me to tears.
New York is a beacon of diversity, and that’s a value I care about strongly. I have often wondered how I will be able to curate a more diverse experience for my future Israeli children who will not have learned it through sitting in a culturally rich and colorful classroom.
My family has been in New York for upwards of four generations on both sides. I think of 18-year-old Shirley Finkelstein, my great-grandmother, who left Poland alone in the 1880s to start a new life in the Lower East Side of New York. She worked hard, struggled, and created a life for our family that she probably could never have imagined.
She read The Jerusalem Post when it was The Palestine Post. She had thought about coming to the Holy Land, but New York offered more opportunity. I’m privileged to have lived out the American Dream of my ancestors. And at times, I do wonder if I’m a fool for leaving it.
I could have become the first woman president of the US! But instead, I did what Shirley did. I started all over.
When I left my TV news job at New York 1, my mentor, Cheryl Wills, said, “Of course you’ll be back. You’re a New Yorker!”
I’ll never forget the day she said that. It left an impact. Is she right? I didn’t think so when she said it. And I hadn’t even left the country yet.
The last time I saw her, she gave me a mug with an image of the New York City subway branding on it. She wanted me to have something emblematic of our beloved city. I still know all the MTA lines, borough neighborhood names, and I still wake up on cue when the train pulls up to my stop.
The oleh identity is unique. Maybe that’s the cost of choosing a new home – you have to live with the ghost of the old.