Meeting Strangers in a Familiar World
I always assumed meeting Israelis abroad would feel like seeing extended family. Instead, it often felt like meeting polite strangers. We shared history, religion, and collective memory, yet something essential was missing: a sense of mutual recognition.
Since October 7th, that disconnect has become harder to ignore. We speak constantly about Jewish unity, about standing together in moments of crisis. And yet, in practice, Israeli Jews and Diaspora Jews often live in parallel worlds. We visit each other, fund each other, defend each other, but rarely understand each other.
The years following October 7th made this gap even more apparent. Many Diaspora Jews struggled to fully grasp the depth of Israel’s pain, because the war, its daily fear, and its cumulative trauma were physically distant. At the same time, many Israelis could not fully understand the sharp rise in antisemitism faced by Jews abroad, because that threat was happening elsewhere. Each community was consumed by its own crisis, while the other’s suffering remained abstract.
Why Israeli and Diaspora Jewish Life Feels Different
I have spent much of my life moving between Jewish worlds. I traveled extensively, lived an Orthodox life for close to three decades, and, like many American Jews, felt a strong emotional and spiritual pull toward Israel. Yet time and again, when I met Israelis abroad, I sensed a subtle distance. Not hostility. Not rejection. Just the feeling that I was not quite “one of them.”
At first, this puzzled me. We shared Jewish heritage, religious references, and often similar values. But over time, I came to understand something important: Diaspora Jewishness and Israeli life are not simply two versions of the same identity. They are different cultures, shaped by different languages, pressures, histories, and daily realities.
Israel is not just a place where Jews live. It is a society shaped by army service, war, political intensity, Hebrew as a living language, and a shared national experience that Diaspora Jews, no matter how committed, do not fully inhabit. Jewish life in America, even Orthodox Jewish life, exists within a very different society and daily rhythm. The Hebrew I learned in yeshivah does not translate to speaking fluently with someone in Ivrit. The way we pronounce holiday names abroad differs from Israel, especially to someone unfamiliar. Daily life in Israel is beautiful in many ways, but leading a Jewish life in Los Angeles, London, or Sydney is not remotely the same. That difference matters.
And yet, we continue to speak as though shared ancestry, common customs, and a mutual love of the Jewish homeland can create instant connection. We are part of the same tree, yet the branches seem to extend in opposite directions. The beauty of the tree is that, over time, it can still grow closer together (Etz Chayim עץ חיים).
Short Trips, Long Gaps
Birthright trips are incredible experiences, connecting Diaspora Jews not only to the land but also to Israelis themselves. They create lasting memories, spark meaningful connections, and often deepen a participant’s sense of Jewish identity. Yet there is only so much an eight- or ten-day trip can accomplish. Later, American Jews are asked to donate to Israel, advocate for Israel, and, in some cases, move to Israel. The relationship is expected to be emotionally deep, even if the lived experience is often thin.
This past summer, I returned to Israel without an organized trip, simply to experience the country on its own terms. Tel Aviv is world-class, vibrant, creative, and beautiful. Yet one of the things that struck me most was a subtle social divide.
There seemed to be two parallel worlds occupying the same space: native Israelis on one track, Olim and Anglos on another. Friendly interactions existed, but deep integration felt rare. Even in Israel, the gap between Israeli Jews and Diaspora Jews had not disappeared; it had evolved from a distant separation into a close-up, invisible barrier.
None of this is inherently wrong. Cultures are allowed to be distinct. Identity is complex. But as Israel faces prolonged conflict, trauma, and an uncertain future, the question of connection becomes more urgent. Support cannot rest only on obligation, slogans, or emergency fundraising appeals. It must be relational.
Building Real, Lasting Connections
Which raises a deeper question: what if we invested as much in building lasting relationships between Israeli and Diaspora Jews as we do in short-term trips?
One idea that has stayed with me is deceptively simple. A sustained pen pal, call, or connection program between Israeli Jews and Diaspora Jews. Not a one-off exchange. Not a tour. But an ongoing relationship. Individuals or families paired with one another, communicating over months or years. Learning each other’s rhythms, assumptions, language, frustrations, humor, and humanity. Eventually, perhaps, meeting in person.
A mutual, long-term virtual birthright: building on Birthright’s depth, with far less overhead and a focus on lasting connection.
Such a program would not aim to erase differences. It would help people understand them. An Israeli would gain insight into what it means to live as a Jew in America or Europe beyond headlines. A Diaspora Jew would come to understand Israeli directness, resilience, and exhaustion from the inside. Over time, when these individuals encountered others from the “other world,” they would no longer feel like strangers.
The effects could ripple outward in unexpected ways: dating, aliyah, philanthropy, advocacy, emotional support during crises. A sense that when Israel hurts, someone you know personally is hurting. And when Diaspora Jews struggle, someone in Israel actually understands why.
We often speak about Jewish unity as a value. But unity does not come from proximity or shared history alone. It comes from familiarity, from sustained, imperfect, human contact. The more unified we become now, the better prepared the Jewish people as a whole will be when the next—unfortunately inevitable—attack arrives.
The gap between Israeli Jews and Diaspora Jews is not a failure. It is an invitation to build something more intentional.
Especially after October 7th, the future of Jewish peoplehood may depend less on declarations of solidarity, and more on learning how to truly see one another.