'Friends become your family here': Young immigrants on building home in Israel

Benzaquen’s experience is not unique. For thousands of olim (Jewish immigrants), a border can be crossed in an afternoon, but psychological integration is a years-long negotiation.

For those in their late teens and 20s, aliyah (immigration) overlaps with the first years of adult life: university, work, roommates, and the practical labor of becoming independent.

For these young immigrants, home is not just where they land; it is where they must learn to build a life from scratch.

While olim face the same core questions, their stories begin in different places.

For Micaela Sofía Pelenur, 25, the beginning was marked by hesitation. Arriving from Argentina in November 2020 to study at Tel Aviv University, she initially had no plans to stay.

“I didn’t want to do aliyah because of a fear of commitment,” Pelenur said. “But after two months, I knew I was going to become an olah.”

By contrast, Matan Siegel, a 23-year-old communications student from New Jersey, found his place unexpectedly.

He came for a gap-year program and stayed to study at Reichman University, making aliyah after several years as a student. Like Pelenur, he hadn’t planned on living in Israel permanently.

“I was a little homesick,” Siegel said of those initial months. But over time, the country stopped feeling temporary.

For Siegel, the turning point came after October 7. He was in the United States when the attack occurred. On October 31, he returned to Israel as rockets and sirens continued. Sitting in the car with his father before the flight, Siegel said he cried.

“This is one of the craziest decisions I’m making,” he said he remembers thinking. “But I’m so proud that I’m making it.”

Siegel spent his first weeks back in Israel volunteering on farms and preparing supplies for soldiers – a return that permanently altered his understanding of belonging.

“America is where my house is, but that is not home,” he said.

“The Jewish community identified with Israel, but it was not common for people to come live here,” she said. “When I finished school, staying in Venezuela was not an option. If my graduating class had 70 people, only five stayed.”

For Pelenur, Israel changed how Jewish life felt. In Buenos Aires, holidays had to fit around a secular calendar.

“Here, the whole city stopped for Yom Kippur, and all of Tel Aviv was dressed in white,” she said.

Israel also gave Siegel a space where his identities could coexist. As a gay and religious young man, he found two worlds coming together unexpectedly at Jerusalem Pride.

“There are so many religious people,” he said. “I didn’t even know that many people existed that were gay and religious.”

Finding a home is also about preserving the life left behind. Prof. Tsachi Ein-Dor, head of the doctoral psychology program at Reichman University, describes this as integration rather than assimilation.

“In essence, you become multicultural,” Ein-Dor explained. “You preserve the language and customs, and you don’t lose who you are.”

Benzaquen keeps that balance inside her apartment. While her outside life happens in Hebrew, her home remains a Spanish-speaking sanctuary.

“Being able to speak your language in your house is extremely important,” she said.

For Pelenur, Argentina stays close through its absence. Phone calls cannot substitute for physical presence: “It is not the same as being there to give a hug or share a mate (South American herbal tea).”

For Siegel, small physical objects bridge the gap: “I have a couple of my posters from Broadway that I love. That makes it more homey.”

The adjustment period can also make capable young adults feel suddenly dependent. They may arrive as adults, but language, government offices, and ordinary systems can make simple tasks unfamiliar.

Benzaquen remembers how a trip to the supermarket felt overwhelming: “Even going to buy eggs – there are 200 choices of eggs.”

For Pelenur, the hardest part was government offices. “It brought me to tears because the bureaucracy is very difficult,” Pelenur recalled. “It was only Hebrew, Arabic, or Russian. It was very frustrating.”

Marc Rosenberg, vice president of Diaspora Partnerships at Nefesh B’Nefesh – which operates in cooperation with the Immigrant Absorption Ministry, the Jewish Agency for Israel, Keren Kayemeth LeIsrael-Jewish National Fund, and JNF-USA – says organizations can help new olim find their first places to turn to, but they cannot create a sense of belonging.

Home becomes real through people.

Benzaquen said Israel started to feel different when strangers stepped in as a surrogate family. In Herzliya, after joining a group for lone soldiers, a volunteer helped furnish Benzaquen’s empty apartment.

Later, her boss at a local pizzeria “was like a father,” she said. “If I got sick, he brought me food.”

Pelenur found her safety net built directly into Tel Aviv University through classmates and fellow Latin American students. “From the moment I arrived, I had people to guide me.”

For Siegel, navigating the physical distance from his parents remains the hardest part.

“Friends are great, but it’s not the same as having family,” Siegel admitted. “But friends become more of your family here.”

For Benzaquen, Pelenur, and Siegel, home is ultimately not defined by a passport, a welcome sign, or an address. It is not one moment and not one official document.

It is a mosaic of tiny realities: a language spoken in a kitchen, a friend delivering food when you are sick, and a roommate waking you up during a siren.

Benzaquen has now lived in Israel for seven years. She still does not know exactly what comes next. But the hardships are not her loudest memories.

“I am sure that I had like 1,500 moments in all these years when I said, ‘I cannot do this anymore,’” Benzaquen said. “But I do not remember it that way. What stays with me are the good things.”■