Tolerance?

They say that there are two true signs of Israicisation (I just made that word up. It means becoming Israeli. I also made up the thing about the two true signs.). The first is that, when it rains, you smile and feel happy. In a land that spends most of the year arid, and in which people still seem to consider it socially acceptable to leave the tap running when they brush their teeth, a heavy shower in the right place is a welcome sight.
The second sign is that you start to feel disapproval of various of sectors of society; the ultra-religious, the ultra-secular, the Arabs, the Russians, the Americans... etc etc etc.

The last two weeks have been packed with such experiences, in which we've met a lot of people, been to a lot of places, and explored various facets of Israeli society.

Based on what's going on around me right now, I'll work backwards.

Right this second, it's 11pm on Sunday 17th January 2010. We're in Jerusalem, and outside is raging a fierce storm; it's downpouring, the lightning is blinding, and the rumbling thunder is almost continuous. Watching the Israelis sheltering under their umbrellas, or better yet, under the entirely metal bus stops during lightning storms makes one question the level of physics education in this country.

Yesterday, we were staying with my cousins Beryl and Pinchas on Kibbutz Degania Bet, the oldest kibbutz still operating, and by far the most relaxing escape I've ever encountered. But during our stay, we had a little trip to the shores of Yam Kineret (The Sea of Galilee), formerly Israel's primary water source, as well as a fantastic tourist trap for Christian pilgrims who wish to try their luck at walking on it. In the technological age, those people who care can follow the day to day level of Yam Kineret online at www.mekorot.co.il, but frankly, there isn't much point these days.

When Yam Kineret is at its highest level, which last happened in 2003, flood gates are opened, allowing torrents to pass into the Jordan River, filling the valley and flowing - depending on how much water gets through - all the way to the Dead Sea. But, each year since then, the level has dropped, dropped more, and dropped again. The 'red line' marked the point beyond which the water level would be considered 'dangerously low'. When that line was passed several years ago, with no sign of enough rain (or enough water conservation) to replenish the lake, the 'new' red line was created... and passed. The 'black line' marked the point at which the entire pumping system which gathered water from the lake to distribute to the country would be left high and dry. Now, even the new, deeper pumps are left out of the water, the Jordan River has been completely dammed off, and still the level remains so low that instead of 'Yam Kineret', Israelis cynically refer to the lake as 'Yaar Kineret' (Galilee Forest), given the trees now growing on land that was once at the bottom of a lake.

Coming back from our respite in Degania involves a bus journey. Buses in Israel are a fantastic place to people -watch. Deborah and I have a fun game to pass the time; What's that nation? Before a person opens their mouth, it's often possible to guess the ethnic origin of the person, based on clothes, make-up, demeanour, facial expression, effort involved in pushing onto the bus, amount of luggage, travel companions and odour. The nuances of an American who has lived in Israel for twenty years, compared to a Frenchman who came last week, or an Arab who has decided to integrate into Israeli society, versus one who clings with every thread of existence to his own national identity, is profound.

On this particular bus journey, we were privvy to a typical example of such a culture clash. Sat in front of us when we boarded was a seemingly sweet religious Jewish boy, perhaps ten years old, travelling along to Jerusalem. He took out his junior softback version of Talmud Bavli (the Babylonian Talmud) and began studying. In fact, being one of the first buses to operate after shabbat went out, most of the busload were observant individuals who had spent shabbat in Tiberias (one of Judaisms four holiest cities - along with Tzfat, Hebron and, of course, Jerusalem). One stop along our journey through the Galilee, the bus filled with more people, and disaster struck; a woman - yes, that's correct, a woman - asked to sit next to the boy. He initially refused, and told her to sit elsewhere, but as no where was available, she sat next to him anyway. The horror on his face was soon hidden as he tried to conceal himself from her, pulling his baseball cap low over his face, pulling his coat high up to his chin, and sinking down in his seat, while ensuring a safety gap between the two. Before long, he was on his mobile phone, crying to mummy in Hebrew. 'I tried to stop her but she wouldn't sit anywhere else... There's no room on the floor [I assume his mum has suggested he sit on the floor at this point]... I can't concentrate, and I can't do my learning...'

I need to make absolutely clear that this event was as astonishing and disgusting to most Israelis as it probably is to you; most of us on the bus, including the woman - a secular Arab - found it quite amusing. Orthodoxy at times considers mixed seating to be inappropriate and, where possible, to be avoided; such as during prayer, but generally speaking, people are realistic, and basic manners prevail. A new creation in Jerusalem is the 'Mehadrin Bus'; an extremely antagonistic and controversial phenomenon, of buses with separate seating for men and women. They currently only run on routes to the main holy sites, and opposition to them is fierce. Symbolically, one of the main points of contention is that men sit at the front of the bus, while women sit at the back; if some buses reversed this to allow women at the front, or perhaps had left for men, right for women, people would perhaps be less enraged by a bus system better suited to Saudi Arabia than a Western Democractic state. Still, Deborah and I are yet to come across a bus where we cannot sit together.

At the other extreme of Israeli culture, and equally uncomfortable, is the strongly secular population, best demonstrated by our trip to Eilat last week.

Eilat is the southernmost point of Israel, on the Red Sea, at the bottom of the desert, next to Egypt and Jordan, and a short distance north of Saudi Arabia. 4 hours drive from Jerusalem, one arrives in a miniature Las Vegas. Sprawling hotels adorn the shore, accompanied by dozens of restaurants, bars, nightclubs and the associated clientele. Phone booths (and the streets) are littered with business cards, where voluptuous women advertise their special massages, without any suggestion of a legitimate qualification. (I wanted to test out one of these massages so I could put on the blog if they were any good, but Deborah didn't seem keen). People tout boat trips, snorkelling, SCUBA, SNUBA, camel rides, trips to Petra in Jordan... basically anything that will encourage tourists to part with their money.

We got a fantastic deal at the Dan Panorama - one of the more reputable hotels in town. Like all Israeli hotels, it is kosher by law. But, the same cannot be said for Eilat as a whole, and finding places to eat and drink was amazingly difficult. In a town where tourism is by far the main income, it is perhaps understandable that businesses choose to break shabbat to remain open on Saturday - the busiest tourist day in Israel, and in doing so automatically become disqualified from being kosher, even if all their food is considered kosher. However, the number of places serving food that was totally prohibited was surprising; restaurant chains considered to be of the highest level of religious standing in Jerusalem would sell cheeseburgers (meat and milk can never be eaten together) and on occasion shellfish, in Eilat. Worse still, some restaurants claimed to be kosher, and even print so on their menus, but still serve the same treif (non-kosher) food. Why? Simply because they do not care, and the word 'kosher' will bring in ignorant tourists who trust them. Those who run, and frequent, these restaurants are generally speaking either totally secular Jews, or non-Jews. But as testified by the Hebrew menus listing the varieties of treif available, many of those non-Jews are people who have come to live in Israel under the law of return.

The Law of Return is the section of Israeli law that gives all Jews the right to return to their historical homeland. However, nothing here is straightforward. Created in the wake of the Holocaust, Israel established itself as a safe place for all those who were persecuted by the Nazis' antisemitic mission. In Jewish law, Judaism is passed maternally - in other words, someone is Jewish if their mother was Jewish, or their mother's mother, etc. The Nazis considered that anyone with a single Jewish grandparent must be exterminated, and so Israel took this as the definition required to make aliyah. So, somone who by Jewish law is not Jewish, who does not practice any of the religion and who has married someone not Jewish, with non-Jewish children, is entitled to move to Israel, along with his family, his wife's extended family, and any other reasonably close relatives. So, one non-Jewish person can use the policies of the Nazis to bring a dozen or more non-Jewish people to Israel. It is impossible to count the number of non-Jewish people who have become Israeli citizens in this way, but the impact on the country is profound; a paradigm of this was on New Year's eve, when Deborah and I returned home at half two in the morning, to find party music rumbling 4 floors up in the building (Russians seem to like base on their trance music). By half three, I'd had enough and went to ask the culprits to turn down the 'music'. When the door was opened to me, I was greeted by the sight of four very very drunk Russians, two of whom were wearing crucifixes, dancing around a Christmas tree. Whether they were too intoxicated to find the volume control, or just chose to keep on partying, we didn't get much sleep that night.

On the flip side, Christianity brings a huge amount of positive influence to Israel. Primarily based in America's bible belt, large populations of Christians have long left behind the old claims that 'The Jews killed Jesus', and now strongly support not only the existence of Israel, but the Jews' right to return here. Granted, the reasons for this vary from the humourous to the scary, but nonetheless their help is appreciated. Some believe simply that the Old Testament shows we are G-d's chosen people and what is prophesised in the Old Testament must (and is) coming true. Others believe that our return will bring Armageddon - the end of the world - at which point Jesus will come back and save everyone and we'll all live happily ever after. Other are politically motivated and consider Islamisation of the world a danger, to which Israel remains a bastion of Western Democracy and forward thinking. Finally, there are those who view involvement in the Jewish homeland a great opportunity to preach and encourage Jews to convert.

The Christian Friends of Israel is a wealthy international charity, that is perhaps understandably met with caution and mistrust. As well as helping to locate and then relocate in Israel the remaining small Jewish communities from Eastern Europe before they fully assimilate, they also provide services in Israel for olim (immigrants). These range from providing kitchen equipment, to a free wedding dress hire system, to clothing, and shopping vouchers. The catch? Well, they say there isn't one. After much deliberation, Deborah and I approached them for some pans. They greeted us with open arms, explaining in the thickest Russian accent outside of Goldeneye that they 'truly and deeply love all Jews and want to help them all come home'. We were offered a 'tanach' (The Jewish bible) but politely declined this on the grounds that we already own one, rather than risking taking possession of a different bible that we would not be able to keep.... Either way, their help to new immigrants is not to be sniffed at.

So, back to us. This week marks the end of the 'honeymoon' period. Our three weeks of integration and setting up are over, and today marked the start of our Ulpan, or intensive Hebrew course. Each of the 250 participants completed a multiple choice comprehension, wrote an essay, and had an oral exam, through which they were categorised to a Hebrew level, from aleph (learning to read and write) to daled (almost fluent). Deborah and I are waiting to hear where we'll be placed, when things start properly on Tuesday. Our meagre existence, surviving on a couple of pans and a cheap kettle will soon be superceded by the twice-daily catered stodge of ulpan meals. The relative low fat and low carb diet will be no more, and the double-digit waist sizes will be a thing of the past. As Deborah and I enter a phase of life where our studying is 30 second roll from our bed, and we have no need to leave the campus besides the occasional trip to buy milk and cereal, we will need to ensure a concerted effort to avoid living in the ulpan bubble, and to continue to mingle with the real world.

These three weeks have been a suitably gentle start to our time here. We've travelled, made friends, reconnected with old ones, and developed something of a routine. To those of you who will follow in our footsteps, make sure you allow enough time to settle before your ulpan starts; the last thing you want is to start to build your life up while working each day.

Adam and Deborah's top tips for your first days of aliyah:
1. No doesn't mean no. It's a starting point for negotiations.
2. If coming to an absorption centre, remember that they give you NOTHING. Bring bedding, including pillows, and be prepared to go out for breakfast the next morning.
3. When people offer you special deals for olim, they mean one of two things. Either they are offering you a great deal because they want to welcome you, or they are trying to rip you off because they think they can. If they tell you it's an offer that is for today only, walk away. It'll either still be there tomorrow, or it was too good to be true.
4. Arrive early to give yourself time to settle before you get responsibilities like work or ulpan.
5. Put in the effort to meet people early on - every contact is a friend or a work contact later on.
6. Everywhere you go, ask for an oleh or a student discount.
7. Plan everything you possibly can before you, but then be prepared for everything to appear chaotic on arrival.
8. Be excited because you're coming, not because you're leaving.
9. When being told anything, from politics to bus routes, get a second and a third opinion before making up your mind.
10. Every so often, stop, take a breath, and remind yourself why you're here and how lucky you are.

One week in Israel

So here we have it - eight years in the making for me, and a few less than that for Deborah, and we are now sitting in our דירה (flat), in our מרכז קליטה (absorption centre) for new immigrants. We have Israeli teudot zehut (identity documents), bank accounts, health insurance and phones. We speak in Ivrit (Hebrew), and we argue with anyone and anything that displeases us. We are Israeli.

We have been trying to decide on the best way to communicate with all those people who care about us, and want to know what has been happening in our lives. We thought about the idea of sending mass emails, but (I think) they are often irritating and rarely read. Long telephone conversations with each person become painful for us, and are simply unrealistic; the number of times we have been asked 'Where are you living', 'What's it like', 'What are you doing', 'When do you start work', 'How was the flight', 'What's the food like', 'What's the weather like' and 'Do you miss England', now exceeds the number on my Teudat Zehut. This way we can write the highlights for those who want to know them, and hopefully also create a useful resource for those friends and strangers who one day want to follow in our footsteps. The agreement is that I will write the blog, and Deborah will write a diary for our באזרת השם babies to read when they grow up.

Leaving England was strange. There was a time when moving to Israel was all that mattered to me; every day in the UK was a countdown, waiting for the opportunity, resenting the culture (or lack of it!), weather, and lifestyle that I was living. On our frequent trips to Israel, leading groups, seeing friends, doing my elective and so on, Deborah and I were both fully aware of the many many problems with living here. We never fooled ourselves that Israel is some utopia where everyone is fulfilled and well fed, where each citizen loves the land as much as we do, or where peace is just around the corner; but it simply didn't matter, because moving to Israel was all that mattered. So what if we couldn't afford a small apartment? So what if it was difficult to find work? Who cares if people are aggressive and will happily push you out of the way to get on a bus?

Slowly but surely, over the past year or so, that feeling of pure love had dissipated. The incessant stress of form-filling and the poor half-baked answers to queries from the people employed to help us arrange our move, combined with the realisation that we were leaving behind such a cushy and comfortable, boring and monotonous life and certainty, filled us with frustration. Watching as our friends and colleagues completed their job applications, took out their mortgages, went on expensive holidays, bought nice cars and flashed expensive watches, while we worked to save every penny for our move, with its not-really-guaranteed poor income, put a totally negative spin on what we were heading for.

As they say, a rolling stone gathers no moss; once the deadlines for jobs had passed, and we had given notice for our accommodation and work, told the taxman he can jump off a cliff, and made tentative plans in Israel, there was nothing left to hide behind, and frankly no way to call the whole thing off.

So, after a few weeks of big goodbyes, trying (and sometimes failing) to see all those people who matter to us, while simultaneously sorting through our entire material existence, throwing away, recycling, giving away, and selling at car boot sales, we were left with the skeleton of our identities, which we boxed up and stuck on a ship, which is hopefully somewhere between Gibraltar and Greece by now.

With just eight suitcases (which we ironically bought at the same car boot sale where we flogged our worldly possessions), Deborah and I headed to London and Liverpool, to say goodbye to our respective sides of the family, before a tense and scary drive to Heathrow Airport.

Nefesh B'Nefesh is a charity set up in North America to help Westerners move to Israel; the logic basically being that those people with a good quality of life need some encouragement to move home to Israel... whereas those from godforsaken wilderness will move regardless. Therefore, we qualified for some logistic and financial aid to help us move and integrate. Any Jew who wants to live in Israel can get a free (one-way) flight with El Al, the national airline, including 60kg of luggage. But, with NBN, you can join a group flight, which means that not only can you get your forms processed in-flight, but you can share your experience with dozens of other people, also thinking 'What the hell am I doing on this flight?'.

Our 'group' consisted of 12 olim (new immigrants), of whom two were Israeli. Exactly. As a result, the in-flight processing didn't happen, but that didn't matter; El Al flights are known for fab food, comfy seats, and alcohol. As my first non-budget flight with kosher food in about 5 years, this was a particularly relaxing flight; right up until the moment they shut the doors for takeoff. Everything had been going swimmingly; we were well under the weight limit, flight on time, visas valid and good to go. Then we had the following conversation.

Deborah: Ad, you know that folder from the Jewish Agency with all the vital documents in it?

Adam: Yeah?

Deborah: The one with the documents needed for landing, and with the copies of all our identity papers?

Adam: Yeah?

Deborah: When did you last see it?

Adam: ........................................ not in a while.

Deborah: .......I don't think we've packed it.

Adam: Well then where could it be? We cleared out the entire flat; there was nothing left.

Deborah: I don't think we've had it since the shippers came.

Adam: Sh!t.

Yes, that's correct. Our wonderful shipping company managed to sweep our vital folder, with everything we potentially needed to get our visas approved, off the 'do not touch' pile in our flat, and into a box. In the chaos of the million other forms we had worked though, neither of us had noticed. However, Deborah's wonderfulness meant she had scanned all the documents into the computer, just in case.... and more importantly, we had taken our passports out of the folder before the shippers arrived.

As it happens, so far, none of the papers in that folder have been needed; everything was already provided to the appropriate offices before we left, and so the folder would have been completely obsolete. Still, for the twenty minutes between take-off and being allowed to turn on the laptop, we lived in fear of being turned back at passport control.

On arrival in Israel, we landed at the very nice Terminal 3. As the ministry of immigrant absorption is based at Terminal 1, we enjoyed a bus journey transfer between the two; on arrival, free drinks and food were provided, before we were called into an office to receive our first of many immigrant benefits - 2500 NIS in cash (about £400). We were then driven back to Terminal 3 to collect our luggage, before using our free taxi ride to a destination of our choice, to reach our new home.

Israel seems to be totally unique in its attitude to immigrants. From the moment you go through Israel's world-famous security at check in in London, the Israeli attitude to olim is one of gratitude. What other country automatically gives immigrants cash and food on arrival, with massively subsidised accommodation, free initial travel, and free language courses. In the UK, the uproar this would create would be enormous. But in Israel, people on the street, even those Israelis so poor they eat from the bins, will welcome you with open arms (if you dare go close enough). The mentality still remains very much that being a Jew and being an Israeli are synonymous, and all Jews are welcome home at any time.

At around midnight, we arrived at the absorption centre, which should be our home for the next 5 months. These centres exist around the country as a stepping stone for olim from all over the world. As a result, each is a melting pot of cultures, where the smells of Ethiopian, Moroccan, American and French foods permeate the corridors... as well as the noise and smell of Russians. In a fit of Israel bureaucracy, our centre would not allow anyone to move in until one week before the next residential Hebrew course (ulpan) starts, on January 17th. This made no sense at all, as the centre is always open, and the previous course finished weeks ago. After a long fight, recruiting various people to argue with us and on our behalf, the centre relented and let us move in straight away, rather than having to live elsewhere at great expense for 2 weeks. Sure enough, are the only couple to have arrived for the ulpan, and are sharing the place with a small handful of people from other programmes running alongside ours. Some 250 people will arrive next week to fill the place up, slow down the internet, and keep us awake at night.

The merkaz klitah (absorption centre) is called Beit Canada and has been known for many years as a bastion of poor quality accommodation. Those who used to live here reminisce of the doors without locks, broken windows, and - my own memory from when I was here on my elective three years ago - the most feculent toilets known to animal. Thankfully, our apartment has been renovated to a human standard. In fact, it's really nice. Our small flat consists of kitchenette, shower room, and two single beds which are cleverly designed so that they don't even nearly fit together; this is the painful reality of being a married couple of a young singles' ulpan. But, it's clean, and everything works, so it's all good.

Our first day in Israel felt bizarre; tired and emotionally drained from the turmoil of the day before, we woke in our flat, with absolutely nothing besides the things we'd brought with us. We'd made our own bed with bedding from our suitcases, and drank from an empty plastic bottle from the flight. The kitchen was void of anything edible, let alone anything to cook with - no cups, cutlery, no kettle, no pans.... you get the idea. So, after a quick meeting with the manager of the ulpan, who needed to tell us the dos and don'ts, we quickly departed for town to find food.

Israel is an expensive place; Jerusalem even more so. Basic necessities cost a similar price to the UK, but for lower quality. Eating out is scary; a decent breakfast will cost you £10; and when you know you won't have a real income for at least the next half year, that is scary. So, after eating out a few times, with holidaying and resident friends around the city, we first cut back to sharing meals, and soon cut our losses by investing in a kitchen to cook our own stuff. The holiday was quickly over from that point of view. But at the same time, arriving in Jerusalem with nearly 3 weeks to spare before our ulpan started gave us some time to really settle in. We joined a walking tour of the Old City, which both of knew well, but always have room to know better; we had many days walking for hours around the streets, taking in the atmosphere of our new home, which, incidentally, was pouring with rain on our first days... before turning gloriously sunny with T-shirts and sunglasses. I think it was a way to integrate us gently.

New Year's Eve is no big affair in Israel. Known as 'Sylvester', there are no holidays, nor big parties. But, our friends Yosef and Daniella, married and expecting their first baby in a few weeks, who moved from Manchester and the USA respectively, brought us into their fold of American friends who live in the area. Our New Year was a very special one, and a symbolic new beginning for us; moving house to house in a progressive dinner party, before finishing up with guitar music in Yosef's flat, overlooking East Jerusalem, with a whole group of new people, who had all been in our shoes in the past decade, perhaps gave us an idea of the shape of things to come.

One week on, we have our identity cards, which were arranged for us by NBN, saving us many hours of form-filling and queueing at the ministry of the interior. We have a bank account (we think), have an address for the next 6 months, have health insurance, and have been making good progress with job applications. Thanks to the wireless internet from merkaz klitah, we already have access, even before we have signed up for our own connection. I dread to think how lost we would be without access to our emails, and Skype, from our room.

How can I summarise week one?

Although I knew it wasn't going to happen, a part of me hoped that landing here would somehow reignite that flame that made me move here, as soon as we saw Israel from the plane window. But that didn't happen. We landed, got off the plane, and everything felt normal. We weren't somewhere special. We weren't on holiday. We certainly weren't abroad. We were just home. One week on, living in our capital city, seeing the Kotel (Western Wall), taking the buses, buying pasta in Hebrew, haggling over bread, making enquiries to Professors of medicine by email to see if they can give me a job, and making advantage of discounted rates at the local zoo for new immigrants, just feels like a part of normal life.

It feels like home. That's much better than living on flame that can't last forever.