A homecoming drama
By Barbara Sofer
Jun. 4, 2003
Hers was an unusual decision, Ellana would be the first to admit. With terror unresolved and the Israeli economy facing hurdles, why would she insist on immigrating right now? She tried to explain. Ever since returning to Washington, DC, from the family's vacation in Israel this past Pessah, she'd felt glum. Israel was where she wanted to bring up her three children. It was that simple. She was a Zionist.
Fortunately, so is her husband Effy. They decided to heed her instinct and take the plunge. It would take Effy a year to wind down his business in the US. In the meantime, Ellana would set up house in Israel with the children.
They found an apartment so close to Effy's cousins in Holon that the hot melawach could be passed across the balconies. A month after leaving Israel, Ellana was back, traveling with Reha, her mother and my cousin, to check out elementary schools.
The problems started as soon as they got off the airplane. Not only is Ellana's first name Hebrew-sounding, but so is her last name. She also speaks fluent Hebrew. The clerk to whom she handed her American passport for perfunctory stamping was suspicious. Where was her Israeli passport? Ellana explained that she'd grown up in the United States, that she was an American citizen, and that she'd visited Israel dozens of times since she was a child. But quick as you could say Jacob Robinson, the clerk had her personal history on the computer.
Ellana's Zionist mom, born in Berlin, had indeed once lived in Israel for several years. That made Ellana an Israeli. The clerk eyeballed her. "Either you get an Israeli passport, or we'll never let you go home." Ellana recognized a certain irony in this warning, as she was probably the only potential immigrant on her flight. In the meantime, her mother had gone through the line without any problems.
In Holon, the school principals were warm if a little surprised at the arrival of new immigrants from America's capital. Maybe Ellana's daughters could help tutor the other children? Maybe Ellana could donate an auditorium for a mere $100,000? She took the suggestions in her stride. She liked the spirit in the classrooms, the quotations from Rav Kook on the wall. To avoid any future passport problems, Ellana and her mother visited the Ministry of Interior. They were a little taken aback at the number they received at the door: 456. Immigration would require patience.
THEN, ONE day they decided to visit Effy's ailing grandmother, who lived in Israel. Ellana went upstairs first, while Reha waited for a parking space on the busy street. Just as she was backing into the space, a taxi driver tried to slide in ahead of her. When cutting her off didn't work, he ran to her window and shrieked in her face.
Reha didn't know about the useful tactic of writing down the numbers of taxi drivers and reporting them for harassing tourists to the Ministry of Tourism. Still, she held her own. "I'm from New York," Reha said. "I wasn't absolutely certain of everything he said, but I knew I wasn't moving."
"Either you give me the spot, or I'm going to damage your rental car," the driver threatened, in heavily accented English. Raising a powerful fist, he slammed it on the back of the car, leaving an ugly dent.
By the Shabbat before they left, they'd sorted out the apartment, the schools, even the passports. Not bad for a week. They'd be leaving on Sunday. All that remained to deal with was that dent in the rental car. Ellana couldn't face bringing back the car with such a blemish. The thought of her first encounter with a garagenik was too horrible to imagine. Which is why my scientist husband told her about the plunger. A plain rubber plunger. The kind you keep behind the toilet in the bathroom so you're prepared when your daughters' hair plaits fall into the drain pipe.
My husband explained how you simply fasten the plunger to the back of the car, give it a good pull, and walla - the metal body springs back into place.
It sounded weird, she admitted later, but the shop owner near her hotel didn't blink when she told him what she wanted it for. In fact, he came out of the store and plunged out the dent by himself. Attach. Suck. Plink. Good as new.
LONG AGO, when I was absorbing my own Zionism in over-serious discussions in Connecticut Young Judaea, we dealt with the "aliya question" by defining it as the ultimate aspiration, but not as the only goal of Zionism.
A concept loosely translated as "self-fulfillment" within Zionism was used to excuse those who rejected the inconvenience of uprooting themselves and moving to a land where your accent marks you as a perpetual immigrant. You could be a fulfilled Zionist without considering immigration, we would say.
Still, we knew that aliya was the ultimate Zionist goal. Over the decades, aliya seems to have been relegated to a minor role in the lexicon of Jewish options.
We've reached the time to renew our call for an ingathering of our people. This is my answer to the anti-Semitism and the attacks on us in Israel. Our greatest resource has always been our people - warm, spirited people like Ellana and family.
An international campaign to come home seems the perfect antidote to those who seek to oppress us.
I thought about Ellana while my husband and I marched in the Jerusalem Day parade last week. Where else but the Land of Milk and Honey would there be a float featuring a cottage cheese container and another toting a Goliath-sized bee?
What wouldn't generations of Jews before us have given for this chance, despite the difficulties, to walk proudly to Jewish music along the streets of Jerusalem?
We may not have foreign performers gracing our Israel Festival this year, but we can still offer front row seats as we stand together at Sinai, as we pool our talents, energy and faith, and face the future.
What remains, my fellow Jews, is to take the plunge. Don't forget to bring along a plunger.
