Whenever the landing gear touches the tarmac of the Holy Land, I am overcome with emotion.
My eyes fill with tears of joy and sorrow.
I remember not long ago when travelers had to walk down the ambulatory steps attached to the aircraft, filling their lungs with Tel Aviv’s humid air as they waited to board the bus for the one-minute ride to the terminal. Now the aircraft unloads directly into the most modern and air conditioned terminal in the Middle East.
To the left, through the window, is the largest landscaped advertisement in the world. To the right, along the wall, hangs a display of posters honoring Israel Independence Day since 1948.
Born in Europe and raised in Israel, I have lived in Los Angeles for many years. I have a house, a happy family, a wife, children, beautiful grandchildren, friends and a nice community.
Yet Israel is always on my mind. It’s that little compass in me that keeps pointing its magnetic needle toward Israel.
I fall asleep at night, and wake up in the morning listening to my heart beating to the tune of one of the smallest countries in the world.
Just 30 years ago, my communications with Israel were limited to expensive long distance calls, aerograms and the Israeli newspaper from New York, which I impatiently waited for each week.
Today I can communicate with my family, via the internet at no cost, and read about, listen to, or watch the news from Israel as often as I wish.
In Los Angeles, as I bask in the rays of materialism and instant gratification, I hear that small voice inside me — the one that constantly beats on my conscience and never lets me feel at home — whispering:
“You are missing a historical opportunity of being part of a country in the making. Being a Zionist through philanthropy and affiliation with Jewish organizations is very important, but it’s not enough.”
Each time I visit my family, I am amazed that while in Israel, I don’t obsess over the news around the world as I do over the news in Israel when I am overseas.
Israel may be a small country, but an infinite one. It is part of an on-going, unprecedented miracle, that of the return of a nation to its homeland after thousands of years of persecution in Diaspora.
Lessening of Intensity
The longer I live in America, the greater the abyss between me and my friends I left behind. During my first few visits to Israel, my friends and I would slap each other on our backs and hug warmly.
Now that many years have passed, we are okay with just shaking hands or talking to each other over the phone.
Time has taken its toll. The void I created in the hearts of many when I left Israel has been filled because nature abhors a vacuum.
I have my life, and they have theirs.
When I first left Israel, my friends expressed feelings of sadness or jealousy — or simply viewed me as a traitor. Now they continue to build the country without me. I am no longer a part of their lives, and they have little to do with mine.
Straight Ahead Only
I still think and count in Hebrew. Although I am an “American” now, I still wish I could be a part of the country that nourished and cared for me during my early years. But, there is no going back.
The home I left many years ago now lives only in my heart and dreams.
I am proud of what has been accomplished in such a short period of time, and I wonder what my part in all of that was.
Living abroad I am excluded, by Israel’s law, from voting during Israel’s election time, although I am still considered an Israeli citizen and must present my Israeli passport along with my American one.
Tears Tear at the Fabric
So when I stand patiently in the line with many other Israeli passport holders and muse (as much as one can in the raucous company of impatient Israelis standing in line) that those “Friday Night Shalom Aleichem Angels,” which smile as they usher me into Israel, shed tears when they usher me to my flight back to the States.
As soon as I land in Israel, I call my family in Los Angeles to let them know that I arrived “home” safely. I will do the same again, calling my family in Israel once I have landed in the United States, to let them know that I have arrived “home” safely.
I wonder where my home is. In Israel, people ask me where I live, since my Hebrew is that of an Israeli, but my appearance and demeanor don’t fit the picture.
In Los Angeles, I am asked where I am from because although I may look American, I don’t sound like one. I have become the wandering Jew of the 21st century, who just doesn’t fit in anywhere.
An Observer
I enjoy kibitzing with my friends in Israel over coffee and sunflower seeds (gar’ininm), listening to their passionate and fiery arguments. But, unfortunately, watching the sparks fly is all I can do.
I am no longer part of their on-going social and political life, and whatever opinions I do have, they would rather I keep to myself.
Some live a lifestyle that I never have dreamed of having in America. Yet they grumble about the hardships of living in the Holy Land.
They wish they could get a green card and leave. Then there are those who don’t have much, yet praise G-d for giving them the merit to live in Israel. Those are the ones I envy the most.
I come from a very warm and affectionate family. While I am in Israel, we all share the same anxieties of hellos and goodbyes, of saying Shalom. So we have learned to hold back, and shed tears in private. And when my children proudly demonstrate to members of my family their fluency in Hebrew (which does not come cheap in Los Angeles), it sounds stammered to the natives and brings smiles of empathy to their faces.
Tracing My Family
My parents were born and raised in Germany, sent to England on the verge of World War II, entered Israel as illegal immigrants in 1948 and built the country from the ground up.
Today, they have a home only a stone’s throw away from the city of Ashkelon. While in Israel, I often go to Ashkelon for shopping or for a 4 o’clock cup of English tea and a piece of cake.
It’s a tradition my parents brought with them from Europe, and are determined to keep forever. On my visit this past summer, we all went shopping and had cup of tea at a pastry shop in Ashkelon. It was the day after a missile shot from Gaza exploded in an open market in Ashkelon.
The next day, we attended a concert by the graduates from the music department of “Sha’ar Hanegev” (Gates of The South) school. My nephew performed, with his group, on the drums. The school is one-half mile east of Sderot, a city now infamous for the daily barrage of Kasam missiles from Gaza.
The contrast was obvious; while our neighbors across the border “march” their children to the inharmonious reverberations of hate and destruction, the Israelis “march” their children on the stage, encouraging them to create pure notes of tranquility and harmony.
Then it hit me.
I think I finally realized that no matter where a person resides, there is a common thread that binds all of us Jews together to Israel. It is the yearning for Shalom, peace.
Almost, but Not Quite, the End
Each one of us has a different experience in life. It is well known that five people who witnessed the same accident will each tell the story from a different point of view. Thus, some of the preceding ideas were presented in an almost esoteric form, and not necessarily the feelings of a particular person. The idea of the story was to create a certain mood, rather than to judge any individual.
