Why I Choose To Come Home: Part I

Whenever I mention to a non-Jew that I am going to move home to Eretz Yisrael they invariably ask one of two things: "Are you from there?" and, "Isn't it dangerous over there?"

To the first question I answer, "Yes. My family got exiled from Jerusalem by the Romans and ended up in Spain. When we got kicked out of Spain we're pretty sure we ended up in Turkey, and then eventually crossed the Black Sea and settled in Ukraine until we moved to America in the early 20th century." Then they look at you for a minute while they take it in, and then say, "Wow, that's so cool," or something similar.

As to the second question, which is no doubt a question about terrorism, I answer that I have a far better chance of getting hit by an Israeli driver crossing the street than I do being killed by an act of terrorism.

The question they seldom ask, unless they are really curious, is, "Why do I want to move there?" Truth is that I have always known that at some point in my life I was going to make aliyah. I was just a matter of when.

There has never been a point in my life that Israel has not been at the center of my consciousness. My great-grandmother used to sew dolls and clothing for the children of the Halutzim back in the days of the Mandate. She and my grandmother were very involved in raising funds and awareness about both Shaare Zedek and Hadassah Hospital. And, speaking of bad drivers, most Israelis have no idea how close you came to losing Golda Meir when she came to our city back in the 50's on a fundraising tour for Israel bonds. My grandmother was responsible for chauffeuring her around town. No doubt when she returned to Israel Golda told harrowing tales of riding in a car with a short Jewish woman white knuckling it around corners on two wheels while sitting on top of a pile of phone books. I kid...a little. There weren't any phone books. Let's put it this way, when it came to driving, my grandmother, may the Holy One bless and keep her eternal soul, could have taken on anyone in Israel in a bad driving competition.

My mother carried on the tradition; raising money for the hospitals, UJA, Federation, you name it. I stuffed my blue JNF box, which I still have, with change and turned it into trees. When the UN voted in '75 that Zionism was racism, we were out in the streets. I'm pretty sure my mom still has our "Zionism is not racism" buttons.

I think you get the idea.

But the most important reason is obvious, at least it is to me. It's where I'm from. It's my home.

So you're probably wondering how it is I'm still in America at this point.

Don't rush me. I'm getting there.