TAKE IT FROM ME: Mort Gleit hands out pro-Israel literature outside the Office of the Consulate General in Center City. Photo By: mike m. koehler

What could these questions possibly have to do with the story?

The next day, I arrived at a nondescript office building in the heart of Center City and someone buzzed me up. The elevator doors opened into a small, bomb-safe chamber with a metal detector, stool and bullet-proof glass window. From beyond the window, a male voice instructed me to empty the contents of my purse, take my shoes off and step through the metal detector.

Within seconds, a door leading to another small, sterile chamber opened revealing a stern-faced woman wearing latex gloves.

A muscle-bound man mumbled something and unfurled a curtain.

The woman passed a wand over my body and thoroughly patted me down. She even made me lift up my shirt. As the woman flattened my hair in search of explosives and examined my stocking feet, she traded a few terse words with the man in Hebrew. I picked up beseder, meaning "good," and let out a breath.

Satisfied I was not there to blow up the consulate, the man gave me back my stuff—minus an ID and cell phone—and led me to a waiting area.

"The consul general will be right with you," he said, finally cracking a smile. "Would you like something to drink?"

I shook my head.

In America, even where high-profile public officials are concerned, media security checks rarely include invasive searches or personal questions. Details about the reporter are irrelevant and should be. But Israel is different. Yes, it's a democracy, but Israelis don't mess around when it comes to security. They can't afford to. Anyone could be a terrorist. Even a reporter.

Israel has, of course, learned this lesson the hard way.

The prolonged Israeli-Palestinian conflict has also been exacerbated by the war in Iraq and tensions with Iran. An Iranian senior commander recently told reporters Israel would be Iran's first target in response to any "evil" acts by the United States.

But despite the dangerous, volatile state of affairs in Israel, thousands of Americans and Canadians, and an increasing number of Philadelphians, willingly move there every year. Many feel it is their responsibility to strengthen the Jewish state, which was founded 58 years ago this month on the concept that Israel would be a home for Jews scattered throughout the world.

The process of immigrating to Israel is called aliyah (ah-lee-yah), which means "ascent" in Hebrew. Those who make aliyah are called olim (ol-eem). Former Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, who has shown no sign of emerging from a coma doctors induced after he suffered massive stroke on Jan. 4, has said, "Aliyah is the central goal of the State of Israel."

Founded in 1948 with about 600,000 Jews, Israel's population has swelled to 7 million people. Last year, Israel surpassed the United States as the country with the largest Jewish population. (About 206,000 Jewish people live in the greater Philadelphia area, according to a 1997 Jewish Federation-sponsored study.)

Unlike Jewish refugees who enter Israel to escape persecution or anti-Semitism, North American Jews typically make aliyah for religious, cultural and political reasons. Nearly 3,000 made aliyah in 2005—the biggest number in 23 years and double the number of olim in 2001, according to the Israel Aliyah Center (www.aliyah.org), an organization that helps people join the Jewish state.

This year, 60 Philadelphians are expected to make aliyah. That's three times as many as two years ago.

The majority of olim are Orthodox—a denomination of Judaism characterized by strict interpretation of Jewish law—but the rate of olim who identify with other religious movements, such as Conservatism, is growing.

Israel offers olim a cash payment of $3,300, a free one-way plane ticket, Hebrew lessons called ulpan, tax exceptions and academic scholarships. A family of four or five could be entitled to $15,000 to $30,000 through various programs, according to the IAC, which has stepped up education and marketing campaigns.

Nefesh B'Nefesh (nbn.org.il), an agency whose name means "Jewish souls united," also helps olim navigate Israel's bureaucracy and get jobs. On the condition that they stay in Israel for three years, olim may receive NBN grants averaging $5,000 each.

In addition to these incentives, in the global economy, it is easier than ever to live and work abroad. And after Sept. 11, American Jews who were hesitant to move to Israel because of terrorism suddenly realized no country is completely safe. Still, for most olim these factors do not play a significant part in their desire to make aliyah. The seeds are usually planted with a trip to Israel.

Leigh was 16, stubborn, and going through an identity crisis. Not knowing where she fit in at school, she tried to mask low self-esteem by imitating the gelled hair and big hoop earrings of her Spanish-speaking classmates and then the tough-girl image of black girls she knew. She finally settled on an angry punk persona.

Since Ora's roots are in Yemen and Israel, Leigh and her older brother had been to the Middle East dozens of times before to visit relatives. She couldn't see how this trip would be any different. But Leigh had no choice so she boarded the plane, pushed out her pouty beige lips and prepared to be miserable. She repeated her mom's last words to her: "This is the last time I will tell you what to do."

Maybe it's the freedom of being a teenager away from home for the first time, surrounded by people your age, or the smell of shwarma and falafel cooking on the street, or the culmination of a lifetime of chanting, "Next year in Jerusalem …" but for young people looking for a place to fit in, the combination of these things can turn Israel into an intoxicating place.

That's how it happened for Rachel Levy.

It was nearly nightfall in Jerusalem when Rachel and her classmates from Akiba Hebrew Academy in Merion Station lit candles to welcome in Shabbat, the Jewish day of rest, which starts at sunset every Friday. The group walked through West Jerusalem, a modern, bustling city with signs printed in Hebrew and English, into the walled Old City, which is home to Jewish, Muslim, Christian and Armenian quarters.

Rachel knew she was near the Temple Mount, the hotly contested religious site, when she saw a gleaming gold sliver of the Dome of the Rock mosque, which Muslims believe is the spot from which Muhammad rose through the heavens to Allah. As the group neared the Wailing Wall—the site of the biblical First and Second Temples is Judaism's holiest place—Rachel remembers thinking, "It seemed smaller than I expected, than it looked in pictures."

Men and women separated for prayers and Rachel clutched the note she had flattened in her prayer book. "Where am I supposed to put it?" she thought, looking at the tiny bits of paper crammed in cracks between the massive stones and tied to vegetation growing out of the Wall.

Although she had been there before, Leigh's visit to the Wall was life-changing. "I just stood there and watched everyone praying and was like, 'This is where I belong.'" The feeling was empowering. "There's a certain point where you stop feeling sorry for yourself," she says.

"She totally changed," says Ora, who teaches Hebrew. Leigh wanted to maintain friendships with people of all nationalities she met—including some cute boys—and, subsequently, her Hebrew skills flourished. "It's very natural because we get connected to people, not big ideas," Ora says.

After spending that summer in Israel, Leigh was hooked. She went back again the next summer, and although that trip didn't quite meet her expectations—"I already changed from worse to good"—her bond with Israel strengthened. Simple things like sitting around with friends chomping on pistachio nuts, singing songs and observing the Sabbath felt more meaningful in Israel.

But for Rachel, walking back to the youth hostel from the Wall, she had yet to realize that the semester she was about to spend in Israel would trigger an intense connection to the land and plant the idea of aliyah in her subconscious.

"It was the best five months of my life," the 23-year-old says, sitting in a Yardley coffee shop fresh from a day of temp work. It was Yom Hashoah, or Holocaust Remembrance Day, and she wore a pin memorializing the lives of six million murdered Jews.

While attending the College of New Jersey, Rachel recruited people to go on Birthright Israel, a free 10-day trip for young adults who have never been to the Jewish state. People often asked her, "If I go, will I get blown up?" Rachel assured them the itinerary didn't include visits to the dangerous West Bank or Gaza strip. After staffing two Birthright trips, upon which she "realized I held a deep and abiding love for the Middle East," Rachel decided to volunteer for Magen David Adom, Israel's national emergency medical service.

"Most programs are about what Israel can do for you more than what you can do for Israel," she says. "I liked the selfless aspect of this one."

The trip gave her the opportunity to live more independently in Israel, which was critical because this August, Rachel plans to make aliyah and embark on a master's degree in Middle Eastern Studies and Islamic Civilizations at Hebrew University. Rachel's Hebrew is good enough to get her by in a society where there are many English speakers, but she plans to attend the English division of HU, so she will receive only a partial scholarship.

Her mom, Beverly Levy, is already planning visits, but that won't make up for not seeing her every day.

MATERNAL INSTINCT: Leigh Kesselman was inspired to join the Israeli army when she saw a photograph of her mom, Ora, in her Israel Defense Forces uniform. Photo By: mike m. koehler

"I am concerned when Rachel gets behind the wheel of a car on the highway," she says, "so I'm not sure my concern is specific to Israel so much as we are very close and I do love her and worry about her well-being."

Rachel says the Tel Aviv bombing didn't give her pause. Partly, she's rationalizing because she'll be living in Jerusalem, not Tel Aviv. She knows there have been bombings in Jerusalem, too.

"I don't want terrorism to stop me from going to Israel and I don't want terrorism to stop me from getting my master's," she says. "There is fear, sadness, but also a sense of resolve that we're not going to let the terrorists win."

Putting terrorism aside for the moment, Rachel has a good shot at successfully assimilating into Israeli society and, as her mom prays, finding her "soul mate." Rachel has a place to live, language skills and a support system of friends. These things are important because Israel is not an easy place to live.

As a former reporter for The Jerusalem Post, Karen covered many bombings. At first, she "freaked out" and couldn't believe how calm Israelis were. They phoned loved ones and went on. But now, living in Israel, she understands. "You can't let it stop you. It never ceases to be scary, but you learn to cope with it better."

On top of the looming threat of violence, the culture can be aggressive, which is one reason Karen agonized for 13 years over whether to make aliyah. During that time, she lived and studied in Israel for a total of four years, mastered the language and "subconsciously or consciously" cultivated a career that would transfer to Israel. She is in charge of communications for the Shalem Center, a research institute and education center.

So far, aliyah has "exceeded my expectations," she says. That's largely because she had already worked through being disillusioned with the reality of the state that her ancestors dreamed about returning to for 2,000 years. "You get pushed, you get ripped off one to many times," she says, "and you get disappointed."

Still, Karen found it difficult to leave America. As soon as she moved to Jerusalem, she made a huge poster of the Philadelphia skyline the focal point of her living room. As the granddaughter of Holocaust survivors and daughter of Philadelphia's water commissioner, she appreciates what America has meant to her family. "We are the American dream realized," she says. "But there's something about life in America that's a little too complacent for my personality."

She compares Israel to "a toddler that you have to watch so they don't fall over the balcony," while America is "like an adult who maybe needs some therapy." Right now, Israel needs her more.

As a Jew she learned from her people's history to sympathize with those being persecuted, but life in the United States could not have prepared her for ugliness on both sides of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

"You will see racism and discrimination," she says. "As an American Jew you don't have to deal with Jewish power, the Jewish army. I believe in and support the idea, but sometimes people you support can do something wrong."

Marne Rochester, who made aliyah in 1990, has also found a way to love Israel—"a family, dysfunctional nonetheless"—warts and all. Marne, whose father lives in Philadelphia, has been embraced by Israeli society, especially since the birth of her first child.

When she boards the bus with a stroller, people spring up to help her. In a department store, a salesperson noticed the 6-month-old bundle in her arms and showed her the backroom, available for breastfeeding. During a job interview, a man who also had a young child asked if he should wrap up so she could get back to her baby.

Talking to Israelis for this story, I also picked up on that sense of familiarity. I showed up for Shabbat dinner at Leigh and Ora's home and they offered me comfy clothes to change into.

Still, the people of Israel have hardened to the reality of terrorism. Marne learned this firsthand in the summer of 2002 when she was working at HU.

She heard a loud boom that she assumed was construction, "because the possibility that there would be a bomb at Hebrew University was just beyond comprehension." But the explosion one building over killed her friend Janis Ruth Coulter, a young American from Brooklyn who had arrived in Israel the day before the attack.

These and other, mostly positive, experiences have influenced the advice she gives people thinking about aliyah.

"This is not the Garden of Eden," she tells them. "This is a very hard place. But in the end it's worth it."

He thought, "I'm not strong enough to do this," he says while home on leave for a few weeks. "America has a better quality of life. Movies come out earlier here."

He admired recruits for their bravery, but wasn't sure he had the drive. Then a friend pointed out the hypocrisy. "That's a pretty sad way to live," Josh says, "to believe in something, but live completely differently." So he decided to take action. "I didn't think it was fair to live there and not do what everyone else does."

Sure, it's easier to find kosher foods and you're not bombarded with Christmas, but "those things are just the icing on the cake," he says. "Unless you really believe this is where the Jews are supposed to be, that's not enough."

Leigh realized this back in Elkins Park while chatting with Talia, her best friend in Israel. During one conversation, Talia casually mentioned the date she had to report for her compulsory service in the Israel Defense Forces. At first, Leigh thought, "Are you insane?"

But she yearned to be back in Israel and realized, despite her pint-sized frame, she might be right for the army. Not everyone was as sure. Leigh's grandmother on her father's side was worried. "Girls don't fight," she said, according to Leigh. "You're just going to do desk work, right?"

Leigh welcomes the challenge. Her mind was made up when she found a tattered black-and-white photograph of Ora in her Israeli army uniform. Her long hair is draped over one shoulder and she is squinting because the sun is in her eyes. She looks to be around Leigh's age.

"Once I stand there and take that same photo," Leigh says, "I'll feel like I'm really in the army."

Like Leigh, the Grussgotts' passion for Israel does not take away from their allegiances here. Their son, Moshe, 25, is studying to become a rabbi and plans to become a chaplain for the U.S. military. "We feel very loyal to both countries," he says.

Ira and Miriam instilled a deep love for Israel in their children by giving them a solid Jewish education and reinforcing that foundation with an observant lifestyle. Each child studied in Israel for a year after high school graduation.

Reflecting on that year, Suri, a 28-year-old who lives in Manhattan, says she relished the opportunity to "learn about Abraham, and then go where he walked." Leba, 19, just returned from Israel and intends to make aliyah. Despite challenges, she feels at home there. It helps that the family has many relatives in Israel. "It may be difficult to communicate," she says, "but after all the frustration and hardship you see what life is there. And everything is so much more meaningful."

Leba eagerly defended the Jewish state. When Josh said of bombings, "They happen so often it's not a scary thing," Leba corrected him. "It's still scary," she interjected. "It just doesn't have the same shock."

Ira and Miriam are proud of their children, but have uneasiness about the fact that, in Israel, terrorism is inevitable.

Still, Ira shares the perspective of many parents of olim who I talked to: "I have Israeli-born friends who say, 'You live in Philadelphia? You're next to the most dangerous city. I've heard of this place called Camden.'"

Every Friday at noon, two groups set up camp outside the Israeli consulate. On one side, the Zionist Organization of America (www.zoaphilly.org) and pro-Israel protesters wave American and Israeli flags and signs that say things like "Honk if you support the U.S.A. and Israel against suicide bombers and terrorism." Across the street stand the Bubbes & Zaydes ("Grandparents" in Yiddish) for Peace in the Middle East (www.phillyjewishpeace.org), who oppose what they call Israel's "occupation" of Palestinian territory. Roughly half of them are Jewish; the rest are a mix of different religions.

During a recent dueling protest, a man from the pro-Israel faction yelled out to a woman from the other side, "You should be ashamed of yourself!" A nearby construction worker didn't know what to make of the display of two dozen elderly people yelling at each other across a busy street, and stepped in. "Don't talk to her like that," he said.

Barbs, punctuated by honking cars, continued for about an hour, during which Steve Feldman, host of the ZOA Report on WNWR 1540 AM, told me, "Zionism is a participation sport, not a spectator sport." Feldman held a sign that read "Palestinians show their true colors, Vote for Hamas = Murderers" and said his goal is to set the record straight that "Israel is in a defensive struggle" and although he knows I "won't print it," the media are to blame for the perception that Israelis and Palestinians are equally justified in the conflict.

Center City resident Ruth Gleit organized the group three years ago in response to the Bubbes & Zaydes. (Her daughter made aliyah about a decade ago.) "Israel is a little tiny country surrounded by 22 enemy states," she says.

Meanwhile, the less boisterous Bubbes & Zaydes tell me they want to present a humane voice in a sea of otherwise patent responses to Israel and its policies.

Susan Miller, who made aliyah and lived in Israel for 11 years, fell in love with the land of Israel, but was never enamored with the state, so she left in 1980. She says she comes to the protest because, "In the next generation there have to be accounts in historical records of this time that Jews stood up against the occupation."

Yoni Kroll, an Israel-born Drexel student who grew up attending Peace Now demonstrations in the West Bank, also wants to provide an alternate view. "It's important to show that there is an opposition to the commonly held belief in America that wherever we stand we stand with Israel," he says. Yoni, 26, understands the pro-Israel stance, he says, because it is difficult for American Jews to accept Jews as anything but victims. "Israel is such a young country and it has always been under attack, so people don't want to show any opposition. They want to show solidarity."

CAN'T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG?: Across the street from the Consulate, Yoni Kroll calls for Jews to stand up against what the Bubbes & Zaydes for Peace in the Middle East call the Israeli occupation of Palestinian land. Photo By: mike m. koehler

Jews feel close to Israel because they feel it was created just for them.

"You have something in Israel that you don't have anywhere else in the world," says Uriel Palti, the Israeli consul general. "America is great, but you don't have the Jewish state."

Like America, Israel is a country of immigrants.

Michael Landsberg, IAC's North American director, is based in New York, but travels to Philadelphia and South Jersey every other week to give presentations to people considering aliyah. At one such meeting at the Jewish Federation at 21st and Arch streets in March, someone asked if there was friction between olim from different countries. He acknowledged some resentment.

"Whenever someone takes from me, I'm not so happy," but ultimately, he said, Israel is like a "prickly pear." It's tough on the outside, but "if you open it, it's sweet and tasty."

While he jokingly calls the filing of documents needed to be eligible for aliyah and its benefits "obnoxious paperwork," Israel's Law of Return welcomes Jews, no matter where they live, back to the Jewish homeland. "It is the only place in the world where you get off the plane and you are a citizen," he says.

The AIC says retention rates are difficult to study because many olim go back and forth between their native countries and Israel, but there is speculation that up to 20 percent of olim do not stay in Israel.

"There are many Israelis who would like to see many Jews [living outside Israel] in the diaspora come and join us," Palti says. "It is the fulfillment of the Zionist dream to have an independent Jewish state."

Leigh's mom, Ora, remembers her trips back to Israel. "The moment you touch the ground of Israel it's an instant connection to your roots, your history. It's more than just a place. It's the land. It's a spiritual experience," she says. And it's the people. "There is no place in the world where all your senses are working like they are in Israel. Even with the obnoxiousness of the people. You go on the bus and everyone is yelling and sweating. But it's a holy land that is ours. And when we love something we love the good and the bad."

Although olim say political changes in Israel have little effect on their decision to make aliyah, they are not naive about foreign affairs. Until recently Israel's voter turnout rate was very high. Even in the last election, Israel's record low turnout of about 63 percent surpassed strong U.S. showings.

When I asked Palti if it's true that Israeli politics is the national pastime, he looked over at a television tuned to CNN and corrected me: "National disease."

Leigh expresses her political beliefs through art. Her paintings are prominently displayed throughout the apartment she and Ora share.

One canvas was inspired by an image she saw in a magazine. A Palestinian soldier with blood flowing out of his gun takes shelter behind a baby carriage while an Israeli soldier shields another baby carriage. She explains that she feels Israel's enemies are willing to sacrifice their children while Israel protects its own.

That's one reason she is eager to defend Israel in the army. She also wants to immerse herself in the culture.

It wasn't easy for Leigh to find a program that incorporated both. Then, while attending an Israeli concert near her home, she met a man who suggested Tzofim Garin Tzabar. The two-year-long program, sponsored by Israel's Ministry of Absorption and IAC, will let her volunteer in the army while working on a kibbutz, or collective community.

As she bonded with other young people preparing for army service this summer, she became enamored not only with the army, but with the idea of making aliyah.

"To say you're making aliyah is so surreal," she says. Leigh gathers her dark curls into a mop, props it atop her head and continues, "It's like going home. You're accepting them and they're accepting you."

Still, committing to life in Israel is more complicated than that. During Landsberg's presentation, Ora asked about Leigh's benefits.

Usually, he said, the clock starts ticking when one enters Israel. "There are certain things in life you can only do once," he said, "and one of them is aliyah."

But Leigh is an exception; her benefits would be frozen until the end of the two-year program. For an 18-year-old, talk of planning two whole years, and an unpredictable collection of life-altering experiences, can be overwhelming. She knows college isn't on the immediate horizon—"You know you're going to grow as a person and not just learn and get drunk"—but two years from now she wants to travel more or study back in the States.

Bottom line, it's just too overwhelming to plan that far in advance. So Leigh is postponing aliyah.

She is, however, still all about the army and her cell phone ticks off the 53 days until she leaves for Israel again.

"I do feel I've prepared Leigh to be a grownup and know the meaning of right and wrong and to handle herself," Ora says. She wants Leigh to go to Israel and fall and get up and learn not to be idealistic. Isn't she afraid?

"I don't understand that," Ora says. "If I really love my daughter, I have to let her go. And if I know I've instilled in her good values, I know she'll be fine."

But nothing can prepare Leigh for what lies ahead. After the Tel Aviv bombing, I asked her if she had second thoughts.

"You can't take precautions for everything," she says. "Even if Israel has its flaws, it's always going to be where I belong. So I'll take the risks."