Between Los Angeles and Tel Aviv: missing Israel

It will soon be two years since I moved to the United States. What began as a study-related visit in the cool climate of Washington, D.C., turned into a permanent stay in the warm climate of Los Angeles. I’d always heard about the perfect California weather, but now that I’m here, I love it not just because the sun shines nearly every day and there is little rain; I also love it because the climate reminds me very much of Israel, where I was born and raised.

It’s strange that my first column in an American publication is about missing Israel, of all things. But over the past two years, as I’ve developed my skills in journalism, I’ve also developed a deep, genuine longing for Israel.

Longing is defined as “an emotion one feels when there’s a sense of yearning or passion for a certain person, a certain idea or a certain memory.” It’s not surprising that my memories of many years in Israel easily overshadow my recent experiences in the U.S. But for the past two years, I’ve found myself truly struggling with my desire to succeed and achieve here in the U.S. and my strong, fond memories of back home. I’ve also found that nearly all of the Israelis living in L.A. face this struggle, no matter how successful they are here.

I first met David Blatt, an Israeli basketball coach who led Maccabi Tel Aviv to a Euroleague championship, in journalism school in Tel Aviv, where he was giving a lecture about the connections between journalism and sports. Last year, Blatt left Israel and moved to the U.S. in order to coach the NBA’s Cleveland Cavaliers. He had an extremely successful season, and his team advanced to the finals in the best basketball league in the world. Nevertheless, in an interview he gave to a popular Israeli newspaper, he said: “I miss Israel — the friends, the people, the weather; everything really.”

Blatt isn’t the only one. In my time here, I’ve talked to many real-estate professionals, bankers, lawyers and businessmen, all of whom have successful, lucrative careers, and they all expressed a longing for Israel. I’ve noticed that when they talk about Israel, something shifts in their voices — they become softer, more earnest, and their demeanor changes from professional to more human, warmer, almost childish. They admit that living so far from Israel exacts a high price, one they are learning to deal with every single day.

The Jewish connection I have with Israel is very powerful: Show me another country where someone who has never lived in it would decide at the age of 18 to make aliyah in order to volunteer for its army.

One of the reasons for this phenomenon is that our Jewish being is deeply rooted in being Israeli. Every Jew who knows the Bible knows how the people of Israel arrived in the Promised Land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Jerusalem, the capital of Israel, is mentioned more than 600 times in the Old Testament, and the history of the Jewish people includes endless stories about the army guarding our Holy Land — the same army that continues today and holds dozens of battle records that long ago became a part of Israeli lore.

A week ago, I talked on the phone with a friend who recently returned to Israel after living in the U.S. for nearly 10 years. He told me: “Listen, Elad, I’ve come to the conclusion that I was only there for the money, because all I wanted was to get my life in order — just like in Israel, only with more money.” 

When he said this, it hit me: This is what most Israelis do here. We gather in the Valley so we can be close to one another; go to kosher restaurants that have Israeli food: hummus, falafel, shwarma; we shop for our beloved Bamba, Bissli and Milky in Israeli grocery stores; spend tens of thousands of dollars sending our children to Jewish schools and making sure they’ll speak Hebrew; subscribe to an Israeli cable TV channel or Mytvil; follow the Israeli TV shows and watch the Channel 2 news with Yonit Levy every night. Ask Israelis which they’d prefer — to watch “Big Brother” or “Big Brother Israel”? I guarantee they’ll go with the latter. We’re basically trying to live like Israelis, even though we’re outside of Israel. Strange, isn’t it?

The U.S. may offer us a great variety of opportunities, and the Israeli who comes here with Middle Eastern chutzpah and a warrior mentality, who is a businessman and full of energy, can make it big here. At the same time, we have a soft spot for Israel, tiny and warm, with a genuine familial feel and tradition. And, as they say, happiness is in the simple things.

A few months ago, I went to a Mimuna event on the last day of Passover, which included music and traditional Moroccan food, lots of sweets — honestly, not my favorite. In Israel, I didn’t usually participate in this event, but here — I couldn’t wait. Why? Because I longed for Israeli culture, for what I used to have there and don’t have here.

With each day, I understand the enormous price I am paying for being here. It’s an endless longing, unequaled by any other; not even the worst romantic breakup is as bad as missing Israel.

I miss getting up on Saturday mornings to the feel of a special and sacred day, an inexplicable peace. I miss going through the weekend newspapers, visiting my parents with the scent of jachnun (a traditional Yemeni food served in the mornings) filling the house; going to the beach and playing paddleball without getting strange looks; going to Jaffa’s Old City and eating genuine Abu Hassan hummus and knowing that if you stumble in the street, dozens of people will jump to your aid. The feeling of never being bored, that there’s a meaning to everything. When we’re good and when we’re bad — we’re together.

So, is it worth it? Living in the U.S. and living with this constant longing for Israel? 

Time will tell.

Elad Massuri is an Israeli-born journalist living and working in Los Angeles.