As the American.

Standing amongst a group of all native born Israelis, I have never felt embarrassed about growing up in America. I stand proudly as an Olah and all the strength that dances in the two intertwined flags. I know my ascent sounds misplaced and my mannerisms don't match everyone else's but I find a subtle confidence in my identity. Having dual citizenship has been an honor and when I think of the democratic process and worldly education I have received, I couldn't be more thankful. I connect with American ideals of rooting for a success in journeys via hard work ethic, and when I hear someone speaking English, it brings me indescribable amounts of joy. I am American.

But, I am a Jew. First and foremost, my identity card is the one that put my people in death camps, the one that kicked us out of Spain and the one that suffered in pogroms. The DNA that flows through my twenty year old body connects me to the people who experienced the miracles I celebrate, and passed down a book of our story of finding morality. I inherit it all regardless of acceptance so I guess I choose to follow nature here; even when the tides of action twist in contorted figures.

Daydreaming out the window, my phone vibrates with a what's app message from my friend notifying me that three sons of my people were kidnapped on their way home from school. Later on, news updates drown out the world with details. Not just kidnapping, but by a terrorism organization. Trying to make sense of the sudden weight in the air, I find an angst of unease in the silence from my birth country.

It's tough to be the only American. The jokes. The random questions. The frustration in the lacking materialist ease that I am used to. But nothing is harder than the self disappointment in representing a country that cares more about celebrities and sporting events than crimes against humanity. It's tough to swallow the embarrassment of voting for a President who hasn't made a single comment about innocent boys being held captive by terrorists, a president who hasn't mentioned that a citizen of The United States was kidnapped by terrorist. I find myself doubting the beauty of my first passport, not because it's not a good place to live, but only because it's not my place to live.

Last night, my roommate woke up at 2am from the boom of rockets nearby. In San Deigo, that sentence would never make sense. Last night, there were mothers clutching their children, praying for the return of others. In San Diego, the news taking place on the other side of the world notifies about the hostage of human beings. Last night, I went to sleep in a Jewish country. In San Diego, the graffiti on the side of the bridges often resembles swastikas.

It's been a week. A week of the unknown; except for knowing the pain. A week of tragic pride, of reactive Zionism; a tearful hug of my people. My expectation of American assistance is far-reaching; our friendship has boundaries. Overly involved diplomacy is also a messy business. I would just hope for words of compassion in trying times, like many other international leaders.   Maybe a mention of combating terrorism, a possible comment about freedom or the simply empathy for the parents of the boys..... Maybe I'm just being overly American in that way.

It does Exist.

There's something very vibrant existing in the land; an authentically pungent yet invigorating quality empowering the country. Maybe it's in the soil that fuels the ridiculously incredible flowers blooming in every pocket of Israel. Maybe it's in the nods of helpful hands of strangers or maybe it's immersed in the geographic location of our home. Lately the news of naively hopefully talks have confronted the foreign relationship of my birth country muddling in the tricky politics of my new neighborhood. The problem of peace talks is that rockets from Gaza sent me a different message. The problem with the news highlighting a few quotations is that the real life stories feel silenced. The two democracies of the United States and Israel thrive under divergent environments and it's the differences that compliment the friendship. The reality of the day is the existence of Israel is dependent on the answering of the call to exist.

The magic in one of Aleh Negev's youngest residents finding a new family to adopt her in love and in recognition of her potential exemplifies the great hope in the quite miracles here. The past month of watching a 7ft tall Dutch volunteer care for the residents with such radiance that glistened from his blond locks, my heart grew from the undefinable energy he endorsed. Standing at attention for the siren of Holocaust Remembrance day next to Russians, Moroccans, Yemenites, and Arabs, one of the residents reaches out for my hand. The unity of the contradictingly non unified population stands in defiance of a pledge, in remembrance of innocent victims and paradoxically, in initiation of living together in a land that we all identify with somehow.

Touring Israel with my parents and Ilana introduces me to new lenses of locations and of myself. Giving them a thank you gift of transforming into an adult is not easy- for both parties involved. It's only with those guys that I can truly understand the quirks and traits that I have inherited. By studying the reflection, my own self definition crystallizes. And Beer Sheva and the beach in Eilat is the perfect setting to initiate the adventure, testing past versions of Israel against the modern infrastructure. We build the land. We build ourselves.

When bringing my parents home to Aleh Negev, it wasn't like showing off my 8th grade science project or my junior paper. It wasn't the new scarf or even a blog post. I think the words came out wrong. Or the trepidations squeezing through my fingers displayed my uneasiness. The level of comfort in my daily volunteering fell in humility as I attempt to conjoin my two worlds. Searching for that nod of absorbing that vibrant engergy of the land, I can't find it in their eyes. Not just yet. I introduce them to the individuals who have taught me the grand lessons of humanity this year. I share the newly finished mosaic signs for the safari created by the residents partnering with a local artist. The green house, medical ward, horse stable, therapy pool, incredibly thoughtful foliage and the fabulous mission statement that energizes strength through my veins. Showing off my home challenges my disappearing English vocabulary bank to capture the qualities about this location I want them to connect to. And only later as I hear this visit reverberated though my mom's lips am I able to comprehend that it's not at all about them getting my place, it's just them simply getting that it is in fact my place.

The actualization of our points of existence and the necessary changes in our relationship wraps every hug with a sigh of ephemerality. Every moment strains the clock clicking away our fleeting time together. The reality sinks in. I've moved here. In the hilarious   moments of the passover chag, it's the homeyness that's so evanescent in my current stage of life. I thought I had adapted to my two faced friend loneliness. I thought being the youngest threw me into the mud-pile of solitude when my siblings all moved away. I thought of my strut in individualism as a self embarked one man relationship with the world around me. Well, standing with my fingers interlocked with my mommy and daddy walking around in the north of Israel, the jarring cacophony of the siren in my mind welcomes me to the desperation of absorbing this moment.

Laying under the wind-chimes in Aleh Negev, I am whole. I am only the deeply feeling, totally present, ridiculously overwhelmed-with-life Talya. I can feel the sand between my toes and see the fish through my imaginary snorkeling goggles. I smile replaying the views of Mitzpeh Ramon, Banias and Gamla.... and the gentle kisses on my cheek. I am still playing "guess Talya's future" with my role models and walking with them around the location of my initiation into Israeli culture. I turn my head to the right and watch an ant carry a load beyond it's might. I whisper a prayer of encouragement- for both of us. I am fueling the energy of the land, preparing for my second year of National Service; exerting the unique call to existence, to success and to discovering oneself.

Muscles do stretch.

My mom's voice on the phone emits waves of pride, bringing chills of joy to rise on my skin while explaining the accomplishments that bless my life. The intensity of gratitude for the puzzle pieces of my Aliyah sliding into place rattles my excitement for next year. My mom comforts my understanding. "You exercised muscle in your years of dedicating attention to your education, volunteering, and programing as a counselor and now you are flexing those muscles to impact Israel." I take a breath and give another node of gratitude to the wisdom of her words that invariably guide me. I mumble over the thought again and digest the depth of strength in her analysis of my journey. Muscles grow by being broken down past their previous level of comfort.

Drenched in exhaustion from constantly exercising empowerment of self and the advancement of the residents at Aleh Negev, I smile up at the radiant skies. My joints weigh the bends of patience, acceptance, and explanation. My love and connection to my partners in combating confines of speech support my soreness. My joy of life knots with empathy to bond togetherness with comfort. And then my skin that unites all these muscles filters out the negativity from my focus, or at least attempts in that matter.

Assisting in therapies introduces me to phenomenas that overpower the technical instructions. The motivation that conquers doubt empowers all members of the involved party. The parameter of genuinely fighting to inspire another to accomplish a goal backfires the passion back at me and then it's transformed into our united mission: a two bodied muscle. The togetherness of improvement unlocks the mechanisms of the leg braces and the wheels of the walkers. The significance of accomplishment wraps pride in completing a sentence or in eating independently and challenges me to measure up in whatever tasks are on my list. The humility I absorb toggles a tinge of categorical response. Following the ratio of abilities I am given, I should be accessing and improving those capabilities at least proportionality, if not more intensely. Thus our muscle inspires me to build on the built for my sake and for proper appreciation.

The arduous dismantling of cells needed to produce muscle forces belief in the cause. To commit fully, I make peace with the uncomfortable aspects. I connect to the quote by fallen soldier Uriel Perez about the many thorny plants that prick his skin, realizing that anyone who lives in Israel must learn to love the thorns of Israel. The love of the intense process validates suffering through battles. It takes pain. It takes investment. It takes faith. It takes prospective and it takes will power.

My immigration absorption is far from easy, sitting on the extreme end of the spectrum. It's the "Survivor" version of starting my life in this country. Middle of nowhere. Challenging tasks. Lone contestant. Impossible living conditions. Trying foods that I would rather not repeat. Lots, lots, lots of bugs. But the days are filled the actualization of loving the thorns for the fact that they are the thorns of Israel. That's what my Aliyah teaches me daily- to love the pains because the pains belong to the land that I belong to. The list of challenges transforms into a gratitude list. The thorns prick at my layers, developing their ability to flex with might. They are my therapies, furthering my aptitude. The thorns of Israel are my guide to success in Israel.

My sore muscles throb from personal strives to make peace with my insecurities in expressing the truest caliber of myself in the limitations of my surrounding language. The pounding only intensified by strides of planning and questioning the future. What career to best advance my impact in Israel? Where to find the education that ignites the intellectual vivification for which I thirst? How to prioritize time for the more flexible goals I value for installation for the future? The potential captured in my muscles stiffen from anxiously awaiting the redemption of her growth. And then the thorns stick a resounding stab of reality into the aches, only ameliorated by the successes that trample onto the path of resourcefulness: the acceptances for a second year of National Service at a wide variety of extremely competitive locations, the expansion in my Hebrew understanding and the changes of responsibilities at Aleh, the connectivity to authenticity in my growing relationships with the residents at Aleh and my fellow banot sherut. I am a success not only in spite of the thorns, but in the merit of what they teach me as I stretch my well toned muscles, beaming with joy in the process of making it work in my land.

Cacti don't shrug.

Often the question of the main difference between people in Israel and Americans flies towards me in conversations about my Aliyah. The words that respond usually depend on the slant on the questioner and reverberate a fluid non-negativity. "In a Jewish land, there's just some givens that alter the normative culture" or "I think it depends on the families in each location that emulate chosen values." If speaking in an open environment, I might venture to say that Israel breeds a level of authenticity based on survival and a pride in identity. In contrast to a land that blends cultures, Israel has no other option than to be Israeli and thus the members are more connected, more related- but hey, I'm no sociologist. It's hard to pin point a chief difference between two countries that are immeasurably incomparable in size and history.

Standing in the middle of Times Square after spending the last 4 months in the Negev hits me stronger than expected. Jaw dropping culture shock rattles my confused mind. The wrong language spills out of my mouth. Modesty crashes as mistaken concept. Noise of advertisements and the world rushing around me, the seriousness of pleasure and pride in presentation all corrupt my senses with overstimulation. The vast landscapes of my land seem legitimately placed on the other side of the world and I feel isolated, totally surrounded by millions of people. I dream back to the land of paradox: bonding with strangers, constantly exploring the new in a geographically small location, inventing a new reality in the land of our history.

The question of cultural differences lacks the needed complexity to capture the disparity between my birthplace and my homeland. A native born Israeli is nicknamed "sabra" (cactus) for the prickly defensive skin guarding the soft insides. In agreement to the perfect depiction of the mentality, Israelis will not stand timidly behind politically correct limitations while asserting their opinions and needs. Picking my jaw off the floor during  Sherut leumi meetings, I swallow the accepted nature of my surroundings and digest the straightforwardness that I start to hear from myself. On the phone with my childhood friends, the shift of speeds takes a warped turn and I balance the indefinable differences in the diction that fuels the long distance relationship. Meeting visitors at Aleh Negev, I share my Aliyah story: choosing this community as the scene for outpouring my energy. I catch myself becoming increasingly more inspired by the individuals here and the unity of thoughtfulness. To be a good person, a giving and loving volunteer to the world is nothing out of the norm in the land of survival, the land of paradox. In Sherut, we are giving everything and in return, receiving more that I could imagine. I look to my friends serving in IDF and cherish the unity of protecting our nation, and my peers volunteering in communities that thirst for the assistance to grow. We newbies are catching on.

My two weeks visiting my family teach me the definition of being home sick; home sick that is, for Israel. American culture doesn't sit well on me. I don't slouch in the American dress, concentrating on the snags in the fabric; it just simply is no longer my main wardrobe piece. My Jewish dress comfortably wraps around my frame, allowing my personal fashion sense to accessorize the gown of my people's history. I add one of my knitted scarves of American entitlement of freedom and some romantic shoes of literary inculcations, a belt of accomplishing dreams and some earrings of sophistication. By adjusting the straps and resewing the hemline, I turn my dress from a gift to a possession of my own, a mixture of the cultures that have formed me into only one that can work that outfit like I do.

Continuing a strong connection with the characters in my beginning chapters, I am enlightened by the individuals that we are transforming into. My Californian posture of going with the flow will strengthen the new positive traits that impact me in Israel. The openminded education from diversity of my childhood continually guide my appreciation of acceptance. My value of adventures strengthens in exploring the cultural waves and empowers my patience in absorbing it all. I chose and constantly reclaim the choice to live in the paradoxical land, making the non logical move of Aliyah and total immersion because I believe in the survival of the cactus, asserting it's right to be a cactus in spite of history's stubborn swings of clearing out a more malleable version of our identity.

There is the sky.

The skies in the Negev are majestic. Somehow, they contain unimaginable powers. The sunrise that sets us off on our day of work at Aleh Negev also lowers into the colorful sunset that welcomes us home to Moshav Bitkha. The stars at midnight indulge my dreams. They sparkle through the exhausting aroma of my neighbor’s cowshed and create a dance floor for the moon to shine. The openness of the Negev permeates the land and the heavens in a call to fulfill the space in the partnership. It’s hard not to feel part of the program and soon I establish my addition to the the vibes of the South. My connection to the individuals at Aleh Negev deepen and my banot sherut become my family. I rely on them all for an education in patience and love, communication and determination. I experience an existence of total trust in others. Just like the skies rely on the heartbeat of the sun, I breathe from the help of others.

My first week of Aliyah allowed me to enter two societies. 1. Religious Israeli culture via the seminar for Sherut Leumi. And, 2. The Alliance of Olim while staying at Lisa’s apartment in Jerusalem. Both were plenty exhilarating and new, full of helpful advice and excitement for my newest life choice. They live an authentic experience of living the words that we have been passed down to follow, of taking pride in Israel and the challenges that exist here. They offer me the world of help because I am now one of them and the united front just sticks together.

The diversity of Israel highlights the fact that everyone either is an Oleh or comes from an Oleh somewhere in their family tree. My father’s words gallop in my mind teaching over my national memory of being kicked out the Bablonyians, scattered around the world and now returning- some of us a little more brown and some a little more blonde. And we return to a country that welcomes some persecuted populations and therefore our makeup is one of Immigrantville- but immigration home- not simply to a foreign land. As representative of my co-workers from Ethiopia and Russia, my friends' parents from France and Morocco. As an Olah Chadasha I am relatable to everyone who can appreciate being 2nd or 3rd or even 4th generation Israeli. As an Olah Chadasha, I am the empty blue sky that patiently struggles to understand Hebrew, the election system, the spoken inflection that drifts in the sunlight. As an Olah Chadasha, I can accept the assistance, because I am part of the body that delivers the help. I know that the day will come when I am in the complementary role, teaching another Olah the ropes, and therefore; the united flow of dependence actually becomes liberating.

I am proud to be dependent. It’s more genuine than pretending that my new citizenship only revolves around myself, that my family and that my beliefs are not braided into this collage of change. I am the product of the years in a factory and walking around the new workshop requires more tools that what I currently hold on my belt. When the overwhelmed tears pour onto the shoulders of my friends, the language barriers disappear from the scene and the bonds of unity tighten their hold. When doubts of patience itch more than my mosquito bites, I call my pioneer, Shayna and embrace the timeline of absorption. When the exhaustion gets the best of me, one of the residents at Aleh Negev will remind me of the tremendous gifts I was born with. When the Hebrew trips up on my Californian tongue, I breathe in the mediative skies and somehow gather the ability to mumble out the word.

My Nefesh B’Nefesh bracelet dangling around my wrist starts to fade. My unbarable ascent sometimes captures the correct tones and once in a while, I catch myself understanding some words. Today I have been standing as an Israeli Citizen for 10 weeks and while I celebrate the beauty of the progress, I owe it all to those who have journeyed before me and held out the flashlight to show me the way.

Ease is intimidating.

When making Aliyah, everything is scary.

Sitting in 2nd Ave Deli with Seth and Erin the night before my Nefesh B' Nefesh flight, my brother asks me if I am "nervous about anything.” Sitting in defiance to my outward excitement, my savings account of tears gets the best of me. The emotional outpour of my insecurities flood onto the restaurant table. The comfort of my family hugs my soul with love and soon enough I am at the El Al check in counter, surrounded by three hundred future Israeli citizens about to board the 50th NBN aliyah flight. 

Next is the sending off ceremony jittering next to Emma who articulates the perfect advice- ask for help, Talya. The swarm of Olim creates a bubble bee buzz that lifts me off my feet and twirls me in a breeze of a surreal reality. I am not there in my body in JFK, I am still at the beach in San Diego, still with my Grandma two nights earlier, still in Jerusalem at seminary; still dazed that the fragile possibility that I have been caressing is indeed transforming into the reality of my Israeli identity. The nine hour flight of excitement and story sharing, of unity and song singing, of nerves and socializing; culminates in my head during my Shacharit conversation with Hashem. I pray for everyone on the flight; to overcome challenges and receive some divine assistance. I look around at the those that are helping each other put on tefillin, embracing the mitzvah within the larger mitzvah and I smile out at the sunrise glistening through the windows. 

The pilot's announcement welcomes us Olim Chadashim home and my private press photographer Ofir captures the Led Zeppelin moment walking down the stairs. Unreal only captures the feeling to an extent, but what I can break down of my sleepy nervousness offers me a distant understanding of what occurred. I recognize in awe the tremendous support I felt from my Midreshet people, my friends and my family greeting me at the welcoming ceremony. The dreamlike connection to the excitement of being home falls buried under the stones of anxiety raining down in anticipation of the next 3 days of my entirely Hebrew seminar and the isolation of not joining the IDF with all 125 heroes my age. My body trembles in doubts and aches of the unknown waving hello. 

But the scariest thing about making Aliyah is when it all just works out. When I drag my bags over to a group of Israelis and introduce myself to be greeted with amazement and when my jet lagged brain can translate the world, it just makes me take a step back. When I stare at the Israeli identification card and open my Israeli bank account and find myself with my health insurance card and make my way over to Sherut Leumi office, capable of all the tangible achievements; I find myself confused of the ease of it all. I don't deserve for all the Israelis I live with to be so incredibly embracing, for my job in Sherut Leumi to make me feel high with fulfillment and for all the puzzle pieces to fit together so perfectly. 

Taking my three steps back before entering one-on-one time with Hashem centers me in front of the king that has given me so much attention. My fear of not appreciating the gifts to the extent that they deserve strikes me as the answering of my tefillah in my initial isolation from the normative Aliyah path on my flight. I now realize that the attention I asked for scares me more that the situation that beckoned the request. 

Strutting around Yerushalim with the announcement that I live in Israel playing on repeat in my head, my surroundings emulate my newfound possession of my land. In America, I didn't realize the extent of how much I missed the land and oh, the hills... Transfixed staring out the window, like a partner mesmerized by a lover, I can't tear myself away. 

During the Sherut Leumi seminar, a presentation included a moment about aliyah, probably something about Ethiopian Olim, but a few girls sitting next to me gave me that look that brought tears to my exhausted eyes. I'm here. I've made it. Later that day our teacher for the group of us entering a year of special education expresses the significance of our service as a representative of Am Yisrael. I am not here simply as Talya, but Talya of Am Yisrael, serving my people in the large scale of my nation, training me to become an active member of the community that I am blessed to be born into. 

I sit at the Hebrew speaking Shabbat table, unable to understand the general conversation but somehow I feel at home. Lucky Talya wakes up with a support system of the other banot sherut (girls doing national service with me) and stand in mutual admiration of the other's life. They might call me brave but I strive to emulate them. Slowly my Hebrew vocabulary fills that little blue notebook of new words I come across, and the normality of my life in Israel fits me way too naturally. 

I take those three steps back and think about what more to request. Dumbfounded, I cry that the mazel bestowed upon me reaches out to others. I quiver in trepidation, humbled by the phenomenons of the past month and stand freaked out in the most wonderful way. 

The step waits.

"Mazel Tov." The manager of the Apple Store in San Diego is quick to show me the photos of him at the Wailing Wall with his apple kippah on his recent trip to my about-to-be-home. Last minute preparations and frantic attempts to understand the crazy Aliyah process during the Israeli Foreign Ministry Strike tests my family's mental patience and rattles the strands of my parents' worries. 

Enthroned by the role of the baby in my family, I announce my plans to step away from my birthplace and claim roots to this distant land in the Middle East. Eyebrows are raised. Glances shift to my parent's nod, confirming the truth. A cautious smile arises. Questions finally torpedo towards me as my well repeated affirmations echo from my passive mind. The oxymoron of Being In The Moment taunts my insecurities, for every action is merely completing a task based for the future. 

Last October, when brainstorming my Aliyah timeline and my plans for Sherut Leumi, I quietly plotted and broadened my knowledge of the embedded textures of my dream. The profound confidence in my decision fueled the momentum of my zillions of emails and phone calls to the individuals that I plan to follow. Dedicated to the schedule of my Jewish studies, I had breathing space to digest the feasts of life planning. With each bite of decision making, I excitedly absorbed the reality of it all: What this would mean for my university experience, my career, my future family- and their relationship with the ones who hold my heart back in America.

My first Israeli bureaucratic experience of signing up online for Sherut leumi interviews in the limited allotted time wrung out my frustration with being a newbie here, but more importantly instituted a deep appreciation for the endless care Israelis and older Olim will dispense. If generated, my nerves from the first interview day had the potential to fuel the world. Shaking out the Hebrew from my stunned mind, I realized the extent of my intelligence trapped in English. Yearning to open the doorway into my translation-less world, I smile and attempt to explain my commitment to helping people with special needs. 

Rolling away the defeat post interview, I focused on my next opportunity swimming up 3 days later. I rearmed myself with confidence by translating my college resume to hand to my interviewer with a letter of recommendation, and drilled myself on Hebrew terms I would weave into my pitch. Aleh Negev interview day only replays in my memory like a dream. I am calm and collected sitting on an egged bus to Beer Sheva when I look up and see Sharona, an sabra from Olim parents. With her helpful translations during the tour of Aleh Negev and exceptional friendliness, the day swings by in excitement. When answering questions in Hebrew, I refuse to surrender. I imagine my year of service and I am here. I am doing what I love. I am improving the lives of others, flexing my compassion and communicative skills. I am immersing myself in Israeli culture and language, experiencing independence and reliance on those more familiar with experience here. I am helping the Negev bloom and the individuals at Aleh grow in their abilities. I am serving my country, as a member of Am Yisrael.

Relaxing in my perfect San Diego backyard, I tear up looking at the gentle clouds. Talya is alone, leaving the familiar to go home and postponing university for life education. The step before jumping might be more nerve racking than the sky diving below. I climb into the childish mindset I store for selective occasions. All of a sudden, everything is beyond overwhelming. I feel small inside my shell, distant and standoffish. Sensitive to the world, I present a tap dancing princess playing in her mother's wardrobe. My unproductive mode shifts into place and baby me longs for empowered Talya. Curious eyebrows ask me why Aliyah. Baby Talya responds from her array of available answer cards: it's home, it's my Jewish San Diego, it's available and accessible to me in this generation like never before, and it's the only place that for thousands of years is constantly changing and yet equally familiar. 

Standing up for my choice dismantles my shell little by little. Merely the ringing of my aliyah date arriving makes me relate to the face wash commercials, waking up with the rush of a tingling sensation across my skin. I am about to claim my spot in Jewish history, unleash my potential, and face my fears. I am going not only alter my identity, but the ones who come from me. I will assert my commitment and struggle along the way. And there I watch the jumping board emerging.