Israeli Life

Every so often, life brings us someone who changes the direction of our lives. For me, in 1991, it was someone I had never imagined needing ever: a well-known, beloved North Tel Aviv rabbi. Though he has since passed away (z”l — may his memory be a blessing), I remember him with deep affection. I landed in Tel Aviv in November 1990, completely clueless about Judaism or the local attitude toward non-Jews. My husband, a very secular Israeli, was certain we would be fine as we w

So, it turns out I’m a liar. To you, dear reader—but mostly to myself. Not an earth-shattering lie, nothing scandalous… just the realization that I’m not quite who I thought I was. After a great exchange with friends (and if you haven’t read it yet, see Zero Gods, Four Voices: Exploring Jewish Atheist and Secular Identity), a little red flag emerged.

The most beautiful concept I discovered while converting and living in Israel was the power of Shabbat, specifically Friday night. Depending on the family and the moment, it could feel like anything from a simple weekly gathering to a solemn kind of communion. In my in-laws’ home, it often shifted between the two, shaped by the mood and the week behind us. But to get to Friday night dinner, we had to go through the week.

For me, being Jewish is, above all, about being part of a community—specifically, the secular community. It took me a while to feel comfortable with my new Jewish identity. I often felt judged—or at least imagined I was being judged. On the topic of religion, I probably knew more than many Israelis who had grown up secular Jews. But knowledge wasn’t the point. I still felt a nagging need to prove myself—even if I wasn't quite sure who I was trying to convince, or if any

During my conversion in Israel in 1991, my teachers explained that Pesach (Passover) is a festival of freedom centered on one key command: In every generation, each person must see themselves as if they personally left Egypt. Of course, it isn’t meant to be taken literally—it’s really about embracing faith and trust. But me? I’m not exactly a natural when it comes to faith in the traditional sense. Broadly speaking, though, I do have faith—plenty of it, in fact.

Purim is almost here, but videos shared on social media of dancing and partying in Tel Aviv are already everywhere. People are celebrating in sheltered basements and underground parking garages because of the missile threat from Iran. And I’m not surprised. And it makes me smile. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from living in Israel, it’s this: Israelis don’t wait for perfect conditions to live. They live anyway. There’s a quiet strength in that.

Purim, Fate, and a Roll of the Dice On March 2, 2026, it will be Purim — a holiday of costumes and joy commemorating how the Jewish people were saved long ago from an evil Persian vizier. This year, the holiday feels oddly tied to Iran and the threat of war. That connection pulls me back to my very first Purim. My First Purim in Israel In 1991, Israel had just come through the Gulf War. On the evening news, journalists showed young people celebrating in the stre

I know my website is only a few days old, but with Hanukkah just around the corner (December 14 at sunset until 22 at sunset), I had to mention it! Israel usually celebrates Hanukkah in December, though it can fall in November because Jewish holidays follow the Hebrew calendar, while everyday life uses the Gregorian one. In the Hebrew calendar, the twelve lunar months—Nissan, Iyar, Sivan, Tammuz, Av, Elul, Tishrei, Cheshvan, Kislev, Tevet, Shevat, and Adar