At Home

I’m in Israel. In the Galilee. I’m home!

Where things happen much faster. The internet is fast, conversations are fast, people are quick to judge. Memories are short, solutions are temporary. Everything is divided into black and white, left and right, good and bad—yet all of it blends into the noise. And somehow, it’s here that every silence can be heard. Home sweet home. I waited so long. I missed it so much.I wanted to come back sooner, but everything with South Africa delayed it—and the longing only grew.

When I arrived, I kissed the ground. It’s such a lonely thing, to wander—far from your country, your language, the world that has been built around you all your life. It’s hard to breathe when you’ve been away for so long. Sometimes it’s amazing to feel the stings and prickles. Surprising, painful—but moving.

There’s nothing quite like this feeling, after more than half a year away.

When people ask why I left Israel, I always say the same thing—what are you talking about? I never left. You only leave land in your heart. And a land like ours, where the living and the dead are endlessly busy protecting one another, where time is wide and space is linear, and we all take turns saving each other, back and forth, forever—this is a land that never leaves the person.

I arrived at dawn, and now I’m in the Galilee, at my parents’ home. The first days vanished into a backlog of work that had built up while I was flying. Since I booked the flight during an uncertain time—unsure how things would unfold with the war—I worried it might be cancelled. So I booked with El Al; they’re the only airline that doesn’t cancel. But unfortunately, they don’t fly conveniently from Lisbon. Always midweek. Always at night. Always landing in a way that wipes out at least two working days. Flights to Israel are like trampolines—even if you land just right, it can still smack you in the face.

Especially this time. On my very first morning, I was meant to drive north, stopping in the heart of Haifa Bay—but I changed plans at the last minute. That same morning, at the very same time—there was a terrorist attack there.

Last Saturday night, my sister and I had planned to visit a shopping centre—we cancelled. That very evening, there was a shooting there, criminal-related (well, semi-criminal). All in all, a proper welcome back sort of week.

But it hasn’t just been a week of dodging landmines. It’s also been a week wrapped in old, eternal love. Family, loved ones, close and distant. My parents. My sisters. My sweet nephews, growing up too quickly behind my back—turning into little people with problems, stories, romances—all growing right alongside them.

Tomorrow, I’m moving into a temporary flat in north Tel Aviv, where we’ll stay until we find something more long-term. My husband’s still in Lisbon—his brother’s visiting, and they’re enjoying their time together.On Thursday morning, they’ll land in Israel together, he’ll come to the flat, and we’ll be reunited.

My plan is simple, but firm:

Arrive in Tel Aviv. Shower. Sleep for a week and a half.

It’s not much. But it’ll have to do.