Ups and downs of aliya

For the 420 passengers, July 10, 2002, represented a personal milestone, but for the country the day was historic.

By YOCHEVED MIRIAM RUSSO
PM greets new olah (photo credit: courtesy mike stocker)
PM greets new olah
(photo credit: courtesy mike stocker)
The sound of the shofar did it. Like everyone else, I clapped and cheered when our special El Al Nefesh B’Nefesh plane landed.
I contained myself nicely while waiting to disembark. I stepped for the first time – ever – onto Israeli soil with nary a tear. But then I lost it. A guy standing just inside the welcoming gate blew the shofar over and over, and that did it. By the time I reached the “welcome” hangar I was crying so hard two of the young welcome staff ran over to ask if I was okay. “I’m better than okay,” I told them.
It was just that I was completely overcome. The whole thing was just too much.
By any standard, July 10, 2002, ranks as historic. That first Nefesh B’Nefesh flight brought some 420 new olim into Israel, the largest mass relocation of American Jews since Israel’s founding. Ten years later, subsequent flights have added 26,000 new NBN olim to Israel’s population – newcomers who have spread out across 135 Israeli cities and villages. Together, we’ve put more than $1 billion into Israel’s economy. But individually, for every one of us on that flight, July 10 represented a personal milestone, a day never to be forgotten.
For me, if you called that day a roller-coaster, it would be a monumental understatement. It was a day of such enormous ups and downs, one after the other, that it all blurs together in my mind. July 9, when the flight left New York, marked the end of the best family vacation my two kids and I had ever enjoyed. JJ, my daughter, who lived in California, Peter, my son, who lived in New York, and I had decided to spend the first part of July exploring the East Coast, a place unfamiliar to us West-Coasters. For 10 days we pursued our own family pleasures, seeking out historical sites, finding obscure little book stores and, whenever there was a break, playing cards. It was quality time like we hadn’t enjoyed in decades – so when the plunge to the lowest of the low came, it was even more painful.
I was, I admit, naïve. As it was, the three of us had been living in different states for several years. Both kids had graduated from college, both were busy with careers, and somehow I thought that my going off to live in Israel wouldn’t be such a big deal. We talked nearly every day by phone, so I couldn’t see how it would be that different if I was talking from Israel instead of Seattle. I was wrong.
Many factors contributed to the highly charged emotional scene that morning at the airport, the day I alone left the US to live in Israel. First, to be sure, was the physical and emotional exhaustion that inevitably follows a major relocation, when you totally end your existence in one place and shift it to another. For months, I’d been packing, throwing away, selling and giving away everything I had. All that remained were 42 boxes of books that were now steaming their way toward Israel. And there was Guinness, my 12-year-old cocker spaniel, who was flying with me.
Moving house, psychologists say, is one of life’s biggest stressors; only death and divorce rank higher. Leaving the country extracts an even bigger toll, even if it’s basically a joyous occasion. Closing up was hard. I still remember the last day in Seattle when, in pouring rain, I had to stretch out full-length on the grass by the street, trying to wipe the mist off the underground water meter so I could read it and pay the final bill. Twenty minutes later, the kid who bought my car came and drove it off.
It felt as though pieces of me were flying off everywhere, and even though I was happy about aliya, it hurt.
The low of moving turned to a high with that glorious vacation. We’d had so much fun none of us wanted it to end. Add to that another factor: I was an NBN odd-ball, probably one of the few on that plane who had never been to Israel before. All the kids and I knew about Israel was what we’d seen on TV – buses exploding, cafes being torn apart, people dying. When synagogue friends asked in astonishment, “You’ve never been to Israel? But what if you don’t like it?” I’d come up with a stock reply: “It’s Israel. What’s not to like?” A clever response, maybe, but on that final morning, it wasn’t working.
I can’t describe much of that dreadful tear-filled scene at the airport, mostly because I’ve managed to bury most of it. What I do remember is this: we were stunned into silence. The three of us had nothing more to say. We took no pictures – I don’t think any of us even thought of it. The kids left early. As they walked away, it seemed like we’d said, “Goodbye,” not “Talk to you soon.” The next 20 hours remain a blur.
In New York there were “good luck” speeches, of which I didn’t hear a word. There were reporters – whom I avoided – plus balloons and a cake. As I looked around, everyone else seemed to be surrounded by happy families, everyone upbeat, excited, laughing and having a great time. Except me. I was in shock.
Fortunately, the El Al people were great and allowed Guinness to stay with me until we actually boarded, so I took my pooch and we went off into a corner by ourselves to regroup. Guinness wasn’t a seasoned air traveler, but he’d done fine on the five-hour flight from Seattle to New York. Now I started to worry: how would he fare during the 17 hours he’d be locked in his cage on this flight? Substituting my fear of having lost my kids with the fear that I’d lose my dog became my coping mechanism.
IN THE plane I had a window seat, with a young newlywed couple on my other side. They weren’t interested in small talk, which was a good thing because I couldn’t have managed it if I’d tried.
The plane took off. I suppose food was served. I don’t remember eating it, although I suppose I did. I don’t remember dozing, although I suppose I did that, too.
Small groups of people stayed awake, talking and singing all night long. It didn’t bother me a bit. About two-thirds of the way through, Israeli officials came around and helped each of us fill out all the paperwork that other new immigrants – everyone else in history – had been required to complete after they’d arrived.
That was the big NBN bonus: getting much of the bureaucracy out of the way during the long flight over.
Dawn came, the window shades were raised and my spirits begin to follow suit. Just before landing, three of my fellow passengers made their way to my seat.
“We knew there was another single on board,” one of them said. “We just wanted you to know you weren’t the only one who came alone.” Short as the conversation was, it helped enormously. I was starting to look forward again, not back.
We landed, we piled off, the shofar blew. Surely no one person’s life holds many high points equal to that one, hearing the shofar hail a whole plane load of Jews returning to our homeland. In an instant, all the weeks of packing, of giving away, of divesting, were gone and forgotten. The family trauma at the airport vanished. Thanks be to God, I’d made it – although if I’d brought a case of tissues with me, it still wouldn’t have been enough.
Everyone who was there that day will agree on one thing: how excruciatingly hot it was. We disembarked on the tarmac and walked a short distance to a hangar for all the welcoming ceremonies. Outside it was stifling, but inside that hangar it was even hotter.
The welcome staff handed out bottles of water to everyone, as many as you wanted, so after guzzling one or two, I set about on my next objective: finding Guinness. If he was locked in his travel cage on the tarmac, he’d never survive.
I walked around, looking for anyone wearing an El Al uniform, asking if I could leave. I needed to see about my dog. The first few didn’t understand me, but finally I found one who did. I wasn’t allowed to leave, he said, but then he took out his cell phone and punched in some numbers. He talked to someone, then turned to me and said, “There were six dogs on this flight and they’re all just fine. They’ve been given water and they’re in an air-conditioned room.” With a grin, he said, “Actually, I think your dog is in better shape than you are.” That made me laugh, but it made me cry too. This time it was pure relief.
From that moment on, everything was wonderful.
What fun to see some of the Israeli officials in person I’d only seen before on the news. Bibi Netanyahu was there, an Ethiopian music group sang, there were speeches, speeches and more speeches. Most of my fellow travelers had family or friends who’d come to meet them, but again I thought I was out of luck. At that time, I knew only three people who lived in Israel, but two were in the States at the time and the third couldn’t miss work. So imagine my surprise when I heard someone calling my name. I looked up, and saw a lovely lady I’d never met before. “Are you Yocheved?” she asked. “Welcome home! I’m Leah Wolf from Meitar. I heard there was someone on this flight who was making aliya to Beersheba, so I came to welcome you!” Wow! My day was complete. I’d just experienced the perfect example of Israel’s southern hospitality.
Finally the speechifying died down and we were herded off to complete our paperwork.
Up stairs and down, through corridors and passageways until we finally reached a much smaller room, one filled with rows of chairs, lined with small offices along the sides. Here, we’d meet individually with immigration officials and be given our immigration papers, our teudot oleh. By this time, it was midafternoon and everyone was worn out. Families with young children would be called first, they explained, so I settled down, expecting to be last.
Imagine my surprise when I was the second one called! Did someone think Guinness was a child? Whatever – I wasn’t about to argue. A warm and welcoming elderly man took my completed papers and very quickly transferred the information to his computer.
He didn’t even miss a beat typing out my mother’s name – Elphie – in Hebrew. Handing me my identification booklet, he had tears in his eyes. “Welcome home,” he said. I don’t need to tell you what I did.
Papers in hand, I claimed my luggage from a veritable mountain of bags in the luggage room and then went on to find Guinness. I opened his cage, he stepped out, shook himself, then looked up at me with that “Okay, what’s next?” expression on his face. Good doggie! We walked outside to find the taxi that would take us to Beersheba, yet another of the perks of aliya: a free taxi ride to your first destination, wherever it may be.
Little did I realize that my aliya adventure had only just begun. The scary part was yet to come.
WE PILED into the taxi van, Guinness delighted to sit on my lap, with all the bulging suitcases, carry-on gear, and the bulky dog cage in the rear. Even as we settled in, I knew I should have taken a few more bottles of water – it was still beastly hot and already I was thirsty again. It won’t matter, I reasoned. I’ll be home in about an hour. The three inches of water in one bottle would last until then. The driver headed out of the airport and onto a freeway. I should have realized I was in for an adventure when he went whizzing by a freeway sign that clearly read “Beersheba,” with an arrow indicating a turn. He didn’t turn. “Ah, well,” I thought. “He knows a shortcut.”
He didn’t. We began going from road to road, turning here and there in what I finally started to sense was totally random guesswork. An hour passed, then two and still we were wandering. It occurred to me that this was like some sort of biblical initiation rite, where new immigrants were forced to wander from place to place before finally finding home. Soon we were driving through a desolate, occasionally shrubby, no-man’sland, heaven only knew where. The roads, such as they were, had become mostly one lane, gravel, and rarely did we see anyone at all. Finally it appeared that my taxi driver was ready to admit he needed help. As a lone car approached us from the other direction, he stuck his arm out the window, stopped the vehicle and asked for directions. After the short conversation, we turned around, headed back the way we’d come.
We drove for a long while until the urge to turn apparently overtook the driver again. After another long drive, another car approached us and my driver did his arm-out-the-window thing again.
We turned around and struck off in another direction.
There seemed to be no pattern to the route, and by this time, over three hours in, thirst was getting to be a real problem. I emptied the last bit of water – maybe two inches – into Guinness’s travel dish, thinking he must need it more than I did. When he sniffed but declined to drink, I can’t tell you how tempting it was to tip that water into my own mouth and drink it.
I kept comforting myself with the thought of how lucky I was: on my first day in Israel, I was seeing a part of the country I doubted most Israelis had seen. I had to balance that thought against a darker one, newspaper headlines that read: “Terrorists slay new immigrant, first day in Israel.” At least twice more we did the armout- the-window, turn-around thing, until finally the car he stopped was a car he’d already stopped once before. This time I could see the exchange: “Follow me.” The other driver led us to Kerem Shalom, that hotbed of military activity right on the Egyptian border.
Kerem Shalom proved to be pure heaven. They first pointed me to the facilities – Guinness needed no such directions – then gave us all cool water. Not until I saw someone putting gas into the taxi did I panic. It’s a good thing I hadn’t realized we were in danger of running out of gas in that no-man’s-land. I might not have been so calm.
We left Kerem Shalom armed with a full set of written directions and a hand-drawn map. In due time, I saw a line of tall buildings on the horizon. The mythical Beersheba! We pulled in to the city proper just at sunset, nearly six hours after leaving the airport. The driver asked where I wanted to go, so I gave him the address of the sublet apartment I’d arranged. “Where is it?” he asked, and of course I hadn’t a clue. We started the arm-out-the-window routine again. By the time he found it, it was nearly dark. My new landlord came out of the apartment, took one look at me and said, “I’ll bet you’re tired.” It was well over 36 hours since I’d left New York and “tired” didn’t begin to cover it. A group of people had come to welcome me, he said, but they’d gone home hours ago. Just as well. My luggage was carried in, the landlord left and I proceeded to take the longest shower in Israeli history. Afterwards I scrambled some eggs they’d kindly left for me, half for Guinness, half for me. Then we slept. Home at last.
POSTSCRIPT: Ten years later, and now I see I’d been right in the first place. It took no time at all to set up phone communications with my kids again and we still talk nearly every day. Other than the time difference, the fact that I’m in Israel doesn’t figure into it. Guinness learned Hebrew almost immediately, and served as a great introduction-maker. I quickly met my new neighbors because everyone wanted to pet him.
All in all, life here in the land of milk and honey is good – better than I ever expected, better than I’d ever dared to dream. And again I’d been right: This is Israel. What’s not to like?


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