Dateline Jerusalem — Happy Anniversary to me. Seven years ago I made aliyah to Israel. What possessed me to close my law office (okay, so that was not hard to do since I hated the practice of law), pack up my furniture and personal belongings so they could be sent from Los Angeles to Israel via China, say goodbye to a lifetime of wonderful friends, and leave the people most precious to me, my children, grandchildren, parents and siblings? Other than the ache of not having my family with me, I have no regrets. Israel has become my new life, and I love it!
Probing Reasons
I am often asked whether becoming religious had anything to do with moving to Israel. Not really. My first trip to Israel was 35 years ago, long before I made my journey returning to Torah Judaism. After that initial visit, when my feet touched Israeli ground and I got goose bumps on my arms and shivers down my body and tears in my eyes, I knew I was home, the home of my ancestors. I knew that someday I would make Israel my home.
“Aliyah” literally means “going up,” the Hebrew term for Jews returning to their ancestral homeland. My aliyah was not a smooth process. It could only be described by the Hebrew word “balagan,” which means chaos. If something could go wrong it would, and it did. Now I have nothing but fond memories. I laugh at the absurdity of the things that happened to me. Join me down memory lane as I describe my flights and first weeks in Israel.
The cost to fly from Los Angeles to Israel is $1,500 to $2,200 for a non-stop 15½-hour flight with only one piece of luggage. Air fare is only $50 with three pieces of luggage when a person makes aliyah. Because I wanted to go on a charter flight with others who were making aliyah at the same time, since all the bureaucracy and paperwork headaches would be taken care of during the flight, I paid an extra $600 for air fare and fees for extra baggage to fly to the East Coast where the charter jet would be departing. So much for the avoidance of headaches. What are the odds that I would be the only one on the flight not to get her correct identification, have lost paperwork, and have my first home in Israel be a place that would not accept me because of my age?
Escaping the Airport
The lines for going through airport security in California were so long that I almost missed my flight to the East Coast. A pilot from another airline saw my dilemma and grabbed my overweight carry-on bag. He ran with it to my airline and had them hold the plane for me. By the time I arrived, I was sick and feverish. Although I was going on an aliyah charter flight, El Al must have been concerned that I was sweating profusely and considered me a suspicious person. They pulled me out of line for questioning, but every third question they asked me was “Where is the b o m b?” Then TSA pulled me out of line. To this day, I am always searched.
When I finally arrived in Israel, I was the only one on the flight not to have an address on my voucher paperwork that gave me a free taxi ride to where I would be staying. It seems that Israel's computers had me assigned to an absorption center in Raanana. The absorption center would not accept me because I was too old. I ended up staying with my ex-husband's cousin and his wife in Tel Aviv. By the time I arrived there, my fever was raging. I could not speak without coughing so hard that I was choking.
The next morning we went to the post office to get a voucher for me to receive medical care, but that week the post office was open for business for everything but issuing health care vouchers. That service was on strike! My ex's cousin told me to act like an Israeli. That meant when the postal worker said “no” (“lo” in Hebrew), it was just another way of opening negotiations. My ex's cousin stood in line, refusing to move until the postal worker took action. He raised his voice, pointed at me, and refused to budge until the clerk gave him the home number of the supervisor who had already left the post office that day.
Then we went to a clinic to get me health care, but they did not want to treat me because I was not in their system. Again my ex's cousin refused to get out of line. He raised his voice and pointed at me. He told them that I might have pneumonia, said Shabbat is coming in a few hours, and asked them what they plan on doing about it. I got antibiotics and a cursory medical exam.
Strike Three
After Shabbat we returned to the post office and they were still on strike. They were not alone in their strike. This time the Ministry of Interior was on strike. They were in charge of preparing my identification documents, the same documents they mishandled in the first place. Customs went on strike the following week. My furniture and belongings had been sitting at the dock since the beginning of May. I was fortunate to arrive in Israel just in time, because the news said that there was going to be a strike at the airport. Planeloads of people making aliyah from France would be stranded.
Then I had to contact the Ministry of Absorption to get an appointment for a voucher for Ulpan so I could learn Hebrew. I waited through the Hebrew and Russian telephone instructions for English instructions. The English told me to press 3. When I did, instructions switched back to Hebrew. I tried again and was disconnected. I finally got a live person on the other end. No response when I said “Hello.” I repeated myself and still no response. I took my ex's cousin's advice. I didn't move (even though I was on the phone and no one could see me), pointed my finger (more like massaging my headache), and raised my voice since “Hello” in English is translated to “Hallo” in Hebrew. How could I not be understood?
Back then, and still today, when I ask someone if he or she speaks English the pat answer is “lo” or “a little.” This time a little was a lot I was informed that the clerk could not help me because according to her computer (and it turned out almost every computer in Israel) I was living at the absorption center in Raanana, and that was not in her jurisdiction. I explained that the absorption center would not take me and I was now in Tel Aviv, but the Ministry of Absorption would not help until the correct address was in the Ministry of Interior's computer. Of course, they were still on strike. Needless to say, I got a job in Jerusalem and never took that ulpan course.
My aliyah was a memorable one. Mine was not the nightmare I thought compared to what others have told me of theirs. When they say aliyah means “going up,” it means after all the bureaucracy and strikes and craziness you experience, your spirits can't go lower. They only can rise.
L'hitraot. Shachar