I have been meaning to start this blog for a very long time. Since the day four years ago when I made Aliyah, to be exact. I don't know why I feel so compelled to write, and I'm not particularly confident that I have something especially interesting or unique or insightful to contribute, but ever since I packed up my life and awkwardly plunked it back down in this place, I have been recording little vignettes and half-composing posts in my head and promising myself at least once a week that today's the day I actually sit down and write. Well, you know how these things go...
Better late than never, right?
Four years in, and I'm still not quite sure where I stand.
In so many ways, I am proud of the strides I have made and the Israeli I have become. I have swallowed my healthy dose of reality, and the ideals I came off my ELAL flight with have long since disappeared into a haze of bureaucracy and the daily grind of trying to make it work in a country where salaries are laughably low and the cost of living is steadily rising. I can crack Garinim with my teeth and spit out the shell intact (usually). I know almost all of the words to one or two Shlomo Artzi songs, I can insult your mother in both Arabic and Hebrew, and when I order a slice of pizza, I now know to ask for a "meshulash", and not a "chatich"* (true story). I have argued my way out of tickets, eaten Chumus as a meal, and pushed my dirty sponge-ah water out to the street below. I no longer wonder why the residents of my building in the yuppie Katamon neighborhood of Jerusalem don't gather after work each evening in the lobby to join hands and dance the Hora. I can't remember the last time I patiently waited my turn in line for something. I have learned to go with the flow because most things here can't be controlled, to value the non-material things in life because here we live with less, to take less offense because most people here will tell it like it is.
[*For my non-Hebrew speaking friends, "chatich" translates roughly into "hunk" or "hottie"]
And yet...
They tell me this is my homeland but I know that I am still a foreigner, a stranger in a strange land. How many countless Israelis have remarked to me about "how American" I am? And its true. I keep a good firm grip on the bonds that tie. I watch American TV religiously, check only American news sources, rejoice when I find diet Dr Pepper in the makolet. No, really:
I know all about the Elmo sex scandal.
I am terrified of falling behind, of not understanding cultural references, of widening the gap between myself and the place where I grew up, the people who I love so very much who live there. I am terrified of losing myself.
I live with one foot in each door, never fully managing to get myself inside either one.
And that is the story of how I happen to find myself at this moment, sitting in front of my computer, with the latest episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills open in one window on my desktop, and with a live news ticker with rocket alerts open in another.
On days like these, living in Israel but thinking and reacting as an American creates a situation that can only be described as absolutely surreal.
I don't know how describe the unsettling experience oflistening to being glued to the radio for the past few days. On Galgalatz, (a popular station operated by IDF Radio) they are playing only song requests from residents in the South. A mix of Lady Gaga, Ehud Banai, and 80's rock, interspersed here and there with one of those heartwrenching songs usually reserved for Yom HaZikaron (The Day of Remembrance for Fallen Soldiers). It's a relief to know that I am not the only confused one here...
Every few minutes (or hours if we are lucky and there is a quiet stretch), the music suddenly fades out so that the announcer can ever so calmly and quietly inform us of where an 'Azakat Tzevah Adom' (a red alert) is being sounded at this exact moment. And although everyone is so very outwardly nonchalant about everything, I know that every person listening is straining their ears to hear exactly which cities and towns are being listed, where the sirens are sounding, so that they will know exactly which family, friends, loved ones, to call and check up on.
I can't believe that this is my life. I can't believe that this is where I live. This is the stuff of movies, of stories, of news articles about some other people somewhere else. This is not the life of a sheltered Long Island girl. I struggle to come to terms with this new (sur)reality, where school is cancelled because of terrorism and my friends get called off to reserve duty, and I arrive at work to find a plan of the building and instructions where to run in case of a siren waiting for me, as if its all just part of a day's work.
And yes, sometimes I wonder why I bother to stick it out. But really, that's another discussion for another time.
Better late than never, right?
Four years in, and I'm still not quite sure where I stand.
In so many ways, I am proud of the strides I have made and the Israeli I have become. I have swallowed my healthy dose of reality, and the ideals I came off my ELAL flight with have long since disappeared into a haze of bureaucracy and the daily grind of trying to make it work in a country where salaries are laughably low and the cost of living is steadily rising. I can crack Garinim with my teeth and spit out the shell intact (usually). I know almost all of the words to one or two Shlomo Artzi songs, I can insult your mother in both Arabic and Hebrew, and when I order a slice of pizza, I now know to ask for a "meshulash", and not a "chatich"* (true story). I have argued my way out of tickets, eaten Chumus as a meal, and pushed my dirty sponge-ah water out to the street below. I no longer wonder why the residents of my building in the yuppie Katamon neighborhood of Jerusalem don't gather after work each evening in the lobby to join hands and dance the Hora. I can't remember the last time I patiently waited my turn in line for something. I have learned to go with the flow because most things here can't be controlled, to value the non-material things in life because here we live with less, to take less offense because most people here will tell it like it is.
[*For my non-Hebrew speaking friends, "chatich" translates roughly into "hunk" or "hottie"]
And yet...
They tell me this is my homeland but I know that I am still a foreigner, a stranger in a strange land. How many countless Israelis have remarked to me about "how American" I am? And its true. I keep a good firm grip on the bonds that tie. I watch American TV religiously, check only American news sources, rejoice when I find diet Dr Pepper in the makolet. No, really:
I know all about the Elmo sex scandal.
I am terrified of falling behind, of not understanding cultural references, of widening the gap between myself and the place where I grew up, the people who I love so very much who live there. I am terrified of losing myself.
I live with one foot in each door, never fully managing to get myself inside either one.
And that is the story of how I happen to find myself at this moment, sitting in front of my computer, with the latest episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills open in one window on my desktop, and with a live news ticker with rocket alerts open in another.
On days like these, living in Israel but thinking and reacting as an American creates a situation that can only be described as absolutely surreal.
I don't know how describe the unsettling experience of
Every few minutes (or hours if we are lucky and there is a quiet stretch), the music suddenly fades out so that the announcer can ever so calmly and quietly inform us of where an 'Azakat Tzevah Adom' (a red alert) is being sounded at this exact moment. And although everyone is so very outwardly nonchalant about everything, I know that every person listening is straining their ears to hear exactly which cities and towns are being listed, where the sirens are sounding, so that they will know exactly which family, friends, loved ones, to call and check up on.
And yes, sometimes I wonder why I bother to stick it out. But really, that's another discussion for another time.
No comments:
Post a Comment