Idling along the Netanya sea front, soaking up the warmth of the Israeli sunshine, my dream-like state was suddenly shattered by a voice calling out from behind. Turning slowly to see who wanted to talk to me, I found myself looking into the smiley face of a dark-haired woman whom I'd known at university.
We stopped to chat and she told me about her life in Israel, whilst making the assumption I was also a fellow 'immigrant'. When I explained that I was only on holiday and that home was back in the old country (ie Manchester) her shock was palpable. 'You live in Manchester, still? I just thought you'd be living in Israel by now.'
No, I told her. I hadn't made aliyah, I didn't have any plans to make aliyah. And - this is what really stunned her - I actually like living in Britain. Not that her's was an isolated reaction. Throughout my recent ten-day trip to Israel – the first I've made since the rocket attacks of the summer - I found myself repeatedly defending Britain and my decision to live here. Every resident I spoke to couldn't stop themselves from implying, inferring or unapologetically suggesting that Britain was no longer a place for Jews.
It was a message packaged in every type of shrink wrap: from remarks about 'Britain not feeling British any more' to rhetorical questions about how safe it was for Jews to remain in the UK . (This particular gem came from someone who had spent most of their summer in a strong room thanks to the good neighbourliness of Hamas.)
There was even the inevitable knee jerk comparison to 'the warning signs of 1933'. All of which were delivered with a scaremongering sense of entitlement.
Israelis were in shock that I wanted to live in Britain still
Yet, ironically, Israel, though the national home of the Jewish, has some way to go before it can be unapologetically defined as a utopian alternative. Only this week Reuven Rivlin, the country`s president, delivered a sharp warning on declining Arab-Jewish relations and warned against those on both sides "who wish to sweep us into a maelstrom of destruction and pain".
During my time there I'd bat back pragmatic arguments about not making the move: our children are still in education, my husband runs his accountancy practice here, I have commitments as a writer and broadcaster. Only to be told children are adaptable, work is portable, life is changeable. In fact I got so tired of being prosecuted that, eventually, I decided to concertina my defence into three simple words: 'I like Britain.' I love the grassy scent of the countryside, having Sundays off, a ready supply of Dairy Milk . Oh, and the fact that this country – which my grandfather sought sanctuary in as a turn-of-the century Russian immigrant - feels like home.
Anyway, where would I live in Israel? Most of my friends have taken root in the predominantly English-speaking town of Ranaana. A lovely, welcoming community where Hebrew is about as rare as hen's teeth. But inland from the coastal plane, its soupy-thick humidity makes venturing outside impossible for two to three months of the year. As Teveye the milkman opines so wisely in Fiddler on the Roof 'a bird may love a fish, but where would they build a home together?'
I'm not immune to the challenges of remaining in Britain or the statistics about spiralling antisemitism. Here in Manchester we witnessed some deeply unpleasant scenes during the summer when a shop selling Dead Sea products in the city centre became the focal point for anti-Zionist invective and daily pro-Palestinian protests.
Yet I deeply resent being made to feel blinkered and stupid for living in what I'm told is the unstable, unfriendly, unsafe 'Mus-lamic' satellite state we used to know as the United Kingdom. Maybe I'll change my mind. Who knows what the future holds. But it will be a decision predicated on the needs of our family. Not because I feel emotionally blackmailed.
