I try not to let her cold reception dampen my excitement. I remind myself that I’m doing all of this so I can get into the army and really make a difference.
With an exasperated look, she starts pulling out papers and pointing to dotted lines for us to sign. In a monotonous, quick-paced voice, she explains our rights. Our eyes glaze over and we slip into a trance like Buddhist monks, but she keeps talking.
It makes me think that maybe Israel should use paperwork as a strategy against its enemies, like Iran—“Oh, no, you can’t nuke us until you fill out this form, take it to this ministry, and then get it stamped at another ministry.” I think Iran would realize that it isn’t really worth all of the paperwork to wipe us off the map.
We begin to sign the documents, but of course none of her pens work—more proof of the inefficiency that embodies the Israeli government. How does anyone expect the Israeli government to find a solution for Middle East peace when they can’t even successfully manage to supply working pens to its ministries?
Once we finish signing with the pens that we had in our bags, she asks us for our bank account numbers so she can start an automatic deposit of our monthly allowance.
By the look of desperation in our faces, she realizes that we have yet to open an account. Looking at her watch she says, “You have thirty minutes until the bank closes. If you run, you can make it.” That was the first word of encouragement that we got from her all day. I savored it like a piece of chocolate in my mouth.
“When you come back, go to a different person,” she yells to us as we run out her door.
Show Me the Money
Despite the fact that we get to the bank fifteen minutes before closing time, it’s already closed for its siesta. Which is surprising because the country typically runs on “Jewish standard time”— at least fifteen minutes late. People are always late, nothing starts on time, including movies. However, when it comes to closing the banks, the post office, and grocery stores, then the country runs like the Swiss Army.
In order to speed up getting drafted into the army, I want to get as much done as quickly as possible. I don’t want to lose even one day, so Ester and I decide to convince the security guard at the front door of the bank to let us in. First we try making him feel sorry for us. He doesn’t.
Then we moved to the next stage of negotiating: arguing. Arguing in Israel almost always works. It’s often the only way to accomplish anything; however, this method proves to be unsuccessful at persuading the guard.
We then resort to the lowest, but most fool-proof of all tactics: flirting. I offer him one of our snack bars. I ask where all the good places to go out are. I ask him questions about his army service. I swoon at his big gun. I bat my eyelashes and smile. Parts of me feel guilty for using this tactic, but I figure any guy dumb enough to fall for it, deserves it. I turn on my full charm and use my American accent to our advantage. After a few minutes of flirting with him, the doors fly open. (Flirting with Israeli men should only be reserved as the last tactic. It often backfires, resulting in non-stop phone calls and being called mami, darling.)
Running into the bank, we feel invigorated. So far, we have accomplished more on the first day than most people do in their first week. I feel like I’m closer to getting into the IDF with each step.
When choosing a bank, I had asked around to find the best one, since opening up a bank account in Israel is like a marriage under the rabbinate: you get screwed and death is the easiest way out. During my inquiry, I found out that all the banks have the same bad service, equally rip off their clients, and each has higher charges than the next. I was told not to be surprised if I see a charge on my statement for breathing the bank’s air while waiting in line.
With no other customers in the bank, I’m hoping this will be a quick stop. Ester approaches one teller as I sit down with another.
“How can I help you,” the teller asks without looking up.
“I need to open a bank account,” I say.
“Okay, give me your Israeli ID card,” she says. I hand it over with pride. She looks at it and then at me.
She then hands me documents to fill out.
Being foolishly stubborn, I’m determined to speak only Hebrew. Unfortunately being able to state all the colors and count to one hundred is not very useful when signing a financial contract. After failing to understand the legal and financial mumbo jumbo, I decide to just go ahead and sign everything. The teller keeps pointing to dotted lines and I keep signing. For all I know, I’m signing away my organs or making a deal with the devil.
After signing everything, I’m given an account. And even though the balance is zero, I feel like a millionaire.
As I’m about to leave, she says, “You know there is a song about you,” and starts singing, “Jessie, Jessie, Jessie, Jessicaaaaah!” I roll my eyes and wonder if someone singing this song to me will be a daily occurrence in my life. Is it prophetic? Will I, like the girl in the song, someday be far away too?
We head back to the Absorption Ministry. Sneaking around the crowds again, we enter the same woman’s office. She looks surprised to see us back already, but also somewhat proud. With a nod of her head towards the seats, she tells us to sit down.
We begin talking to her, but she is on the phone. She gestures for us to hold on. Instead of putting up her index finger to say one second, she uses the Israeli hand gesture for “hold on” which is the same as the Italian motion for “Fuck you”—and no, I don’t think that it is a coincidence.
It’s going to take me a while not to be offended by that gesture.
She makes a hook motion with her finger to signal to us to give her our bank account numbers and our new Immigrant Identity Booklets, which resemble cheap autograph pamphlets that they give out at Universal Studios. And I value this booklet as much as eight-year-old me treasured that pamphlet.
“It is 120 NIS charge to receive your rent subsidy,” she says while still on the phone.
Already getting used to the bureaucracy, we are not shocked that we have to pay the government in order to get our money from the government. I should have known that the airline ticket to move here was the last and only free thing I’d ever receive from the country.
Without saying a word, she stamps both of the pamphlets. The slam of the rubber stamp sounds like the gavel of a judge sentencing us to life in prison. We jump with joy.
While walking out, I turn around to ask her if she knows how I can get drafted into the IDF Spokesperson Unit, but she is already busy lighting a new cigarette and laughing on the phone. I figure it is probably better that I didn’t ask her anyway. I had asked everyone else we met today and was only greeted with laughter.
Road Rage
“Drive!” was the only instruction my driving instructor gave me a few minutes ago and now cars are coming at me from all directions.
I’ve barely been in Israel for a week, but I’m almost finished with all the logistics. To get my Israeli driver’s license, I only need to take a road test and not the written test since I already have an American license. I don’t know any of the rules of the road, and yet I’m supposed to take my driving test right after this one-time, twenty-minute drive with the instructor. Based on the drivers already on the road, I shouldn’t be surprised that getting a driving license requires barely any knowledge of the driving laws5.
Gripping the wheel, I’m confused by the traffic lights. When the light shows both green and yellow lights, I slow down, even though everyone else is speeding up. When it is green, I yield to turn left and everyone behind me furiously honks at me to turn. And when the light is red, I turn right, even though it is illegal in Israel. Driving is so counterintuitive here that they call the roundabouts “squares.”
Now, safely stopped at the traffic light, I take a deep breath to calm down. I look to my instructor for guidance, but he is busy reading the newspaper, clearly not caring that I’m about to crash his car.
My first experience with Israeli drivers
was at thirteen, right after my family got off our long flight to the country. Our tour guide, a short, curly-haired man wearing leather sandals, thin-rimmed glasses, and a wide smile, had eagerly greeted us at the Israeli airport and enthusiastically welcomed us to our homeland. Lightly tossing our heavy bags over his shoulder, he led us to a van and explained that we had an hour-long drive to Jerusalem.
We all piled into the van, excited to arrive in the holy city. But after the long flight, we all began to fall asleep. Just as our eyelids got heavy, the driver slammed on the brakes. The back of the car in front of us got uncomfortably close to our front windshield. We shrieked simultaneously.
“Ha’kol beseder, all okay, noh waurries,” he said with a thick Israeli accent, while chuckling.
BEEEEEEP! I’m surrounded by a swarm of motorbikes that look like they are coming at me from all directions. Scared that I’m going to be hit, I cover my eyes. Annoyed, the instructor looks over at me and demands that I drive. He rolls his eyes and then goes back to reading his newspaper.
After another ten minutes the driver points to a parking spot and tells me to park.
I pull to the side of the road and a car nearly side-swipes me. I wonder if most Israelis drive like they are driving a tank because they actually learn to drive a tank before they learn to drive a car.
Finally, the driving lesson ends. But without a chance to catch my breath, my driving test begins.
“Drive!” The tester says when he gets in the car.
My hands are shaking on the steering wheel. At this point I’m more afraid of being killed by the Israeli drivers than not passing the test. If all these other people on the road have licenses, then I’ll undoubtedly receive mine.
A pedestrian jumps out in front of me to cross the street. I slam on my brakes, while the car next to me speeds up and honks his horn. I think to myself that Jesus might have been able to walk on water, but he’d have a hard time getting across a street in Jerusalem today without being run over.
After the longest ten minutes of driving, my test is over.
I receive my license . . . now all I need is a car. And with my finances, I don’t see that happening anytime soon.
Screwed in Translation
COOKAROOKA! COOKAROOKA! Even the roosters speak Hebrew here.
The rooster wakes me up again at sunrise.
It’s Thursday, the last day of the Israeli work week. The last bureaucratic task I have to do is sign up for ulpan. It would have been helpful to have had Hebrew classes before all the bureaucracy, but leave it to Israel to do things backwards.
I get out of bed and get ready to take a short work through the alleyways of Jerusalem to ulpan. When I arrive, I’m checked by the guard and walk through the tall gates of the Absorption Center. I’m not sure if the gates keep the immigrants in or terrorists out.
I’m more nervous for this than I was for all the other bureaucracy. My placement in ulpan can determine the rest of my absorption. Learning how to speak Hebrew is really important to me. There are so many Americans who move here and never bother learning the language. They are outsiders in the country. They can’t watch the news. They never get the jokes. They don’t fully understand the culture. I’m determined to be an insider. I want my Hebrew to be as good as possible for the army so I can fit in. I have only five months of ulpan to get it right.
Last year, when I started ulpan during my volunteer program, all I could say was, “yes,” “please,” and “excuse me.” Never mind that I had no idea what I was agreeing to when I said “yes” . . . which explains some of those awkward situations I got myself into. But now I know that the word b’vakasha (please) is nowhere near as useful as akshav (now). And that slicha (excuse me), is more of an “Excuse me! What the hell are you doing?” than a “Pardon me.”
I sit down in front of three older women to start the placement test. After spending all of last year teaching Hebrew to myself, I’m confident that I will be in one of the higher, if not the highest level.
“Can you please explain to us what you did this past year?” ask the examiners in Hebrew, who look like sweet little old ladies, but would probably knock someone over at the shuk on a Friday morning for getting in their way.
Yes! I’ve explained my past year to people hundreds of times in Hebrew. I’ll do great on this!
“I was on a volunteer program. I volunteered with Ethiopian kids for three months. I volunteered with kids in a day care center in a city up north for three months. I volunteered with one kid who had problems learning. I volunteered with high school kids and taught them English. I volunteered with kids who had social problems and lived in a state-run youth village. I love volunteering. I even want to volunteer in the army.”
Whenever I told this story I was always surprised by peoples’ reactions: it was shock, which I always attributed to Israelis being surprised that I would work for free. Some would laugh too, which I attributed to Israeli cynicism. However, these ladies have a look of pure horror on their faces.
“Have you told this story to anybody?”
“Many people! I’m very proud of my volunteering,” I reply with a smile.
One of the teachers shudders. With a look of embarrassment on her face, she says in Hebrew “Jessica, I think you have been confusing your verbs, the word you have been using for ‘to volunteer’ actually means . . . ‘to fuck.’”
My stare goes blank as I repeat what I just said in my head. I’m having a Sixth Sense moment, like when Bruce Willis’ character realized that he was dead . . . it makes me wish that I was dead. Instantly all of the laughing and shocked expressions for the past year make sense. How long have I been doing this? How in the world did no one ever correct me? How did they just let me continue on presenting myself as a child molester? Do Israelis get their kicks by letting immigrants make fools of themselves?
I walk out of that room completely humiliated and even more insecure about my Hebrew and my future.
On my way back to Merkaz Hamagshamim, I console myself by thinking that at least I have another “war” story to tell.
Now at the end of my week, I crawl into my bed. Staring at my walls that now have pictures on them, I take stock of my past week. I’ve accomplished a lot, but I still have so much more to do. Especially if I want to be in the army.
Even though I’m technically a citizen, I still don’t feel like I’m an Israeli yet. I’m realizing that being Israeli is more than just receiving an identity card. I’ll have to learn how to be an Israeli, from eating off of other peoples’ plates, cutting in lines, and offering hot drinks on a hot summer day, to aggressive driving and calling everyone achi, my brother.
As I drift off to sleep, I wonder how much longer it will take for me to describe Israelis as a “we” instead of a “them.” Will it be when I speak Hebrew fluently? Join the army? Make more Israeli friends? Or marry an Israeli?
* * *
1 . Ariel Sharon was the current prime minister, Benjamin Netanyahu was previously prime minister, and Sallai Meridor was president of The Jewish Agency.
2 . Another word for protecia is Vitamin P. While these are not as cheap as a daily multi-vitamin, they can be bought. Although connections are important in any country, in Israel, nothing is possible without them, from finding a job to finding a husband. The country is so small that the concept of six degrees of separation doesn’t apply here. Legend has it that in Israel there are only three degrees of separation. This means that from our bus driver to the prime minister, there is only one person in between.
3 . For a shakshuka recipe, please see see the appendix.
4 . Israeli identity cards used to list a person’s religion, but in 2002, the Knesset’s Constitution, Law and Justice Committee canceled the nationality clause after the High Court ordered the Interior Ministry to classify Reform and Conservative community members as Jewish, in Israel and abroad. At the time, Interior Minister Eli Yishai refused to comply with the ruling because he did not want to put his signature on a
document that listed Reform and Conservative converts as Jewish and therefore began leaving the religion section blank on everyone’s’ ID cards.
5 . For a list of Israeli driving rules, please see the appendix.
3
It’s a world of laughter. A world of tears.
Gathered in the classroom before the lesson starts on the first day of ulpan, the only way for us to communicate is with our broken Hebrew. Our varying languages and accents make us unintelligible to one another. Instead we use hand gestures, but luckily that is the universal language of Jews. With our hands wildly flailing around and our conversations probably being about totally different subjects, the classroom could be the Knesset, Israeli Parliament, minus the personal insults and water-throwing.
“Shalom. Hello. Boker tov, good morning. Welcome to ulpan,” our teacher says in the same sing-song tone as a kindergarten teacher. “We have a lot of work today.” She seems understanding, patient, and sympathetic—possibly the only Israeli with these characteristics. “I’d like everyone to introduce themselves in Hebrew.”
Somehow I ended up in the highest level, which says more about other people having much lower Hebrew levels than me having good Hebrew. But maybe the hard work that I put into learning Hebrew is paying off. Early on I realized that the key to getting a real Israeli experience was learning the language. The realization came to me on my way to my study-abroad program when the cute security guard from El Al1 had asked me if I knew Hebrew. Wanting to impress him, I told him in Hebrew that I did. He then laughed at me when I said I knew a “small” instead of a “little” bit of Hebrew.
We go around the room to introduce ourselves. There are people from all around the world, from France, Uzbekistan (yes, there are Jews there, or should I say there was a Jew there until now), England, and Australia. There is an Argentinean couple expecting a baby who will probably have better Hebrew than me in a few years; a Brit who has come to class barefoot and has incomprehensible English and Hebrew; a young, religious French girl wearing a long-sleeve turtleneck and a long skirt that are both so tight that there is nothing modest about her dress.
Chutzpah & High Heels Page 6
