Time, money, and sweat equity are all great ways for Diaspora Jews to support Israel, but falling in love with the language is a shortcut to the nation’s soul.

The first (of many) clues that my life as a committed L.A.-based Zionist was dramatically out of step with the mother ship was a text from a friend in Tel Aviv. He was responding to a panicked query I sent after having seen images on social media of his apartment, gutted and ablaze, with sirens howling and first responders everywhere. The lovely patio, where his wife sipped her coffee every morning; the cozy couch where I chilled with their dog during Purim last year; the cute café out front, heavenly scented with fresh pastries, now ravaged beyond recognition by the first (of many!) ballistic missiles Iran fired in a war that is still without a conclusion.

“I guess now I can say I’m a true Israeli,” my friend, who made Aliyah with his wife from Northern California, wrote me about the destruction of his entire city block. Then adding with a clarity and resolve that belied his decision to become an oleh, “It’s only stuff, right? Everything that matters is safe.”

That’s true. His wife, his kids, their loving pooch, all the irreplaceable living connections that are also on my L.A. checklist, were safe. But what about tomorrow, or the day after? I........

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