Home Vs. Home

Twenty years on, an ex-New Yorker reflects on her life-changing move, her sense of Israeliness and what Americans have brought to the table.

The author with her twin sons: Making a stand in the Holy Land.

by Michele Chabin
Israel Correspondent

On the 20th anniversary of my aliyah last September, I invited my friends to a picnic in a park not far from my Jerusalem apartment. The milestone was particularly significant since I spent several of my
early years in Israel plotting my escape.
It wasn’t until three years after entering the country that I changed my status from temporary resident to immigrant, and I took out citizenship only because the Interior Ministry wouldn’t renew my work permit.

It wasn’t that I didn’t love Israel. I did. It suited me. It’s just that I equated citizenship with a lifelong commitment to Israel, and back then, commitment wasn’t my strong suit.
As it turned out, most of my most staunchly Zionist friends, the ones who immigrated

straight out of college, served in the army and spoke Hebrew like sabras, ended up returning to their respective countries for a variety of good reasons. And I — the one voted likely to leave in the first five years — have managed to stick it out and even thrive for two decades.

The reasons I’ve stayed in Israel aren’t so complicated. As much as I loved living in New York (I left a rent-stabilized apartment in the West Village and an editing job at Cosmo), I realized, early on, that I loved living in Israel more. It was easier to keep kosher in Jerusalem, to observe the Jewish holidays without having to call in sick during the first two days of a major Jewish holiday.
For me, it was easier to be an American living in Israel than a Modern Orthodox Jew in America.

The need to feel like I belong has been a key factor in my aliyah, but it’s not the only one. We all need to be needed, and I feel like Israel needs me. In a little pond every fish counts, and I feel that my very presence, and the presence of my husband and our kids, is important. If all 7 million of us left, there wouldn’t be a country.
I also like to think that Israel is a little bit better because of the American values I and other American olim have brought with us. I make a point of picking up trash in the street, not only in front of my own kids but in front of other people’s kids. It was American immigrants who pushed for no-smoking legislation, who are at the forefront of efforts to protect the environment and promote road safety, pluralism and democracy.
That Israel is a more modern, more open society than it was when I arrived is partly due to our efforts, and Israelis seem to recognize this. By demanding stricter laws against criminals, better laws to protect the rights of pregnant women and older people in the workplace; by demanding a livable wage for foreign workers and an end to the trafficking of women, we Anglos have helped create a better society.
In contrast to the early years of my aliyah, when the first intifada was raging and the Israeli economy wasn’t as strong, today no one thinks it’s strange when an American decides to live in Israel. The stronger the Israeli economy gets, the more Westernized it becomes with regard to food (Oreos and Ken’s salad dressing), clothes (Levis) and entertainment (the cable channels and theaters run mainly American movies) the less Israelis question their country’s attraction.
The irony is that the more Israelis embrace us, the less we sometimes want to embrace them.

To be sure, there are immigrants who plunge into the native Israeli community with a vengeance. They marry native Israelis, hang out with native Israelis, they become completely Israeli in their mentality and mindset.
For better or worse, that’s not me. I interact with other Israelis all the time but my best friends continue to be mainly Anglos. We come from the same place, culturally, that is, even if one is from Johannesburg and another is from Liverpool. We all laugh at Monty Python and “Saturday Night Live” reruns, we all want our children to be better behaved than their relatively undisciplined Israeli counterparts. Many of us lack close family in Israel and we have become each other’s family.

Which is not to say that we don’t feel thoroughly Israeli at least some of the time. Every part of me feels Israeli when I go to the Manhane Yehuda market shuk and squeeze the tomatoes and smell the melons before popping them into my bag. I revel in being Israeli during bus rides, when I eavesdrop on conversations of other immigrants from a dozen countries, all speaking Hebrew with a distinctive accent. At Purim time, when every Jewish child under the age of six is dressed in a festive costume, and just before Rosh HaShanah, when I open my windows and hear the sounds of toy shofars blaring, I know I belong here.

Somehow I feel most Israeli during times of war and terror. The brave person deep inside that I can’t seem to muster when I’m hiking close to a cliff or watching a horror movie suddenly springs to the surface, as if I were a guard dog protecting the gates of my country. Every Kassam rocket and bomb blast strengthens my “Israeliness” and my resolve to stay here.

Yet even after all these years, I still feel the tug of Home versus Home, perhaps now more than ever since my children were born. My boys are growing up with only their parents for support, while their large, loving extended family lives thousands of miles away in New York. I pore over photo albums a great deal these days and miss my aging parents more now than ever.

But then I remember a man I recently met in Ashkelon as rockets were dropping, who told me he moved to Israel from Syria at the tender age of eight, with only his 10-year-old sister and 6-year-old brother. Clasping a worn black-and-white snapshot of his mother in his hand, he related how a Youth Aliyah emissary had come to his home and persuaded his parents to send their three children to pre-state Israel — unattended.
“When we arrived, the War of Independence started and we were moved from kibbutz to kibbutz in Jerusalem, from family to family. War was everywhere. It was a hard time,” he said, his eyes shining.

Two years after he moved to Eretz Yisrael, the man’s mother died. His father managed to leave Syria for Israel only in the 1960s.
I, in contrast, talk to my mom three or four times a week by phone, and then there’s the Internet. It’s easy to complain, but living in Israel is a whole lot easier than it used to be.
Michele Chabin covers Israel for The Jewish Week.

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