There’s something about spotting an Israeli when you’re on vacation in the United States. You could be hiking in the Catskills (like we were this week) or shopping at the Paramus Park Mall, and suddenly—you hear it. It’s that unmistakable, sing-songy staccato that can only be Hebrew. It’s a “Yalla, yalla!” or “Eifo ha’mechonit sheli?” (“Where’s my car?”) that cuts through the air.
Yes, it’s happening. You’ve just spotted one. You’ve found a sabra in the wild.
For olim, this moment is a heady cocktail of nostalgia, joy and the realization that no matter how far you roam you can’t escape Israelis. They are everywhere. More importantly, you’re happy to see them.
Just think. You’ve spent months trying to integrate into Israeli society—learning how to pronounce “B’emet?” (“Oh, really?”) with the right level of sarcasm, arguing with bank clerks for fun, and adjusting to the Israeli definition of “waiting in line” (hint: there is none). And yet, here you are, vacationing in America, and you suddenly crave hearing someone say, “Ata rotze kafe?” (“Want some coffee?”) in that familiar sabra lilt. You want to jump out from behind the bookshelf at Barnes and Nobles and shout, “Hey, Ma Nishma? Eifoh ata gar?” (“How are you doing? Where are you from?”) like you’re in some kind of secret club.
However, it’s more than the comfort of language. It’s the hilarity of watching an Israeli couple try to explain their travel insurance in broken English to an American rental car agent while you quietly realize: Oh, my gosh. This is what I sound like in Israel. Suddenly, the tables are turned. You’re the one fluent in the local customs, you know how tipping works, and you can navigate the complexities of Target self-checkout like a seasoned warrior.
And just like that, empathy hits you like a rogue beach ball at the Jersey shore. You begin to understand the disorientation Israelis must feel when they’re abroad. In fact, for olim, meeting Israelis abroad becomes a kind of mirror. You get to see yourself from the outside. Your Israeli cultural instincts may still be forming, but in America you are one of the locals. And that gives you unfamiliar confidence. You find yourself helping a young Israeli couple figure out how to use a laundromat in New Jersey, or how to measure distances in feet and miles instead of meters and kilometers.
Of course, not every encounter is a soul-touching moment. Sometimes it’s entertaining. Other times it’s embarrassing. Still, these run-ins are a reminder that Hebrew, once a language you struggled to parse, now leaps out at you with a kind of magnetic force. And each conversation you bravely enter becomes a chance to practice, laugh, and collect yet another strange and wonderful story.
Which brings us to a final thought. If there’s one thing Israeli encounters in the States reveal, it’s how vital it is to have someone who gets it. Someone who knows both worlds, who can ease the culture shock, decode the unspoken rules, and laugh with you at the absurdity of it all. In Israel, that someone can be a friend or a Paveway mentor. Because just like freshly landed Israelis in America need a little help navigating, so do olim in Israel. And having someone on the inside makes all the difference.
So next time you hear Hebrew in the middle of Disneyland or hiking the Appalachian Trail, smile. You’re part of a global tribe of wandering sabras and wayfaring olim, and that’s reassuring.
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