I am a rabbi. I am not, by nature or training, a spreadsheet person. I believe in the primacy of text, of commentary, of the living conversation between a question and its answer across centuries. I do not believe in columns. I did not believe in columns. And then I started gathering aliyah documents, and I became, within approximately two weeks, a person with a spreadsheet that had seventeen columns, conditional formatting in three colours, and a separate tab for each family member.

There is a version of retirement aliyah that appears in certain brochures and promotional materials for life in Israel that goes something like this: you arrive in the golden years of your life, you find a beautiful apartment in Jerusalem or by the sea in Netanya, you take long walks in the warm Mediterranean air, you pray at the Western Wall on Friday afternoons, you eat wonderful food, your grandchildren visit, and you spend your days in a state of serene spiritual fulfilment.

Most of the aliyah content you will find — including, I confess, much of this series — is oriented toward families. Couples. Parents with children. The assumption built into many guides, many workshops, and many well-meaning pieces of advice is that you are making this move with someone. That there is a "we."

At some point — ideally early in the process and definitely before you sign a rental contract — you are going to need to decide where in Israel you are going to live. This is one of the most consequential decisions of your aliyah, and it is also the decision most likely to be made based on entirely the wrong criteria.

By the time you are a few weeks into the aliyah process, something will happen that nobody warns you about. You will be sitting at your kitchen table, surrounded by documents, reading an email from your Aliyah Advisor, and you will realise that you have no idea what any of the words in the email mean. Not the Hebrew words. The English words. Words like "sal klita" and "teudat oleh" and "Bituach Leumi" and "arnona" and "kupat cholim" and "misrad" this and "misrad" that. You will feel, briefly, as though you have accidentally enrolled in a degree programme nobody told you about.

At some point in your aliyah process, you will realise that you are not doing this alone. There is an infrastructure. A whole ecosystem of organisations, government agencies, and non-profits whose entire purpose is to help you get to Israel and settle there successfully. This is genuinely one of the most remarkable things about aliyah — the support structure that exists for people going through it is extraordinary. I did not fully appreciate this until I was in the middle of the process and realised that I had not one but several dedicated human beings whose job it was to help me specifically.

Let us begin with a question I have been asked more times than I can count, a question that contains within it centuries of theological debate, considerable family complexity, and occasionally some awkward conversations at Passover.

Who qualifies?

Shalom. I am Rabbi Moshe. Welcome to my series.

Let me tell you how this series came about. I made aliyah three years ago. I am a rabbi. I am an educated man. I have a postgraduate degree, I have read the Talmud in its original Aramaic, and I once navigated the New York City subway system during a snowstorm with a broken phone and no signal. I consider myself a capable person.

Making Aliyah had always been the dream. For years it lived somewhere between prayer and planning — vivid enough to feel real, distant enough to keep deferring. And then came the moment we finally said: This is the year.

Making aliyah is beautiful, meaningful, and life-changing. It's also a bureaucratic obstacle course that has reduced grown adults to tears in fluorescent-lit government offices across Israel. This video is for anyone who's been through it, is going through it, or is about to go through it — and wants to know there's a better way.

On the evening of May 21, 2025, a young couple walked out of the Capital Jewish Museum in Washington, D.C. They had just attended a reception for young diplomats — an event meant to build bridges between the Jewish community and the international corps. Yaron Lischinsky, 30, a German-Israeli researcher at the Israeli embassy, had bought a ring and planned to propose to Sarah Milgrim, 26, a Jewish-American from Kansas, the following week. Neither would live to see it. A gunman opened fire, shooting them repeatedly. When Milgrim tried to crawl away, the killer followed her and fired again. Then he walked into the museum and, while being restrained by security, chanted: "I did it. I did it for Gaza."

There is a particular kind of terror that comes not from the violence itself, but from the recognition that the violence was expected. When a terrorist drove his car into worshippers and stabbed congregants outside the Heaton Park Hebrew Congregation in Manchester on Yom Kippur — the holiest day of the Jewish calendar — on 2 October 2025, the Jewish community recoiled in grief. But not in surprise. As one survivor, Anne Goldstone, put it with devastating understatement: "It was shocking. But… it was kind of a bit of an inevitability."

I want to tell you about the five stages of aliyah. They are not the same as the five stages of grief, although there is significant overlap, and at least two of the stages are, in fact, just grief.

The Torah says the land of Israel is a land flowing with milk and honey. What the Torah does not mention is the line you have to stand in to get the milk, the form you have to fill out to get the honey, and the fact that both the milk and the honey are subject to a nineteen percent value-added tax that nobody explained to you because the explanation was in Hebrew and you were too embarrassed to ask the clerk to repeat herself for the sixth time.

Something unusual is happening in the Israeli housing market. For the first time in years, rental prices and home sale prices are moving in opposite directions. While the average price of a home for sale in Israel fell by 2.5 percent year-over-year in the third quarter of 2025, rents rose by 4.4 percent over the same period, reaching a national average of 4,952 shekels per month. This divergence has created a rental market that is tighter, more expensive, and more consequential than ever for the millions of Israelis who do not own their homes.

The State of Israel's Law of Return stands as one of the most significant pieces of legislation in modern Jewish history. Enacted in 1950, just two years after Israel's establishment, this law grants Jews worldwide the fundamental right to immigrate to Israel and obtain citizenship. Understanding Aliyah eligibility under this law is crucial for anyone considering making Israel their home.

Aliyah—Hebrew for “ascent”—is the immigration of Jews to Israel. This fundamental right is protected under Israel’s Law of Return, one of the nation’s foundational laws enacted in 1950 and amended in 1970. Understanding who qualifies is the essential first step in your journey home.

Military service in the Israel Defense Forces (IDF) is a defining experience for many Israelis and a significant consideration for those making Aliyah. Understanding who must serve, who can volunteer, and what exemptions exist is crucial for anyone considering immigration to Israel.

Military service in the Israel Defense Forces (IDF) is a defining experience for many Israelis and a significant consideration for those making Aliyah. Understanding who must serve, who can volunteer, and what exemptions exist is crucial for anyone considering immigration to Israel.