I’m coming up to my one-year Aliyah anniversary, and I have nothing profound to say. Sure, I’m happy here. After all, I’m among my Jewish brothers and sisters, living the Zionist dream—in Jerusalem, mind you. Kosher food everywhere. Torah study opportunities abound. I’m home. Blah, blah, blah. It all sounds so cliché even if it’s true. The thing is, approaching the one-year mark, I have more questions than answers, which I’m beginning to understand is the nature of this place.

For instance, How’d I get here? What possessed me? First, some perspective.

I was born in Brooklyn, worked in the Catskills, attended Brooklyn College. I moved to San Francisco for law school, maintained a Bay Area law practice for thirty-three years, was a community activist, served on my city’s planning commission. For 21 years, I was part of a small but spiritually nurturing Modern Orthodox Jewish community in Oakland where I raised my kids. For three decades, I held season tickets to the Oakland A’s. Was even in a rock-and-blues band. This is all to say that I was firmly rooted in the States and in my Jewish community.

Yet here I am, almost a year later, looking out my terrace window, watching my Jerusalem street come alive as I write.

My experience is not unique.

Whatever happened to me happened to the 3,499 other Jewish Americans who felt compelled to pull up stakes, separate from over 99.9% of Jewish Americans, and high-tail it to the promised land. Whatever happened made the 3,500 of us unique.

I’ve formally interviewed about a dozen people who made Aliyah this past year and surreptitiously interviewed dozens more at Shabbat tables, shul kiddushes, cafes. Why did you make Aliyah? The standard answers: “I was always a Zionist.” “Always felt at home here in Israel.” “I wanted to raise my children here.” “My children and........

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