This week, I will become an Israeli citizen.
After almost four decades of life in Britain, I am making aliyah and moving to Israel. Like many significant decisions, it is both simple and complicated at the same time.
Simple because I know it is the right decision. Complicated because Britain is the country of my birth. It shaped me, educated me, and formed much of who I am. My earliest historical obsession was Mary Queen of Scots. I grew up with British humour, British culture, and a deep affection for this country. For most of my life, I assumed Britain would always be home.
And yet, over time, my understanding of where I belong began to change. For years, much of my work has focused on Jewish identity, Jewish peoplehood, and Jewish Pride. Through writing three books and speaking to Jewish communities around the world, I found myself returning again and again to the same fundamental question: what does it mean for Jews to define ourselves on our own terms?
The answer led me to think more deeply about Jewish history and Jewish peoplehood. It led me to explore the Jewish people's indigenous connection to the Land of Israel. It led me to understand that Jewish identity cannot be reduced to a religion detached from land, nationhood, culture, and collective memory. We are a people with a shared history, and language, that began in a particular place.
That place is Israel. For centuries, Jews maintained a connection to that land despite exile, persecution, and dispersion. We prayed facing Jerusalem. We spoke of Zion in our liturgy. We incorporated remembrance of our homeland into our festivals, rituals, and daily lives. Even when physically absent, we never regarded ourselves as disconnected from it.
The modern State of Israel represents the most extraordinary chapter in that story. For the first time in nearly 2000 years, Jews once again exercise sovereignty in the land where Jewish civilisation emerged. The dream of return that sustained generations became a reality. As I explored these ideas intellectually, they also became increasingly personal.
At the same time, events in Britain forced me to confront difficult realities. Already challenging since the Corbyn crisis, the years since October 7 have been especially painful for many British Jews. We have watched anti-Jewish hatred become more overt and socially acceptable. We have seen Jewish fears erased and Jewish concerns debated. Conversations that should have been straightforward often became exhausting exercises in self-justification.
Recent years reinforced something that Jewish history has repeatedly taught: belonging in the Diaspora is often more conditional than Jews would like to believe.
The issue is not whether Jews contribute. We do. The issue is not whether Jews integrate. We have. The issue is whether acceptance can sometimes depend upon Jews remaining within boundaries established by others. For many years, I found myself reflecting on the difference between being tolerated and being fully at home. They are not the same thing.
Making aliyah is therefore not simply a reaction to what is happening in Britain. If it were, this article would be about fear. It is not. It is about aspiration. For most of Jewish history, Jews had very little control over their collective destiny. We lived at the mercy of rulers, governments, and societies that could change their attitudes with frightening speed. Even when Jews sought refuge, they usually moved from one diaspora community to another.
My generation possesses a privilege that most previous generations of Jews could scarcely imagine. We have a home. We have a state built around Jewish civilisation, Jewish culture, and Jewish self-determination. We have a place where Jewish life is not a minority experience but the organising principle of society. We have a place where Hebrew fills the streets and where the rhythms of Jewish history and Jewish time shape public life. For much of Jewish history, that was a dream. Today, it is a reality.
The central idea of Jewish pride is that Jews must see themselves clearly. We must understand who we are, where we come from, and what our story actually is. But Jewish pride also requires something else: the willingness to see the world clearly. It asks us not to minimise threats, rationalise hostility, or cling to comforting illusions when reality is telling us otherwise.
For me, making aliyah is an expression of both truths. It is an affirmation of Jewish peoplehood, Jewish indigeneity, and Jewish self-determination. It is also a recognition that strength begins with honesty. This week, I will become an Israeli citizen. I do so with pride in the people to whom I belong and confidence in the future we are building.
Am Yisrael Chai.
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