There is something about Israel that refuses to be explained in rational terms. You can analyze politics, history, conflict, economics. You can debate endlessly about borders, policies, narratives. But none of that captures what I experience every single time I step onto a plane bound for Tel Aviv.

Am I the only one who starts crying the moment the coastline appears beneath the wings?

Not once. Not occasionally. Every single time. Twenty two visits since 2015, and the last in February 2023, and still it hits me like the first time. The tears come without permission. The heart races. Something inside me recognizes a place before my mind can even process it.

And then comes that almost manic happiness the moment I step into Ben Gurion Airport. It is not normal happiness. It is overwhelming. It is consuming. The first breath of air feels different, as if I am trying to recover a scent I once knew. The orange blossom from 1978, when I first set foot in Israel as a child. Tiberias, Haifa, memories of youth that never left me.

Israel is not just a country I visit. It is a place that imprinted itself onto me before I even understood what that meant.

And yet, here comes the contradiction.

Because the same person who cries at arrival feels something entirely different at departure. Standing again in Ben Gurion, waiting to leave, the happiness drains away and is replaced by something darker. Not just sadness. Something closer to grief. A heaviness I cannot fully explain. The knowledge that I have to return “home” feels wrong, as if I am leaving the place where I actually belong.

So I ask myself, honestly, without pretending otherwise. Is there something wrong with me?

Or is there something profoundly right about what I feel for Israel?

The intensity reaches its peak in Jerusalem. I am not religious. Not even close. And yet, the moment I enter that city, I change. Completely. The energy is undeniable. People who know me see it instantly. My face, my posture, my entire presence shifts. Happiness radiates in a way it simply does not anywhere else.

Every visit, I need to go there. Not want. Need.

I return to the place I once called home. Rehov Mordechai Caspi. The view over the Old City. The memory of a time when the scars of the Six-Day War were still visible in the landscape. Trenches that have now turned into parks. Places of beauty layered over history, conflict, survival.

And yes, also tragedy. A viewpoint where young recruits of the IDF were targeted in a terror attack. Reality is never far away in Israel. It is part of the fabric. And still, despite everything, the feeling of life there is stronger than anywhere else.

Now comes the part that makes me call myself schizophrenic.

Because the same person who feels overwhelming love also gets furious the moment she gets behind the wheel of a car.

Driving in Israel is chaos. Absolute chaos. I curse. I get angry. I complain about irresponsible driving, about the lack of structure, about the infamous Israeli sense of time that turns ten o’clock into noon or later. It drives me insane. Sidewalks are not safe either. Children on bicycles rule the space and apologies are optional at best.

If you would see my face in those moments, you would never believe I consider myself one of the biggest Israel lovers in the world.

And yet, both things are true at the same time.

That contradiction makes people uncomfortable. It does not fit into the neat boxes the world prefers. Either you love something or you criticize it. Either you defend Israel or you attack it. But real connection does not work like that. Real love does not erase frustration. It coexists with it.

And maybe that is exactly what makes it real.

I think back to my ex boyfriend from Beit Shemesh. A religious Jew who felt completely safe in Israel but uneasy abroad. When he visited me in the Netherlands, he carried that discomfort with him. He gave me a key with a sacred inscription and a hamsa for protection. At the time, I laughed. I thought he was the irrational one.

Now I am not so sure.

Because while I am still not religious, I understand something I did not understand then. There is a feeling in Israel, especially in Jerusalem, that goes beyond logic. Call it energy, call it history, call it identity. But it is there. Tangible. Persistent.

Yes, I have seen people in Jerusalem who seemed to lose themselves completely. What is often referred to as Jerusalem syndrome. Visitors overwhelmed by the weight of the city, projecting meaning onto themselves until they cross the line into delusion. It is real, even if rare.

But what I experience is something else.

I do not believe I am a prophet. I do not hear divine voices. I do not walk barefoot through the streets reciting psalms. I remain grounded in reality.

And still, I feel it.

A connection that does not fade when I leave. A pull that does not weaken with time. A sense that part of me remains there, no matter where I go.

So no, this is not a disorder.

This is attachment. This is history. This is identity meeting place.

And it leads me to one simple, unapologetic conclusion.

Because when you do, you touch something deeply personal. Not just for me, but for millions who recognize in that small piece of land something the world often refuses to understand.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)