Somewhere Over the Rainbow
As I’m boarding the plane, I look at the ticket in my hands. The free one-way airplane ticket that I got from the Israeli government feels like a golden ticket.
After pushing through the lines of families, I find my seat. The middle seat. In between two religious girls in their twenties. As I sit down, I grumble to myself, why can’t I be sitting next to a cute guy on my aliyah flight? Is that really too much to ask?
I arrange my bags and get comfortable. Just after I get my pillow in the exact right position, a religious girl standing in the aisle looks at me oddly and walks away. I figure she doesn’t like the fact that I’m wearing a tank top and I lay my head back down.
Two minutes later, there is a tap on my shoulder. I open my eyes to see a flight attendant wanting to check my ticket. This twenty-something-year-old girl tattled on me for being in her seat. It turns out that they had double booked us, so the flight attendant offers me a seat in business class. I quickly gather my belongings and leave her with her long skirt and mouth hanging open. I think it must be a sign.
Running true to Jewish Standard Time, the plane takes off an hour late.
I expected this flight to be one that I’ll always remember. But in spite of being bumped up, it is one that I’ll always try to forget. The thirteen-hour flight is full of babies crying, children screaming, men praying, and nine cats meowing. Yes, nine.
Immediately after we take off, the religious men gather to start their praying and swaying right next to the bathroom. Unfortunately, at the same time, I have to use the bathroom. After getting out of my seat, I nervously approach, hoping that they’ll let me use the restroom, but also knowing that they probably won’t while they are praying since they believe women and men must be separate during prayers. When I reach the nearest toilet, a religious man says to me, “You can’t be here. Us men are praying!”
Ugh! I scream in my head. Isn’t it enough that they have control of the Western Wall? Do they need control my bathroom use in this plane too?
I turn around and head back to my seat, with my bladder still full. I hope this isn’t another warning that the religious will control my life in Israel.
I sit back down and take a sleeping pill.
I wake up from my pill-induced coma to the sounds of people singing and frantically dancing in the aisles. Under any other circumstance, these people would have been Tasered for being a security threat.
I go to see how Ester is doing and to ask her what all the commotion is about.
“We received our new Israeli identity cards. Didn’t you get one?” she asks. It turns out that Nefesh B’Nefesh performed a modern day miracle by getting an Interior Ministry representative, infamous for always being on strike, to actually do some work and brought this representative on the flight to give out Israeli identity cards.
“No,” I say, frantically looking around for the agent. The process of getting an Israeli identity card usually takes months, but everyone on the plane got theirs in hours . . . except me. How did I miss out on getting my Israeli identity? I’ve been waiting to receive an Israeli identity for a year now. This feels like another bad omen.
“They woke me up for crappy airplane food, but not to give me an ID card!” I exclaim.
I run around the plane looking for the representative, but she somehow was able to disappear mid-flight. I can’t believe that even on a plane, a government employee can escape extra work. Disappointed, I slouch back into my seat. While fighting back tears, I pull out my parents’ ketuba and quickly inspect it to see if anyone else could catch the forgery. While staring at it, I become afraid that getting my Israeli identity is going to be harder than I thought. I start becoming afraid that my Jewishness will always feel like it is in doubt.
Homecoming Queen
I’m one of the first people to step out into the fresh air of Israel. The doors of the plane open to the sun shining down on hundreds of people singing, high-level politicians clapping, and IDF soldiers waving Israeli flags, celebrating our arrival. I can’t wait to be a soldier like all of them. All of my concerns melt away.
I feel like Dorothy when she first stepped out into the Land of Oz—like I’m seeing the world in color for the first time.
Only a few minutes ago, when I felt the landing gear descend, I took a deep breath. The familiar cheering of the passengers as the plane landed charged the stale air in the cabin. I was ready to start my new life.
Walking down the steps of the plane, I can’t stop smiling. The crowd is still cheering.
I’m receiving a celebrity’s welcome. It’s like the entire country is throwing me a surprise party.
More of the plane has de-boarded and people are kissing the ground.
Some of the highest political officials in Israel are thanking me for moving here.
I don’t understand why people said this was so hard. This is great!
I shake hands with Ariel Sharon, Benjamin Netanyahu, and Sallai Meridor1, and then stand in between all of them for a group picture.
It is clear that I made the right decision. My fears wash away.
And then, the welcome ceremony is over.
We’re herded to the bowels of the airport to register as citizens. I fill out forms, which seem to require an SAT preparation course. The Interior Ministry agent asks me personal history questions that make me genuinely prefer to be interrogated by the Mossad, but he doesn’t give me my identity card. Instead I receive a stamp in my American passport. Before I can voice my concern that I have no identity in the country, he hands me the monthly stipend I get for being a new immigrant and sends me away from his desk. I count the cash, which is supposed to cover my monthly living expenses, but is actually enough for the massage and haircut I need and won’t be able to afford.
Walking out of the airport with my suitcases, I’m confronted with a mob of taxi drivers trying to gather as many passengers into one car as possible.
The sun is beating down so hard that it is blinding. There are people yelling outside, but I hear nothing.
This is my first time in Israel when I’m not in a program. No one is awaiting my arrival. No one has planned an agenda for me. No one knows I’m here. And I don’t even have an identity here. I look around for Ester, but I don’t see her. She probably already left with her friend.
I freeze. It suddenly occurs to me that there is a chance that I may not make it here. What if everyone sees me as an imposter and I’m never accepted? Wondering if I can change my mind, I look back to the airport doors that are automatically closing. I want to go home. I don’t think I could survive being rejected here.
I think back to the night I decided to make aliyah.
Sitting on the beach with Liel, Orli, and the rest of their Israeli friends, I watched as the waves crashed. It was dark outside and the ocean seamlessly melted into the night sky. The fruity smoke from the hookah mixed with the saltiness in the air. Under my bare feet, the sand still emanated warmth from the day. The homemade hummus melted in my mouth. Orli was kneading pita dough in a plastic bowl and threw another pita on the fire. The guitar, Liel’s singing, and laughter filled the emptiness of the beach. I thought to myself, this is it. This is what I’ve been looking for. I’ve never felt more at peace with myself and with my surroundings.
In the middle of the party on the beach, I decided to move here. I’d join the IDF. Maybe I could find a way to use my English skills, degree in journalism, and American perspective to help improve Israel’s image in the world.
Without another thought, I whispered to Orli, “I’m going to move here after my volunteer program.”
Now that I had said it out loud, I was going to have to do it. All of the sudden I was scared. I realized I didn’t know how to survive here.
Orli leaned in to me. “I’ll help you with anything you need.” Then she jumped up and announced my decision to everyone. They burst into an Israeli song that I was afraid would end up following me: “Jessie, Jessie, Jessie
, Jessicaaaaah! She used to be a complete foreigner, she worked on the kibbutz for two years, but now she is somewhere else.”
After the celebration ended, Liel asked me, “What are you going to do for work?”
“I’m going to join the IDF!” I expected the same celebration at my declaration, but instead I received silence and blank stares.
“Where are you going?”
I’m quickly snapped out of my trance when a taxi driver yells at me.
Before I answer, he’s already pushing my luggage cart to his taxi.
As part of the aliyah welcome package from the Israeli government, I get a ride from the airport to anywhere in the country.
“Jerusalem,” I say. Like any rational person, I state the location of my new home. However, if I had been thinking like a veteran Israeli, I would have taken full advantage of this benefit and traveled to the most southern point in Israel, Eilat, for a week of sun and fun on the government’s shekel.
The driver brings me over to his large taxi that already has ten people in it and three times as many suitcases. Another taxi driver grabs my bags and the two of them begin fighting over them. I’m too tired to intervene. Taxi drivers, like a veteran Israelis, know how to take full advantage of being the end receivers of the government’s money. They stuff us naïve new immigrants into their cars like sardines so that they can charge for multiple rides, but only have to make and report a single trip.
The taxi driver who won my bags runs around his car, tying the suitcases onto the roof. He tells us exactly how and where to sit as to maximize the amount of room for all the suitcases. I’m surprised he isn’t trying to tie us onto the roof.
Once everything is secured, we begin our drive to Jerusalem. It’s the middle of July and the air conditioner is broken . . . or at least that is what the driver is claiming. The windows are open, but that doesn’t help. The air whacking me in the face is streaming through the sweaty armpit of the man in front of me.
Escaping to my memories, I think back to the first time I made this ascent to the Holy City. I strained my eyes trying to see the rusted tanks on the side of the road that were used to liberate the ancient city only thirty years ago. Now the tanks feel like part of my history. But when I saw them for the first time, Jerusalem had felt like a city in a fairytale land far, far away. I couldn’t believe then that we were about to enter the hilltop capital. I remember seeing the Mount of Olives glistening in the sun as the tour guide listed the name of historical Jews buried on the mountain side. It had been proof to me that the childhood stories were true. My history had suddenly come alive, even if it was in a graveyard.
As my family entered the city, the sun had been high in the sky. The narrow streets were packed with cars. People crowded the sidewalks. Stone buildings, bearing satellite dishes, were pushed together. I expected to see David and Goliath or Joseph in his multi-colored coat walking the alleyways, as if they had never left, almost like a biblical-themed Disneyland. I had not expected to see a messy, modern city. The city had not looked holy. With my face pressed to the glass, I still hoped to get a glimpse of Moses and his staff or Noah with animals following him, but instead I was in awe of the guys and girls, only a few years older than me, wearing army uniforms and semi-automatic weapons.
I smiled when I saw ultra-Orthodox Jews wandering the streets, openly and free of discrimination, unlike during the Holocaust when they had been harassed and forced to wear yellow Stars of David. In Minnesota, we didn’t have many ultra-Orthodox Jews. I almost never saw one up close. And I certainly never talked to one. I laughed when I saw one smoking and another one talking on a cell phone. I guess because of their clothing, I almost expected them to be more like the Amish. Instantly, I felt connected with them, as if they were my long lost brothers from a previous century.
As the taxi driver swerves the car to avoid a car accident, I’m thrown into the stranger next to me. I spend the next two hours, while every other passenger gets dropped off, wondering if this path will redefine my identity. Then we finally reach the Merkaz Hamagshamim—my new home. When I get out, the taxi driver practically lobs my luggage at me. I don’t even have a chance to yell at him. He just takes off, leaving me in his dust. I’m going to have to become a lot quicker with my responses to fit in.
Standing at the gate to the apartment complex, I’m taken back to the chance conversation that brought me here. I had been thinking of living and studying Hebrew at Ulpan Etzion in Jerusalem but I didn’t really want to live in the capital because it was too religious. However, it was supposed to be the best ulpan in Israel. When I mentioned to an American guy who I had met at a house party during my volunteer program, he had recommend that I apply to Merkaz Hamagshamim. He explained it as a commune for English-speaking new immigrants, but without brainwashing or prophets who sleep with children.
“We all help each other out until we are strong enough to be released into Israeli society. We’re like a makeshift family,” he said. Needing a place to belong, I was instantly convinced and applied. Not only was I accepted to live there, I was also offered a job. I almost couldn’t believe that going out for a few drinks one night was all it took to figure out my next year. Everything seemed to fall into place so easily. It felt like the momentum of destiny. It was as if what Herzl had said was really true: “If you will it, it is no dream.” Despite what the rabbinate thinks about my Jewishness, I felt like I was getting signs from above that I belonged in Israel.
“Welcome to Merkaz Hamagshamim.” Two guys appear at the gates and offer to carry my bags.
On our way up the steps, one of the guys says in an Australian accent, “If you have any questions, this is my room. You can come day or night.” He winks to the other guy.
By the second floor they are complaining more than Jewish grandmothers about the heavy load.
I enthusiastically open the door to my room, and am greeted by four bare walls, a cot, a broken shelf, and a closet that is falling apart.
“Thanks for the help guys. I’m going to get settled,” I say as I close the door. They look at me like they want a tip.
I lay down on the bed.
Surrounded by silence for the first time, all of a sudden it hits me, stronger than a bomb’s sound wave. From now on, everything in my life is going to be hard: learning Hebrew, going to the grocery store, earning a living, and this mattress. Without bothering to make the bed, I turn over and fall asleep, knowing that all of the difficulties will eventually be worth it. Every difficulty that I overcome will make me into a stronger Israeli who will be able survive here, no matter what.
Identity Makeover
The sun is just coming up. I lay awake thinking about the notorious Israeli bureaucracy. It sounds like having diarrhea and not being able to find a bathroom—you run around hoping to find an open office, and once you do, the line is so long that you don’t think you’ll make it in time.
I roll over and try to fall back asleep.
A rooster crows.
Where am I? Auntie Em’s farm?
It doesn’t stop.
With a pillow over my head, I’m dreading facing the first day of bureaucracy. I wonder if the reason Israelis are always so stressed is because of the bureaucracy—not the terrorism.
Unable to fall back asleep, I get dressed and head to Ester’s room to see if she is up early too. The entire building, full of new immigrants, is silent. I wonder what all of them are doing here in Israel. How long have they been here? What brought them here? Where are they working? How do they support themselves? Will I succeed like them?
When I get to her apartment, I knock on the door and she cheerfully opens it.
“Jet lag or the rooster?” I ask.
“Both,” she says and laughs.
“Well, we can get an early start. Do you want to make a list of everything we need to do?” I ask.
If we do things in the wrong order and forget any documents, we will be perpetually stuck in a bureaucratic game of monkey in the middle.<
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I need to go to the Interior Ministry to get my ID card that I didn’t get on the plane and Ester agrees to join me, even though she already received hers. The veteran immigrants at Merkaz Hamagshamim recommended that we get to the Interior Ministry as early as possible. Some even suggested camping out in front of the doors as if we were getting tickets for some rock concert in the 80’s.
Armed with all of our official documents, hydration packs, power bars, maps, a change of underwear, and toilet paper, we head out looking more like we are going on a wilderness survival course than to do paperwork. We jump on the bus and ask the driver to tell us when he arrives at the Interior Ministry. He looks at us with pity, as if we’ve told him that we’ve just been diagnosed with terminal cancer.
Ten minutes later, the bus driver slams on his breaks and yells, “Interior Ministry stop” in the same tone that he would announce reaching the gates of hell. We excitedly jump off the bus and then are stopped dead in our tracks.
In front of us is a massive mob, as if there is a prison yard fight going on or people trying to get into the newest dance club, but really they are just in line for the ministry. We knew that the process could be emotionally demanding, but we never imagined that it would as physically challenging as running with the bulls.
Both Ester and I can barely speak Hebrew, much less yell in Hebrew—which is really the only vernacular understood in the country. And we are too petite to push our way through the mob. Looking at each other in disbelief and defeat, we turn around and go sit at the bus stop.
“Maybe we should just come back tomorrow,” I say with my face in my hands, not really believing it will be different any another day.
“Wait! I know someone here,” Ester exclaims as if she just realized she has a super power.
Both of us jump up in excitement, knowing that her super power is one called protectia2, having a connection in a high place.
Chutzpah & High Heels Page 4
