For years, overseas purchases of Israeli real estate were largely associated with affluent families, second homes in Jerusalem, and investment portfolios parked in Tel Aviv towers. However, real estate agents working with diaspora buyers say something has shifted since October 7, as a growing number of Jews abroad are no longer buying property as a luxury or an investment. They are buying what they call a “security apartment.”
The not-especially-technical term keeps resurfacing in conversations with buyers abroad. “A lot of people are saying to us, ‘I need a safety apartment in Israel,’” says Eliyahu Kleinman, co-founder of Aliyah IL, a company that markets Israeli real estate exclusively to overseas Jewish buyers. “It’s not even framed first as an investment anymore. The first sentence is: ‘I need somewhere in Israel. I need an anchor.’”
The company, which until recently operated under the name Sparta and is now rebranded as Aliyah IL, works almost entirely with North American clients. Kleinman grew up in São Paulo after being born in Israel, speaks four languages, and spent years marketing projects to overseas residents before founding the firm with partner Avishai. For him, the change did not begin with the war. “I actually trace it back to COVID,” he says. “When the skies closed, and people suddenly felt disconnected from Israel, something changed. They realized that geography still matters, and they wanted a foothold here.”
On October 7, he argues, the process accelerated dramatically. “The rise in antisemitism abroad switched on a red light for people,” he says. “They started saying, ‘I can’t only rely on where I live today. I need a place in Israel.” The image that emerges is striking not because it is entirely new, but because of who is now participating in it.
Many Jews abroad who did not previously have a strong or active connection to Israel were suddenly required to take a clear position regarding Israel. Once they chose to align themselves with Israel, the emotional connection often intensified significantly, becoming more identity-driven than before. This shift strengthened their sense of belonging and, in many cases, created a renewed desire to maintain a tangible link to Israel, expressed through property ownership.
For decades, foreign purchases in Israel were associated with a relatively narrow demographic: Wealthier, often religious families buying in Jerusalem, Netanya, or select neighborhoods in Tel Aviv. According to field agents today, that profile is broadening. “The religious public was always active,” Kleinman says. “What changed is that now we’re seeing secular families too.”
He pauses before adding another category. “Also, second-generation Israelis abroad. People whose parents left Israel twenty years ago.” The motivations vary. Security sits alongside identity; investment alongside belonging.
This evolving demand is also reflected in real activity on the ground, with transactions being completed in cities such as Jerusalem, Netanya, Haifa, Tel Aviv, Ra’anana, and Modiin, reinforcing that the trend is already translating into active deal flow across major Israeli markets.
Kleinman recalls conversations with clients that have little to do with yields or square meters. “One person told me, ‘I didn’t serve in the army, and I’m not contributing to the security effort – buying in Israel is part of my contribution to the country.’ Another theme, he says, comes from younger diaspora Jews confronting campus antisemitism. “They see what’s happening at universities,” he says. “They experience it directly. That brings up questions of belonging.
In California, one acquaintance recently told him that his family had stopped going out at night. “He said, ‘It doesn’t feel safe anymore.’” The examples arrive quickly: French Jews avoiding visible symbols, mezuzahs moved inside homes after October , conversations about emigration that would once have seemed abstract becoming practical. “People say, ‘Maybe America isn’t the promise we thought it was,’” he says.
This feeling has translated, at least in part, into demand. The company reports rising inquiries despite a period that might otherwise have discouraged overseas buyers: Prolonged war, security instability, and an unfavorable exchange rate. “Closings are harder because of the dollar,” Kleinman admits. “But the number of inquiries and meetings is growing.”
In his telling, the paradox reflects a deeper shift in how Israel is perceived abroad. “People see resilience,” he says. “Despite October 7, despite Iran and the ongoing war, they see a strong country.” He goes further. “Diaspora Jews sometimes see Israel differently than Israelis do,” he says. “They’re very patriotic, sometimes more than us.” It is an observation heard frequently in conversations between Israelis and diaspora communities since the war: That distance has not necessarily diluted attachment; in some cases, it appears to have intensified it. Yet emotional motives alone do not explain the market.
Alongside identity and belonging sits another distinctly Israeli factor: Opportunity. “This is a buyer’s market,” Kleinman says bluntly, a phrase that has been recurring in industry conversations. Developers facing slower demand have become more flexible, payment schedules have expanded, and incentives have multiplied. “Clients today have more power,” he says. “Not unrealistic power. You’re not getting absurd bargains, but real negotiating power.”
He points to a common structure: Buyers entering deals with 15 to 20 percent equity and paying the remainder only at delivery, sometimes years later. “For people whose money is tied up in investments, it changes everything,” he says. “They can enter the market without liquidating assets.” The pitch rests partly on history. “Historically,” he says, “Israeli real estate has tended to rise after wars and periods of uncertainty.”
It is a familiar argument in local property circles, though one that now intersects with a very different emotional landscape. For some buyers, the apartment is an investment. For others, insurance. Apparently, for many, it is both. One story Kleinman returns to involves a family that made aliyah with a 35-year-old son on the autism spectrum. “The apartment wasn’t the whole issue,” he says. “Their concern was: *Where will our son fit? How will this move work?” The company helped them locate an appropriate framework in Ra’anana. “That was part of the process,” he says. “Helping them feel they could actually move.”
The anecdote points to a broader transformation underway in this niche industry. Companies once focused primarily on transactions increasingly present themselves as ecosystem providers: Mortgages, legal support, property management, aliyah guidance, and integration assistance.
Kleinman is careful about the distinction. “We’re not an aliyah organization,” he says. “First and foremost, we’re a real estate company.” But, he adds, “People aren’t only buying apartments. They’re buying a transition.” His partner Avishai frames the current moment differently. “The dollar is low,” he says. “So what? The market conditions mean people can make deals they couldn’t make in the last decade.”
The symbolic “Jerusalem apartment” once represented aspiration: A place to retire, visit on holidays, or pass down to children. Today, agents increasingly describe a category entirely different – a backup plan, or as buyers themselves call it: “A security apartment.” And in a world where certainty feels increasingly scarce the idea of a spare set of keys in Israel appears to carry a value that cannot be measured only in shekels per square meter.
This article was written in cooperation with Aliyah.il