On a typical Israeli winter day in March 1974, we landed at Ben-Gurion Airport. I was barely two years old, accompanied by my young, hopeful parents. The intoxicating scent of citrus blossoms filled the air as we quickly shed layers of warm clothing brought from distant Russia.

Along with the layers of clothing, a shroud of formality and much of my parents’ worries lifted as well. For my mother and father, stepping onto the soil of the Land of Israel was a profound relief after the oppressive Soviet experience they had managed to escape. Immigrating to Israel gave them not only a sense of true freedom but also the ability to express their Jewish identity – something impossible under a Soviet regime that prohibited Jewish cultural and religious practices.

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