It’s always been funny growing up with the last name “Israel.” People would ask me about the country constantly: if I’d been, what I thought of it, or if I had any connection. But the truth is, I didn’t set foot here until I was 15. A quick family trip, nothing too deep, just a first glance. Back then I had no idea this would one day be home.
I never planned to move to Israel.
I grew up in a lot of places like London, Vienna, Arizona, and Florida. Yet somehow, the deepest sense of belonging I ever felt was in a country I didn’t think I could actually live in. The second I started spending real time here, everything changed. There’s something about the people. Israelis are intense, warm, chaotic, hilarious, and fiercely there for each other in a way I’ve never seen anywhere else. One second you’ll be fighting with someone in the street, and the next at their house for Shabbat dinner. It’s a country where your cab driver becomes your therapist and strangers help you carry your groceries without even asking your name. It’s messy and magical. I quickly realized this was the feeling I’d been missing.
The realization was the easy part. Staying here was not.
There was a time I honestly thought I wouldn’t be able to make Aliyah. I hit roadblock after roadblock. My mom isn’t Jewish, and even though I am a proud and actively practicing Jew through my father’s side, it posed issues. I was constantly being told I was missing something, or that my file wasn’t complete, or that some document I’d already submitted twice wasn’t valid, or straight up… that I wasn’t Jewish.
I felt so alone during the process. Like I was trying to prove something about my identity to people who couldn’t understand the nuance of it. The worst part was that no one could really help me. But my Catholic mom is ironically the one who kept me grounded in my Jewish journey. She reminded me that faith isn’t just about religion, it’s about believing in yourself and the path you’re on, even when it doesn’t make sense yet.
And so I kept going.
I cried at Misrad Hapnim more times than I want to admit. I carried around an envelope of paperwork that felt like my entire identity was stuffed inside. I went back and forth, and back and forth, until one day, it worked.
I made Aliyah alongside one of my best friends Gabby, holding that little temporary ID card feeling like I had just crossed a finish line I wasn’t sure even existed.
My process was anything but normal. I had to get background checks from each place I lived in, had my rabbi resend a handwritten letter overseas three separate times, and even submitted my middle school transcripts. It was exhausting, surreal, and sometimes hilarious. But when it all came together, something shifted.
Suddenly, this wasn’t just an idea anymore.
It wasn’t about paperwork, or a passport, or where I’d live. It was about knowing, really knowing, that I was supposed to be here. That I pushed through every obstacle and still made it.
The moment I became an Israeli citizen, I didn’t just gain a status. I gained a sense of purpose, of rootedness, of being part of something bigger than myself. And for someone who’s lived in so many places, who’s always been looking for that feeling of “home,” that meant everything.
So that’s me, Marielle Israel and now the name kind of makes sense.
