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The Path To Israel
June 1984 – June 1990
It’s June 27th, 1984. I’ve just completed my sophomore year of high school and I’m flying to Israel for the first time with thirty-two other teenagers from all over New England. Arthur Starr, the rabbi from my synagogue in Manchester, New Hampshire, leads the group.
When we first board the El Al flight, most of us are strangers. But after sharing hotel rooms, living out of buses, camping, hiking, and traveling across the country, we are now more like old friends. For the last five weeks, we have literally touched more than 2,000 years of Jewish history; from preserved ancient sites like the Western Wall, Solomon’s mines, and Masada to places of more recent importance like Ammunition Hill, Yad Mordechai, and the Golan Heights.
It’s 9pm and we’re at a large park in Tel Aviv. Along with thousands of Israelis, we watch a troupe dance to Israeli folk music. Each new song and costume change celebrates one of the many immigrant groups that have come from across the world to make Israel their home.
While foraging for food, I stray from the group. Snacking on a falafel and completely absorbed in the performance, I lose track of time. Karen, a member of my group, passes by. Probably because it’s unusual for any of us, and especially me, to be sitting alone and separate from the entire group, she asks if I’m OK. With more emotion than I mean to express, I say, “I’m fine. It’s just so beautiful. One day I’m going to live here.”
The idea of living in Israel was probably planted by all the Israelis who keep asking if we plan on moving to the country, but I can’t pinpoint the time, the place or the reason behind my answering that question in the affirmative. Prior to this trip, Israel was a place on a map and a topic for discussion. Israel is the first safe haven Jews have known in two thousand years, but I don’t need sanctuary. I lead a relatively idyllic life in the United States and thoughts about my future don’t usually extend beyond the next day.
I’ve traveled across America and been abroad. Like most teenagers, I’m prone to infatuation with new and exotic locations, but this is different. It’s not rational, but Jerusalem feels more like home to me than New Hampshire. I don’t love the United States any less, but I feel like I belong in Israel and the place belongs to me in a way that I’ve never experienced before.
When I return to the U.S., a glass Coca Cola bottle filled with sand from near the Western Wall and ancient pottery shards from Masada, an Israeli flag, dozens of pictures, lasting relationships, and my growing youth group involvement all serve as constant reminders of my experience in Israel. More importantly, my family nurtures my interest in Israel. My parents and siblings are my closest friends. Their positive feedback and support is critical to Israel becoming an increasingly important part of my life.
I’m not surprised by their response to my admiration for Israel and my expressed desire to live there one day. If I had told my family that I wanted to climb Mount Everest, they would ask questions and help me find a mountaineering school. They would fear the dangers associated with climbing and would share their concerns with me, but they would do everything they could to support my decision in the end.
Combine this with the fact that my family has taken pains to instill within me a strong Jewish identity. Ever since I can remember, we have been involved in our small, but thriving Jewish community. We aren’t particularly religious, but we go to synagogue regularly, keep kosher at home (although spareribs and cheeseburgers are OK when stepping out into the world), and every Friday we celebrate Shabbat with special conversation-filled dinners that last for hours.
Israel plays a central role in Jewish life. Our history is one of exile and return to this Promised Land. Israel, as a modern and thriving nation, embodies my people’s greatest hopes and serves to calm our worst fears. Knowing this, it’s easy to see why my family was happy to let me take another trip to Israel. During the following summer, I sign up for two months of traveling and learning Hebrew. When I return to the States, most other members of the program remain to study at an Israeli high school for a year. Long before the summer is over, I am envying those who are able to stay. The trip reinforces my growing belief that I would enjoy living in the country. I realize now that Israel feels like home because almost everyone I meet acts as if I’m part of their family.
In Israel, there is an assumed connection between me and everyone else. People speak candidly and interact with a warm familiarity that is very different from the emotional distance that is typical in New England. I find their knowledge of Israel’s history, the way they love their land, and how much they care for their community very enticing. The typical Israeli’s everyday appreciation for his or her country reminds me of America on special holidays like July 4th. I bet America was more like this in the heady days of the revolution and immediately after World War II.
When I return to New Hampshire at the end of the summer, I am seriously considering moving to Israel. It is no longer just a fanciful idea. I want to explore what that means, want to know what actions I need to take and start considering the consequences. When I tell my family, they are eager to discuss it further and expressly support the idea.
My parents and I differ only on the timing. They want to me to complete my undergraduate degree before I move and I want to leave after my senior year in high school. I know I will have to serve in the military and want to join when I’m eighteen just like my Israeli counterparts. I don’t completely accept the argument that having a degree will give me a significant head start in the future, but I accede to my parents’ wish. I am accepted at American University and the school lets me defer for a year. This enables me to take part in a Reform movement program called College Academic Year.
The nine month long program in Israel combines academic study and work on a kibbutz. It is mainly for college juniors and seniors who want to study abroad, but I am one of several freshmen who join the program. For my family, the program is a perfect compromise.
The program takes place on Kibbutz Tzora. The kibbutz was established by members of the Israeli proto-military known as the Palmach and new immigrants from South Africa during the Israeli War of Independence in 1948. When it was built, the kibbutz was situated on a hill that overlooked the road to Jerusalem. Its location is no longer a strategic asset, but the kibbutz remains well-known in Israel for being a vibrant community.
By time I first arrive, the kibbutz has made a successful transition from being supported primarily by its agricultural fields to a diversified economy that includes a furniture factory and fashion design. In addition, many members of the kibbutz are members of the Israeli professional class. They work as doctors and architects in Jerusalem or Tel Aviv, but their paychecks go directly to the kibbutz.
After a few days, the thirty of us are divided into different work groups. Some are sent to the community kitchen and others go to the factory. Most of us go to the fields. We start in the vineyard and learn how to pick grapes by hand. Even though I often missed the school bus because I overslept most mornings, I have no trouble waking up before dawn to go to the fields. Field work is hard physical labor, but it encourages long, stimulating conversations. Working opposite sides of the vine enables me to get to know the members of my program, the Europeans who work on the kibbutz in exchange for room and board as a way to travel abroad cheaply, and the kibbutz members who work alongside us.
While harvesting grapes, avocados, and almonds, conversation topics range from local gossip and Israeli current events to geopolitics, philosophy and literature. For me, this lifestyle is heaven. I love waking up early, working hard during the week, chatting most of the day, enjoying meals in the cafeteria with the entire community, and spending the night drinking and talking with my friends. The fun doesn’t deflect me from my responsibilities.
Each morning, I’m awake and ready for work. By winter, I am convinced that I will be happy living in Israel. At different intervals throughout the year, my parents and sisters visit me. They can see that I’m happy and continue to support my desire to move to Israel after I complete my undergraduate degree.
When the program is over, I travel in Europe on my own for several months. Boats and trains take me through Greece, Italy, France, Switzerland, and Germany. The trip is one long adventure. I immerse myself in paintings, sculptures, historic sites, theatre, and dance. I also climb in the Swiss Alps, hike in Bavaria, and meet fascinating people along the way. I have the time of my life precisely because everything is so foreign. By contrast, landing in Israel feels like coming home.
A week later, I’m on another flight. This time I’m returning to the United States. I spend a few weeks with my family and then fly to Washington DC. As with my trip to Europe, I learn a lot at American University and have a tremendous time, but a part of me is always anchored in Israel.
In December 1987, during my first semester at American University, the Intifadah breaks out. As the Israeli military learns to manage the growing violence in the West Bank and Gaza, Arab and Jewish students on my campus wage a propaganda war. I’ve been here four months and help found a group that works to counter the accusations and misleading information being distributed by Arab students.
Two members of our group are Israeli; I am one of three Jewish-American students. It’s not an easy task. News coverage focuses on young men throwing stones at armed soldiers and Jeeps. Our antagonists use the sympathy generated to accuse Israel of atrocities, defend the actions of terrorists and undermine Israel’s legitimacy.
We counter their pamphlets with our pamphlets and attempt to out-argue each other during cultural events that give all of us an opportunity to vent. I doubt that either side convinces anyone of anything. Our interactions, I’m sure, only serve to deepen an onlooker’s impression that the problems in the Middle East are unsolvable.
At the time, I have my own doubts about Israeli actions, but I know it’s easy to judge another when you don’t have to live with the consequences. Although there is much posturing and loud debate when others are looking, I do form friendships with several members of the opposition. One of them, Kamal, is the grandson of the Grand Mufti Haj Amin al-Husseini. His grandfather led the Palestinian community during the British Mandate and became closely aligned with Hitler’s Third Reich during World War II.
At a Lebanese grill near the university, Kamal and I meet regularly to discuss the situation in the Middle East. We refrain from over-simplifying the issues and use our time to gain a better understanding of each other’s perspective. I learn a lot from him and enjoy our conversations immensely. He personally accepts Israel’s right to exist and wants to live together in peace, but he is in the minority. Most people in his circle are anxious for more war and violence. They seem to think that the Intifadah is a battle they can win and that it presages a greater victory against Israel. One of them, a Syrian, comes up to me and says, “We need just one more war between Israel and Syria. We’ll let that decide everything and we’ll be done with it forever.”
I am not surprised that he’s serious and excited at the prospect. Most people believe that more war is inevitable. I’ve never run away from a fight, but I prefer talking my way out of tight spots. I know I’ll have to join the military when I move to Israel and I’m a little concerned about my ability to function as a soldier.
First and foremost, I can’t imagine myself as a soldier. Being trained to hurt and kill another person doesn’t fit my self-image. I think of myself as a poet, not a warrior. I steer conversations away from my future military service and I avoid thinking about it. When I am forced to talk about it, I deflect questions as best I can.
I’m not troubled by thoughts of my own death. I am still young enough to feel impervious to danger, but I’m concerned about being a failure. Soldiers need to be physically strong and mentally tough. I’m a nice, outgoing Jewish boy who has led a relatively privileged life in New Hampshire. I don’t think of myself as being very rough and tumble. Also, I’m an individualist and don’t kowtow to authority figures just because they have a title. This makes me doubt my ability to march in step with everyone else and I wonder if I’ll be able to follow orders without question.
During the summer of 1989, I return to Israel and take a summer course at Hebrew University. I study Hebrew and learn enough to formulate essential questions like “Does this bus go to Jerusalem?” and “I’d like to order two slices of pepperoni pizza.” I approve my reading and writing skills marginally. I can read road signs and menus, but I can’t read the newspaper or write a love note. When I’m not studying Hebrew on campus with people from all over the world, I am traveling in the country and visiting friends from Kibbutz Tzora. Karen, who has remained a close friend, is also traveling in the country. We meet up and travel to the Sinai Peninsula with a friend of mine from the course. When I leave the country this time, I’m not sad at all. I know I’ll be back soon. My positive experiences this summer lead me to transform my intention to move to Israel into a firm decision.
Combining college credits earned in Israel with courses taken at American University enable me to graduate in December of 1989. I stay in Washington DC for another few months working as a waiter and planning my next steps.
I formally start the process of moving to Israel. Before the establishment of the state, the British mandate limited the number of Jews who could move to Israel each year. This hardship, keenly felt during World War II, was reversed when the newly established state of Israel instituted the Law of Return. The Law of Return directs the Israeli government to provide any Jew with Israeli citizenship. As a result, Israel became a welcoming haven and home for a people who have only been guests in other nations for two millennia. Often, we have been welcome guests, as we are today in the United States, but there is always the threat that we will become unwelcome. At one time or another, this was the case in most every nation in Europe. The Law of Return makes it clear that there is a place where Jews will always be welcome.
Over the last fifty years, Israel has been providing protection, liberty and the opportunity for prosperity to Jews who have come from the Americas, Europe, Africa, the Middle East, and India. Now, in 1990, hundreds of thousands of Jews from the former Soviet Union are streaming into the country. Unlike these other immigrants, I’m not running away from adversity, but the Law of Return makes me feel like I already belong.
Luckily, due to the long-standing, deep relationship between the United States and Israel, I am able to retain my American citizenship and become a dual citizen.
Now that I’ve decided to go, I need to figure out where I’m going to live. Generally, young people who move to Israel from western nations are part of a group associated with one of the many Zionist organizations. I don’t want to join a group. I just want to move to the country. I write Kibbutz Tzora and ask them to let me live on the kibbutz while I acclimate to the country and serve in the military. I’m thrilled when they respond positively to my request.
As a result, moving to Israel will really feel like returning home.
I pack up the things I’ve accumulated after living in DC for three years and return to New Hampshire. Over the next two months, I spend a lot of time with my parents and sisters. I say goodbye to both pairs of grandparents, aunts, uncles and many friends. Not once, either in jest or by way of side comment, does anyone suggest that I’m making a mistake or ask me to reconsider my decision. Everyone seems genuinely happy for me.
Coming from a close family, I’m going to miss them all very much. I remind myself and everyone else that I’m only a ten hour flight away. Airlines, telephones, and letters will enable us to remain connected. But I know it won’t be the same. The number of calls and visits each year will be severely decreased. We all know it, but I tell myself this is just part of growing up. This is the time in my life to take a chance. Unlike most other immigrants, I know I can return to my country of origin and start over again whenever I like. If I’m unhappy, all I have to do is call my family and tell them I want to come home. They’d welcome me with open arms.
I will leave for Israel on June 26th 1990. It will be six years after my first trip to the country. During this last month, my parents and I speak often about my upcoming military service. Since I am my mother’s only son, I can’t serve in a combat unit unless she signs a waiver. The Israeli military also asks parents to sign a form like this if another member of the family has been killed while serving in the military.
Sitting in the den with my mother and father, we talk it over. I tell them that serving in a combat unit is the best way for me to establish common ground with Israelis. In America, when people my age first meet, someone always asks where you went to college. In Israel, for people at most any age, someone always asks where you served in the military. In Israel, serving in an elite unit is as prestigious as going to an Ivy League school in America.
My parents understand this, but they can’t help but voice their concerns for my safety. They suggest that I can provide valuable service as part of an intelligence unit or with some other desk job. After all, I have a college degree. I concede that they are right, but I tell them that I need to experience Lebanon, the West Bank and Gaza for myself if I really want to understand the central concerns of Israelis, feel a part of the country, and speak about current events with any credibility.
This doesn’t reassure them very much. I also tell them that I intend on serving with the very best. By serving in an elite unit, I can count on receiving the best training and equipment. In addition, I’ll be serving with Israel’s best and brightest. Those men will keep me safe from harm. They aren’t convinced and are worried, but they support my decision and consent to sign the form.
While talking, they ask me a question that has clearly been on their minds and is difficult to pose. They express the fear that my moving to Israel is in some way a rejection of the life they have lived in the United States. I am shocked by the suggestion. I view my upbringing as having been relatively idyllic. I have never wanted for material or emotional support. I make it clear to them that the stability and nurturing they have provided has given me the strength to move away. I’m only able to take this step because I know that the distance will not impact our love and respect for each other. Before we move on to dinner, we embrace. I am so proud to be their son.
On June 26th 1990, we drive to the airport together. My sisters and parents kiss me goodbye. They wish me well and tell me to call them as soon as I can. I have two large duffel bags. One is filled with t-shirts, shorts, sneakers and a couple pairs of pants. The other is filled with favorite books.
The El Al flight to Israel seems brief. I’m eager and happy. When I land, I tell the girl at passport control that I’m a new immigrant. Since Israel is a nation of immigrants and their offspring, Israelis differentiate between immigrants who have been in the country for years and those like me who have just arrived.
I was told by Israeli representatives in the U.S. that a representative from the Jewish Agency meets every new immigrant, but no one is here to greet me. Perhaps it’s because I’m here on my own. Maybe it’s because everyone is too busy helping the thousands of new immigrants from the former Soviet Union who are landing each day. I find my way to a small office. The bureaucrat takes a quick look at my paperwork.
Moments later, I am given a light blue passbook that officially designates me as an Israeli citizen. He also gives me a voucher for a taxi. The government will pay the taxi driver to take me wherever I want to go in the country. For a moment, I consider how much fun it would be to have him drive me 200 miles to Eilat, but I rein myself in and direct him to Kibbutz Tzora, which is less than 20 miles away.
When I arrive, I drop my bags off at the cafeteria and walk to the kibbutz’s administrative office. It feels like I never left. I am warmly welcomed and am told that I will be staying in one of the large apartments I used when I was on the College Academic Year program. They give me a key and remind me that dinner is from between 6-7pm.
I work in the fields, renew acquaintances, run in the nearby hills, work to improve my Hebrew, and go to the military induction center in Jerusalem. I’m told that I can wait a year, perhaps more, and give myself additional time to acclimate to the country, but I don’t want to wait. I’m almost twenty-two years old. If I wait an additional year, I’ll be five years older than the other soldiers and three years older than my commanders. I don’t want any time to pass. I’m anxious to get started. She takes convincing, but the commander of the office agrees to push my date forward. I’ll be joining the military this coming November.
Over the next few months, I take a number of physical, psychological, and intelligence tests with high school graduates from Jerusalem. Since I’m in good health and have never broken any bones, I receive the highest physical profile. My physical profile of ninety-seven means that I’ve passed the first prerequisite for serving with an elite combat unit. In addition to the physical profile, the military uses intelligence tests, a psychological profile, and various socio- economic criteria to attain a combined score that helps determine the types of units to which a recruit can apply.
Those with the highest combined scores are invited to test for elite combat units, intelligence units and Air Force pilot training.
I’m able to take some of the tests in English and that helps, but I’ll lose a couple of points for being a new immigrant and for not having any family in the country. These factors negatively impact my score because assimilating to a new country and not having an extensive support system could affect my stability. On the other hand, I probably gain points for being highly motivated and for having a college degree.
The military does not share the final combined score with me, but I couldn’t have faired too poorly because I receive a request for additional testing in Tel Aviv. I take more intelligence tests and I’m interviewed by an officer. I don’t know what I’m testing for, but I make it clear to them that I don’t want a desk job of any kind. I don’t hear back from them. Since I have a college degree, I am also offered an opportunity to use and develop my knowledge of statistics and other skills learned at university. I thank the officer for her interest, but let her know that I want to serve in a combat unit instead.
I’m asked to consider joining a combat unit called Nachal, which is connected to the kibbutz unit. Nachal units divide their time between training and working on a kibbutz. The units are also mixed, with both men and women serving together. It is an attractive option, but often these units are comprised of new immigrants like me. I didn’t come all this way to Israel to serve with twenty people from France. I want to experience the same military service as the Israelis. Serving with Nachal would feel like I took the easy way out. The unit’s mandate to help soldiers assimilate may lessen the intensity of training. Also, I’m concerned that my own assimilation into Israeli culture will be hampered if I’m mostly serving with new immigrants like myself. I thank the recruiter for his time, but decide against it.
The months pass and November approaches. As I complete the last of the paperwork, the commander at the induction center reminds me that I can still defer military service for another year, perhaps longer. Given my relatively advanced age, waiting might shorten my required service to less than a year. If I join the military now and serve in a combat unit, I’ll have to serve at least two years. I don’t hesitate for a moment. I thank her for all her help, hand her the signed forms and return to the kibbutz.
I now know where I want to serve. The paratroopers have a reputation for the most rigorous training and have a storied history. Also, I know several people on the kibbutz who have served in the unit. Everyone seems to think that the paratroopers are among the best. It’s also the only combat unit to demand that recruits test into it. I don’t know if I’m good enough, but I’m going to try my best.