Walking Myself Home

The Itch to Move

A few weeks before I was officially discharged from my army service,

Something inside me was already burning.

Something in my body was restless. It wanted to move. To feel.

The Israeli tradition is to go on the “big trip” — conquer the world, travel through South America or the East, do a lot of drugs, then come back, sign up for university, and continue the regular path.

But something in me already felt different.

I couldn’t imagine going out to see the world before meeting this tiny country so overloaded with energy.

So I recruited my two best friends at the time, Omri and Sagiv, and together we set out to hike the Israel National Trail. 1080km of hike south to north.

I always had a role. I always felt comfortable when I had a role.

And with Omri and Sagiv — I was the scout kid, the outdoorsman, the survivor, and already back then, the “guide” of the journey.

Before leaving, we went on a preparation trip through the desert and buried water supplies and little treats in strategic points, hoping they would still be there by the time we reached them.

The first night of the journey was electric.

We gathered in a camp full of other hikers, most of them around our age, and something in the atmosphere felt so innocent, ambitious, raw, and alive.

The three of us became a kind of social magnet. We brought energy, drew attention, and started the trail alongside a group of older hikers who walked it every year in memory of someone they had lost.

We came inflated with ego, carrying massive 23-kilo backpacks, ridiculously over-equipped and spoiled.

We had no idea what was waiting for us.

Desert Rhythm

In the desert, I always walked fast.

Something in my body kept pulling forward. Rushing. Wanting to arrive.

The nights were cold. Campfires, deep conversations, a few joints.

There’s something about the desert that fills you with a strange kind of self-satisfaction.

One day we stopped at an ashram in the desert.

That was my first encounter with Osho and his meditations.

Like free nomads, we decided to try it and joined a Kundalini meditation and a gibberish meditation.

I still remember myself afterward saying:

“I get why people love this… there’s something to it. But it’s not for me.”

Inside, I was full of judgment and fear of Osho’s crazy eyes.

The First Crack

The first real challenge came while crossing a water canyon.

We passed our backpacks to each other to move quickly and safely.

I crossed first, and while Sagiv was handing me his backpack, he slipped.

At first, I laughed.

The atmosphere between us was so light and playful that we barely took anything seriously.

But then he kept screaming.

Omri immediately understood something was wrong. Sagiv’s shoulder had completely dislocated.

After endless moments of tension, Sagiv looked at Omri and said:

“Hold my arm. Count to three… and pull.”

Another scream echoed through the canyon.

But the shoulder went back in.

We wrapped his arm and realized we had no choice but to reach the night camp where we had buried water. We were almost two days away from the nearest road or water source.

That’s when one of the most exhausting journeys of my life began.

Omri and I took turns. One helping Sagiv walk, the other carrying his backpack.

As i was walking all i could do was ongoingly cursing -

Every unnecessary gram inside my backpack felt like punishment. The hammock. The coffee kit. The ropes. The fire starter. All the little survival gadgets we never even used.

My shoulders burned. My feet pounded inside my shoes. My back hurt with every breath.

And my body understood something before my mind did:

I am responsible for my own fate.

Walking Into Jerusalem

A few days later we were forced to stop. The blisters on our feet made sure of that.

But we kept going.

After four weeks we crossed the desert and began climbing toward Jerusalem.

Until then, Jerusalem was just “my Jerusalem.” The dirty, crowded, chaotic city I grew up in.

But there’s something different about walking toward it.

Something in that pilgrimage-like climb touched me deeply.

We decided to stop at our family's homes on the way.

To casually open the door, filthy and exhausted, carrying giant backpacks, and surprise my mother.

The arrogance of that moment was incredible.

Left Alone

From there we continued toward Tel Aviv.

And that’s where the second big wave hit.

The direct collision with civilization. With the life we used to know.

The big city where everything suddenly felt possible again.

Mixed with exhaustion, pain, and fear, Omri and Sagiv made a difficult decision:

For them, the journey was over.

For me, it became a turning point.

I didn’t even hesitate.

I knew I was finishing this trail.

Seventy Kilometers of Tears

On my first day alone, I walked along the coastline.

Flat. Sandy. The sea beside me.

After weeks of walking, the body already knew what to do.

My legs kept moving steadily.

My mind was too tired to control anything anymore.

And my heart finally got center stage.

and tears came.

Not collapsing. Not dramatic.

A soft, steady kind of crying that didn’t apologize for itself.

I didn’t even ask why.

I just cried and walked.

And kept walking.

Through the night. And through the following day.

The full moon accompanied me, the sea whispered beside me, and the tears kept flowing with the rhythm of my steps.

I walked nearly 70 kilometers.

The Wild Boar

When I finally decided to stop and sleep, I laid down at the foot of Mount Carmel inside a pine forest.

A few minutes later, a wild boar woke me up trying to steal the tahini I had left outside from pure exhaustion.

I woke up terrified, and from the momentum of the previous two days, I simply packed my things and kept walking.

I climbed Mount Carmel and continued into the final month of the journey.

Sometimes friends or family joined me for parts of the trail.

But mostly, I walked with myself.

That’s where I began to meet myself.

Two Decisions

I finished the journey with two decisions.

The first:

This is my office.

People and nature.

I immediately signed up for a tour guide course and started leading groups through identity journeys in nature and the desert.

Something I still do to this day.

The second decision was to continue alone.

To go out into the world with myself.

To explore it with the best friend I had ever found.

That decision changed over time.

Today, I’m no longer looking to walk alone.

I’m looking for the people I can truly walk with.