Israel Cultural Travel

Israel Cultural Travel: Stories of Faith, Art, and Resilience

The Magic of Shabbat in Israel

Israel is a remarkable place—vibrant, dynamic, and very much alive. Whenever I visit, I often feel as though I’ve stepped into the heart of an enormous, industrious ant colony. People seem to be in constant motion, working long hours, always on the move. Especially in Tel Aviv, where the first subway line is under construction, high-rise buildings seem to sprout overnight. New roads are laid continuously, yet cars multiply even faster, leading to chronic congestion.

But as Shabbat approaches, something extraordinary happens. The bustling energy begins to soften. By late Friday afternoon, the streets grow quiet. A hush falls over the country, as if the land itself is exhaling. A unique stillness emerges—one that marks the sacred beginning of the twenty-four hours of rest that Shabbat brings.

It’s a phenomenon I haven’t encountered anywhere else. More than a ritual, it’s a feeling—elusive to describe, yet unmistakably present. Regardless of one’s level of religious observance, there is something sacred in the air. The spirit of Shabbat surrounds you—and, inevitably, enters you.

The Timeless Beauty of Jerusalem

“Everywhere I go, I go to Jerusalem.”
– Rabbi Nachman of Breslov
“Jerusalem is a port city on the shore of eternity.”
– Yehuda Amichai

Jerusalem is a place of sacred significance—a meeting ground between heaven and earth, and the eternal dwelling of the Divine. It is where three great faiths—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—intertwine to form a culture that is both ancient and alive. Inhabited for over 5,000 years, Jerusalem is more than a city; it is a living testament to faith, memory, and longing. Its stones whisper stories passed through generations, and its air carries prayers in every tongue.

From the Old City’s weathered walls, you can feel the weight of history—stretching from Abraham’s journey to the Temple Mount, to centuries of conquests, exiles, and returns. And yet, amidst its layers of past, I carry a hope: that Jerusalem might one day become the cradle of a new consciousness. One that honors all its traditions, and radiates a message of harmony and spiritual belonging far beyond its borders.

It’s a short walk from the Mount of Olives to the Jaffa Gate, but every step is a journey across centuries. You tread on ground woven with tales of prophets, pilgrims, warriors, and poets. Along the way, sacred sites of the three great monotheistic religions stand within reach—each inviting, each layered in devotion.

The narrow streets bustle with the sounds of daily life. Markets hum. Incense wafts. Vendors smile. There’s something quietly powerful in how this sacred city welcomes the world. Despite its deep tensions and past wounds, Jerusalem still reveals glimpses of grace—glimpses of what is possible.

Here are a few words from others who’ve tried to capture its essence:

“Jerusalem has been—and for many, still is—a metaphor for destruction and the vengeance of an offended God. She is the city where believers have killed unbelievers to give life to faith.”
— Amos Elon

Tel Aviv: A Rare Blend of Nostalgia and Modernity

“Tel Aviv is a city that moves to the beat of its own drum—a place where the past and present coexist, and the future is always within reach.”
– Anonymous

Tel Aviv pulses with energy, a city where shimmering Mediterranean waves meet the hum of late-night music and the clink of coffee cups at sunlit cafés. It’s a rare blend of nostalgia and modernity—a place where Bauhaus architecture stands beside glass towers, and street art flourishes as much as digital innovation.

Walking through Habima Square, I paused before Menashe Kadishman’s sculpture—three massive rust-colored discs rising against the modern lines of the Tel Aviv Performing Arts Center. Behind it, glass towers gleamed, and the hum of the city moved around me. Here, steel and soil, vision and memory, art and asphalt—all find a way to belong. Tel Aviv doesn’t erase the past; it absorbs it, shapes it, and dances with it toward what’s next.

Known for its vibrant culture, creative spirit, and open-minded energy, Tel Aviv is also a global hub of high technology and entrepreneurship. Often called “Silicon Wadi”—a nod to California’s Silicon Valley—the city boasts a thriving start-up ecosystem. Multinational tech companies, R&D centers, and incubators fill its skyline and co-working spaces.

Tel Aviv consistently ranks among the world’s top cities for start-ups, especially in cutting-edge sectors like cybersecurity, artificial intelligence, and biotechnology. Here, the future feels tangible—an ever-evolving cityscape shaped by bold ideas and youthful drive.

A Visit to Masada: A Symbol of Resistance

“All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.” – Martin Buber

It’s impossible to stand atop Masada and not think about the enduring human will to resist. This ancient desert fortress, perched above the Judean wilderness, tells a story etched deeply into the soul of my people. Nearly two thousand years ago, over 900 Jewish rebels—besieged by Roman legions—chose death over surrender. Their final act became a symbol of defiance, resilience, and the unbreakable desire to live free.

On this visit, I couldn’t help but think about the war in Ukraine—another chapter in the long history of resistance against empire and oppression. The human spirit, when pushed to its edge, continues to rise. I also found myself reflecting on how easily that same spirit can falter in less heroic ways, in moments when restraint and inner discipline are tested and sometimes lost.

Masada is more than a place—it is a symbol that lives in the psyche of a nation. For me, it’s also personal.

I first climbed Masada at the age of five and have returned many times since. One of the most formative was at eighteen. My platoon and I began our ascent the night before and reached the summit by dawn. There, under a rising sun, we received our red berets—the mark of the Israeli paratroopers. That memory is carved into me.

This time, we took the cable car—less grueling, no less meaningful. As we rose in the glass-walled cable car, the cliffs of Masada stretched steeply above us, golden and fierce beneath the desert sun. From the top, the vast Judean landscape rolled out endlessly below. We paused for a photo—sun in our eyes, wind in our hair, the Dead Sea glinting in the distance. A simple moment, yet one layered with memory and emotion. You could feel the silence, the ghosts of the past walking beside us.

👉 Watch a short video of Masada here

A Day in Kibbutz Ein Gedi

Kibbutz Ein Gedi is a corner of paradise nestled between the Dead Sea and the cliffs of the Judean Desert. When its early pioneers arrived, the land was barren—an arid hill where the salt-saturated soil resisted growth. But today, more than 60 years later, the kibbutz has been transformed. A lush botanical garden, teeming with warm-climate plants and desert flora, weaves its way between homes and pathways, offering shade, color, and wonder. We visited in the spring, when everything was in full bloom.

As we wandered through the winding garden paths, Danna paused to photograph a tall cactus flowering among bursts of red blossoms and strange, spiny plants. The heat was dry but not oppressive. In the background, the desert cliffs framed this unexpected oasis. It felt like a hidden Eden, tucked quietly into the folds of ancient land.

Later, as we passed a modest home, we saw an older man with a long white beard on a second-floor balcony, talking softly to the birds that flitted around him. I thought to myself: This is someone I’d like to know.

And as it often happens when the heart is open, the path unfolded. Once his wife and Danna struck up a conversation, we were drawn into their world. We spent half the day with them—Tova and Zaboo—sharing stories, laughter, and deep connection. Something about their presence, their ease and warmth, felt timeless.

We adopted them in spirit that day.

And I left with a sense of quiet gratitude—reminded, once again, that the ultimate beauty of travel is not only in the places you see, but in the souls you meet along the way.

Yayoi Kusama’s Infinity Net Paintings, Tel Aviv Museum

Yayoi Kusama began creating her Infinity Net paintings in the late 1950s. Using repetitive, semi-circular brushstrokes, she wove lace-like patterns that seemed to stretch endlessly across the canvas—hinting at the infinite, dissolving boundaries between self and space. These paintings emerged from her lifelong hallucinations, which began around the age of ten. She described seeing flashes of light, endless fields of dots, and vibrating auras. At times, the world itself seemed to dissolve into these patterns.

Obsessed with the idea of self-obliteration, Kusama envisioned her body dissolving into her surroundings, becoming indistinguishable from them. As she once described it, her painting was a trance-like process:

“I would cover a canvas with nets, then continue painting them on the table, on the floor, and finally on my own body. … The nets began to expand to infinity. I forgot about myself as they enveloped me.”

Stepping into Kusama’s exhibit at the Tel Aviv Museum felt like entering another realm—a hallucinatory dimension where color and form refused to behave. Danna crouched in front of the signature yellow pumpkin, her phone capturing the hypnotic rhythm of its black polka dots. Nearby, a towering pink inflatable sculpture swallowed the space in biomorphic loops. We stood before Kusama’s portrait in her red-dotted robe, surrounded by her iconic dots, and felt suspended between her inner cosmos and our shared world.

Here, the border between art and observer faded. We weren’t just looking—we were inside the art, part of its rhythm, part of her vision.

The Scorpion and the Frog: Hopes for Peace in the Arab-Israeli Conflict

In most social conversations here, the Arab-Israeli conflict inevitably surfaces. My sense is that while the hope for peace may still flicker, it feels faint—almost smothered. The wings of “peaceful coexistence” have been clipped, and a quiet disbelief now hangs in the air.

More than once, I’ve heard friends bring up the fable of the scorpion and the frog. The lesson is sharp, simple, and too often dismissed: people rarely change their fundamental nature. Yet we continue to hope otherwise—sometimes naively, sometimes bravely.

What saddens me most is that these words now come from people who, not long ago, were fierce advocates of peace. But this is the current Israeli reality—a place where idealism is weathered by decades of fear, loss, and betrayal.

At this year’s Passover meal, a 20-year-old relative shared her harrowing experience during the Dizengoff terror attack. She had been sitting at a bar with a friend when the shooting began. In an instant, they were rushed into the bar’s basement bunker as security forces cleared the area. They remained there for four tense hours. Thankfully, it was a bar—food and drinks softened the edge—but the experience left a deep mark. Terror isn’t a distant threat here. It lives close to home, in the everyday.

And yet, amid the disillusionment, we visited my legendary uncle, Moshe Gal, at Kibbutz Kabri—a man made of earth, spirit, and quiet heroism. A Navy Seal-turned-farmer, he now lives with Parkinson’s and partial blindness. And still, his energy radiates. He brews what might be the best beer I’ve ever tasted. But more than that, he’s one of the few Israelis I met on this trip who still holds hope—genuine hope—for a peaceful resolution.

His faith hasn’t withered. It’s rooted in the land, in lived experience, and in a lifetime of choosing humanity over despair. As always, he remains a source of strength and inspiration.

👉 Introduction to the fable of The Scorpion and the Frog

The Transformative Power of Water Management in the Golan Heights

For most of history, the Golan Heights was a remote and rugged plateau—windswept, sparsely populated, and largely overlooked. But over the last few decades, this once-desolate region has undergone a quiet revolution.

More than 30 years ago, my dear friends Avi and Anat were among the first to settle in the village of Had Nes. They poured their hearts into building beautiful guesthouses, planting roots—both literal and figurative. Today, their hospitality business thrives, and Had Nes has become a sought-after destination for travelers seeking serenity, wine, and open skies.

Water is what made it all possible.

Thanks to innovative water management, the Golan Heights now flourishes with vineyards, chery blossoms, and neatly terraced apple orchards. The contrast to the past is breathtaking.

We stood at the edge of a wind-fanned vineyard, Mount Hermon’s snow-capped peak shimmering in the distance. The rows of grapevines stretched toward hills dotted with wind turbines—a fusion of old-world cultivation and new-world energy. Later, we drove through Buq’ata village, where cherry trees bloomed wildly against an impossibly blue sky. Spring had arrived in full color.

Lunch brought us to Naseeba Samara, a cozy spot run by a remarkable woman. Naseeba, an emancipated Druze entrepreneur, defies convention in her conservative community. Her cooking—vibrant rice, eggplant, turmeric-scented chicken—was as rich and bold as her presence. She welcomed us with quiet pride and warm hospitality. In that moment, culture, history, and transformation came together—on a plate, in a smile, across generations.

Walking the Streets of Zefat: A Journey Into the Past

We walked the narrow stone alleys of Zefat—once an artists’ colony, now something between a ghost of its past and a shrine to ancient spirit. I came here with memories of creativity, color, and unconventional lives bursting from the cracks in every blue-painted wall. But today, that bohemian vibrance feels faded.

Zefat is a sleepy and somewhat dilapidated town, worn by time but still cloaked in spiritual reverence. In the 16th century, it was home to Rabbi Yitzchak Luria, the father of Kabbalah and Jewish mysticism. His presence lingers. You can feel it in the air—in the silence that sits between the footfalls, in the way the light reflects off old stone.

We passed orthodox Jews in black coats and wide-brimmed hats, and a few modern mystics, their eyes full of fire, offering blessings or readings for a small donation. In a strange way, I felt connected to them. We are all seekers in our own way—hoping for clarity, answers, transcendence.

👉 I’ve reflected more deeply on this instinctive longing in my essay, Living by Intuition, where I explore how trust in the unseen can guide us more surely than certainty ever could.

One house stood out—a crumbling stone building with blue trim and an outdoor gallery of faded laundry and drying herbs. Inside, we found a room overflowing with paintings. Frames leaned against every surface. The scent of turpentine mingled with old books. It felt like stepping into a forgotten archive of emotion and vision—somewhere between a chapel and an attic. But even that charm couldn’t anchor me.

Despite the mysticism, the art, the history—I felt an overwhelming urge to leave. Perhaps it was the weight of expectation clashing with reality, or simply the discomfort of spiritual tourism gone weary. Whatever it was, I left Zefat quicker than I arrived—still seeking, but not here.