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By Dana Rosenblatt
CNN Interactive

(CNN) -- When I was born in Israel in 1973 during the Yom Kippur War, my mother took me directly from the hospital to a bomb shelter.

My father, meanwhile, was tending to wounded soldiers, both Israelis and their Syrian enemies, in a camp hospital on the northern front.

A year later, my family moved to the United States for my father to continue his studies and, eventually, to settle.

Although I was raised in the United States (by parents who spoke only Hebrew at home) and consider myself thoroughly American, when people ask me where I am from I say Israel.

My deep pride in the country is different from the affinity many American Jews feel toward Israel. It is cultural rather than religious, and every time I go back to Israel I feel as if I am returning home.

My American identity vanishes in Ben-Gurion International Airport in Tel Aviv and I become an Israeli once more when the customs agent, addressing me in Hebrew, impatiently asks for my passport.

It takes a few hours to adjust to Israel's hurried pace, the loud voices that Americans consider obtrusive and the loss of personal space. In the U.S., people have an innate sense of personal space, a distance that is understood and respected. In Israel, a crowding occurs even among strangers that suggests a certain familiarity.

In Israel, I find myself having to raise my voice to be heard and cut in lines -- at times pushing -- to get service of any kind. Yet when I leave the country and return to the civility of the U.S., I long for that endearing closeness I find in Israel.

As an Israeli citizen -- I have dual U.S. and Israeli citizenship -- I have always felt an obligation to follow the events that shape the country.

On a recent visit, I was particularly interested by the current political and social turmoil as elections approach.

With five candidates running for prime minister and 33 parties fighting for 120 seats in the Knesset, keeping up with the elections is an arduous task.

In Israel's democratic system, many political parties are allowed to form. To be considered an official candidate for Knesset, one needs only a few thousand supporters. The result is a multitude of parties.

There is a saying in Israel that says when two Israelis meet, there is a political argument. When three Israelis meet, it is a new political party.

In the few weeks I spent in Israel, I was exposed to a multitude of political debates, issues and opinions.

The taxi ride from the airport is an example. I had to share my first precious moments back in Israel, savoring the smell of blooming citrus groves lining the highway to Tel Aviv while being interrogated by the driver.

"Where are you from?" he asks in English, assuming I am American.

"Tel Aviv," I answer.

"Ahh, a tsabarit," a female born in Israel.

In the next half-hour, I was given a complete history of ancient and modern Israel, briefed on the upcoming elections, and presented with Yossi's solutions to all of Israel's problems.

Since the inception of Israel, Israelis have been politically involved by nature. I have few friends in America who vote. Practically everyone I know in Israel votes.

Whether it be to vote, hand out literature, adorn their cars with bumper stickers, go on strike or simply argue with their neighbor about politics, Israelis are somehow involved.

Political small-talk is everywhere. In the bus station, in the cab, on the beach or in line at the falafel stand, there is always talk about who will do better for the economy and who will guarantee peace and security.

It is one thing to read a commentary in the local paper about issues such as the occupation in southern Lebanon, and another to witness the lives of people affected by it.

Israel Elections

"I began to understand what it means to live, work and sleep under constant enemy fire, and how important security lines and borders are for these people."

On a bus in northern Israel crowded with residents of kibbutzim in the area, I learned about days and nights spent in bomb shelters. I began to understand what it means to live, work and sleep under constant enemy fire, and how important security lines and borders are for these people.

In every public building, whether supermarket or bank, security guards check bags and purses for bombs. One security guard who had recently completed his military service in Lebanon told me he had constant nightmares and panic attacks after three years of combat during which he lost his best friend.

Stability is rare in Israeli society, and the current situation is especially tense. The weakening economy was an issue often in my daily interactions with people, and from what I could see many Israelis are struggling just to make ends meet.

In Tel Aviv's open markets, where the air is fragrant with exotic spices and ripe fruits, heated arguments over economic problems were won by whomever was loudest. Only the haggling over the price of fresh fish interrupted discussions about the massive immigration from Russia and Ethiopia, financial aid to refugees from Yugoslavia and unemployment rates compounded by cheaper Arab labor.

When I visited Tel Aviv University, the campus bustled with picketers striking over working conditions.

I also overheard a student in the bookstore complain that she could no longer afford her apartment and had to move back to her parent's house. Meanwhile, her parents could not afford the taxes on their small business, and had to shut it down.

But the country is by no means impoverished. In one of the many cafes that line stretches of the Mediterranean coast, a group of old men sat contentedly at a table for hours playing shesh-besh (chess) and drinking strong Turkish coffee. They seemed oblivious to the cacophony of cell phones around them.

At the next table, a group of young men sporting designer clothes and dark sunglasses sipped lattes as they discussed the New York Stock Exchange, initial public stock offerings and the latest young billionaires who had "made it" in the software industry.

Another issue is animosity between religious and secular Israelis.

Since Israel is a Jewish state, separation between church and state does not exist. The secular voters I spoke with complained that they do not like how the government dictates how observant they should be and said they would like to see less influence by religious parties.

They feel they have more of a stake in the country because they serve in the army and work, therefore contributing to the economy while others study Torah full-time.

A friend of mine who had just completed his service in the army said he was less inclined to vote for a candidate because of the candidate's alliances with the religious Shas party.

But over Shabbat (Sabbath) dinner conversation in the Jewish Quarter of the Old City in Jerusalem, a religious friend of mine vowed to continue to fight to keep Israel's religious traditions and vote for those who would preserve them.

Many people I spoke with showed a lack of enthusiasm for any of the candidates for prime minister. Either they did not know whom they would vote for, or they had decided to vote for the candidate they objected to least.

Living thousands of miles away and traveling to Israel only on occasion, I'm not exposed to the constant politicking that Israelis live and breathe every day. But I will follow the election closely because I know that while whoever the next prime minister is does not concern me as an American, it does as an Israeli.

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