For the first nine years of my life, I had made my summers in Israel out to be a utopian fantasy: the beach and bustling cities and the feeling of belonging I’d get by simply existing there. Until I was almost 10, I would imagine that my other life seamlessly resumed when I stepped foot outside of Ben Gurion Airport. Déjà vu would embrace me, as the hot and humid winds blew across my face, while striped curbs painted red and white met my eyes, and I could finally taste the air, infused with nostalgia.

Per my annual routine, in 2016 I walked into my grandparents’ Netanya home in mid-June, pulling a suitcase that weighed as much as I did, and found my Safta and Sabba, each with a new wrinkle or sunspot on their skin, inside their home that had remained unchanged as if I had never left.

Within those initial days, Safta, my grandmother, promised she would take me to downtown Netanya, where she insisted on buying me anything and everything I wished for. We hopped on a small bus that stopped just outside of the home. The passengers included a couple of young soldiers in uniform heading home for the weekend; several wives, some of whom hid their hair beneath headscarves or wigs, per Orthodox Jewish tradition; as well as others who lived their lives differently.

On this day, I remember strolling through the heart of central Netanya, its air filled with tranquil chatter in Hebrew, French, and Yiddish, and the scorching Mediterranean sun that blinded me. Suddenly, I could feel my nine-year-old ears startled by blaring sirens that pierced through the air, triggering a collective response from my grandmother and the hundreds of people in town surrounding us, to locate a nearby bomb shelter within those fleeting seconds. I could see peoples’ bodies rushing in different directions, but when I looked at their faces, I could not understand why they were so calm when my face felt tense and anxiously hot. As I stood in place, frantic and confused, I felt my grandma’s warm hand tugging my arm and pulling the rest of my body into the nearest shelter she could find: a narrow and windowless craft store called מוזלים. There, we joined a handful of mothers and their children sitting in the back of the store, who seemed rather calm and collected. In what felt like the longest minute of my life, I sat in the craft store, innocently contemplating the weight of the scene I was living in. I asked my grandmother, mah zeh haya? (What was that?) I would soon discover that this was the reality Israelis and Palestinians had endured for decades.

The sirens indeed came to a halt and no annihilation was visible to my eyes. But only 98 kilometers away, I could have found myself amid the other side of my paradise; where millions of Palestinians roam among pure havoc in the outskirts they have been pushed into.

The families around us had resumed their day: the mothers pushing strollers while trying to break up the arguments between their eldest children. Safta proceeded to ask me if I wanted my gift to be something from this craft store, and still, in shock, I told her I did. At that moment, I realized that what I deemed a life-flashing moment, Israelis and Palestinians accepted as normality.

We kept returning to Israel every summer in the years that followed, visiting my family’s houses that remained unchanged amid every siren that echoed by their homes. Initially, I felt guilty, realizing that my previous idealization of Israel could be perceived as obliviousness by those who experienced its realities firsthand. Prior to that day, I could never bring myself to view Israel’s clear ocean shores and primeval limestone Jerusalem walls as any less beautiful. However, in the evening after the bomb warning, as my ears and mind were taunted by the now-familiar sound of a ringing siren, I began to reimagine my utopia. Suddenly, Israel became flawed — or rather, everything that once concealed its flaws from my eyes had been wiped away. I grappled with the feeling of being deceived — like when you accidentally find out how a magician made you think they were flying. I felt ignorant and disappointed in myself — that I had been looking at the world and my “fantastical” home through such a filtered lens. And more than that, I felt mildly responsible.

I realized at the age of 14, when I dedicated months to thoroughly researching the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, that this complexity was beyond my control and said nothing about my own character. I gradually understood that the place my parents could call home was a reflection of the past, as well as the present’s failure to ensure it does not repeat. Inevitably, I still visit my family once a year, but no longer do I feel deceived by my summer home. Rather, I travel halfway across the Earth with an open mind and an understanding of coexistence that I am thankful to have. I still feel a sense of pride itching in me to embrace Jewish culture 7,605 miles away from its origins. And I now annually walk along sidewalks with curbs painted in red and white and acknowledge that the land on which I stand is far from perfect.