Every new immigrant to Israel, known in Hebrew as oleh hadash or (fem.) olah hadasha, will instantly empathize and commiserate with me when I say this: Living in Israel is hard. Very hard.
And it doesn’t appear to get easier – although I’ve just been here for three years.
It seems that no matter how long you’ve been here, or where you come from, when you are an oleh, daily life, and seemingly small challenges can sometimes feel momentous, such as taking the bus.
Why do bus drivers feel the need to blast the heating in the winter to the point when you’re about to pass out but in summer forget what an air conditioner is? Or to slam the brake pedals so hard that they send their passengers, young and old, hurtling across the bus, at 160 km. per hour – as though it were a competition to send as many of us flying into each other as possible?
Why do I need an appointment to pick up my post? And why is my Shein dress delivered to the most obscure grocery store in the middle of nowhere, so inaccessible by public transport that I have to trek there by foot – only to discover that they’ve lost my delivery or that it never arrived in the first place?
Why do I have to spend countless hours on the phone, wrestling with the Jerusalem Municipality, trying to force them to accept my arnona (property tax) payment – which I am legally obligated to pay – because they can’t figure how much I owe?
Why is everything an argument? And why, oh why, do Israelis think that shoving their shopping cart in front of me in the queue, marking their territory and then disappearing for an unspecified amount of time, is okay?
Just a few weeks ago, I offered to pick up a mezuzah for my friend, as a favor, without a thought as to how challenging this would actually be. (I should have known better.) When I went to collect it, the store owner had no idea who I was, who my friend was, what I was picking up, or how much it had cost, despite her ordering it months ago!
I could go on and on.
Yet, despite these grievances, there’s still nowhere I’d rather be.
Ever-growing antisemitism abroad
AS EXTREMELY aggravating, overwhelming, and often isolating it can be to live in Israel after making aliyah, while considering the alternative of living abroad amid a society rampant with ever-growing antisemitism, the above list of grievances becomes insignificant.
While overcast by trauma and tragedy here, in my humble opinion, what is going on in the Diaspora, is tenfold more terrifying than living in Israel. At least here, we have the IDF to protect us. At least here, we have a land to call our own, and at least here, we have a nation that will always stand by us.
So would I trade a run-in with a hot-headed Israeli or irritable bureaucrat for being the recipient of antisemitic slurs or attacks? Absolutely not.
I’m not diminishing the daily struggles of being an oleh. Trust me, I live them daily (and at times they break me), but when I consider the bigger picture, suddenly the trade-off doesn’t seem so bad, and I am reminded how truly blessed I am to live here. Because despite all the suffering and generational trauma, I’d rather suffer with my family/nation than alone or in silence.
Even so, people often ask me why I chose to make aliyah, or more specifically, during these challenging times, why I choose to stay. My answer is something along the lines of:
Where else would a stranger, whom you just met, invite you for a Shabbat meal and mean it, genuinely?
Where else would people offer you sage (given, often unwanted) advice or at least regale you with entertaining stories on your daily transit?
Which other nation would go to the ends of the earth to help their fellow in trouble?
Which other army would send flyers to its enemies’ civilians warning them to evacuate?
In which other nation would its citizens, even those who are not legally obligated to serve, willingly join the reserves, or even fly in from abroad, even sacrificing their lives to serve their country and nation?
Indeed, since the war started, thousands of soldiers living in the Diaspora have flown in and voluntarily enlisted in reserve duty. In most other countries, we see eligible citizens regularly fleeing abroad to evade mandatory military obligation.
I could go on.
So in my eyes, when I consider the options for where I want my future to be, the decision is blatantly easy. I’m not the only one. Statistically speaking, more Jews have made aliyah since the war began than ever before. Which other country welcomes more immigrants during a war, than Israel?
I believe that this speaks volumes about our nation.
So just as I miss another bus, or slam into another kid, extremely inconveniently positioned under my feet at the entrance to Rami Levy or in the middle of the Mahane Yehudah market – I take a deep breath and remind myself that I chose this. I chose to be here. It certainly isn’t easy, but there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
I chose to make Israel my home through the good and the bad, and I won’t just run when things get tough. On the contrary, this is a time to be more intentional and empowered as Zionists and to use this passion for our Land and our nation to drive change, bring down our enemies, and bring back the hostages.
The writer is a copy editor at The Jerusalem Post. She is a native of London, now living in Jerusalem.