Dateline Jerusalem — Eight years ago I made aliyah to Israel. Aliyah defines the immigration and return of Jews from countries all over the world back to their ancient homeland, the Land of Israel. The Hebrew word aliyah means to go up, to ascend in a spiritual sense. It also means progressing toward Jerusalem, the eternal capital of the Jewish people. Ever since I first visited Israel in 1979, I knew that someday I would make aliyah. It just took me 28 years. It is difficult to describe the feeling of touching Israeli ground for the first time. I got tears in my eyes, goosebumps on my arms, shivers from head to toe. I knew I was home in the land of my ancestors. After my children were grown, I finally took the plunge. I closed my law practice, easy to do since I hated the job, packed my furniture and belongings, shipped them from California to Israel via China and started the aliyah process. I opened up a “tik,” started filling out applications and acquiring the necessary paperwork to become an Israeli citizen under the Law of Return, much to the dismay of my adult children who felt I abandoned them.
My aliyah was not an easy process. Everything that could go wrong did. Today I laugh at the absurdity of it all. It was a real balagan, (chaos, fiasco). I purposely paid an extra $600 in airfare and fees for extra baggage to fly to the East Coast (there was a direct flight from Los Angeles to Tel Aviv for only $50 for those making aliyah) to catch a special aliyah charter flight because allegedly all the bureaucracy and paperwork headaches of aliyah would be taken care of during the flight. Allegedly because I was the only one on the flight without correct identification and with lost or incorrect official paperwork. I was the only one on the flight not to have an address on my voucher paperwork that gives 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 Ra’anana. I was unable to go there because I was too old. For almost six months after moving to Rehovot, most of Israel’s computers still had me living in the Ra’anana Absorption Center despite several attempts at several ministries to get the correct address into the system.
Run for It
My plight did not begin in Israel. Airport security in California created long lines so I almost missed my flight to the East Coast. As I was running to the gate, my shoe flew off my foot. A pilot from another airline saw me and asked if he could help. I told him I was about to miss my flight so he grabbed my overweight carry- on bag and ran with it to my airline gate. He told them to hold the plane for me. They did. I was the last person to board. By the time I arrived on the East Coast, I was sick. A raging fever. My profuse sweating made the El Al personnel consider me a suspicious person, even though it was an aliyah charter flight. I was pulled out of line for questioning. Every third question was “Where is the b o m b?” They were concerned because I knew no Hebrew, had only a Yiddish name (not a Hebrew name), and was making aliyah by myself with no family in Israel. Finally they allowed me to go on, but then TSA pulled me out of line! Different questions this time. One would think that a grandmother like me would have an easier time. I am convinced airport security profiles everyone but terrorists. To this day, whenever I fly in the States, I am searched.
As for bureaucracy, Israel is known for it. I must admit it does not compare to what I went through on my last trip to the States. Yet at the time, it seemed daunting. My ex-husband’s cousin and his wife welcomed me to their home in Tel Aviv. But by the time I left the airport, I barely could breathe. I could not speak without choking and coughing. My temperature was sizzling. The next morning we went to the post office to get a voucher for medical care. The post office handles medical vouchers, payment of bills, banking, and traditional post office duties. But the balagan continued. Although the post office was open, the medical voucher section was on strike. So was the Ministry of Interior, which was in charge of preparing my identification documents, the same ones that were mishandled on the charter flight. The following week, Customs went on strike.
Who Is in a Hurry?
My furniture and belongings had been sitting at the dock since early in May, two months. I did not have an apartment yet, so there was no rush for me. Strikes are not unusual in Israel. Nurses and doctors often go on strike because the pay is so low. With socialized medicine, they are overworked.
Because I was too old to go to an Absorption Center, I had to contact the Ministry of Absorption for a voucher for Ulpan, a school for learning Hebrew. Telephone instructions were in Hebrew, Russian and English. When I pressed “3” for English, the instructions switched back to Hebrew. This happens to me with my healthcare provider, the cable company, the internet provider, every service that allegedly has an English section. After several attempts and disconnections, I finally reached a live person. I said “Hello.” No response. I tried “Hello” again. No response. How could the woman who answered not understand when Israelis always say “Hallo” when answering the phone? Like everywhere I go, when I ask an Israeli if he or she speaks English, the answer is always “lo” (no) or “a little.” I have found that a little always is a lot. This clerk knew enough English to tell me she could not help me because, according to her computer, I was living at the Ra’anana Absorption Center and that is not in her jurisdiction. She told me that the Ministry of Interior had to update my address in all of Israel’s computers first. And of course, they were on strike!
Friends and relatives took bets on how long I would stay in Israel. The consensus was a few months, a year at the most. If I hadn’t become employed by the third week, I probably would have had a very difficult aliyah. But how could I not remain in a country where I feel G-d’s presence at all times? How could I not remain in a country where every day I am living history? Yes, life is difficult here, especially when I lived a relatively easy and comfortable life in the States. Yes, wages are about one-quarter of what they are in the States. Expenses are four times the cost. I have learned how to cope with bureaucracy–be patient, the lack of protexia or Vitamin P (nepotism or who you know), being a frier (a sucker), and getting around without a car or the ability to speak or understand Hebrew. When I think back on my experiences, they are nothing compared to what some of my friends describe of their aliyahs. I guess when they say aliyah means going up, it really means after all the bureaucracy and strikes and craziness you experience, your spirits can’t go lower, they can only rise.
L’hitraot. Shachar
