By David Suissa, a top advertising executive in LA, columnist for the LA Jewish Journal. A version of this article first appeared in the book “A Dream of Zion” (Jewish Lights).

“I can’t explain it.” I hear that over and over again when people try to describe Israel. They see modern buildings and cars and beaches and slums and cafes and malls and traffic and everything else you’ll find in a Western country.

But somehow, Israel’s different. It tastes different, it feels different, it sounds different.

Why?

How can we explain this difference without settling for the sentimental clichés we’re all so familiar with— you know, yearning for two thousand years to return to our homeland, feeling that sense of belonging you can only find in Israel, and so on? Those are true, of course, but they’re also general and abstract—they don’t grab me in the kishkes.

For me, there is one simple observation that tells me more than a hundred books or speeches about Israel’s uniqueness. And no, it’s not their phenomenal accomplishments in science, medicine, the arts, literature, and the digital world; nor is it even their near-miraculous ability to survive in one of the world’s nastiest neighborhoods; or even that Israel protects human rights like freedom of speech and freedom of religion like no other country in the Middle East—all of which I’m incredibly proud of.

No, what really gets me is the way Israelis talk to each other.

That’s right, the way they talk to each other.

In particular, the way they talk—and argue—with someone they’ve never met before. Think about it. You meet a complete stranger, and, instantly, you’re comfortable enough to argue with that stranger. That is mind-boggling.

Personally, I simply can’t imagine going around my city of Los Angeles and seeing strangers talk to each other as if they’ve known each other all their lives. The mere thought of barking, “What the hell are you talking about?” to a total stranger makes me cringe.

Unless, of course, I’m talking to my brother and sisters.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not as if my parents didn’t teach their children how to be civil and polite. It’s just that when the mishpacha is around, we don’t agonize too much over etiquette—we’re family so we’re familiar, which makes us very comfortable.

It doesn’t offend us if someone forgets to say “please.”

Now, I know that a lot of people will look at this peculiar aspect of Israeli society and call it an absence of good manners, which can have some unfortunate side effects, especially when people passionately disagree. I can sympathize with that.

But after more than thirty visits to the Holy Land, I’ve also come to appreciate what’s behind this Israeli tendency toward instant informality.

In Israel, everyone talks to each other as if they’re family.

So yes, it can get a little rough around the edges. Million of strangers acting like they all know each other.

I’ve never seen that anywhere.

Of course, I’ve also never seen a family that waited 2,000 years to attend its family reunion.