For most of my life, I lived without paying attention to my Jewish roots. Then October 7th happened and a voice woke up inside me that called me toward Israel. I resisted it. I started reading. I started listening. By September of 2025, I had moved to Tel Aviv.
For more than ten years before that, I had been running a private tour agency in Italy. I knew the country in a way few foreigners ever do. And as I began to study at Bar-Ilan University, I noticed something: in Poland, families had a way to come back to their ancestors. In Italy, they did not.
Italy is where many American-Jewish families came from Sephardic, Italian Jewish, Roman Jewish, families who left in the 1930s and 1940s and never spoke of it again. The archives are still here. The synagogues are still here. The streets are still here. They were just waiting for someone who knew both worlds, Italian and Jewish, to begin listening.
That is what Radici is.
Foundations
The career, the family, the home — they are in place. What remains is the question of inheritance, in its older sense: not what you receive, but what you are passing forward.
A grandfather who said little. A photograph in a drawer. A surname that, when you say it aloud, is both Italian and Jewish at once.
Not as a tourist. As a descendant. With the door opened, the document in hand, and time enough to stand still.