Shalom Y’all,
Every month I try to choose a topic that feels connected to the moment—something relevant, hopefully interesting, but above all something that teaches us about Israeli society.
Because if I’m honest, all of the articles I write are ultimately about Israeli society. The topic itself is only the doorway.
You can read previous articles here:
Hiltour Blog
This month’s topic is one that has become impossible to ignore in recent years: foreign passports in Israeli society.
For decades, Israelis dreamed of coming to Israel. Today, many Israelis dream of keeping another option in their back pocket.
That does not mean they plan to leave.
Most do not.
But increasingly, people want a second passport—just in case.
Just in case children want to study abroad and pay lower tuition.
Just in case traveling becomes easier.
Just in case the political situation changes.
Just in case.
And since October 7, 2023, another explanation quietly entered the conversation. Some Israelis say openly—and many more privately—that if they or their loved ones ever face a crisis, a foreign citizenship might bring additional diplomatic attention or support.
Whether that belief is fair or not matters less than the fact that it exists.
Because passports are never just travel documents.
They are emotional documents.
They tell us something about how people imagine the future.
The New Israeli Status Symbol
Foreign passports have their own hierarchy.
A Western passport is usually considered more desirable. European Union countries score especially high. North America, too.
And among all the options, one stood out over the last decade: Portugal.
Thousands of Israelis applied for Portuguese citizenship through legislation that allowed descendants of Jews expelled from Portugal in 1496 to seek citizenship.
To understand why this became so popular, we need to go back.
After the expulsion from Spain in 1492, many Jews crossed into Portugal hoping the Spanish madness would pass and life would return to normal.
It didn’t.
Four years later, Portugal followed a similar path.
Jewish communities dispersed across the Mediterranean—to Morocco, Algeria, Turkey, Greece, Italy, the Netherlands, and eventually the Land of Israel.
Centuries later, history unexpectedly returned.
For years, proving Sephardic ancestry and demonstrating some connection to the Portuguese Jewish community was often enough to begin the process.
Then Portugal discovered that huge numbers of applicants had only distant historical ties.
The rules became stricter beginning in 2022.
Today, obtaining Portuguese citizenship generally requires a much stronger demonstrated connection than before, often including residency or deeper ties to the country.
Germany tells a different story.
German citizenship law for descendants of families persecuted under Nazi rule has changed repeatedly over the years.
Interestingly, Germany—the country often associated with rules, order, and stability—has revised citizenship pathways more frequently than many people expect.
Other commonly pursued passports include Polish, Lithuanian, Czech, and Slovak citizenship.
But the more interesting question is not which passports Israelis want.
It is why so many feel they need one.
Above: Left: German Passport and right Portuguese Passport
When Migration Becomes a National Mood Indicator
According to figures discussed by Israel’s parliamentary Committee for Immigration, Absorption and Diaspora Affairs, long-term departures from Israel increased sharply beginning in 2022 and remained elevated afterward.
One widely discussed figure estimated that approximately 82,000 Israelis left during 2024, with a significant portion being relatively recent immigrants to Israel. Migration statistics are complicated by definition—temporary relocation, long-term work assignments, and permanent emigration are difficult to separate.
For readers interested in the parliamentary discussion:
Knesset Committee Summary (English)
The explanations people give are familiar.
Political instability.
The judicial reform crisis.
October 7 and the wars that followed.
Reserve duty with no visible end.
Pressure on families.
High cost of living.
Traffic.
Exhaustion.
But here is the interesting part.
Ask most Israelis whether they intend to abandon Israel or whether they see themselves as anti-Zionist.
Most will say absolutely not.
In their minds there is no contradiction.
You can believe in Israel and still want insurance.
My Own Complication with This Story
I do not judge people who pursue another passport.
I understand the logic.
At the same time, emotionally, I struggle with it.
Part of me feels that if so many citizens are looking for alternatives, perhaps the state should ask harder questions.
Why are people feeling uncertain?
How can life here become better?
But another part of me still carries a traditional Zionist instinct.
To me, Zionism always meant believing that Jewish life belongs in Israel.
If someone immigrated here and already has another citizenship, that feels different.
But actively pursuing another nationality can feel emotionally difficult to reconcile.
I know this position sounds old-fashioned.
I know many disagree.
My Family’s Story
On my father’s side, my family is half Polish and half German.
My grandmother was born in Germany.
On my mother’s side—Polish.
Technically, I could probably explore Polish citizenship through multiple family lines.
When I was in high school, I joined the educational trip to Poland that many Israeli students experience.
I remember my grandmother Rivka objecting strongly.
Her explanation was simple:
“The Poles were worse than the Germans. Don’t go there and don’t give them your money.”
You may agree or disagree.
But for her, Europe was not history.
It was memory.
And that stayed with me.
For me, applying for Polish citizenship sometimes feels emotionally complicated—as if reopening a door she worked hard to close.
My partner Orly has a different story.
She was born in Germany and originally held German citizenship.
After her parents divorced, her mother chose to renounce German citizenship for herself and for Orly.
In 1980 she published a controversial book titled Germany Is Not My Country, arguing that Germany had changed less than people believed.
Decades later, she still worries about Europe’s political future.
Today, citizenship laws have changed again, and reclaiming German citizenship became more realistic.
Our debate remains theoretical.
But it raises a question many Israeli families quietly discuss:
If you create opportunities abroad for your children, are you helping them—or helping them leave?
Above: Lea Flayshman’s ” This Is Not My Land – A Jew leaving the Federal Republic of Germany”.
So What Does This Mean?
Every country tells stories through migration.
Israel simply gave migration theological language.
Immigration became Aliyah—an ascent.
Leaving became Yeridah—a descent.
For decades that language carried judgment.
Today, much less.
Perhaps even curiosity.
Maybe sometimes envy.
But migration numbers alone never explain a society.
People move because of careers, family, opportunity, fear, exhaustion, hope.
The deeper question is always the same:
Do people believe tomorrow will be better than today?
At the moment I am writing this, many Israelis feel uncertain.
But uncertainty is not destiny.
One of Zionism’s greatest strengths was that it was voluntary.
People chose it.
And because people chose it once, they can choose it again.
For me, Zionism is not mainly political.
It is a way of living.
A belief—deeply connected to Jewish tradition—that reality can improve.
That difficult periods pass.
That societies can repair themselves.
And that hope is not naïve.
Hope is a decision.
See you soon.
And if you—or someone you know—are planning a visit to Israel, I would be honored if you recommended me as your guide.