This post is part of a series, more will follow. It concerns an overview of my visit to Israel and plans to visit family and friends. While I succeeded in my endeavor, my stay was extended due to the war with Iran. Five posts in total will offer you a glimpse of my short time in Israel, as I will describe places, people, and the reality of war through my eyes.

The time had finally come to visit the Holy Land again. While many Israelis grumble about El Al, I actually like it. There is something very appealing about seeing a plane sporting Hebrew and a blue Magen David.

My journey started early in the morning, Sunday February 22nd, to be precise. Arriving at Schiphol Airport, my parents and younger brother accompanied me to wave me off.

Uncertainty about Iran hung in the air, but the Middle East is always unpredictable. As negotiations were ongoing, there was no warning to refrain from traveling to Israel; and I was looking forward to my visit.

Israel’s fragility becomes clear immediately. While the Royal Dutch Marechaussee patrols the gate – heavily armed – it confronts you with the uncomfortable reality that El Al and its travelers require protection.

As I complete the security check and say goodbye to my family, I continue marching towards the gate.

The flight is packed and I recognize my fellow Israelis instantly. The screen tells us that we should remain seated – which is interpreted by many as an invitation to stand in line. As I board the plane and take my seat near the window, I am joined by a Haredi gentleman occupying an aisle seat. We are in luck: the seat in the middle remains free – but not for long.

The gentleman in question seems glued to his phone. He impressively switches from Yiddish to Hebrew to English. I assure you that I am not eavesdropping, but I can hear him trying to book a hotel room. Next to that, the no man’s land between us is rapidly being conquered. While I happily claim my second armrest, my neighbor is turning the seat into his personal storage space: a blanket and headphones have found a home.

He does something else that is very particular: he uses the recording feature on WhatsApp. Israelis love to use this and I have started using it frequently as well. The Dutch, however, prefer texting. Curious.

Halfway through the flight, my neighbor asks if I need the window shades to remain open. If not, would I mind closing them? The heat was bothering him. I had no issue with his request, so I closed them.

Was he being demanding? Obnoxious even? No, because he asked politely. But another scenario shot through my mind: what if I had not been Jewish? Perhaps I would have treated this as “evidence” of bad Jewish behavior. You see? Jews only care about themselves. You see? Always grabbing something that does not belong to them. And, if picked up by one of the more extreme voices of the Western media landscape, the following headline: “Jew annexes airplane seat.”

As I chuckle about this, the crew comes to hand out small bags of coconut chips. My marvelous motor skills cause me to drop mine, upon which my neighbor kindly returns the fallen treat to the steward, after I have chosen another. My conclusion is clear: he is not aggressive, simply assertive.

As we approach the coast, I can spot the Tel Aviv highrises. Each time I see the country of my birth, I experience a feeling that cannot be quantified. Rather it can be summed up with one word: home.

As the plane comes to a standstill, the seat belt sign is still flashing. However, this is largely irrelevant, as many Israelis are already standing and scrambling for their luggage. Yes, Israelis are notoriously impatient.

As I shuffle across the aisle towards the exit, I notice something interesting. It seems that the ladies and gentlemen in business class were struggling profoundly with inserting nuts into their mouths, as many are scattered across the floor.

Then, some irritation. As the machine completes my passport check and spits out the important blue slip, I notice that the picture is blurry and the printed text illegible. And when I approach the gate, the next machine cannot read it.

But, this is Israel. A laidback airport employee asks what the issue is and pulls me aside. No problem, he completes the check manually and opens a glass door for me – almost there.

Before I collect my luggage, I swap my SIM card for an Israeli one; withdraw some cash – I like paying with paper money and coins; notify my family in the Netherlands that I have arrived safely; and send some messages to friends. Most reply as follows: welcome home.

As I drag my luggage behind me, my aunt is waiting for me at the exit of the terminal. As we walk out, I spot another fellow passenger. It is an older Haredi gentleman, who has lit up a cigarette, while conversing with his wife. Again, I chuckle as I am reminded of many non-Jews and their odd perceptions of Haredim – usually it is a combination of ridicule and fear. A smoking Haredi? That would be absolutely incomprehensible.

As we get into the car, I enjoy the warm, yet mild weather. My aunt pulls out of the parking garage and I watch all the advertisements in Hebrew pass us by. The radio is on and I listen to the news and statements made by politicians and pundits. Within seconds, my aunt and I start to complain about politics.

In my mind, I am elated and at ease: yes, it is good to be home.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)